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“Are you even for real?” I demand. “Nobody actually says things like that.”
“I do. And more, I mean them.” He reaches over and pours me some more of the sparkling lemonade I like to drink when I can’t imbibe.
“What have you been doing in the ten years you’ve been gone? Living in fantasy land? Real life doesn’t work that way.”
“I was chief financial officer of one of the largest charitable foundations in the world. And real life works however you want it to work.”
“Yeah, right. If that was the case—” I break off before I say too much. But no wonder he’s so naïve. He’s spent years working for a charity while I’ve…I’ve lived my life doing pretty much the complete opposite.
But Sebastian’s not about to let me get away with leaving my thought unfinished. I can see it in the predatory gleam in his eyes and the rigid set of his shoulders long before he prompts, “If that was the case…?”
I scramble for an answer that will satisfy him but will still let me keep my secrets. “If that was the case, I wouldn’t spend my nights in four inch heels, fending off men with more money than manners.”
“You know, you don’t have to do that.”
Warning bells go off all over the place and I find myself watching him warily. “What does that mean?”
“It means this is a casino. There are other jobs you can do.”
“Not that pay me a few hundred dollars a night in tips. And, for the record, I don’t need you to swoop in on some white charger and fix my life for me. I’m doing fine on my own.”
“You absolutely are.”
He sounds perfectly sincere when he says it, but I still search his face for any sign of ridicule or sarcasm. I can’t find any, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. He might be all pro-employee rights, but he’s still a rich guy with an Ivy League education. I went to school with a bunch of them—I know the type. And none of them would believe that working as a cocktail waitress in a casino is a job worth fighting for.
Sebastian takes another sip of his beer, watching me over the rim of his glass. “You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t not believe you. I’m just trying to figure out how much of the bullshit you spout you actually believe.”
“Most of it,” he tells me with a grin.
“Well, that’s honest.”
“I’m always honest. Lying is for the weak.”
“Or the desperate,” I feel honor bound to tell him.
“Perhaps.”
There’s no perhaps about it. Never has been. I wouldn’t be here, living the life that I am, if I had any other reasonable alternative.
“Look, can we cut to the chase here? I only have a few minutes before I have to get back to work.”
“Absolutely. Let’s cut to the chase.”
I wait for him to say something more, for him to tell me why I’m really here, but he just leans back in his chair, ankle crossed over the opposite knee, and watches me with eyes that see far too much.
I recognize what he’s doing, try to wait him out, to prove that I have as much self-control as he does. But the clock is ticking and with every minute that passes, my stomach grows tighter, my palms damper. I hate the feeling, hate the loss of control that he’s forcing on me. But I hate even more the fact that I might have to leave here without the answers I so desperately want.
“I already told you I’m not going to sleep with you,” I tell him after the silence stretches longer than I can handle.
“You did.”
“So why am I here? Why are you even bothering with me?”
“Does everything have to be about sex?”
I laugh then. I can’t help it. The question is ridiculous, especially considering the sexual tension between us burns hot enough to light up half the hotels on the Strip.
