Just Until You Love Me (The Fitzgeralds #3)

Chapter 1

one

EDEN

“This is all a big misunderstanding.” I try to sound innocent as the officer leads me through the sliding glass doors into the police station. Not that I look particularly innocent right now. The handcuffs that have my arms locked behind my back are a dead giveaway.

Not to mention the red paint smeared over my thighs, my denim shorts, and – the pièce de résistance – the bright red handprint on my right breast. My own, in case you were wondering, inadvertently left when I thought I could brush paint off me like dust.

Before we reach the desk, I know I’m done for. You shouldn’t make a scene in front of one of the most expensive hotels on the strip if you want a quiet life. Not even when they’re holding an International Fur Convention inside their hallowed hallways

And you definitely shouldn’t stay around to get caught when one of the idiots you’re next to decides to throw a bucket of bright red paint on the elegant white walls of the hotel to make their point.

The desk sergeant looks up when I’m in front of her.

“What’s your name?” she asks in a low voice, her eyes flicking over me before she looks back at her computer screen.

“Eden Fitzgerald.” There’s no point in lying, the arresting officer already knows my name.

The desk sergeant types into her keyboard. Her hair is dark, tied back so tightly it looks almost painful. “And your date of birth?” she asks.

I give it to her, and she says something like, “You look much younger than that.”

I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a compliment or not, to be honest. But since I like to assume the best about people I give her a smile. “Thank you.”

“Address?” she asks, not reacting to my thanks. Okay, maybe it’s not a compliment. More like a commentary on the fact that I should know better at the grand age of twenty-five than to be involved in something as futile as this.

“It’s complicated,” I say, because it really is.

If you asked me where home was, I really wouldn’t know.

And I’m not giving her the address of the project I was working on in Peru for the last few months.

Firstly, they don’t need any bad publicity, and secondly, that wasn’t home.

No where is home anymore, not even the small town I grew up in.

If home is a feeling, I’ve been numb for a long time.

“It really shouldn’t be complicated,” she says slowly. “Where do you live? The street address would be a good start.”

Oh boy. “Honestly, I really don’t have a home.

I’ve spent the last few months in Lima, working on a project, living in a tent.

Before that I was in Europe, staying in hostels, and now I’m making my way to the east coast to visit my sister.

She’s pregnant and really wants to spend some time together before the baby arrives.

” And I’ve already run out of excuses not to visit her. So please just let me go.

The tiniest bit of empathy passes over her face, and I decide to jump on it.

“Please,” I say, trying to appeal to her kinder nature.

“This really is a mistake. I honestly didn’t do anything.

I didn’t throw the paint. I don’t even like the color.

It’s too orangey. I prefer blue reds.” Oh God, shut up, Eden!

You’re making it worse. I take a breath.

“Can’t we just… I don’t know, pretend this never happened? ”

She stares at me for a long beat. “I’m sorry, but you defaced private property with red paint. Which at the very least is misdemeanor vandalism. So no, I can’t pretend this never happened.”

I bite my lip, hating how unjust that feels.

From the corner of my eyes, I see the arresting officer pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a migraine.

The desk sergeant looks at me. “Just give me your last known address so I can put something in the computer,” she says like she’s doing me a favor.

In the end, I give her the address of the motel I stayed in last night. She doesn’t blink, just types it into the keyboard, then gives a curt nod to the officer at my side. “You can take her through to booking,” she tells him.

I can almost hear him sigh with relief.

Checking his watch, he takes my elbow in his rough palm and leads me past a door that buzzes open with a heavy click. As we step into the booking area the air feels different. More ominous, maybe.

A fluorescent light overhead flickers in a stuttering rhythm, casting the gray-painted walls with a pale yellow haze.

He walks me into the holding area – a long, narrow corridor with a row of metal benches bolted to the floor.

Each one has a ring attached to it for cuffing suspects in place.

Dear God, this is not what I had planned today.

Or ever. I don’t break the law, I don’t get arrested.

Yes, I might be known in my family for being the forgetful, flighty one, but I’m not a criminal.

Or maybe I am. I swallow hard because I’m going to have a mugshot. And my prints will be on file. I’m pretty much at America’s Most Wanted level.

More importantly, my brothers are going to kill me.

“Sit down,” the policeman tells me.

Two of the benches are already occupied. One by a woman in a sequined dress, her face streaked with mascara from the tears pouring down her face. The other by a guy in a black vest that barely covers his stomach. He’s snoring with his mouth open, every third breath sounding like a death rattle.

The officer gestures toward an empty bench and releases the handcuffs. My skin almost sighs with relief. Then I sit exactly where he points. The chill of the metal bench seeps through my shorts, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Don’t move,” he tells me. “Wait here until I call you for processing. It could take a while.”

“Wait!” I say, my brows pulling together. “Don’t I get a phone call?”

“After you’re processed, yes,” he tells me, like I should know. Like I’m a seasoned criminal.

God, I’m such a rookie at this.

He pinches his nose again before disappearing through a door at the far end of the corridor.

And I lean my head back against the wall with a soft thud, listening to the hum of voices in adjoining rooms competing with the buzz of a radio.

Followed by a loud clang that sounds scarily like a cell door closing.

Why didn’t I just take a flight directly to New York? Oh no, I had to be a good girl, and make the trip as ecologically friendly as possible. Taking trains and buses, because my carbon footprint is already way too big.

Right now I could already be on Liberty, the small island I once called home. Instead of here, covered in ugly red paint, feeling the panic rise inside of me because I am in so much trouble.

I shift on the bench, trying not to cry and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Think, Eden. Come on, you have brains don’t you?

