Play Me Hot (6 page)

This time when I move to close the door, he lets me.

A quick look in the bag tells me Sebastian really did think of everything. Makeup, a toothbrush, deodorant, a hairbrush, even a clean pair of lacy black panties, sized medium. Of course, these are Agent Provocateur while mine are from Target, but that just gets him extra points. Or it would, if I was keeping score. Which I’m so totally not.

I put the bag on the counter without using any of the contents. I might be getting the nice guy vibe off Sebastian, but that doesn’t mean I plan on owing him any more than I already do. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living in Vegas, it’s that one way or another, debts always need to be paid. He’s already let me keep my job—and given me the best sex of my life. The scales are already tipped in the wrong direction.

My eyes sting at the thought, but I blink back the tears one final time. No use crying over three orgasms. Or was it four? Somewhere in the middle of the maelstrom I lost count. Either way, there are way worse things in the world to freak out about than really good sex.

Like the fact that I can’t go out there looking like this. Can’t go back to work with all these marks on my body. It would be like open season to those assholes down there. For the first time since I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and chopped off nearly two feet of my hair, I regret the decision. In this situation, waist-length hair could hide a multitude of sins.

But since that’s not an option—and neither is touching the foundation Sebastian had sent up—I decide to hell with worrying about it. I roll down my sleeves, button up my shirt, pop up my collar. And then I put on the brashest attitude I can drum up.

My father always said if you couldn’t beat the bastards, you might as well join them.

It’s midnight and I haven’t been able to settle. Haven’t been able to focus on the buckets of financial information I still need to weed through—or to look over any of the other paperwork I’ve got waiting for me. Instead, I’ve spent the last three hours alternating between staring into space, trying to work and creeping on Aria’s personnel files.

None of which are behaviors I’m particularly proud of.

Then again, I’m not punishing anyone but myself with my lack of work. It’ll still be there at three a.m. when I get around to doing it. And it’s not like there’s much for me to find on Aria’s employment application anyway. All I’ve managed to figure out is that she’s worked at the Atlantis for fourteen months, she’s gotten exemplary evaluations during her time here that got her promoted to the high roller section four weeks ago, she lives in an apartment in a not great neighborho
od—something I know from personal experience—and she has no emergency contact information.

It’s the last thing on the list that upsets me the most—well, the last two if I’m being honest. But the neighborhood is something I can work on. The lack of an emergency contact—the fact that she has no one in her life to list if something happens—not so much.

She’s young. Twenty-four. Too young to have lost both of her parents under normal circumstances. Too young not to have any friends—high school or otherwise. Her application says she didn’t go to college, but she’s so smart and well-spoken I have trouble believing that. Again, under normal circumstances she probably would have.

Which makes me wonder what happened to her. What kind of life has she had? What kind of abnormal circumstances has she been a victim of?

Aria wears her attitude like it’s armor, looks out for herself and anyone else she feels needs it. She knocks back a high roller like it’s easy, but falls into subspace even more easily. She doesn’t take anything she considers a handout—she accepted her job back because she deserved it, but didn’t touch one thing in the bag of toiletries I had sent up. Not one thing. And though she was lost and more than a little out of it when she came down from the sex, she wouldn’t let me help her through it. Hell, she barely let me touch her afterward.

Instead, she locked herself in the bathroom, then sashayed out of my office with a smile and a wave—like we hadn’t just taken each other apart. Oh, she was polite. Friendly, even. But it was the same sort of friendliness she shows the customers who aren’t trying to get in her little black lace panties. Since I’ve already been in them—
and
gotten her
out
of them—expecting just a little more than she gives them doesn’t seem like too much to ask for.

She’s a mass of contradict
ions—of unexpected actions and zero explanatio
ns—and I can’t get her out of my mind. I tell myself it’s because she’s a distraction, someone I found to keep my mind off the fact that my life has taken so many abrupt turns lately that it’s amazing I don’t have whiplash. Or casino carpet burn on my ass.

But even as I float that theory, there’s a part of me that knows it isn’t true. Knows that whatever interest I have in Aria, it isn’t nearly as superficial as I’d like to think it is. Not even as superficial as I want it to be, which—again, if I’m honest—isn’t very superficial at all.

I’ve been staring at the same bullshit numbers for the last ten minutes and I still have no idea what they say—besides the very obvious, “your father has been running this place into the ground” refrain that I hear pretty much any time I try to make headway on the finances.

It’s just that I don’t like that she’s so alone. I hadn’t liked it when I’d seen it on the casino floor—when everyone from the dealer to the security guy had turned his back on her. And I don’t like it now that I know she has no one to turn to in real life, either.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Blowing the whole thing out of proportion. There could be any number of reasons why she didn’t put down an emergency contact number. But in most situations, the most logical conclusion is the right one, and in this case, that conclusion is that she didn’t have anyone to put down.

It’s not a conclusion I’m happy about.

