Chapter 11
Eve
“Is anyone sitting here?”
Eve looked at the empty bar chair beside her. Someone was supposed to be sitting there, but he wasn’t.
Adam was now almost half an hour late, and she was getting tense.
After an abrupt end to what she thought was surely headed for a memorable night, Adam had dropped her off at her place and raced to the hospital.
Where was he?
Throat tight, she sipped her drink. For what seemed to be the hundredth time, she glanced expectantly toward the entry of the Delilah Lounge.
“Yes, no?”
The man smiled broadly, revealing small white teeth.
She gave him a polite but distant smile and shook her head. “Not taken. Please, feel free.”
He seemed innocuous. At another time, she would have considered him good-looking. Light brown hair, gray eyes, decently built, above average height.
He took the seat. “What is a beautiful woman like you doing here, all by herself?”
She glanced at his left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but the wide, pale line on his ring finger told another story.
“Drinking a martini.”
She didn’t look at him.
The guy leaned into her. “Porn star.”
She leaned away, brows arching. “Excuse me?”
“That’s a porn star martini you’re drinking.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Slip of the tongue,”
she corrected.
He guffawed. “Yeah, same thing. That’s just what they call it here. Slip of the tongue.”
He snorted. “I’d like to slip you some tongue.”
He leaned close yet again. “I’ll bet you taste real good.”
Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. Slowly, she turned her head, her gaze traveling down his torso with narrowed eyes.
He gave her a knowing smirk. “Like what you see?”
Eve spotted a small white rectangle sticking out of his jacket pocket, dangling from the end of a lanyard.
She reached toward him. His eyelids lowered.
“I might, Mr.—”
she grasped his ID badge, flipped it over, and brought it up to read “—John Mills, from Tulsa, Oklahoma. But I doubt your wife would want me looking.”
She tossed it, landing it on the bar in front of him.
His jaw slackened. Eyes widening, he palmed his badge and shoved it deep into his pocket, crimson slowly creeping up his cheeks.
Muttering something under his breath, he raked a hand through his hair and stood.
He couldn’t get away fast enough.
Good riddance. Eve shook her head. She’d come upon so many of his type, but at least those she had taken on were honest.
She glanced at her phone. 9:15.
Adam was now forty-five minutes late.
The unease that had begun to nag at her gripped her in earnest. The man flew planes, and even though logic told her she was being paranoid, a part of her was still on edge because, sometimes, bad things did happen.
Had something happened?
A chill tugged at her gut. She couldn’t go there. She just couldn’t.
The chatter of the patrons suddenly sounded like a hornet’s nest. There had to be a perfectly good explanation for this. She couldn’t see Adam standing her up.
Maybe he’d just forgotten?
After last weekend? That made no sense.
She should have been relieved that he hadn’t shown, but what she felt was the opposite.
The minutes continued to tick by torturously, and when an hour had passed, she was numb with concern.
The thought of something having happened to him had her nearly paralyzed. If there hadn’t been a problem with his plane, perhaps he was sick. Or hurt. Or…
Eve stopped her mind from spinning. Whatever it was, she was done wondering.
She caught the bartender’s attention, then retrieved her clutch, extracting a few bills to pay her tab.
Smoothing her hands over the skirt of her purple dress, Eve found her phone and quickly texted Charlie.
Please pick me up out front.
We’re going to the Lark.
Adam
He was beat.
Adam tossed his keys into the glass bowl he kept on the side table by the door and hit the button that turned on the night illumination scene. Strategically placed, warm lighting instantly glowed, and soft jazz played from hidden speakers, but nothing could soothe him this evening.
He needed a drink.
He shrugged out of his jacket, draping it on a black leather chair, and headed directly for the wet bar.
Tonight was a Glenfiddich Grand Cru night. He’d brought the bottle back from Heathrow Duty-Free and had been saving it, but tonight was special because he was celebrating the end of a supremely shitty week.
To say it had been hell at work would be an understatement. Everything that could have gone wrong had gone disastrously. First, Tim had fallen off that mobile elevated work platform, sustaining a severe head injury. He had only come out of the coma this morning, but based on their evaluations, the doctors were confident he’d make a full recovery, thank God. That was the only bit of good news.
On Tuesday, one of his pilots had decided to ski in Aspen and broke his leg in three places, leaving Adam to pick up the pieces. He’d had to fly the guy’s entire schedule, which had included two long-haul flights.
The first run of the engines on the 2024 had been a catastrophic failure. Today, he’d had to take off several heads in the engineering department, and it hadn’t been pretty. The flaws were supposed to have been addressed by now; the holdup was pushing the launch date, and he’d had to field numerous calls from nervous investors who’d somehow gotten wind of the problem.
