My Sinful Love (Sinful Men Book 4) Page 2

  As I cut a path toward the casino floor, I tried to pretend I was here for business. Meeting a potential client. Seeing an old friend. But the way my heart tried to torpedo out of my skin, I was going to need some much better tricks.

  When I reached the hostess stand at the upscale Petrossian Bar, I simply resigned myself to the storm brewing inside. Besides, how else was I supposed to feel right before I was about to see—as my brother Ryan had so aptly called her—my what-if girl?

  “Like this,” I muttered to myself. Like a case of what-if bombs had exploded inside my chest.

  “May I help you?”

  The even-toned, sweet-sounding voice jarred me because it was so normal. How could anyone feel fine in this moment? I felt the opposite of fine. I felt a mixed-up, jumbled mess of emotions that boiled down to two warring ones—a fervent wish that this meeting would not be a repeat of the one at the airport in Marseilles, and the hope that all my ex-girlfriends were incorrect in their diagnosis of my heart trouble.

  I was not hung up on her. No matter what they had said to the contrary.

  The hostess in her trim gray suit cocked her head, waiting for an answer.

  “I’m looking for . . . someone,” I said, my voice gravelly, as if words were new to me.

  “Would you like to have a look around and see if . . .” She trailed off, letting me fill in the blank.

  “Yeah. I’ll take a look.”

  The pianist in the bar tapped out an old Cole Porter song. I turned the corner, scanning the lounge-style seating for a tall, willowy woman.

  Briefly, I wondered if I’d recognize her. I’d first known her when we were teenagers, then I saw her again at age twenty-four in Marseilles. That was ten years ago, and surely I didn’t look the same. I had crinkles at the corners of my blue eyes, and my hair, inexplicably, had darkened. My sister, Shannon, joked that it was turning black, like my heart.

  I was also sturdier than I had been before. My shoulders were broader, my arms more defined. At twenty-four, I’d been in the Army, working in intelligence; now, I was a twice-daily fixture at the gym and had the bigger muscles to show for it.

  But whether Annalise Delacroix had dyed her hair or shaved it all off, I was pretty confident I’d find her easily without having seen a photo of her recently. I hadn’t stalked her on social media, but I had researched the most important detail before I’d emailed her back.

  I’d found the obituary.

  The one that gave me permission to have a cup of coffee. I shuddered. I still didn’t like coffee. But coffee was the only path to her. Follow the road map, turn this corner, and see the first woman I’d ever loved. It had taken me forever to fall out of love with her, but I was there. I was absolutely there. That’s what I told myself.

  My eyes roamed over the crowd at the upscale establishment until I spotted auburn hair swept high in a twist, long elegant fingers, and the cut of her jawline. Her black top had sloped down one shoulder, revealing soft flesh, and her right collarbone was exposed.

  My heart thundered, and my blood roared.

  Trying desperately to tamp down the riot inside me, I inhaled, exhaled, then walked the final feet to reach her. Her back was to me. When I arrived at the sofa where she was seated, she turned fully, and her green eyes lit up.

  Gorgeous green eyes, like gems.

  Carved cheekbones.

  Lips so red and lush.

  She held a cup of espresso and had just brought it to her lips.

  That lucky fucking mug.

  She finished the gulp and laughed lightly. “Some habits never change.”

  Truer words . . .

  2

  Annalise

  I hadn’t been to Las Vegas since I was a foreign exchange student during my junior year of high school, living with a host family and perfecting my English on American soil.

  Odd, in some ways, that my job hadn’t brought me back to this town even once in all these years—but perhaps that wasn’t so strange, considering business was plentiful in Europe. For now, for a few days at least, business was here, and so was the man I’d fallen madly in love with as that young foreign exchange student.

  He was more handsome than ever.

  Imagine that.

  The prettiest boy in America was now the sexiest man I’d laid eyes on in a long, long time. But lusty admiration wasn’t all I felt as I drank in the sight of Michael Sloan. A myriad of emotions I wasn’t prepared for swam through me—regret, loneliness, wistfulness, topped with excitement.

  I zeroed in on that one, shoving all the others aside.

  Setting down the cup, I stood and dusted a barely-there kiss on his right cheek. His five-o’clock shadow stubble—even though it was only one o’clock on a Sunday—scratched me in a whiskery, sandpaper way. As he then pressed a kiss to my left cheek, the slightest whoosh of air escaped his lips.

  Lips I’d known well. Lips I had spent years wanting to touch again.

  “Cheek kisses. You haven’t forgotten how the French do it.” I sounded breathless, even to my own ears. And I no longer sounded French since I spoke now without an accent. That had been a purposeful decision long ago.

  “How could I forget? And you haven’t forgotten your American accent.” He said it lightly, as if he was talking only about the kisses, but there was so much more I hadn’t forgotten. Was it that way for him too?

  “It’s stayed with me. You look . . .” I let my voice trail off as a lump rose in my throat, and that storm of emotions stirred up again, churning inside. It wasn’t his looks that had knocked the wind out of me. Though, seriously, there was nothing whatsoever to complain about in that regard, as I surveyed him in his black pants and crisp gray shirt, taking in his trim waist, strong shoulders, and tall frame. Nor was it his dark black hair, his cool blue eyes, or the cut of his jaw.