And as long as I’m listing things I’m not happy about, I really don’t like the way she’s pushing me away, like I’m an inconvenience that needs to be ignored until I just go away. That was the most mind-shattering sex I’ve ever had—and we didn’t even do one-tenth of the things I want to do to her. There’s no way I’m walking away this early in the game.

With that thought uppermost in my head, I shove back from my desk. It can’t hurt to make a run through the casino, just to check on how everything is going. Sure, I made one a few hours ago—before Aria ever came to my office—but in a ship this big, especially one that’s on the verge of sinking, it pays to be vigilant.

And if I just happen to run into Aria as I’m checking things out—well, then, I’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.

Except when I get down to the high roller area—having taken the long way through reception, the kitchens, the late night restaurants and nearly every other area of the casino since I didn’t want to look too eager, even to myself—she looks dead on her feet. Like every step she takes is an agony.

She’s pale, her skin almost waxy in the harsh lights of the casino and she’s swaying on her feet. There are dark bruises under her eyes, and the hands she delivers drinks with are far from steady. Even worse, she doesn’t seem to have the energy to fend off the jerks the way I’ve seen her do twice now. Instead of delivering a quip or angling her body a certain way to shut them down—or even staring them down as I saw her do on the video last night—she’s just taking the abuse.

Taking the slide of a hand along her hip or the pat on her ass or—as I’m standing here watching—the squeeze of her breast. The bastard.

Fury is an ugly drumbeat in my veins when I step forward to rescue her, but I’m barely halfway there when Aria turns and stumbles away, much to the dismay of the asshole who was groping her. I look around, try to see if security or management is paying any attention to what’s happening here, try to figure out if my speech yesterday afternoon had any impact at all. But before I can call him on turning yet another blind eye, the newest security guy approaches the whale with grabby hands, says something to him.

Huh. Maybe my message got through, after all.

But the future job security of my other employees isn’t high on the list of things that are important to me right now, no matter that I came back to this damn place for just that reason. To ensure it doesn’t go under and leave all these people without jobs or pensions or savings to show for their years of service. No, right now all I care about is getting to Aria and getting her the hell out of here as fast as possible.

A glance at my watch tells me that, like an idiot, I’ve managed to do a pretty good job of wasting time getting down here. She’s set to get off in a little over an hour. But that’s not going to work, not in the state she’s in. She needs to leave now, before she ends up tripping in those ridiculous heels and getting hurt. Or before I end up ripping the face off some jerk who decides that now—when she’s obviously out of it—is the time to score with her.

I watch as another customer touches her, sliding his hand up and down the back of her leg. Aria jerks a little bit at the uninvited caress, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell him off.

That’s it. I’m done watching this.

I cross the floor to her in three long strides, and then my hand is sliding across her lower back, wrapping around her hip as I pull her body into the shelter of mine. I shoot a dirty look at the bastard who was just groping her and he inclines his head in an I’ve-got-the-message kind of way. Good. I’d hate to have to break his arm—or his teeth—on what I’m pretty sure is his first night in my casino.

The fact that Aria doesn’t immediately shrug me off tells me everything I need to know about what kind of state she’s in.

I propel her over to the bar, and then into a little alcove behind it. It’s not much privacy, but it’s the best I’m going to get right now.

She still isn’t fighting me, still isn’t telling me that she has to get back to work. I’m the first to admit that I don’t know Aria very well yet, despite our very intimate exchange in my office a couple of hours ago, but I’m smart enough to know that isn’t her normal behavior. Which only makes me more concerned.

“Hey,” I say, pressing a hand under her chin and lifting her face toward mine. “You all right?”

Her eyes are dull, lifeless, with none of the spark I’ve come to associate with her in the three days I’ve known of her existence. “I’m fine.” Even her voice is nearly monotone.

She isn’t fine. Goddamn it, not even close. And as I look at her, I figure out what the problem is. And that it is one hundred percent my fault.

Subdrop. The word slams into me like a goddamn freight train. I may not have ever seen it up close before—never been responsible for it before as I normally work damn hard to take care of the women I’m with—but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize it when it’s staring me in the face.

When it’s my own fucking fault.

I didn’t take care of her. The fact that I wanted to, that I tried and she wouldn’t let me, doesn’t matter. She went into subspace so easily today, let me take her under so quickly, that I should have known something like this would happen. Especially when she wouldn’t let me hold her, soothe her, afterward. Especially when she acted like she was completely fine. Like things were totally normal.

She isn’t fine and things aren’t normal and the last time I was this angry at myself for being an oblivious prick was almost ten years ago. It was completely different circumstances then—compl
etely awful circumstan
ces—but I’m no less furious with myself now than I was then. Which says a hell of a lot about how badly I’ve screwed up. And how much I’m starting to feel for this woman in front of me. This woman who has the soul of a warrior and the heart of a submissive.