9. Lena
Nine
Lena
T he club is dark and luxurious, with plush private booths around the walls and sets of tables and chairs spaced around the floor. Servers slip through the shadows like ghosts, delivering a constant stream of drinks, while tea lights flicker on tables—a constellation of tiny stars.
A live band plays on one stage, drenched in a shaft of light. Their moody music twists around the room and heats my blood.
On another stage, two strips of white silk dangle from the shadowed rafters high above all the way to the floor. A woman, dressed in a short, fringed flapper dress, twists her limbs around the silks and climbs gracefully into the air.
“What are we doing here?” I murmur to Weston for the dozenth time, leaning closer so he hears my lowered voice. Hardness and heat greet my palm, and I look down to find my hand on his thigh.
Horrified, I snatch it back.
My palm tingles.
“We’ve come to see her.” Weston nods at the woman, already high above the audience’s heads, wrapping herself around and around with silks. “And them.” He nods at the band too. “And the other acts playing here tonight.”
I wet my lips, considering.
“But… why ?”
There must be a punchline coming. A bait and switch. Our deal was five nights of psychological torture—Weston would hardly bargain for the chance to take me to a nice club. Where’s the misery in that?
“I’d like to hear your opinions,” is all he says. That handsome face is turned studiously away, watching the aerialist as she spins and twists. “You spent the last year working as an event planner, correct?”
“Uh.” Maybe it’s the dark room, or the scent of whiskey in the air, or the thudding beat keeping time with my pulse. Maybe that’s why I can’t make sense of this. “Yes. For a luxury ski resort in Switzerland.”
At the time, it seemed like the perfect escape route: a chance to use the unique skill set that comes from being born to parents like mine, but also to get far, far away from everything familiar.
My chest heaves, drawing in a deep lungful of warm, perfumed air. The mountains, with their wet rock and clean mounds of snow, have never felt more like a weird dream.
“You looked me up?”
Weston’s jaw works, but he keeps frowning at the performer. “You haven’t been what I expected, Lena. But the fact that you’ve been working hard for the last year, trying to start over somewhere new… that makes sense now.”
Oookay.
“Careful.” My fingers tremble as I reach for my vodka soda. I panicked when the server came to take our orders, said the first thing that came to mind, but as I sip, I’m glad for the cool tang and the pop of bubbles on my tongue. Ice clinks together in the glass, and beads of condensation sweat against my palm. “That was nearly a compliment. People will start to think you don’t hate me after all.”
Weston’s frown deepens, but he says nothing.
The song changes, bleeding seamlessly from one tune to the next. The woman has nearly reached the rafters now, all four limbs tangled up in silk. She pauses, her sparkly dress glittering beneath the spotlight—then falls without warning, somersaulting over and over as she unravels toward the floor.
“Oh!”
I’m on my feet, body tensed, like I could save her somehow. Never mind that I’m smaller than her and halfway across the room—my brain is screaming at me to do something.
But a hand on my elbow holds me back, the grip gentle. Soothing.
“She’s fine,” Weston says. “Watch.”
Sure enough, the woman catches herself a few feet off the floor, smiling serenely out at the audience as she turns in the silks. Applause breaks out, muffled by the music. It takes a second for my shock to recede, then I’m clapping too, sinking back into the cushioned booth.
Crap. Making a scene like that, and in front of Weston James of all people?
So embarrassing. If I could shrink down into a speck of dust on this seat, I would.
“We have performers in the casino now,” Weston says, his face still turned toward the aerialist. Still, I get the funniest feeling that even as he watches her, all of his attention is on me. “Did you look through the different floors while you were there?”
“No.”
To be honest, I was so tragically eager to see my father’s ex-protege, the man I’ve crushed on for so long, that I beelined through the back corridors to his office all three times.
Besides, Weston would hardly want me snooping through his new version of the Merritt. He resents every single minute I spend in that building—even when I’m on my knees in his bedroom, making him tilt back his head and groan.
Is that why we’re here tonight? To keep me away from the Merritt? To reassert the distance between us?
Or is there some upcoming torture that I haven’t spotted yet?
“We’re here to scout for new talent,” Weston goes on, like this truly is a friendly explanation with no lurking dangers within. Ha! “And since you worked in that resort, I figure your input will be extra useful.”
Is that…
That is a compliment. What on earth?
Snatching for my glass, I take another shaky sip. Weston is the last man I should get tipsy around, but none of this makes any freaking sense. Maybe vodka will help.
“Yesterday, you made me clean your apartment,” I say slowly. Obviously, I took no shame in that task—why would I?—but Weston clearly wanted me to feel bad about it. “The day before, you had me polish shoes all night.”
