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Twenty-Two
BELL
It was unsettling, having him at The House. He was out of his usual suit, in a V-neck and jeans, his hair rough, jaw unshaven. He looked dangerous, as if he was short on sleep and on the prowl. He reached for his glass, and his muscular arms were a reminder of how he looked naked. I swallowed and waited for him to answer my question of why he was here.
He took a while, lifting his glass to his lips and studying me, tiny movements of pupils that said more than his words finally did. “You made it clear earlier tonight that working here was important to you. I came to check on my future investment.”
His gaze flicked behind me, to the casino floor, and I understood. He wasn’t talking about me, though there could definitely be a double meaning behind the words. “I thought you weren’t looking at The House anymore.” Rick and Lance weren’t selling. I’d heard them say they weren’t selling.
Still, the possibility existed. With Dario Capece, there was no such thing as denial. If he wanted something, he’d find a way to get it. I was proof positive of that.
He lifted his chin at me, studying my face. “You’re here. That keeps my interest in it. Plus…” he glanced around the room. “There’s no disputing that business is strong.”
I ignored the observation, my chest seizing in a manner I’d never felt with him before. The possibility made me feel like a dog backed into a corner, my hackles rising, teeth baring in an effort to protect myself and everything that this place meant to me. Security. Friendship. Home. This was my home. My haven. He couldn’t have it. He couldn’t have my heart and this.
I shook my head and his brow creased, concern deepening his eyes to the color of espresso. “What’s wrong?”
“No.” My tongue wouldn’t work, it stalled in my attempt to communicate my thoughts. I forced myself to focus and leaned forward, fighting to keep my voice at a level that wouldn’t carry. “I don’t want you buying this place.”
“Why not?” His gaze sharpened, some of the compassion already waning in the face of a business decision. “I thought you’d like having me above you.” His mouth twitched at the joke and his ability to see humor in this situation only fueled my anger.
“No, I don’t want you above me.” I straightened so quickly I almost knocked over his drink. His hand shot out to grab the glass and I ignored it.
“I could help you, if I owned this place.” He nodded to my outfit, at the tray clenched in my hand. “Get you a promotion.”
“And bend me over my desk during shifts?” I took a step back. “No thank you. If you buy this place, I’ll quit.” And I would. I would leave this place that I love—leave the money, my friends, and two years of history—before I would ever be his employee. It would change our entire dynamic if he were my boss. I would lose my ability to call him on his shit, would wonder if my sexual activities with him were continuing due to attraction or because of the pressure to keep my job.
I had enough trouble trying to sort out my feelings for this man. Adding this additional factor would drag my psyche through the shredder.
“Bell.” He reached out and pulled me toward him, removing the tray from my hands and setting it on the table. I glanced at the dealer, who casually pulled the deck from the shoe and spread the cards on the table, taking his time in the reshuffle. Dario tugged at the edge of my shorts, refocusing my energy on him. “I get it. You don’t want me to buy it.” He shrugged. “So I won’t.”
So easy for him. Destinies changed, millions diverted, just like that. And all because of me. My irritation at the situation mellowed a little in the realization of my power.
“You won’t buy it,” I tested.
“No.” He met my eyes. “You don’t want to work for me?” He lifted his hands. “Then you won’t.”
“Fine.” I straightened and lifted up the tray, snagging the empty water bottle off the table.
“Wait.” He captured my hand, tugged on it. “I don’t like how we left things earlier.”
I turned away, pulling my hand free. I couldn’t do this here and couldn’t ignore a table full of Vegas’s most important men to talk about my relationship—or lack of one—with him. Whatever and whoever he was to me.
I stepped away and when he called my name, there was an order in the tone. I stopped, looking back over my shoulder.
“Can I get a cigar?”
I nodded, and his gaze flickered, a break in the dominance where he pleaded with me for something and I resisted. When I turned away, I felt as if part of my heart ripped, left behind in the grip of his gaze.
