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Chapter Eighteen
After two years of costumes and disguises—onstage and off—Chrissie pulled on the little black dress she’d bought for her brother’s birthday party. He’d been home on leave, and some of his friends from high school had hosted a party at a neighborhood bar. She’d been over twenty-one and making enough scanning groceries to splurge on a new outfit. It was the last time she could recall dressing entirely for herself.
The fitted material hugged her curves. And while the hem hit above her knee, it wasn’t nearly as short as the disguises she’d worn to Dante’s room. She slipped on the matching black heels. They looked cheap compared to the shoes her stylist selected, but she still loved the simple pumps.
She heard a knock, and her smiled faded. When she reached the entrance to the suite, she opened the door and waved him into the sitting area. Unlike the rooms in Salt Lake City or Santa Fe, the luxury Vegas hotel—a different venue from her last four-night engagement—offered spacious rooms complete with sitting areas, separate bedrooms, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the famous Strip.
He stepped inside, and her grip tightened around the door handle. She’d seen him stripped down to his plain white briefs—and he’d reminded her of Superman. But in a dark blue suit and tie? Her Navy SEAL looked like Clark Kent minus the glasses. If only they could make their way straight to the part of the evening when he tore off his shirt superhero-style.
“I’m sorry, Dante. I can’t go out.”
“You look beautiful,” he said, drawing the door away from her death grip and gently closing it.
“I look like me.” She waved to the dress. “I bought this for a party years ago. It’s mine. Not a costume or a disguise. I mean those are mine, too. But they’re not me.”
He nodded as if she’d made complete sense. Maybe she had. She was telling him the truth.
“But,” she continued. “If I go out like this, someone will recognize me.”
He cocked his head and studied her. “Would you like to change? I don’t give a damn if you wear a wig. But you might get us tossed from the steak house if you show up in the French maid outfit. Plus, I’d have to kill every man who laid eyes on you. It would be midnight before we reached the restaurant.”
“No, I’m not spending my last night with you in an ugly wig. That’s not how I want you to remember me.”
“I’m sticking around for your concert tomorrow night,” he said. “I’m not heading back to Coronado until Sunday morning. If the wig makes you feel comfortable in the restaurant…”
“I don’t want to hide or pretend with you. Not anymore. We’re done with that.” She turned away from the door and headed for the sitting area.
He followed. He wouldn’t give up without trying everything he could think of to get her to dinner. “And I don’t want to share our relationship with the world. I’m sorry. But I want you all to myself. And out of that suit.”
She gave a half smile as she sank onto an armchair. “You walked into my life looking like a limited-edition treat. And now, I don’t want to let you go. Just when I think I’ve found someone who sees me, who wants me for more than a fantasy-filled fling—”
“Shh.” He dropped to one knee in front of her chair and placed his index finger over her mouth. “You have, Chrissie. I don’t give a damn about your fame. I admire your drive. And your passion for your music makes me want to listen to songs about tractors and dead dogs. But trust me, honey, I want you more than I want the fantasy.”
“This feels so real,” she murmured as his hand moved to her cheek.
“It is, honey. But we don’t have to share that fact with a room filled with strangers. We can stay right here, maybe tackle your second condition. Afterward, we can order room service.”
He leaned forward and kissed her. His tongue tangled with hers, explored her mouth, and drew her in until she was ready to hand over the dress she’d worn for him.
He pulled back. “Let’s switch positions.”
“Your knee?” she asked as he stood.
“Fine.” He held out his hand. “But when I pictured the his and hers orgasms you requested, I didn’t see an armchair. Show me to your bedroom, honey.”
She took his hand and let him draw her up. Then she let go. She kicked off her shoes, skipped past him, and headed for the doorway. He could see her destination, the king-size bed, through the opening.
He followed at her heels. She could feel his presence behind her, large and promising. She slowed her steps a few feet from the bed, half hoping he would catch her and draw her to him. She wanted him to take her, claim her, and make her his. No matter where he went after this, she would belong to him.
But he didn’t reach for her.
“Do you know what I want?” she said, turning to face him, her back to the bed.
“Tell me.” He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it aside.
“Straight-up, plain old missionary.”
He took a