He opened the cherry display case and found the black bottle with the gold stag prominently featured on the front. Grabbing a cut crystal lowball, he poured himself two fingers, then decided to go for a double.
He took a sip and let the smooth liquid burn down his throat, willing it to calm his nerves. He hadn’t felt like dinner, so the alcohol was going on empty.
Good. The buzz would come faster.
He thought of all the blood, sweat, and millions in cash he had sunk into this project.
Millions of his own damned money.
Never in his life had he come this close to the edge, always hedging his bets, never putting everything in one basket. This project had seemed a sure thing, but now it looked close to becoming a runaway train, and he hoped to hell that train didn’t hurtle over the cliff.
He thought of the much simpler days back in Alaska. If all went to shit, he could probably go back to that, take Betty, buy a bunch of high-wing Cessnas, and to hell with all of this.
But with so many people’s livelihoods depending on him…
Not in the mood for music, he turned off the jazz, then went back to indulging himself in brooding.
He looked down into his glass, contemplating the amber liquid. At least this wasn’t rotgut. This was good. He savored the flavors of oak, sandalwood, and white grape and strolled to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.
Outside, the Vegas signs and lights glittered and blinked with garish colors.
At least up here, at the top of Lark Hotel, he was insulated from the traffic noise and the drunken tourists, yelling and singing and getting into fights at all hours of the night. But Lark was still in the middle of all the action, and he was getting tired of it.
After Ingrid’s disappearance, leading the bachelor life had been just fine. He would bring different escorts to his place to fuck them in the guest room, satisfied with the impersonal sex and variety. At the completion of the Lark just recently, however, he’d moved to this penthouse and had returned home to it empty ever since.
Because, in all honesty, he no longer had interest in the revolving door of meaningless one-night stands. A certain petite brunette with huge brown eyes now occupied his thoughts.
Perhaps the time had finally come to move off the strip. A quiet neighborhood. Maybe buy a house with a nice backyard, where he could have a lawn chair, a pool, and a couple of fruit trees.
Eve.
He took another swallow. Of late, she no longer featured only in his erotic fantasies. She was now in that house, in the backyard, picking fruit.
He smiled to himself.
She may as well have fed him that proverbial apple because she was in his mind to stay. And on a night like tonight, it sure as hell would have been good to find her here, waiting for him, with open arms. And open legs.
The way she’d fed him that pie…Jesus. He’d never forget that if he lived one hundred years. He’d been sorely tempted to hit the autopilot button and christen Betty in the mile-high club. What stopped him, again, was her.
She didn’t deserve her first time with him to be a fast hump in the front seat of a Cessna.
OK, technically, not her first time with him, but still…
When he had signed the contract with Eleet, he’d screwed himself. He’d been so eager to secure it that he hadn’t used his customary caution before signing anything. Eleet had set up the deal to accommodate Eve so that if she did this, he got weekdays or weekends but not both.
Since he worked all week, weekends were the perfect choice. At least, he’d thought so at the time. But now he was stuck with not being able to contact her during nonwork hours because that’s what the contract stipulated. She hadn’t offered to exchange numbers, so he figured he wouldn’t push.
And he… Well, over the course of this week, he’d come to understand why it was called the cockpit. He couldn’t even think of Saturday without having to adjust his pants. And with those long-haul flights, he’d had plenty of time to exquisitely torture himself by playing the whole thing in his mind on an endless loop.
What would Eve say if she knew of all these land mines he was trying to avoid? The way she looked up at him sometimes, as if he were that fairy-tale guy from her grandma’s stories… Christ. Would she look at him differently if he took Betty and moved back to Alaska? Would she even want him anymore?
Did she want him now?
Adam finished his scotch and immediately poured another.
His phone buzzed. He thought to let it ring but couldn’t stop himself from looking to see who it was.
Ian.
He tapped the phone to accept.
“This better be good,”
he growled in greeting.
“I’m sorry, man. I wish I had some good news for you, but I don’t.”
His stomach clenched. “You haven’t found her.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t for the lack of trying.”
“I thought you said this PI was the best.”
“He is. But she seems to have gone off the grid. He has extended his search to overseas. Hopefully, that will turn up something.”
“Shit.”
“Adam,”
Ian said gravely, “he has advised that the chances of finding her are slim.”
Adam’s hand tightened around the glass. “I want that divorce, Ian.”
“I know.”
The line went silent for a few seconds. “You didn’t give a shit. Now you’re in a hurry, all of a sudden? What has it been, six years?”
