Chapter 1
Denver
If someone calls me Deluxe one more time, I’m going to stab them with a fork.
It’s one thing to read it in the articles, to hear it called out as I pick up a coffee.
I don’t even really mind if someone uses it while asking me for a photo (as long as I’ve had said coffee first).
But tonight, I’m stuck in a confined space with hundreds of people, and they all seem to have forgotten my actual name.
Hence: fork murder.
Confined space might be a bit of a stretch.
It’s a ballroom in one of the most prestigious hotels in San Francisco.
Grand ceilings, polished floors, champagne glasses that seem impermeable to fingerprints and lipstick stains.
The room is filled with thirty round tables with ironed tablecloths and more cutlery than necessary, considering the speck of food I was given earlier.
When the portion had been placed in front of me, I’d leaned close to Ranger and demanded he give me his meal too, and he’d reminded me that he was armed. Mental note: hungry gangsters are mean.
And my husband is looking particularly mean at the moment.
Standing among a group of politicians, their tuxedos pressed and perfect despite the evening being at the midway point, Ranger Luxe looks both bored and furious.
He towers above the other men, as he does with most people, and I wonder if he’s fantasizing about fork murder, too.
I smile. He probably is.
He catches my eye. His look says, ‘Mass murder?’
I shake my head. ‘Not tonight, dear.’
A scowl I’m all too familiar with crosses his face, and he returns to his conversation.
My gaze sweeps across the room where earlier, I was awarded Businesswoman of the Year.
An interesting achievement, given that not long ago, I was a suspect in two murder cases—the first, my husband; the second, the cop investigating my husband’s murder.
I’ve hopped from celebrity, to murderer, to respected businesswoman, and it’s really fucking strange.
I’m also really fucking hungry.
My stomach growls so intensely that my muscles quiver, and I place a hand against it. There are at least two more hours left of this evening, and I cannot survive another stiff-smiled conversation on a half-empty stomach.
I eye the three bars in the room. Two are heavily staffed with a larger selection of free drinks and so have been busy most of the evening.
I head for the third, which is empty, except for the bartender and one person standing at the farthest end from the party.
Maybe he has an aversion to these events, too.
The bartender smiles. “What can I get for you?”
“Food,” I whisper. “Do you have anything edible back there?”
The young man blinks. “Erm …” He searches behind the bar and produces a small, white bowl. “Lemons for the drinks?”
My whimper is not an exaggeration. “Are they at least fresh?”
He winces. “I wouldn’t risk it.”
“I’ve got food.”
My gaze snaps to the man at the far end of the bar, and my vagina forgets that it’s married.
Tall. Broad. Dark hair that’s trimmed at the sides, thick and styled on top.
A full, short beard that still accentuates a sharp jawline.
His black bow tie is unfastened and hanging around the crisp whiteness of his shirt, and his tuxedo jacket is draped over the stool beside him. He looks a few years older than me.
When I don’t respond, he dips his hand into his discarded jacket pocket and produces a packet of M all hiding a dark heart.
I tried to go legit, I really did, but Ranger’s constant reminders of “that isn’t who we are” were hard to fight.
So, one coffee shop washing money became three, then three became six, and it snowballed from there.
I quelled my conscience by donating to charities, funding schools and medical research.
I volunteer at shelters, something my publicist drooled over when she found out.
I didn’t do it for photos or press, but it soon trended when she leaked it to the tabloids.
And while the world gushed over my growing businesses, my name was whispered by the men I’ve tried to avoid being associated with. Men like my father. Men like Ranger.
And then one interaction at the newly opened Pulse changed everything.
Security had notified me that one of the guests in the VIP room was getting handsy with a waitress, and she’d been close to tears when she’d taken her break.
I was already in a bad mood that night. I’d been cleared of any involvement in Hayes’s murder, but the reminder of how it had all unfolded had tension growing at the dinner table.
Ranger had picked a fight with me and demanded to know where Axel was.
I’d refused. I’d gone to Pulse to cool off.
And Dorian Eddards had crossed me.
After Dorian had hurt the waitress, I’d had him brought to the office. He left an hour later missing a finger and half an ear, and I’d explicitly told him if he came near my club or my staff again, I would remove his tongue as well.
Would I have reacted differently if I’d known who he was? No. Would I have mentioned it to Ranger to prepare ourselves for the potential shitstorm? Yes.
Because Dorian Eddards is Leo Eddards’s son.
Leo “Spider” Eddards, a human trafficker piece of shit, who seems to be everywhere and nowhere all at once.
A powerful, connected man, who would likely not react kindly to me cutting off pieces of his flesh and blood.
But so far, it’s been six months, and Spider hasn’t retaliated.
I’m sure that’ll change soon.
The positive of our little run-in is the respect that came with it.
Powerful men no longer snub my calls in favor of Ranger’s, and when they come to our house for dinner and drinks, it’s me they speak to.
It’s my business ventures they praise. I’m being taken seriously—all because I removed a finger.
“—truly inspirational. And your speech was perfect,” Miller Smyth says, lifting his champagne glass to me. He’s the CEO of something.
I smile. “Thank you.”
“So, what’s next?” Miller asks. “I’ve heard your casino deal has hit a wall. It’s a shame.”
My jaw tenses as I force a smile. I’ve been working on the casino for over a year, and it would have been my most lucrative venture yet.
It took me a month to get a meeting with Samuel Lok Shun Lau, the head of the Triads in the city. Another month to convince him we could work together in opening a casino. We’ve become something close to friends since.
I’ve practically danced my way home from meetings, singing my excitement—until last week, when the land sale was stonewalled by environmentalists.
It’s a move from a rival. I checked and double checked every survey completed on that land, and there was no mention whatsoever of birds close to extinction. It’s fabricated, and the mayor has conveniently dodged my calls ever since the sale was scrapped.
“A temporary roadblock,” I say, sipping my drink.
Miller nods. “I think a Deluxe casino is exactly what this city needs.”
Irritation prickles my skin, and as I open my mouth to voice my carefully practiced response, Ranger interjects.
“My wife’s name is Denver,” he says calmly, but not without bite. “You may call her that or Mrs. Luxe. She isn’t a headline.”
The swell of warmth in my chest almost has me keeling over.
Miller looks like he might keel over, too, but for a different reason. “My apologies, Denver—”
“Actually, Mrs. Luxe will do just fine,” Ranger says.
Miller swallows, his smile brittle. “Mrs. Luxe.”
The conversation moves on, and I push myself to my tiptoes to kiss Ranger’s cheek, my lips hovering by his ear. “If you’re not inside me in the next two minutes, I’ll be very disappointed.”
His hand slips into mine. “Who am I to deny Businesswoman of the Year?”