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Talk about jumping from the frying pan straight into the fire. Oh, the way he’s looking at me isn’t disrespectful—it’s not the way Mr. Cervantes looks at me when I deliver his shots of Patron and it’s not the way I feel Mr. Benson undressing me with his eyes every time I come anywhere near him.
But that doesn’t mean it’s a comfortable stare, either. Because it’s not. It’s hard to be comfortable when your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss is watching your every move.
I try to tell myself that that’s all it is. That the reason I’m so nervous as I slip an Absolut and grapefruit next to Mr. Torres’s elbow and a Glenfiddich on the rocks onto the table beside Mrs. Brandt is because I’m afraid of screwing up again in front of my boss. That I’m afraid of doing something that will get me fired.
But I’ve never been one to lie to myself often or well—what’s the point of it when deep down inside I know the truth. In this case, the truth is that it’s been twenty-eight hours since I walked out of Sebastian Caine’s office and still I can barely breathe without wanting. Without needing.
It’s stupid, so stupid, to be this tied in knots just from one meeting with him. Of course, it’s even more stupid to actually think about sleeping with him. I know it is. With my family and his business, my past and his present, any move to get together, no matter how temporary, is a disaster waiting to happen.
Intellectually I know all that. Just like I know sleeping with a rich man—any rich man let alone one who owns a Vegas casino—is absolute folly. And yet I can’t help thinking about the way he looked at me as I walked away from him in his office yesterday, his eyes a seething forest green and his face a mask of the same want that is sweeping through me even now.
“Hey, Aria.” Mr. Sheenan catches my attention, waves me over. Though I’m already trying to figure out how to avoid the groping I know is coming, I stop beside him anyway. And smile even as I angle my ass away from him and the craps table he’s standing at.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
“Another Maker’s Mark would be great, thanks.” He holds up his empty glass, rattles the ice around in the bottom of it.
“Coming right up.” I take the glass, set it in the middle of my empty tray.
“And do you have anything to eat around here? Anything you can grab me so I don’t have to leave the table?” He holds the dice up for me to blow on and I do, because it’s not worth offending him. Besides, I’ve always had good luck with dice. “The dice are hot tonight.”
As if to echo his point, he throws the dice and we both watch as they turn up ten. The dealer pays out to him and everyone else on the Pass line, and then he goes to roll again. “See?” he tells me as he picks them up again. “It’s a lucky night. I can’t leave.”
“I’ll bring you a menu from our sandwich shop,” I tell him, “if that sounds okay?”
“It sounds great, gorgeous.” He flips a fifty dollar chip onto my tray and then holds up his dice for me to blow on again. I do, and this time when he rolls a twelve, the whole table cheers.
I take the distraction as an opportunity to slip away, but Mr. Sheenan must see me go because I get a slap to the ass hard enough that it makes me jump—and almost makes me dump his glass of ice onto the head of another patron.
I catch myself in time and then head to the bar where Michael is working again. I give Mr. Sheenan’s order along with three others I took along the way, but as I start stacking my tray with my latest round of drink orders, Michael all but freezes in front of me.
And that’s when I know for sure that the feeling I had of being watched wasn’t just my imagination. It was real. So real that the hot prickle I feel at the base of my neck can only be because Sebastian is standing there, behind me.
Bracing myself for the impact of seeing him again, I turn with a smile. Sure enough, he’s standing there, face grim and green eyes even more grim still.
“Good evening, Mr. Caine,” I say to him as I lift the now heavy tray up and maneuver carefully around him.
My formal use of his name doesn’t sit well with him—he doesn’t do anything overt, but the definite clenching of his jaw tips me off. Still, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do down here in the middle of the casino floor, where it feels like everyone is staring at us. Call him Sebastian? Let him get as close to me as I did upstairs yesterday?
Like that’s going to happen. The only thing worse than sleeping with the top boss is having your co-workers think you’re sleeping with him. Uh-uh. No way.
Except Sebastian doesn’t seem to get the hint. Instead of melting into the crowd to do whatever guys like him do to keep the casino running smoothly on busy Saturday nights, he turns to follow me. Even goes so far as to dog my steps as I drop off the drinks to two tables at the far end of the high roller section.
This time as I weave my way through the patrons, I don’t have to dodge so much as a pair of wandering eyes. Everyone’s too busy staring at Sebastian—the news that he’s Caine’s heir moving through the area at an amazing pace. I’d be grateful for his presence, and protection, if I wasn’t so annoyed about the whole damn thing.
Still, things go relatively smoothly until I stop at the craps table to hand Mr. Sheenan a menu from the sandwich shop on the other side of the casino floor. He thanks me for it with a wink, and then—either not noticing Sebastian or not caring about his presence one way or the other—brings one of his huge paws straight down on my ass hard enough to make me jump. More than hard enough to have me spilling liquid out of the two drinks left on my tray.
“Hey!” Sebastian’s hand comes out of nowhere, wraps itself around Mr. Sheenan’s wrist and squeezes until he drops the dice. “He’ll be cashing out for now, Justice,” Sebastian tells the dealer who is watching the proceedings with gleeful interest. I can almost see her trying to make sure she has every detail for the story she’s going to tell at the first opportunity.
“The hell I will be, buddy,” Mr. Sheenan blusters. “I’m on a roll.”
“Are you? Really?” Sebastian asks, squeezing the guy’s wrist even harder. “Because it seems to me that you’re about to be in for a round of very bad luck. After all, you won’t be able to roll the dice if you’re missing your hand, which might be a problem for your continued participation in the game.”
I watch, mouth open, as he threatens one of the casino’s most frequent whales, one who routinely drops a few million dollars every time that he plays.
“What is your problem?” Mr. Sheenan demands, sounding belligerent as well as angry as he attempts to shake off Sebastian’s iron grip.
I place a hand on Sebastian’s arm, start to intervene, and get nothing for my trouble but a furious look that tells me to butt out.
