Then, without waiting for Natasha to answer, Damon ruffled her hair the way a big brother would do to a pesky tomboy sister. He picked up his carry-on bag, assembled his usual mixture of machismo, magnetism, and carefree swagger, then took himself off to the cloud of smoke that encircled his new wife.
Wistfully, Natasha watched as Damon and Giada reunited. They looked happy enough. A little jet-lagged maybe. But happy.
If
she
was going to be happy, too, she’d just have to move on. She would have to lock away those irresponsibly spicy feelings for Damon, forget about imagining what it would be like to see him naked, and get back to the business of taking them both to the top—one delicious, chocolate-centric deal at a time.
She could do that. Easy-peasy.
But Natasha sure wished, as she went to greet Amy and the others and shepherd them to the waiting car, that she could have spent a little time with Damon in Sexy Fun Town first.
She’d never heard him describe his life that way before, but it sounded pretty accurate. It sounded like an awfully entertaining place to visit, too... .
Chapter 6
Present day
Las Vegas, Nevada
Sin City had definitely earned its nickname—and Damon treasured that quality about it. In Las Vegas, whatever you wanted, you could have. Whatever you needed could be arranged. Whatever kinky, surreal, or extraordinary activity you felt like experimenting with ... you could. Openly and without recrimination.
What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas. The end.
At least that’s the way Damon’s imagined version of Las Vegas operated. In reality, people barged into your hotel suite at ungodly hours—before it was even dark outside!—pestering you to do things you didn’t want to do, like conduct business, stand upright, or get dressed. He
really
didn’t want to get dressed.
Across his suite, a muted whir sounded. The luxurious, extra-thick draperies that hid his view of The Strip began to part. A sudden and ruthless shaft of sunlight seared its way in.
“Argh! Argh!” Flinging his naked arm over his face, Damon rolled over in bed. A ladies’ high-heeled sandal stabbed him in the back. He pitched it out. He felt for the empty liquor bottle that poked at him next, then threw away that annoyance, too. He burrowed beneath the covers. “For God’s sake, shut the curtains! Are you trying to kill me? I only went to bed an hour ago.”
“That’s why coffee was invented,” his tormentor said.
Grouchily, Damon peeked out from under the covers. His pal Jason Huerta stood far across the penthouse suite’s expansive square footage with the room’s remote control in hand, clearly prepared to push more buttons. There were more draperies to be drawn back. State-of-the-art sound systems to be engaged. Enormous 3-D TVs to be turned on. Knowing Jason’s diabolical nature, he’d activate all three at once, just because he could.
“You know I don’t drink coffee anymore,” Damon reminded his so-called friend. “I never touch the stuff. Not since—”
Not since Giada
. He should have known that impulsively getting married was the king of bad ideas. So what if she’d been smart, vivacious, and intriguingly open-minded? She hadn’t been right for him. He hadn’t been right for her. They’d ended things amicably—and relatively quickly—but still Damon regretted it.
Marriage, it turned out, had not come easily to him. Everything else had, for as long as he could remember. That’s how Damon had known that marriage wasn’t meant for him.
“Since Giada?” Jason asked, echoing his thoughts. “That ended years ago. Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on her.”
“I’m not still hung up on her.” Damon slapped the nightstand, looking for a bottle that wasn’t empty. He found one. He took a swig. Vodka. Ugh. “I’m just saying I no longer enjoy waking up to a tasty cup of espresso.” Illustratively, he took another, more vigorous drink. “See? I’ve moved on.”
“You might not have noticed, but that’s vodka.”
“Hey, it’s made from potatoes or something, right?” Damon raised the bottle in a wiseass salute. “I’m practically having a plate of hash browns.” He frowned. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“Natasha called me.” Jason stabbed at the remote. The rest of the draperies cruelly parted, allowing more desert sunshine inside the room. “She said you needed a shower, a wake-up call, and maybe a babysitter—and today it wasn’t going to be her.”
Petulantly, Damon scowled. “Why not?”
Silence. That was the thing about expensive penthouse hotel suites, Damon thought as he hugged the vodka to his chest. They could shut out the whole world ... whether you wanted them to or not. This morning, that silence made him feel impossibly alone.
