Play With Me, Page 2

  His brow arches. “You’re sure about that?”

  I open my mouth to assure him that I am, but the elevator dings and the doors open to a rush of people. A woman in a business suit is being shoved forward by a group of giggling females. I sidestep to avoid her, but it’s too late: She stomps on my foot. Despite the pain, I manage to catch pieces of conversation that tell me I have just become a victim of a well-lubricated bachelorette party.

  I tumble backward, gasping as a hard, big body absorbs mine and strong hands close down on my shoulders. “Easy, Ms. Miller,” I hear in that deep, rough baritone I already know as my boss’s, and then he leans in even closer, his mouth near my ear, his breath warm on my neck. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I reply, but it comes out as more a pained pant than a confident assurance. I’m not sure if that’s because my foot has been stomped on, or I’m horribly embarrassed, or I’m tingling everywhere he is touching me—and in some intimate places he is not.

  “I’m so sorry,” the offending woman gushes, looking appalled, only to be shoved toward me again as the party piles in and crowds us like sardines in a can. Desperate to stay standing, the foot stomper grabs my arm to steady herself, then quickly lets go. “So sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I manage.

  Mr. Ward leans down again, and, Lord help me, his chin brushes my hair as he says, “I’m making an executive decision. We need to get out of the car before we are locked inside with them for who knows how many floors.”

  “Yes,” I agree, and I all but gasp as his fingers curve intimately at my waist and his body urges me forward.

  I don’t breathe until we break free of the elevator and he releases me.

  “How’s your foot?” he asks. He is taller than I remember, towering over my five feet five inches, and he’s giving me another one of those intense inspections I tell myself I’ll develop an immunity to. Then again, no matter how many chocolate stomachaches I get, I never seem to get enough.

  “Not as painful as my embarrassment,” I assure him, and laugh nervously. “What can I say? I like to make a lasting impression, and since you’re leaving I didn’t have a lot of time.”

  “Do you need to sit?”

  “We need to get you to the airport,” I say, and add the motto that got me back to me not that long ago. “I’m bruised, not broken.” And I intend to prove it was, and is, true.

  His eyes narrow, darken. “Bruised but not broken.” His voice is softer, seeming to caress the words as he adds, “I like that.” And for some reason I’m not sure what he’s talking about or why air is suddenly lodged in my lungs.

  “Mr. Ward!”

  We both whirl around at the sound of his name being called, and the source appears to be a thirty-something man, with short, dark hair who is wearing a rust-colored jacket and earpiece that gives me the impression that he’s security. My new boss flicks me a look. “I’ll meet you at the car. Tell the doorman you’re with me and he’ll get you to where you have to go.”

  I nod but he doesn’t notice, having already turned away from me. I’ve been dismissed. Maybe this job isn’t so unlike working as a reporter. Or, I think cynically, the Thanksgiving with my family that I plan to miss in three weeks’ time.

  With a heavy sigh that comes from deep in my soul, I seek out one of the many signs hanging from the casino ceiling and head toward the exit, but something makes me pause. I turn just in time to witness Mr. Ward scrub his hand down his face and mutter a curse I can read from a distance. A second later, his gaze lifts and collides with mine, the turbulence in the depths of his stare crashing into me, a rough blast of dark emotions. For several seconds our eyes hold, and I don’t know why but I have the oddest thought. In this moment of time, I think he, too, is bruised but not broken.

  As if he knows I see this, he abruptly turns away, giving me his back.

  * * *

  “Why aren’t you in the car?”

  At the sound of Mr. Ward’s voice, adrenaline surges through me, and I am on my feet, no longer warming the bench I’ve been seated on for a good ten minutes.

  “I—”

  “Tell me in the car,” he says, cutting me off. “We need to go.” His hand comes down on my back, scorching away the chill of the November air and urging me toward a limo parked a few feet away.

