Chapter 17
ICE PRINCE ON THIN ICE
VICTOR
By the time the clock strikes noon in Vegas, the StreamEats jet’s wheels are touching down on the desert tarmac.
The November sun is relentless—seventy-eight degrees and climbing—and the dry heat hits like opening an oven door after the crisp cold of New York. The sky is that particular shade of blue that only exists in the desert, cloudless and vast.
Ten minutes later, we’re in the back of a town car heading to the Bellagio, and Harper is staring out the window like she's never seen the Vegas strip before.
She has, of course.
This is where we got married. This is where everything started. And judging by the way her hands are clenched in her lap, she's thinking about that too.
"You okay?" I ask.
“I’m great.
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. You’re just starting to know me too well.”
The admission hangs between us, and I file it away for later examination.
"We're staying at the Bellagio," I say, watching her reaction.
Her head whips toward me. "The Bellagio?"
"Yes."
"The same hotel where we—"
“Crashed after getting married in a video game chapel? Yes. Though technically the chapel was off-strip. But we did start the evening at the Bellagio." I pause. "I thought it was fitting."
"Fitting or sadistic?"
"Can't it be both?"
She almost laughs at that, which I count as a win.
The car pulls up to the hotel entrance, and I see Harper's shoulders tense. The Bellagio fountains are performing—water dancing to some classical piece I don't recognize—and tourists are crowded around taking photos.
"Last time I was here," Harper says quietly, “My pores were seeping out tequila.”
"And this time?"
"This time I'm sober and terrified."
"Of what?"
She looks at me then, and there's something in her eyes I can't read. "Of making the same mistakes."
Before I can ask what that means, the valet is opening the door. I step out first, then offer Harper my hand. She takes it, and I pull her close as we walk through the entrance.
The lobby is exactly as I remember—opulent and excessive and somehow exactly right for Vegas. The Dale Chihuly glass sculpture on the ceiling catches the light, throwing colors across the marble floor.
Harper tilts her head back, looking up at it. "I forgot how beautiful that is."
"Come on," I say, guiding her toward the elevators. "Let's get checked in."
The front desk manager recognizes me immediately. "Mr. Kade! Welcome back. We have your suite ready."
"Thank you, Michael."
"The presidential suite, as requested. Top floor. I think you'll find it—" He pauses, glancing at Harper. "—very suitable for your needs."
Harper's eyebrows rise. "Presidential suite?"
I grin, and Michael hands over the keys with a cheeky smile. "Enjoy your stay. And congratulations on your marriage. We all saw the video."
"Of course you did," Harper mutters.
We take the elevator to the top floor, and I can feel Harper's nervous energy radiating off her in waves.
"Victor," she starts. "About the sleeping arrangements—"
"We'll have separate rooms."
Her shoulders relax slightly. "Oh. Okay.”
"Connected by a door."
The shoulders tense again. "Connected."
"Yes."
"How connected?"
"Very."
The elevator doors open directly into the suite, and Harper stops dead.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the manger,” she breathes.
The presidential suite is exactly what I paid for—sprawling and luxurious and decadent. Wall-to-wall windows overlooking the strip. Dark lush carpeting. Thick curtains. A living room the size of most apartments. A full bar. A grand piano I'll never play. And yes, two bedrooms.
With a connecting door.
Harper walks slowly through the space, taking it all in. “Did it look like this the last time?”
“The last time we were in another suite. This is the bigger one.”
She gasps. “Bigger?”
“Hey, what do you want. This is Vegas.”
“No, this is a down payment on a house."
"This is three nights in a hotel suite. Perspective, Harper."
She turns to glare at me. "You're very cavalier about money."
“No, I’m very cavalier about comfort.”
She's about to respond when she sees the view. She walks to the floor-to-ceiling windows and presses her hand against the glass.
"You can see the whole strip from here."
"That's why I booked it. It’s even better after the last time I was here.”
"When were you here last? Before our—" She stops. "Before Vegas."
"Two years ago. Investor meeting." I move to stand beside her. "Hated every minute of it."
"Why?"
"Because I was alone. And Vegas is designed for people who aren't alone."
She looks up at me, and I can see the question in her eyes.
"And this time?" she asks quietly.
"This time I'm not alone."
The words settle between us, heavy with tension.
Harper breaks eye contact first, turning back to the view. "So. Which bedroom is mine?"