“She couldn’t wrestle you into the shower. You were too drunk to cooperate.” Jason came nearer. In his collared shirt and dark denim jeans, he looked every inch the responsible number cruncher and father of two (with one more on the way) that he was. He also looked worried. “Natasha said she had to settle for spritzing you from afar with the shower nozzle.”
“Aha.” Damon patted himself. “That explains the dampness. For a minute, I thought I had something to be worried about.”
“You do.” Soberly, Jason took away the vodka bottle. His gaze met Damon’s, incongruously reminding him of similar but happier circumstances during their bachelor days. “Also,” his friend went on, “I think she can’t stand seeing you this way anymore. You’ve been on a real bender, bro. For a while now—”
“Bender?” Damon scoffed. “What do you know about a bender? To you, staying up past ten o’clock is a wild night. You haven’t been anyplace fun in ages—despite multiple invitations.” From
him
, in fact, and others. “You wouldn’t know a good time if it danced a tango and then bit you on the ass. So before you start telling me to rein it in,
bro
, you might want to wait for a topic you actually know something about first.”
“I’m married. I have kids. I have responsibilities,” Jason said. “So, yeah ... I don’t stay out late. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see the truth. What you’re doing to yourself isn’t good.”
“Right.” Irately, Damon eyed the vodka bottle. He didn’t really want more of it. Despite Jason’s worrywart routine and Natasha’s supposed frustration with him, he knew his limits. He knew he’d neared them. “Because if someone said
you
could date supermodels, go skydiving with basketball stars, run your own company, make a bazillion dollars, have superhot sex every day—”
“I
do
have superhot sex every day,” Jason interrupted smugly—and implausibly. “Marriage is awesome.
Amy
is awesome.”
“—go where you wanted, do what you wanted, win at every blackjack table in this damn city,” Damon forged on, remembering his unending lucky streak at the casino downstairs, “and have everything you touch turn to freaking
gold
, you would say no?”
Jason nodded. “I would say no. I’m happy as I am.”
Disbelievingly, Damon stared at him. “The hell you are.”
“It’s true. You don’t get it. Maybe you never will.”
Damon swore. “I can’t believe this. If Natasha really sent you in here—to do this, today—she has a mile-wide mean streak.”
“What Natasha has is a mile-wide streak of softheartedness and compassion for
you
, dumbass.” Jason gave him an atypically flinty look. “In fact, I’m glad she called me. I say it’s about time she wised up and quit taking your shit.”
Damon went still. It was possible his heart actually stopped. He clutched his covers. “She didn’t leave, did she?”
He’d lived with that doomsday scenario hanging over him for years now. For one impossibly brutal moment, Jason was quiet, allowing Damon to speculate that it had finally come to pass.
Then, “No. She went shopping. She promised to bring home a souvenir for her mother-in-law. And of course she wants to bring home something neat for—” Abruptly, Jason stopped talking. A canny look spread over his face. “Tell you what: I’ll forfeit all the new computers for the accounting department, right now, if you can tell me who else Natasha’s shopping for.”
Damon nearly exploded with exasperation. “Why the hell does everyone keep quizzing me about Natasha’s personal life?”
Jason looked even more self-satisfied. “You give up, then?”
“No. I just feel like taking that shower now, that’s all.”
With dignity, Damon flung back the covers. He couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to be wearing ... a fringed suede loincloth?
Damon gawked down at himself. “What the hell?”
“Your partner in crime last night was a member of one of those French acrobatic troupes.” Jason took pains to put on a straight face. “She probably got you to wear it ... Tarzan.”
Irritably, Damon flipped him his middle finger.
“Natasha must have gotten an eyeful when she was here,” Jason mused further. “Maybe that’s why she called me. She didn’t want to come eye-to-eye with your loincloth-wearing wild side.”
Could that be? Damon wondered suddenly. Could Natasha really have gotten so fed up with him that she couldn’t stand to see him nearly naked? They’d been through a lot together. They were close. No one in the world understood him like she did.
He didn’t want to lose her. Natasha kept his life running smoothly. She calmed him and nurtured him and organized him.
Without her, he would be ... well, Damon couldn’t imagine it.