“Seven.”
Seven years since Ingrid left both rings on the nightstand. The note, written in red ink, was still emblazoned in his memory.
You can’t make me happy.
I deserve happiness.
I’m done.
“What changed?”
Adam frowned. “Just find her, Ian. And start looking into a divorce by publication.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Ian asked.
“No.”
That came out far harsher than he’d intended.
Silence fell on the line again.”You sound like you need to get laid,”
Ian finally said. There was concern in his voice, without his usual joking tone.
“Yeah, well. I need a lot of things.”
“I mean it.”
He sucked a breath in exasperation. “Unlike you, little brother, I don’t consider a fuck to be a cure for all my problems.”
“Depends on the fuck.”
Ian’s standard answer. But this time, Adam thought there may be some merit to it. “You have a point.”
He paused for a beat. “Thanks, man.”
“I have your back.”
“Call me the minute you hear anything.”
“You know I will. Take care of yourself.”
Adam ended the call.
He should have done this a long time ago. But better late than never, he supposed.
Adam looked down at his empty glass. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind, drifted the reason he now felt compelled to get that divorce.
Eve.
He had her exclusively for three months. And then what? What if she wanted to go back to what she was doing before?
He grabbed the bottle of Glenfiddich, sank into his favorite black leather armchair, and poured himself another, staring unseeingly at the Sin City lights blinking outside his windows.
?
Buzz.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
Adam’s eyelids opened but only to slits.
His head was buzzing.
Good.
Mission accomplished.
Buzz.
The next moment, he distinctly heard the hum of the lock, and the door to his suite swung wide open.
What the…?
“My apologies, Mr. Larssen.”
Sean Hughes, his head of security, stood in the doorway, filling it with his bulky frame. His cheeks seemed redder than his ginger hair.
Adam blinked. “Hughes, what the hell, man?”
“I’m sorry, sir. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Adam arched one questioning brow.
Hughes grimaced.
“Are you going to let me by already?”
A very familiar voice came from behind him. Very familiar, and very annoyed.
Eve?
It was. And she was trying to sidestep the hefty guard, almost succeeding in slipping her slight body right past him, even though he was blocking her with spread arms.
Hughes’s smile was apologetic. He shrugged, turning his palms up in a helpless gesture.
Adam’s lips twitched. “It’s fine, Hughes. She isn’t dangerous.”
The look Hughes gave her as he nodded and stepped aside said he believed the opposite.
Hughes raked a hand through his ginger hair. “Have a good rest of the night, sir. Apologies again.”
“No problem.”
With one curt nod, Hughes backed away, leaving Eve standing there looking like the million bucks everyone who came to Vegas hoped to win.
Her dress was royal purple. So were her nails, he observed, as they clutched a little silver purse. His heart kicked into high gear instantly, but his body remained slumped, arms hanging loosely over the sides of his chair.
His head felt like a bass drum at Homecoming.
The door closed quietly behind her. Her heels clicked as she swiftly advanced across his mahogany hardwood floor. He noted the same silver sandals she had worn in the Caymans.
He also noted she was pissed.
She halted at his side. Two more clicks of those shoes, and there she was, standing in front of his chair, killer legs in a wide stance, one hand on her hip.
“You’re drunk,”
she stated.
He managed a crooked smile. “Not drunk enough. Getting there, though.”
She stared down at him for a couple of seconds, then tossed her hair, pitching her purse on the black leather sofa beside his chair.
“If you were going to spend this evening with a bottle instead of me, I would at least have appreciated a cancellation.”
His brow furrowed. What was she doing here on a weekday?
He peered up at her. “It’s Friday.”
“It is.”
“And?”
She pursed her pretty lips. Slowly, she shook her head. “It’s Dinner Friday, Adam.”
He blinked. His foggy brain was slow to process, but as he fought to access information, she saved him the trouble.
“One Friday a month. Remember?”
Shit.
She was right. The contract allowed him to take her to one fancy dinner on the last Friday of each month.
“Today was that Friday,”
he muttered.
“Today was that Friday,”
she repeated.
He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “8:30. Delilah, at the Wynn.”
He’d called in a favor to get that reservation. It was nearly impossible to score one, even months out.
“That’s right. I’ll have you know that their slip of the tongue martinis are to die for.”
His stomach turned. “You waited at the bar?”
A curt nod. “Good thing I’m used to fending off horny men.”
He swallowed hard, then looked her squarely in the eye. “I’m sorry. No excuses.”