You’ve been arrested. You’re in Las Vegas. You’re almost certainly going to be charged.

And after that I get a phone call. But who the hell do I call?

I mentally scroll through the Fitzgerald Rolodex of family disaster responses, grimacing as I picture each of them.

The obvious option is my brother, Hudson, but there’s no way I’m calling him. He’s the oldest of the six of us, the most intense. He’ll yell at me, bail me out, then lock me up in a dungeon until I’m sixty.

Asher might skip the yelling, but he’d probably burn the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department to the ground, all the while calmly explaining why it was the only logical choice.

Zach’s somewhere across the world buying art nobody understands, and Wyatt’s probably charming tourists off the North Carolina coast. And let’s face it, neither of them would answer their phones.

Which leaves Autumn. My bossy but level headed sister. The only one who might help without telling Hudson.

I let out a long, low sigh that turns into a growl because I’m so annoyed with myself for getting into this position. I was already dreading going home. Now I’m rethinking all of my life choices.

“Is that… blood?” the crying woman across from me whispers, pointing at my top.

“You should see the other guy,” I joke. She looks away, like she’s not sure whether I’m a liar or a psychopath.

I’m not sure either, to be honest. All I know is that right now I’m supposed to be heading to Liberty Island, to see my pregnant sister. And as much as I hate the way that place makes me feel, I think I’ll hate being in jail more.

I blow out a breath, rub my aching wrists, and look up at the paint-peeled ceiling. If this isn’t rock bottom, I’m not sure what is. Things can only get better, right?

And as my name is called, and I’m lead to the booking room, I do the only thing that’s left to do.

I start to pray.

WEST

Taking a deep breath, I swirl the bourbon in the cut crystal glass, painting an easy smile on my face.

I’m tired. So damn tired. But right now I need money more than I need sleep.

Or more specifically I need cash flow. And I’m sitting opposite the only man I know who has more cash than he could spend in ten lifetimes.

And every so often he likes to put it through the wash.

Vin Marchetti is a man who has his fingers in more pies than he can count. He grew up destitute in New York, got in with the wrong – or right, depending how you see it – people, and now he owns hotels and casinos across the country from Las Vegas to Atlantic City.

Which is why I’m showing him the plans for the exclusive resort I’m building on Liberty Island. My escape plan. Even though I know he’s as dirty as they come. Not that I can talk.

I might have grown up in complete luxury compared to Vin but I’m not exactly squeaky clean either.

Vin likes me, though. He’s been taking an interest in me and my business for years. Maybe because I’m useful. The kind of L.A. lawyer who can get anybody out of anything. I clean up problems, make them go away, and get paid handsomely for it.

And I’ve come to hate it. I’m ready to move on. To the little island on the east coast where my best friends live. Where I’ve already built a house and broken ground on the resort that will bring in even more money to the small town.

Or it will, if I can get Vin to agree to a cash injection. Because all of mine is already tied up in the resort.

“Remind me again why you need my help?” he asks.

“Because the bank has a schedule for releasing the loans. And they’re being difficult. Without a bridge loan we can’t pay the staff or put money down on materials. And without the materials and labor we can’t hit the next milestone so the bank will release the funds.”

It’s a catch twenty-two. And yes, I have Hudson and Parker – my best friends – who are also investors in the resort, the same way I invested in Hudson’s refurbishment of the late Victorian hotel on the island, but they don’t have the available funds a man like Vin does.

Nobody legit does. Which is why I’m here at his club asking for help, and not requesting a loan from the First Bank of Dirty Money.

Behind Vin, one of his bodyguards leans forward and whispers in his ear, the movement exposing the gun belt around his waist.

I don’t flinch. I’m not afraid of his goons and I’m certainly not afraid of his guns. He’s a businessman first. A gambler second. Both would work for me.

“If it was anybody other than you asking, I’d say no way,” he tells me, his voice gravelly, like it’s inhaled far too many cigars.

“Then I’m glad it’s me.” That’s no word of a lie. If Hudson or Parker knew I was here, trying to make a deal with a man like Marchetti, they’d hate it. That’s the funny thing, my friends love the results of me dancing with the dark, but they hate knowing about the footwork.

Which is why I never tell them.

“I’m interested,” he tells me. “But I want a slice of the action. Give me the numbers and we can talk about a deal.”

Before I can tell him this is strictly a short term deal, repayment with interest – not an investment, my phone buzzes on the table.

I glance down, expecting an SOS from an old client who can’t quite accept that I’m leaving L.A., but instead Autumn Davis’ name flashes across my screen.

I frown. She’s Hudson’s sister and also Parker’s wife but she never calls when she knows I’m working. Which immediately makes me want to take it.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I murmur to Vin, already standing and sliding my phone into my hand.

He gives me a grunt and goes back to sipping his Scotch, his Rolex Submariner catching the light of the candles.

When I step out onto the club’s balcony, the L.A. sprawl stretches out in front of me, yellow and orange lights arranged in grids as far as the eye can see. The cool night air cuts against my skin as I lift the phone to my ear.

“Autumn?” I murmur. “What’s up?”

There’s a pause, then a sigh. “West, thank god,” she says, sounding almost frantic. “I need a big favor. Like huge.” She takes a deep breath, likely to calm herself, and I don’t like it. Autumn doesn’t rattle easily.

“Of course,” I tell her, already sliding into the role of the man who fixes things. “Tell me what you need?”

“It’s not what I need. It’s Eden,” she tells me, and my jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “She’s in trouble. How fast do you think you can get to Vegas?”