  The valet opens the back door and I slide inside. The soft leather hugs my legs, and I pull my skirt to my knees as Mr. Ward joins me, settling in directly across from me. “Why weren’t you waiting in here where it’s warm?” he demands, his voice a reprimand that nears cranky and stirs old ghosts and goblins worthy of the Halloween only a week before. I do not like that they are alive when they should be buried, and I rebel against them and his tone with me.

  “I would have liked that,” I say, my voice matching his crankiness, “but the staff gave me the impression they thought I was the newest chick chasing the millionaire CEO.”

  The tension vanishes from his face, and a low, sexy rumble of laughter slides from his lips. Instantly, I find myself relaxing into the sound. “You aren’t going to be a wilting flower, are you?”

  “Do you want a wilting flower?”

  “No. I do not want a wilting flower, Ms. Miller. Nor do I want a ‘chick chasing the millionaire CEO.’ I’ll end that perception immediately.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” I say, softening with his vow.

  He, on the other hand, seems to do the opposite, his humor fading, the hardness returning. “Actually,” he corrects, “it is. I’m leaving, and you have to be able to function when I’m gone.”

  “I will,” I say, certain he needs to hear this, though I don’t know why. “You can trust me to get the job done.”

  There is a slight tensing of his jaw that I read as skepticism. The car engine starts and he proves I’m right in my assessment by declaring, “I have concerns about you, Ms. Miller.”

  Cotton lines my throat. “Concerns?”

  “You’re a reporter.”

  “By trade, yes.”

  “You’ve never worked as a secretary,” he comments, and it’s not a question.

  “Do you want just a secretary or someone with extra skills to bring to the table?”

  “Clearly, you excel at asking questions and not answering them.”

  “You didn’t phrase it as a question, and zipped lips should be one of my job requirements anyway.”

  His cell beeps and he pulls it from his pocket, staring at the text message for what seems like forever. Finally, without typing a reply, he sets the phone on the seat and his gaze goes to the window.

  Seconds tick by, and I can almost feel the tension curling in and around him, thickening the air until I can barely breathe. I wonder how he can. “Everything okay?” I ask softly.

  His gaze shifts to me, and his eyes are steely hard and impossible to read. “Do you gamble, Ms. Miller?”

  “Badly,” I admit, unsure where this abrupt change of topic is taking us. “And only when I have no other option.”

  “Well, here’s the only sure thing you’ll get in Vegas and this job: Something is always not okay. You either deal with it or you crash and burn.”

  “And you deal with it,” I say, admiring him for the strength that takes, in a way I once might not have.

  “Yes. I deal with it.” He scrubs his hand over his jaw, and when he refocuses on me, his eyes are clearer; his worry over whatever that text said is contained. “Let’s cover the basics. When you get back to the hotel, go to the front desk and have them page Terrance. He’s the head of security for my entire operation, and he’ll be expecting you. He’ll ensure you have everything you need to start work tomorrow.”

  “Yes, okay. Terrance. Got it.”

  “Now let’s cover when to contact me, what’s urgent and what’s not, and who to go to if you can’t reach me.”

  I nod and realize I left my notebook by the testing station in the temp service. I retrieve my phone from my purse. “I’m going to record
this, if you don’t mind.”

  Suddenly his hand is covering mine, heat climbing up my arm, and I could breathe if his knee hadn’t somehow ended up pressed to my leg. For a moment we just sit there, and I am frozen by the look in his eyes and still warm all over.

  “No recording,” he says, and there is a raspy quality to his voice that could be anger or something else I don’t dare kid myself exists. “Not now or ever.”

  “I … yes. Or, no. I wasn’t. I’m not. I need this job. I’ll use my notepad on my phone instead.”

  “No.” He takes my cell from my hand, but he doesn’t move away. “You won’t.”

  “I don’t want to forget—”

  “You won’t.” He sits back abruptly and lifts his knee from mine, then reaches into his briefcase and hands me a pad and pen. “Write it down.”

  I nod. “Yes. I didn’t have time to prepare, or—”

  “We only have about ten more minutes. Write, Ms. Miller.”

