10. Sage #2
I grit my teeth once more, frustrated over the loss. But better to dismiss those sour grapes. I’ve been vying for entertainers for more than a decade. It comes with the job. I’ve lost deals to the MGM, won them from The Mirage, and beaten out New York-New York. It’s all in a day’s work.
My father taught me to go after deals tenaciously, but to let go of them graciously.
I want to honor him, his wisdom, his legacy. Picturing a calm, serene ocean breeze, I give my rival as genuine a grin as I can muster. “The show is going to be amazing. I can’t wait to see it at The Invitation.”
Cole is silent, his eyes registering surprise. Perhaps he expected me to come in with guns blazing or for me to tiptoe around the issue. But neither is my style in business.
“Then you should be my guest on opening night,” he says, playing the part of the gentleman.
I think we both know that won’t happen, but I simply nod and say that sounds lovely. And because you catch more flies with honey, I toss out a few more compliments. “You should be proud of your hotel. I’ve been admiring it across the street as it’s gone up.”
That seems to delight him, judging by the way his lips curve into a smile. “And what do you like about it?”
“I like the energy from it. I like that it entices you to come through its doors.” I take a beat, shooting him a challenging look, since I’ve doled out plenty of niceties already. “Are you fishing for compliments, Mr. Donovan?”
He grins. “I think that is patently obvious.”
“What would you like me to say? That if I didn’t already have a favorite hotel here, I’d be gallivanting around yours?
Running my hands along the walls?” I demonstrate, dragging my fingertips along the wall behind me.
“Talking about how wonderful it is? Draping myself across the lounge chairs?” I stretch back on my couch, as if imitating my own plans to luxuriate, having too much of a good time.
“Running my hands over all the slot machines?”
A rumble emanates from his chest. “I do like the sound of all that, and yes, I wouldn’t mind you saying that and doing that.
Feel free to make my hotel your favorite any night of the week.
You have an open invitation to come over,” he says, and now he’s having too much fun with the innuendo, it seems. “And I find your hotel quite alluring too. The colors, the luxury, the richness of it. It makes me want to . . .” His eyes lock with mine, heating me up. “It makes me want to have it.”
The way he says have , like he’s underscoring that word with dirty promises, is a billboard, a sign flashing on the highway.
And it’s clear what’s happening here.
We are heating up. Again.
I need to press the brakes.
Because all this talk of what we like about each other’s hotels makes me want to grab him, wrap my legs around him, and ask him to take me here and take me hard. I clear my throat, making one more attempt. “Tell me what you are enjoying best about Las Vegas so far.”
“I haven’t seen much beyond the Strip, but the hiking is great over at Red Rock,” he says.
This surprises me. I tilt my head. “You like to hike?”
His grin goes crooked again. “I don’t seem like I could be a hiker? Is that what you’re saying?”
“You seem like you like to go to some underground MMA ring for exercise. Someplace you can burn off all that energy,” I tease.
“All my dealmaking energy. All my intense alpha energy, right?” He’s having far too much fun.
Perhaps I am too. “You said it.”
“I assure you, Sage, I do actually like to hike. I get up most mornings and I go to Red Rock and I run, and sometimes I hike.” He leans in closer, interest flaring in his eyes. “What about you? What do you like most about Vegas?”
That answer is easy. It’s so easy. “I like that it’s home. I grew up around here, and it feels familiar. I have people I love here, and that matters to me. This entire hotel and all its employees feel like family.”
We stay on that topic for a few more minutes, and I pat myself on the back for keeping the conversation chaste enough.
But there is business to be done, and it’s time to tackle it.
“Why don’t we talk about the ad campaign?
Since we’ll be working on it with the city’s marketing manager, and we have a dinner with her next week. ”
“Yes, let’s do that.”
“So, ‘Experience Las Vegas,’” I say, getting back to the reason for the meeting. This is why we need to get along well enough. A public show, if you will. We have to band together at times.
“Vegas has so much to offer,” he says, more professional in his tone, but still with a sultry finish to his words. “So much to experience. Don’t you think?”
I laser in on the marketing message. “Fantastic nightlife, amazing restaurants, world-class casinos.”
Nightclubs in my hotel, like Rapture. Restaurants and bars in my hotel, like Speakeasy. Experiences in my hotel, like the blackjack tables, the slot machines, the sports bets.