The tip of Weston’s finger traces one of my polish-stained knuckles, and I jump at his touch. The stain on my hands fades a little every time I wash them, but it’ll be weeks yet before they’re back to normal.
“And you did an admirable job,” Weston says. Everywhere he touches me, sparks race across my skin.
“So what’s tonight’s thing?” I demand. My spine is ramrod straight, pressed against the booth. “What’s the twist? How are you going to try to humiliate me this time?”
Because the band is good and the aerialist is talented and my drink is cool and refreshing—but I won’t be able to relax until we get to the punchline.
Weston takes a large mouthful of whiskey and sets his glass down with a thump. “No twist,” he says, voice rough.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Weston says, frowning as the aerialist slides into the splits in midair, each ankle wrapped in silk. His gaze on her is clinical—nothing like the hungry way he stares at me sometimes. “This is your task for tonight, Lena. Telling me your honest opinions about the performers.”
Huh.
You know, after all those years the Merritt was owned by my family, this is the first time anyone has asked my opinion about the casino business. If my parents hadn’t already crushed my heart into dust last night, that realization might sting.
“Cool,” I say flatly. “Well, I like them both so far. The aerialist and the band. Do you have the infrastructure you need for aerial performers?”
“Yes.”
“Then I guess you’ve got it all figured out.” God knows why he needs me.
Finally, for the first time in what seems like hours, Weston turns to face me. Even in the decadent gloom of the club, his ice blue eyes are piercing. He stares at me, intense and unreadable.
“You know, Lena—” my name in his deep voice sends a shiver down my bare arms “—you seemed happier when I was barking orders at you. Is it so awful if we get along?”
My laugh is shocked.
“You don’t want to get along. You want to get even.”
Those eyes glitter in the darkness, still pinned on me. “Circumstances have changed.”
Pfft. “Because I sucked your cock?”
I’m too wrapped up in this argument to lower my voice, but luckily this club is designed for intimacy. This booth is our own private little alcove, one where we can hiss and spit and swipe at each other like alley cats, and no one will be any the wiser.
Weston’s gaze narrows. Turns dangerous.
“There was more to it than that,” he says, his voice silky and low. “Don’t cheapen it.”
My laugh is pure scorn. “How can it possibly get any cheaper? I’ve already sold my soul to you for a price.”
Weston breaks eye contact abruptly, sitting back in the booth to scrub a hand down his face. He shakes his head, staring out at the band on their stage, but his eyes are unseeing. For a moment, he looks… lost.
There’s a hard pit resting at the bottom of my stomach. My fingers and toes are cold. Shoot, why do I feel bad?
“It wasn’t—I’m not saying I didn’t like it.” A few minutes ago, Weston James could not have drawn that confession from me with thumbscrews. But that was before he looked so gutted by my words, so floored. “I did. I definitely did.”
Still shaky and unbalanced, I reach out and touch Weston’s thigh for a second time. His muscle is hard and warm beneath my palm, the heat seeping through the fabric of his fancy dark suit, and just that small contact makes me feel more grounded. Steadier.
Until something reckless in me adds, “I’ll do it again, too. If you like.”
Hell, there are enough shadowy crevices in this club for us to sneak into. If Weston keeps watch for servers, I could even slip beneath this table and shoulder my way between his knees.
My head is woozy just picturing it. A heavy ache builds low in my belly, twisting tighter with unfulfilled need.
I want him.
I always have.
And things are so much simpler when we’re both grappling for control. This new, peaceful Weston, this man who wants to lay down our weapons and get along … I don’t trust him. I can’t.
But the man who pulled my hair and came down my throat last night—now that guy was honest. He made sense to me.
“That’s what you want?” Weston sounds strained beneath the heady thump of music. “You want me bossing you around again, Lena?”
My pulse races, and my lips part. Already I can taste his clean, salty tang on my tongue. “Yes.”
“Then come here.” Without warning I’m lifted, bundled, slung unceremoniously across Weston’s lap, one of my heels dropping to the shadows beneath the table. I grip his wide shoulders for balance, too startled to do anything except gape up at him.
A large hand lands on my bare thigh. My breath puffs out of me, and my legs slide open an inch. Welcoming him beneath my dress like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“This isn’t the order,” Weston says. He sounds casual, but his whole body is tense beneath mine, muscles trembling with restraint. “You have to want this part too.”
“I want it.” The words come embarrassingly fast, tripping over my tongue. Can’t even blame the vodka, because I’ve barely had three sips.
Already I’m squirming, breathless, desperate for whatever Weston plans to give me, and maybe I should be shamed by that, but I’m not. There’s no room in my brain for shame right now.
No room for anything except please, please, please.
“Then be a good girl,” Weston grits out, leaning so close his lips brush my ear, “and keep quiet. ”