  My lips thin; my spine stiffens. I have no idea what was in that text message, but he hasn’t banked his reaction to it as I’d thought. He’s harder now, colder. It’s as if a block of ice went up between us. He is the arrogant, demanding boss I expected him to be, but I will not cower. “Understood,” I say, clicking my pen. “I’m ready.”

  He wastes no time wondering if I really am ready. He begins spilling out information, and I can’t write fast enough to get it all down.

  We are just pulling in to the terminal when he says, “We need to exchange phone numbers.” Then, to my shock, he grabs my phone and takes the liberty of typing his number into it before handing it back to me.

  I accept it, careful not to touch him, and I am almost certain that he is careful, as well. “What’s your number?” he asks.

  “It’s still a Texas number,” I warn before reciting it.

  He puts it into his address book and then glances at me. “When are you getting a Vegas number?”

  “I … soon.”

  “Get one tomorrow. Text me when you have it.”

  He opens the car door and steps out, then slams it shut a little too hard. I jump at the harshness of the action and then frown. He’s moody, far too good-looking for my sanity, and impossible to figure out. He definitely is not a sure thing, and neither is this job, but I’m committed. I’m going to gamble on them both.

  Part Three

  Where I belong …

  My return to the hotel lands me inside the main security operation for the casino, tucked away in a tiny waiting room that feels like a prison. Apparently I don’t formally have the job until I am cleared as employable by the company standards. For an hour, I sip coffee and try to watch the news on a flat-screen television, but it can’t hold my attention and I pace instead. Not that I have anything to worry about with my clearances; I just want this job solidified. I want to be officially employed, even if it’s technically as a temporary worker. It’s a foot in the door.

  Finally, an hour into my captivity, Terrance Monroe, the blond, thirty-something head of security for all three of the Vantage properties, joins me. He lifts a folder in his hand and motions to several chairs against the wall. “All right, Kali,” he says as we claim two seats, having torn down the airs of last names in the first sixty seconds we’d met. “We have your security check, fingerprints, and credit scores. You’re clear for temp employment.”

  “I can report to work tomorrow, then?” I ask hopefully.

  “Human resources will need to see you at eight in the morning on the twentieth floor. Bring your identification and you’ll have a picture ID made.” He sets the folder on the chair separating us and taps it. “That has a map of all three casinos, a list of staff, and your access codes for parking and the executive floor after hours.”

  I push to my feet, afraid someone will find another challenge for me to hurdle before this day is over. “Terrific,” I say, shoving hair out of my eyes, behind my ear, beyond caring how I look right now. I wonder if I’d feel the same if Mr. Ward were here. Somehow, I don’t think so. “Thank you.”

  Terrance stands up, too. “Eager to get out of here?” he teases, and his friendliness is easily received, genuine, welcome after the day I’ve had.

  I snort, and it’s not my most ladylike moment. “I’ve gone from new reporter at the local paper, to jobless, to assistant to the CEO of one of the biggest casino operations in Las Vegas in about twelve hours. It’s been the world’s longest roller-coaster ride of a day.”

  “Well, then,” he says, reaching for the folder and handing it to me, “consider this a get-out-of-jail-free pass. Bring it in with you tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes,” I say, embarrassed that I’ve forgotten my paperwork. “Thank you. Thanks for everything.”

  “No problem, and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know. You’re working at a high level. If you see a problem, speak up.”

  “I will. Absolutely.” I’m encouraged by his friendliness, which matches Dana’s. Maybe everything corporate doesn’t have to leave me black-and-blue.

  “Good.” He inclines his chin. “And good night.”

  “Good night.” I start to leave and then remember the explosion on my new desk. Turning back, I ask, “Can I stop by my office?”

  “I thought you were eager to get out of here.”

  “I am, but there was a mess on the desk when I arrived, like someone maliciously destroyed paperwork. As tired as I am, it doesn’t seem good to leave it like that overnight, especially since I’ll be in HR first thing tomorrow.”