"The one on the left. Master bedroom. Bigger bathroom."
"And you're in the one on the right?"
"Correct."
"With the connecting door."
"That can be locked from either side."
"That's very reassuring."
"I thought so."
She walks toward her designated bedroom, and I follow because I want to see her reaction.
The room is beautiful—king bed with high-thread-count sheets, sitting area, enormous bathroom with a soaking tub that could fit three people.
Harper drops her suitcase and turns to face me. "This is too much."
"This is exactly right."
“Are you sure you—“
"I wanted you comfortable. I wanted you to have space. And I wanted you close." I lean against the doorframe. "All three things can be true."
She's looking at me, brows furrowed. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you want me close?"
"You had a panic attack on the plane."
"That's not an answer."
"It's part of the answer."
"And the rest?"
I push off the doorframe and cross to her. She doesn't back away.
"The rest," I say quietly, "is that I like knowing where you are. I like being able to hear you in the next room. I like— I like having you near me."
Harper's breathing has changed. “I like it, too.”
“Good. We’re on the same page then. Now, unpack.
Get settled." I step back before I do something stupid like try to devour her in broad daylight when we have a dinner with Richard Francis in three hours.
"We need to leave for the restaurant at six.
That gives you—" I check my watch. "—five hours to prepare yourself for the most excruciating business dinner of your life. "
"Excruciating?"
"Richard Francis is an ass. His board members are skeptical. And everyone will be watching us to see if this marriage is real or if I've lost my mind."
"Have you?"
"Lost my mind?" I smile slightly. "Absolutely."
I leave before she can respond, closing the connecting door behind me.
* * *
Three hours later, I'm in my room getting ready for dinner when I hear water running in Harper's bathroom.
She's taking a shower. I should not be thinking about Harper in the shower.
I should be thinking about the acquisition. About Richard Francis. About the talking points I need to hit during dinner.
Instead, I'm thinking about water running over her skin.
Hot water sluicing down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her hips, between her thighs. Her hair wet and dark, plastered to her neck and shoulders. Steam fogging up the mirrors, making everything soft and hazy.
I'm thinking about soap suds sliding down her breasts, catching on her nipples before trailing lower. About the way she'd look with her head tilted back under the spray, water running down her throat, over her collarbones, gathering in the hollow between her breasts.
Christ.
I adjust myself in my slacks, trying to will away the semi-erection that's been plaguing me since she walked onto the plane this morning looking sleep-rumpled and beautiful.
And it’s still not right, still not appropriate in so many ways. She's my employee. This arrangement has parameters, boundaries we agreed to.
But those boundaries are disintegrating faster than I can rebuild them.
I force myself to focus on my laptop, reviewing the latest financials from CulinaryVision. The numbers are good. Better than good. If I can convince the board tonight that the acquisition makes sense despite Richard's scandal, we're golden.
The water shuts off.
My entire body goes taut.
Now I can hear her stepping out of the shower, water dripping from her body onto the tile as she’s likely reaching for a towel. Running it over her skin—slowly, thoroughly, drying every inch.
I stare at my computer screen and see absolutely nothing.
This is ridiculous. I'm a thirty-eight-year-old CEO, not a teenager with a crush.
Except it doesn't feel like a crush. It feels like something considerably more substantial, more consuming, like hunger that's been building for weeks and is finally reaching a breaking point.
I hear movement in her room, drawers opening and closing, the soft pad of bare feet on carpet.
I'm still zoning out in front of my screen, half-hard and completely useless, when there's a knock on the connecting door.
"Victor?" Harper's voice, muffled. "Can I come in?"
"It's open."
The door swings wide, and Harper walks in wearing a hotel robe.
Just the robe.
White terry cloth, cinched at her waist, falling to mid-thigh and revealing an expanse of legs that makes the inside of my throat literally squeeze.
Her soft brown hair is wrapped in a towel, but damp strands have escaped, curling against her neck.
Her skin is flushed pink from the heat of the shower, and I can smell her body wash—something clean and floral that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in.
She's not wearing a bra. I can tell because the robe gapes slightly at the neckline, revealing the upper curve of her breasts, the shadow of cleavage. And when she shifts her weight, the fabric pulls taut across her chest, outlining the shape of her nipples beneath the terry cloth.
"I need your help," she says.
Every dirty thought I've ever had floods my brain simultaneously.