Sighing, I say, “I am. It’s just…I like it here.” Biting my lip, I don’t want to admit too much too soon.” Lily’s eyes are wide, honest. She nods, encouraging me. It isn’t often the tables switch. I take a deep breath and plow forward. “I don’t want to see Patrick. This Vegas weekend party thing is not my jam.”
Her eyes narrow back to the Lily I know as she steps out of the car, into my space. “So you don’t want to talk to my fiancé that I’ve known for two years, but you want to stay here? In the middle of nowhere. With no wheels of your own?”
When she puts it like that, it doesn’t sound very smart. “I didn’t say I was going to stay. Go, get in the car.” I shoo her forward with my hands. She gives me her signature eye roll and hops into the car.
One foot in the car, I pause, letting myself soak in the sight of the adobe house, the outbuilding filled with adorable baby foxes, the desert landscape in hues of pinks and browns—inviting anddeadly at the same time—and sigh. Am I hoping for one last glimpse of Sting? One look of longing? One more chance to feel his lips on mine?
No, of course not.
I slide into the cool car and shut the door. The driver asks if we’re ready, then slowly proceeds to drive us down the gravel driveway to the paved highway, taking us back to bright lights, civilization, and idiot men who seemingly do not have our best interest at heart.
If nothing else, I’m protecting my sister, the way I’ve always done.
Chapter 8
Hyacinth
Lily pulls out two beautiful dresses for us. Looking in the mirror, I feel I’m playing a part in a movie or show. It’s dress-up. Not real. This isn’t the real me.
Blue silk cascades down with a faint sheen of glitter. Sweetheart neckline that accentuates my breasts. It’s gorgeous, even on me. Secretly, it’s the prom dress I never had, but I don’t tell my sister that. Her clucks of sympathy are unnecessary at this juncture. She has never understood what it’s like to feel fat, frumpy, overlooked. And tonight, she is as stunning as always.
I let her do my make-up and style my hair. And as we gaze at ourselves in the mirror, we are two princess sisters embarking on an evening of…what? Dinner and dancing? Hardly. Confrontation with her fiancé? I can only hope. It feels like a lot of work to be transformed just for a meal I probably won’t be able to stomach.
Lily walks away to change her earrings again, and as I stare at myself, I can’t help but wonder what Sting would think if he saw me like this. Would he like it? How could he not, with the cinched in waist and very exposed bosom top? But would it disappoint him the next day to see me in my casual everydayattire? I don’t know. Imagining his tail finding its way under my dress, inching up around my calf, up to my thigh, while his hands grip my hips, pulling me close to him, sends a shiver of want through me. Makes all of whatever it is I’m doing with my sister, seem useless to what Iwantto be doing.
Another touch up, Lily puts something shiny on my lips. Now I really feel like a spectacle.
By the time the elevator opens, releasing us into the bustle of voices, clanking of slots, and various beats of music all competing with each other, I’ve lost the idea of being a princess and sinking into the role. I want to go back upstairs to where it’s quiet. Closing my eyes, I pretend to be Dorothy clicking her heels to take her home. Except the image in my mind isn’t home. It’s the desert, in front of a low-lying adobe ranch style home, complete with a pet fox with giant ears sitting outside the door. Waiting for me.
I release my sigh, open my eyes, straighten my back, and walk beside Lily into the fray of party-goers and vacationers. Aren’t we vacationers, too? I suppose Lily is, but I’m just here to keep track of her. Her sister, the bodyguard. That thought loosens a smile on my lips and I walk a little taller.
As we approach the Michelin Star restaurant where we are supposed to eat, Patrick waves his arms at us from the blackjack table, smarmy grin on his face. “Lily! My doll. I’m so glad you’re okay!” He gestures at us to come to him, scooping up the air between us, willing Lily toward him. There’s only one other person at the table beside the dealer, and they both ignore us. Patrick pulls Lily into his arms. She lets him, but I see her movements are stiff. Good.
When Patrick looks at me, it’s not a loving future brother-in-law gaze. It’s thinly veiled disdain. I raise my eyebrows at him,letting him I know I see him, and I don’t like what I see. He oozes something sickly sweet to Lily, and she demurs, tucking her head against his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything to me, instead, hands black chips to Lily and whispers to her. She places them on the table for his bet.
“Was it on purpose?” I ask, voice clear and loud over the background din, ignoring the look the other player gives me for disrupting the round. Lily doesn’t look at me, but at Patrick. A look of shock crosses his face, then smooth over into that same smarmy grin.
“What? The tour tragedy? Of course not.”
“Lily said you were surprised to hear from her. Like you intended to never hear from her again.” My hands are on my hips now. I don’t care about dinner or gambling, about propriety, about this silly dress. I want answers. “You know we almost died out there, right?”
“Almostisn’t the same asactually dying, now is it?” Lily jerks away from him at those words. Back to my side. She grasps my hand and holds on tight. “It would have been an easy end to all of this. Now I have to be more creative.”
“Why not call off the wedding like a normal, decent human being?”
“So blasé. If she dies, I can have some media attention. Right before my new product line of apps launches. It will be good to have my name already circulating in the news and on social media.”
“You aren’t worthy of being the scum on the bottom of my boot.” The deep voice growling behind me surprises me, even as I’m trying to form my own retort, and sends a shot of pure desire straight to my core.
Somehow, while trying to process how I’m hearing Sting’s voice, and wondering if it’s a delayed hallucination from the desert, he stands in front of me. Between my sister and me and Patrick.
And he looks like he stepped straight out of a James Bond movie…with a cowboy theme. Black tux, creases sharp enough to slice a finger, and a very clean and nice black cowboy hat and polished cowboy boots as he casually leans against the blackjack table. Wow.
“Who the hell are you?” Patrick asks, fingering the edge of his cards as he takes a small step back from Sting. The dealer clears her throat, giving Patrick and Sting ayou are disturbing the classsort of look. Patrick steps back up to the table, reaching out, tugging Lily to him. Not to protect her though, to claim her and use her as a buffer between him and Sting. Coward.
“I’m the man who rescued these women from dying in the desert. Sting.” He tips his hat, not to Patrick, but to us. No, not even us. Just me. His eyes pierce me with their intensity. I’m all he is looking at. A brief lick of his lips as he takes in my chest, and I am simultaneously blushing hard and heated between my thighs.
“Uh, that’s a goofy name. You don’t look like you’re in a rock band.” I wince at the similar words to what I said to him. Though I must admit, my tone wasn’t quite as derisive as Patrick’s.