And entertainment, like Max and Alex.
I want them to be mine. Not his. He won The Exquisite Show. Max and Alex are in my court, and I intend to woo them to a yes.
And woo them away from this man.
That’s what I need to center my thoughts on because Cole Donovan and I are colleagues, but we will always be competitors too.
I can’t forget that simply because he smells so damn good this close to me, or because he’s clever, or because he’s flirty and filthy.
Or because he’s more fascinating than I imagined he’d be.
I can’t forget that simply because I still very much want to experience all of him.
It’s time to lay down the law. Be firm and clear.
I draw a breath, square my shoulders, and look him in the eyes.
“But the trouble is we both want the same experiences. We want this marketing campaign to go well, but ultimately, we want people to experience the city at our own hotels,” I say, reminding myself of the score as much as him.
“And there’s not really space to experience each other when we want the same thing in business.
When we’re angling for the same deals, the same stars. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He takes his time, his brow furrowing, as if he’s weighing my question, deciding if he likes the feel of it in his hand.
When he answers, his tone is a cocktail mix of business and bedroom. “I agree. You and I will always be vying for the same prizes.” He exhales a satisfied sort of breath. “And yet, as I said earlier, I am a man who knows what he wants . . . and I would like to fuck you, Sage.”
I blink.
What the hell?
Did he truly say that?
“Excuse me?”
He gestures to the window overlooking the casino. “Those are my cards. I’m putting them on the table.”
“And what do you want me to do with your cards?” I ask, more flustered than I want to be.
“That’s up to you,” he says with a shrug as he leans back into the couch, resting his arm over the back of it again, looking too cocky for words. “Lady’s choice. It is always lady’s choice.”
“Who was the other man?”
“My business partner. Daniel Stewart. Longtime friend. We went to college together.”
Somehow that thrills me more. My two rivals.
And as I sit with one of them, I’m burning up inside, wishing I didn’t want him.
I deny that wish. I suffocate my desires with professionalism once more. I slice a hand through the air. “Nothing more can happen. When we go to the meeting with the city, that’s what we will do. We’ll focus on business, on partnerships that benefit us both, but nothing more. That’s my choice.”
“But of course. Though, before you think I’m no gentleman,” he says, his tone a touch sexier now, “I do have a gift for you. Since I’m new to town, it seemed like the right thing to do. To bring you a little something.”
Something in me softens, bends. I do love little gifts. Special trinkets that show someone is thinking of another person.
Dipping his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, he hands me a small leather-bound book. Warmth rushes over me as I remember the Fitzgerald he had at the party. Books—they must be his thing. I flip it open—it’s a book of sonnets.
Maybe we can do this partnership thing, and only this partnership. We already have something in common—a love of words, a love of books.
“Thank you. This is lovely,” I say, running a finger across one of the pages. “And I have something for you.”
I reach for the bag of chocolate, handing it to him. When he looks into the bag, his lips curve into a grin. An irrepressible one. A smile that seems to light his whole chiseled face. “I love chocolate. How did you know? Did you research me? Admit it, you researched me.”
Laughing, I shake my head, grateful that we can segue into a lighter mode. Surely we can put our competition and our lust aside and get along for the sake of the campaign. “I didn’t research you. I took a good guess. Are you a chocolate connoisseur?”
“Absolutely. I enjoy the finer things in life.” He breaks off a small bite.
He seems to savor it, letting the taste roll around in his mouth and on his tongue. I bet his mouth tastes spectacular right now, all decadent and divine.
He snaps off a piece of the chocolate and offers it to me.
I reach for it with my fingers. He raises his hand, shakes his head, and says, “Open your mouth.”
I should scoff.
I should say, Hell no.
I should say, But I told you we’re not going there again.
But I don’t.
Because my body longs for the intent of his words, the sound of his voice, and the command in it. I part my lips and let him feed me a piece of the chocolate.
I bite into it, savoring it as it melts onto my tongue. I moan around it.
If our lips collided, we would both taste like chocolate, like sinful desires.
I fixate on the book of sonnets, hoping it’ll root me to my resolve.
When I flip it open, I’m about to read a line, but instead, taking the book from me, he does.