Shadows
I decided to take the rest of the day off and spend it on a little self-care. I shopped for high-end, recognizable brand names, cringing at the extravagant price tags and pushing my credit cards to the limit.
Everything had to be perfectly right, matching the narrative I’d been carefully constructing in my mind. Because I knew exactly what I wanted. Or whom. Winston James Donovan wasn’t going to fall in love with someone wearing discounted department store fashions.
I wasn’t going to crawl into his life as one of his many housemaids and try to get his attention by swaying my hips and fluttering my eyelashes whenever he walked by, right after scrubbing his toilets.
Nor was I planning to worm my way into his path by getting a job at his company, or land on his doorstep appearing needy and meek and oh-so eager to get on my knees.
No . . . I was going to offer him the ultimate experience, an irresistible package.
A true equal. A wealthy peer who shared his passions and his vision for the future, in the perfect body of a beautiful blond woman twenty years younger than him.
Winston himself wasn’t a random choice. I’d carefully selected him from the ranks of Neon City’s richest, married, and occasionally philandering men aged forty to fifty-five.
Not younger, because I needed their marriages to feel a bit stale.
Not older, because I didn’t want my skin to crawl under their touch. And definitely married.
All other reasons aside, the appeal of forbidden fruit was the spice I could always count on.
Las Vegas had quite a few such men to choose from, and I knew exactly where to look. At fundraiser galas serving chicken dinners for $10,000 a plate and up. At celebrity events and premieres. At the ostentatious and highly publicized weddings of the city’s wealthiest. Even at funerals for the same.
I’d still been in Seattle when, armed with the patience of a diligent spider weaving its web, I perused dozens of social photos featuring several Vegas finalists and their wives.
It had been Mrs. Claire Donovan who’d cinched the choice for me.
The way she held on to her husband’s arm—needy, threatened, and unwilling to lose him, but desperate that she might.
Even if she was in her late thirties, an elegant and sophisticated stunner with the body of a twenty-year-old model and the face of a goddess.
Winston James Donovan was strikingly handsome.
At forty-seven, the former oil industrialist, now turned renewable-energy entrepreneur, had a chiseled jawline and a warm, inviting smile.
His salt-and-pepper hair was impeccably styled, complementing his distinguished look.
I could see why Claire had married him, assuming there had been a different reason other than money.
He kept a friendly and approachable expression on his face, rarely seen in men of his financial stature.
His casual demeanor and apparent friendliness made him charismatic and youthful, as well as an easier mark.
I only hoped Claire’s possessive clasp on his forearm meant that he was, at least occasionally, still interested in stepping outside the lines.
Once I’d chosen Winston, I’d let myself sleep on the choice for a couple of days, and it still felt good. I’d looked so much at his photo, so intently, it almost felt like I’d known him for years. I just had to make sure he’d feel the same about me once we were formally introduced.
Again, I looked to his wife’s appearance for guidance.
Seven or eight years earlier, he’d fallen for her, deeply enough to marry her.
Perhaps his taste in women had stayed the same.
I studied her attire, courtesy of every social photo I could find, taken in the past few years.
How she moved and how she talked, through the very few videos of her I was able to dig up.
Her preferred fashion brands, her jewelry, and even her shoes.
Did the charming Winston like his women in high heels?
Claire’s choices would tell me. Did he like conservative, monastic fashion?
Or daring high slits with plunging necklines?
Again, I had the missus to look at for clues.
When I’d boarded the flight out of Seattle, my hair had already been done to match hers in color and highlights and style—wavy blond, midback length, flowing freely over my shoulders when it wasn’t coiled in a low bun and hidden under the Seahawks ballcap for the trip.
I liked how it made me feel—vibrant and confident, turning heads and collecting envious glances like battlefield trophies.
My eyebrows were also shaped the same as hers.
For a while, I’d considered wearing contact lenses to match her brown eyes, but my blue irises were nothing to be ashamed of.
So, with an exclusive list in mind, and knowing I was going to max out most of my credit cards, I went out shopping in Claire’s extravagant style. She could easily afford it. I couldn’t.
Not yet.
Warming up to the Strip shopping experience, I started with a pair of Prada jeans and a couple of fashionable tops with unique designs, like the knit off-shoulder Alexander McQueen top in ivory I’d found, and the Saint Laurent sleeveless black satin crop top I looked forward to wearing that night at dinner.
After going a little crazy in the Gucci store, I left there with a see-through chiffon top in beige and a couple of their amazing silk blouses in the signature patterns I loved so much.
Then I moved on to the heavy hitters I really needed, and scooped up a stunning Golden Age evening gown from Atelier Versace.
It had a plunging neckline that guaranteed undivided attention and was form hugging in a way I found irresistible.
After that, I added a Dolce&Gabbana cocktail dress, low cut and backless, in shimmering black silk that floated when I walked.
Shoes were next. I grabbed a pair of trendy sneakers from Balenciaga, stylish ankle boots, black Louboutin pumps, and white Manolos. Winston would be so pleased.
And yet, thinking of him, even saying his name in my thoughts, brought a chill to my spine. The kind you get when you stare into the eyes of a predator in that split second right before it pounces.
I couldn’t think of what that meant. I didn’t want to.
After abandoning all my shopping bags on the hotel room floor, I went for a quick bite at the ARIA Patisserie, and then I headed downstairs for the spa, although it was getting kind of late.
I wasn’t too surprised when the attendant was able to squeeze me in, even if I didn’t have an appointment.
It seemed that someone had just canceled.
Someone always cancels, when you’re the right person asking for an exception.
A one-hour massage under a young woman’s expert fingers left me pleasantly relaxed, deliciously drained of all energy. It felt as if my bones had turned to jelly, and I couldn’t trust them to hold me upright.
The masseuse recommended I move into an adjacent room for a nap on the heated stone beds. Despite a raised eyebrow at the thought of lounging on hard stone when I had a luxuriously comfortable bed waiting for me upstairs, I decided to give it a try.
No one else was there in the small, dimly lit room.
At this late hour, everyone was probably getting dressed for dinner and whatever else they had planned for the evening.
I sat where the masseuse pointed and lay slowly on my back, unwilling to let go of the state of deep relaxation the massage had instilled in every fiber of my being.
She slipped a rolled towel under my head and vanished quietly.
Within a minute, the pleasant heat melted me away into sweet slumber.
But I woke up screaming, shaken awake by a concerned attendant.
Disoriented, I sat up on the side of the stone bed, remembering the crushing heartbreak of leaving my little brother behind.
Of losing him. Of running across the barren fields of Texas that night, choking on my tears and gasping for air with each step that took me farther away from him.
“Thanks, I’ll be fine,” I told the attendant.
She left me alone after reminding me I could call them if I needed anything. They were closing, but I could linger for a while longer if I wanted to.
Still sitting on the side of the stone bed, I considered going up to my room, a little embarrassed after what had happened.
But then I reclined again, curled up on my side, willing myself to stay awake as I invited the demons of my past to haunt me one more time, now, when I could fight them fairly. When I could put them to rest forever.
It was about time. It had been more than ten years since that day.