“
Everyone
wants to come eye-to-eye with my wild side,” he told Jason confidently, hiding the fact that he’d been spooked by the very idea of going so far that he might alienate Natasha. “Today, I’m going to prove it!”
“No, today you’re conducting a workshop presentation on varietal chocolates from around the world,” Jason disagreed in his usual pragmatic, reality-bound, buzzkill kind of way. They’d come to Las Vegas for the annual chocolate-industry convention. Evidently, there were expectations—at least on Jason’s part—that they’d actually work while they were there, not just gamble and drink and get lucky. “There’s a limited amount of wildness you can display during a workshop, He-Man. Although the lady chef from B-Man Media who’s joining you to do the chocolate fondue demonstration is pretty cute. Maybe she likes loincloths.”
“Har, har.” Damon headed for the shower. It was easy to find his way; the bathroom was nonstop marble and gold fixtures. It was nearly as blinding as the sunshine outside. “And she
will
like loincloths ... if I’m wearing one.” Not that he planned to.
“Whatever. Just sober up and get dressed before everyone starts wondering if all the wild stories about you are true.”
“They
are
true.” Damon stripped. He wrenched on the shower’s hot water. It cascaded down right on cue, exactly the way things tended to happen in his world: perfectly, easily, and without too much effort on his part. “I don’t care who knows it.”
“Your dad cares who knows it.” Jason’s voice pursued him; fortunately, the man himself didn’t. “Your mom does, too. If you don’t watch it, dude, Jimmy and Debbie will decide they need more than a flashy face to head up Torrance Chocolates.”
Damon paused. Then he shrugged. “I bring a lot of publicity and relationship building to the company,” he argued while soaping himself up. “I’m valuable with the online stuff, too.”
Although to be fair, Damon realized belatedly, he’d delegated most of his day-to-day responsibilities to his staff. It had been years since he’d done more than represent Torrance Chocolates on TV, in negotiations, and—once—in a movie cameo.
“I know you’re committed to a life of decadence. But your dad’s looking to retire soon, and he needs someone who can fill his shoes at the company—management-wise
and
creatively. If I were you, I’d get busy showing the old man you can dish up a new product or an original truffle flavor or something. Stat.”
Stat? That sounded dire ... as if time were running out.
But if Damon really was supposed to create something in order to save his job and impress his parents, time might as well be running out. He wasn’t good at creativity. Or at real chocolatiering. He never had been. That’s how he’d known, right from the start, that those parts of the business weren’t for him. It was just like his marriage: despite his best efforts, he’d tried and he’d failed. So he’d (wisely) never tried again.
His natural talents just didn’t lean toward creating things. He’d always figured he was good enough at everything else to make up for that ... even if his dad hadn’t always agreed.
Remembering that, Damon frowned. Then he made himself rinse off, just as though he didn’t have a care in the world. “If you were me,” he called to Jason cheerfully as he stepped out and grabbed a towel to wrap around himself, “you’d buy yourself a new Porsche, fill every room of your house with gold-plated calculators, then get personal with every pretty girl in sight.”
“Nope.” Jason rounded the corner. Upon seeing that the steam-filled bathroom wasn’t featuring a full-on shower-time peep show, he leaned in the doorway. He crossed his arms. “If
I
were
you
,” he argued, “I’d take another look at Natasha. Then I’d beg her to forgive me for being such an ass, and I’d try my damnedest to make things right somehow.” He gave Damon a meaningful grin. “
Then
I’d buy myself a new Porsche.”
“You know, you probably could afford a Porsche right now. It’s not as though we’re skinflints at Torrance Chocolates.”
“I know. But our portfolio took a hit in the economic downturn, and Amy’s been concerned about retirement. So—”
“Retirement?” Damon wiped condensation off the colossal, gilded-edge mirror. His reflection stared back, bleary-eyed and bleak. Damn. He really needed some sleep. “You’re thirty-six.”
“It’s never too soon to plan. Compound interest being what it is, the bulk of the dividends won’t be fully realized until—”
Damon groaned. “Cut the financial talk, Egghead.” He made a time-out T with his hands. “You’re making me reconsider my stance on coffee.”
“Good. You should reconsider your stance on a lot of things.”