  “That was cleaned up while you were gone.”

  “Oh,” I say, and my curiosity gets the best of me. “What happened?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Thank goodness they have nine lives,” I joke. “I assume whoever left my job wasn’t very happy?”

  “As every sad Texas song says, goodbye isn’t always easy.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Not all us Texans love country music, but my horse is parked outside. I hope you don’t mind?”

  He grins. “Sense of humor. I approve, but I still can’t disclose information on any employee’s departure.”

  “I suppose that wouldn’t be appropriate of you, but …” I hesitate, then ask, “if you were gambling on me being here in a year, what would you say my odds are?”

  “I’m not the one who has to gamble on you. And since your new boss isn’t a gambling man, I’d presume he feels you have what it takes to do the job and stay around.”

  “Right. Okay. Thanks.” A blast of emotion overcomes me. Unwilling to let him read my weakness, I quickly head for the door, hating how needy I am for the reassurance I don’t feel he’s given me. It’s that “alone” word Mr. Ward used. It has inched its way under my skin and stayed there.

  “Kali.”

  I pause at my name and glance over my shoulder at Terrance. “Yes?”

  “He’d go without help rather than settle for less than the best.”

  Relief washes over me, and my lips curve into a smile. “Thank you.”

  A few minutes later I slide into the rental car, and a sigh escapes from deep inside me. Mr. Ward might not be a gambler, but he chose me. And I’m choosing to look at my career in a new way because of him. We are the closest thing to a relationship I’ve had in a very long time.

  * * *

  I stop by the grocery store on the way to the hotel I checked in to upon arriving in Vegas last night. It’s nearly nine when I enter my small but functional room and unload my purchases in the fridge, heavy on the microwave dinners. Even if I wanted to win a man’s heart, which I don’t, I will never do it through his stomach. My mom was the gourmet, and as much as she tried to teach me, I enjoyed eating more than preparing meals. Well, right up until puberty, when I had to start watching just how much I sampled.

  By nine-thirty I’ve already showered and changed into sweats, eaten a microwave dinner, and looked up the bus schedule. I was considering letting go of my rental and s
aving the cash I had set aside for a used car. Instead, I decide to hang on to the rental for a few more days and leave my belongings stored with the moving company. I’ll stay here, and if things go well, I’ll try to get into an apartment before the holiday.

  It’s nearing eleven when I snuggle into bed with my laptop and a cup of instant hot cider. Like Mr. Ward’s cologne, the cider reminds me of the holidays and the good times they were with my mother. And while it makes the hotel room a little more like home, I cannot help but think about all that has happened since I lost her. If she were still here, things would be so different. I would be different.

  Determined to prepare for tomorrow before sleep takes hold of me, I Google my new boss and discover that his first name is Damion. Even the man’s name is sexy. So is his success. At the extremely young age of thirty-two, he has been in the position of CEO for nearly two years. What isn’t sexy is the scandal around how he got the job. Apparently he’d been consulting for the board of directors and personally recommended the termination of the ex-CEO; he even took part in its execution. Some said it was self-serving, as he’d then taken the position in the interim before transitioning to full-time.

  My cell beeps on the nightstand and I grab it, hoping it might be Kelly, my ex-roommate, who has grown more and more distant since she moved to Hawaii with her boyfriend three months ago. I frown at the caller ID. It reads DW, and the message says, Are you awake?

  DW. DW. And it hits me. Hello, Kali. It’s obvious. DW is Damion Ward, and why is my heart fluttering? It’s just a text. Just my boss. Yes, I reply. Are you in New York?

  I got to my hotel about 15 minutes ago.

  I wait, expecting more, like a reason for the contact, but he says nothing else. As when we were in the elevator, I feel that I’m supposed to fill the empty space. Do you have to travel like this often?

  His reply is instant. Wishful thinking?

  I grimace at the phone. It rings. I don’t even check the caller ID. I know it’s him. “I do not wish you out of town all the time.”