That seemed to mollify her. She nodded, eyes searching his face for a long moment. Gradually, he saw their expression soften, then felt her gaze roam critically over him.
He must have looked like hell because her next words were spoken gently.
“What happened?”
“Everything fucking happened,”
he muttered under his breath.
Great, now he was using profanity in front of her. Could he get any lower? Adam scowled.
Her chest rose in a deep breath, and she let it out slowly. Then she leaned toward the couch, reaching for her purse.
“Don’t.”
The word slipped out of him before he realized he’d said it.
She froze in place.
Every piece of his soul reached out to her. “Don’t leave.”
She turned to face him again. His gaze held hers, and whatever she saw there seemed to change her mind. She bent to look into his face. Gently, her small, soft hands settled on his cheeks, thumbs tracing just below his eyes, where he was sure he had dark circles.
His nostrils picked up a hint of Delina perfume. His chest seized mid-breath.
“OK, I won’t,”
she whispered. She cradled his face between her palms, lifting.
He let her tip his head back.
And then she pressed her lips to his.
Eve
She poured all of her longing and relief into that kiss.
Eve took his mouth as if he were a life force, and he was her last chance for survival.
He pulled her into his lap, and she allowed him. His thigh was firm under her own, and Eve leaned into him, sliding her hands up his hard chest. She flattened her palms, feeling his heartbeat, strong and sure, as he angled his head to take gentle control.
Her arms slid around his neck. She needed the anchor because her head was rapidly going into a tailspin. He tasted like scotch, and a corner of her mind still wondered why he’d drunk so much, but right now, she didn’t need to know.
She had missed him, and he was here.
It was a long time before they broke for air. Eve began trailing soft kisses along the corner of his mouth, down his raspy jaw, and it was all she could do to stop herself from licking his Adam’s apple, but she refrained. This wasn’t the time.
He pulled her close, settling his chin on top of her head, his warmth enveloping her completely.
“Forgive me?”
he murmured, his question a deep rumble.
She rubbed her cheek against his chest, reveling in his scent and the smoothness of his shirt. “Only if you tell me what happened.”
“I told you. I forgot.”
She wanted to know why since this was out of character. “Don’t want to talk about it?”
“Let’s just say I had a rough week. I don’t want to rehash it. I’d rather…”
He reached to tilt her face to his, lightly stroking her jaw.
He took her mouth again, so very softly. His kiss was feather-light. She kissed him back, following his lead, gently and soothingly stroking his tongue, sliding her fingers into his silky hair, seeking to ease whatever had him drinking alone in this empty, darkened apartment.
It was an exquisite give-and-take. This kiss was different from all the others, no aggression, no demand.
She sighed into his mouth, finally pulling back to sip at his lips. She kissed his jaw, his cheek, his eyelids. She kissed his temple. Then, drawing a deep breath, she nestled in his arms, feeling them tighten around her.
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
He sounded drowsy now.
His chin settled on top of her head again, and in his arms, she was content.
For a long while, she listened to his heart beating steadily beneath her ear and breathed in his familiar scent, finding comfort in the protective, solid masculine strength and heat that was Adam Larssen.
She didn’t know how long she stayed that way, but gradually, she sensed a change in the rhythm of his breathing. Bit by bit, his hold on her began to loosen, his arms finally sliding, coming to rest on either side of his chair.
Eve waited a little longer while he slept, her throat tightening, eyes stinging a little from the poignancy of it all. She knew she was falling for this man as surely as the sun rose every morning over the rugged mountains of Las Vegas. She’d fought a valiant battle to resist it, but here she was.
As carefully as she could to avoid jostling him, Eve rose to her feet. She started to retrieve her purse but stopped and stood there a moment longer, looking down at this man, the fierce Norse warrior who, for the moment, looked so uncharacteristically vulnerable.
In sleep, he looked much younger than his years. Her gaze skated over his stubbled jaw, the shadows underneath his eyes, and his bright blond hair, now mussed from her fingers running through it.
Her chest and throat tightened so much, she ached with it.
She hated to leave him, but he needed rest. She spotted a black blanket on the opposite arm of his sofa. Tiptoeing to it, she scooped it up, then quietly returned, unfolding it to drape over him.
That was when she saw the word Finnmark embroidered on the cloth. Above it was a large golden castle.
Her heart swelled. A beautiful Nordic prince. She wanted very badly to touch him again, but Adam slept so soundly, and she didn’t want to wake him.
She picked up her clutch. “Shine bright tomorrow,”
she whispered.
As quietly as she could, Eve exited Adam’s penthouse but not before she took one last, long look at him over her shoulder.