He turned the steering wheel and accelerated a little too quickly.I looked up at him, which was a bit comical considering where my head was, and what was just a few millimeters away from it. “What are you doing?” I asked.“I have to have you. NOW,” he said, his face wild and furious, his eyes intent on the road.“Are we at the hotel?!” I asked, fear freezing my stomach.“No,” he said, his voice husky and low.“Ummm…”This was a little alarming.I pushed up on my arms and raised myself from his lap, then looked out the window, hoping to God nobody would see the worst cliché in the world: gorgeous guy in Lamborghini, disheveled chick rising up from his lap.We were away from the Strip and the crowds. I wouldn’t call where we were ‘seedy,’ but it wasn’t nearly as glitzy as the main drag. Not nearly as tacky, either. Vegas by night is a wonderland of lights; Vegas by day is a monument to excess and the question ‘Did they really think that would look good?’We were outside something that
We got back to the hotel safe and sound, though I basically looked like a hot mess. Not even the Lamborghini’s air conditioning could cure that. Bird-nest hair syndrome and streaks of sweat everywhere. Thank God my new dress was black, or there would have been some pretty unattractive stains showing.Connor looked great. He wore the sweaty and disheveled look like a movie star in a big action thriller, where you know some makeup artist has touched up the beads of perspiration dewing his brow – because nobody looks that good after running five blocks through New Orleans in the summertime.Except Connor did.Okay, so we weren’t in New Orleans. And we hadn’t been running. But you get the picture.He attacked again in the private elevator to the penthouse floor.I let him kiss me – let isn’t the right word, exactly; blissfully gave in is closer – but pushed him away when the elevator bell dinged.“I feel disgusting,” I moaned. “I have to go take a shower. Immediately.”“Soon as we walk th
Connor strolled past me, completely at ease, as though finding his father and a bunch of hired goons occupying his hotel room was just another day at the office.I snuck in behind him, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible as I smoothed down my dress. Johnny closed the door behind me.Connor stopped about ten feet away from his father. The lack of a handshake or a hug was glaringly obvious – at least to me.“I’d ask what you’re doing here, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer.”“I would wager you do,” the older man said.“So I’ll just ask the obvious question: what are you doing here?” Connor asked as he pointed at the floor. Then he looked back at Johnny. “I thought I paid you to keep out the riffraff.”“Don’t be too hard on Mr. Inaba,” Connor’s father said drily. “The management was kind enough to let me in before he arrived.”I looked around at Johnny.He grimaced in pain, as though his professional pride had been bruised.“I’ll have to speak to them about that,” Connor said
Mrs. Templeton entered the room like she was walking onstage in a Broadway drama.She was thin and tall – taller than me, anyway, though that’s not saying much. She was a ‘woman of a certain age,’ and fighting it mightily. Her face had the slightly too-tight look of someone with plastic surgery, though it was top-notch, I have to say that for her. Her neck was smooth with very few wrinkles, and her forehead was flawless. Either she’d had Connor when she was sixteen (I’m going to say ‘no’), or her surgeon had worked wonders on her. So had her stylist: not a gray strand in sight, just frosted blonde hair cut in a long-ish bob, Anna Wintour-style. Like her husband, she reeked of money and prestige. Her aristocratic tone was forged, no doubt, by the best prep schools and colleges that Old Money can buy. She wore a grey, business-like dress with a slim-cut matching jacket. Conservative enough to match her station in life, but obviously a designer label to show off her money. She wore a be
When we were halfway down the hall to the kitchen, Johnny whispered in my ear, “That… was… AWESOME.”I grinned. “Thanks.”“I’ve never seen Mrs. Templeton get skewered like that before. Sebastian would have killed to be here.”“He doesn’t like her?”“He loathes her. And Mr. Templeton, too, but especially her. And yet, even he’s never had the balls to take her down like that. Not to her face. So thank you from both of us.”I suppressed a giggle, then looked at him. “You’re not mad at us? For… you know… sneaking out?”His face darkened. “Oh, I’m plenty mad at Connor… but I’ll have that talk with him later. He’ll probably throw it in my face that they were here when he got back.”“It wasn’t your fault.”“No, but once Connor gets an advantage in an argument, he always uses it, so that’ll be the main way he tries to shut me up.”Once we were in the kitchen and dining area, Johnny pulled out his cell phone and hit a couple of buttons. Back in the main room, the discussion was still just as h
Connor stood in front of the penthouse’s giant picture window, alone against the backdrop of daytime Las Vegas.Johnny and I stood at the edge of the main room, just inside the hallway to the kitchen and dining area.Connor’s parents, Augustus and Lenora Templeton, were catty-corner from me and Johnny, watching their son like ravenous animals about to devour their young. Their four Secret Service-looking bodyguards stood motionless at each corner of the room like silent, ominous statues.And Vincent and Miranda stood hand in hand by the front door.The room was deathly silent for about five seconds.Then Connor managed to regain control.I saw the poker player’s mask slip back into place. All the pain disappeared, leaving only cool, amused disdain.It might have been a better performance if we hadn’t just seen how deeply Miranda had wounded him.“The sycophant and the backstabbing gold digger. I hope you’ll both be very happy together,” Connor said with an ironic smile. “You sure as
It’s pretty much impossible to describe the flood of emotions that were coursing through me, but here’s the big ones:Terror.Rage.Shame.Hatred.Hurt.And nausea, which isn’t really an emotion, but tell that to somebody just before they puke on your shoes.I looked at Connor. He ignored me. He just went over to the couch, picked up the iPad, and stared down at the screen emotionlessly.I turned hesitantly towards Johnny. I had a hard time meeting his gaze, wondering if he’d seen the photos and what he thought about them – but when our eyes finally locked, I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one who was green around the gills.He was watching me, his expression full of sympathy and pain. Then his eyes trailed over to Connor, and the worry in Johnny’s face doubled.I looked back at Connor again.He was flipping through the pictures, a blank look on his face.“…Connor?” I whispered.He didn’t answer, just kept swiping his fingers across the screen.“Connor, talk to me,” I whispered.Su
Apparently the ‘Gulfstream’ was Connor’s private jet, which he had used Friday – the day I met him – to fly from New York to LA. By taking it instead of a commercial flight, Sebastian bumped up his departure by over an hour. The flight was typically forty minutes, though Sebastian said the pilot could push it to thirty. Before the plane had even taxied off the runway in LA, Johnny was walking out the door of the penthouse.“Do NOT leave this place,” he ordered Connor angrily. “Do NOT open the fucking door.”“Relax, they’ve already ruined me. There’s no need for them to shoot me now.”“Connor – ”“I promise. Jesus.”“If you’d just followed my instructions, none of this would be happening,” Johnny scowled, then looked at me like he’d just put his foot in his mouth. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.“What are you saying ‘sorry’ to her for? I’m the one who fucked everything up,” Connor snapped.“Well, don’t go fucking it up even more.”“Go get Sebastian,” Connor said as he pushed him out of t