  The tumult was courtesy of the past, hurtling itself headfirst into my present. I hadn’t expected to be walloped by the mere sight of him. I swallowed harshly, trying to dislodge a hitch, wanting to feel some semblance of cool and calm. My shoulders rose and fell, and I tried desperately to breathe in such a way that didn’t require me to relearn how to take in oxygen. I dug my black stilettos into the plush carpet, seeking purchase as I attempted to reconnect with my ability to form words.

  “You look good,” I said, the understatement of the year. Wait. Make that a lifetime.

  “And you look . . . lovely.”

  Lovely.

  That was so him.

  He’d never been one for hot, smoking, gorgeous, babe, or any of those sayings of the moment. There was something in him that spiraled deeper and leaned on words that had more heft. Like lovely.

  I should have scripted this rendezvous. Wrote out talking points. But now I didn’t know which direction in the conversational path to turn, so I went for the obvious.

  “We finally made it to the Bellagio,” I said, gesturing to the crowds clicking by outside the bar. God, this was hard. How do you just have a drink with someone you once thought you’d marry? Someone who was your everything? I’d been his rock; he’d been my hope.

  “We finally did,” he echoed.

  It had only taken eighteen years, an ocean, countless letters, two broken hearts, and a lengthy online search for him, which had taken time and research, since he’d changed his name and was absent from social media.

  But here we were. The Bellagio was the symbol of all our promises. Young, foolish, and wildly in love, we’d always said we’d come here for a drink someday.

  A promise to reunite. One of many promises we’d made.

  Some kept.

  Some impossible to keep.

  “Join me. S’il vous plaît.” I patted the back of the sofa as I sat down again.

  “Merci.” He took a seat next to me, and at last I felt like I could breathe. My warring emotions settled, and now I was simply in the company of this man. Someone I’d been thinking about more and more lately.

  “So,” I said.

  �
�So . . .” He rubbed his palms against his thighs.

  “How are you?” I asked, stepping into the shallow end. “Are you well?”

  “Good, good,” he answered quickly. “And you?”

  “Great. Everything is great,” I said, as chipper as I could be, even though I’d hardly use great to describe the tundra that my heart had become during the last two years. “I’m glad you made it,” I said, in an effort to keep going, lest any silence turn this reunion more awkward.

  “And I’m glad you asked me to meet you,” he said, as if he was waiting for me to tell him why I’d wanted to meet. I didn’t, though, because when he looked at me like that, the breath fled my lungs. His eyes were soulful—they seemed to reveal a depth forged by years of heartache and tragedy.

  I parted my lips to speak, but I wasn’t even sure what to say next. Did I go for lightness? For more catching-up chitchat? Or plunge straight into the heart of why I’d wanted to see him? I was so accustomed to charging into situations fearlessly, to chasing after what I wanted, but all those skills escaped me in this moment, and I was a tea bag steeping in a pot of awkward.

  Fortunately, the waitress arrived and asked Michael if he wanted anything. “Club soda,” he said, and when the woman left, I tilted my head.

  “So, you still detest coffee?” I asked, because that was a far easier conversation entrée than all the other things we could talk about.

  “Evidently, I still do.”

  “I never understood that about you,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. Funny that we’d gotten on so well when we were younger—except about this. Our one bone of contention had been over my passionate love of the deliciously addictive substance, and his disdain of it.

  “It vexed you, I know.”

  “I tried to get you to like coffee. I even tried to make espresso for you.”

  “You were relentless,” he said, and the corners of his lips quirked up. That smile, that lopsided grin I’d loved . . . Okay, this was better. This was a slow and steady slide back into the familiar.

  “Remember when I hunted all over Vegas trying to find something like what they’d serve in a café in Paris?” I asked, reminiscing, slipping back into the time we were together years ago.

  Like it was yesterday, he picked up the conversational baton. “You even used your babysitting money to buy an old espresso machine at a garage sale,” he said, and the memory of my determination and his resistance made me laugh. “Remember that?”

  “I do! It was a Saturday morning. I scoured the papers for garage sales, and hunted all around the neighborhood until I located the only one I could afford.”

  “Found one for ten dollars.”

  I held up an index finger. “Ten dollars and twenty-five cents.”

  “Ah, well. The quarter made all the difference,” he said, as the waitress brought his drink and he thanked her.

  “I took it back to Becky and Sanders’s home that afternoon, and I thought I’d win you over. That if you had a proper coffee, made like we do back home, you’d be converted.” It was only coffee, but it was a thread that connected us to the distant past, when our lives were so much simpler. It was a far easier topic than the present, and certainly less painful than the words said the last time we saw each other, on that heartbreaking day in Marseilles after he’d sent a letter that had torn me to pieces.

  “Alas, I was inconvertible.” He took a swallow of the club soda. “So, what brings you to town?”

  “Work.”

  He frowned and glanced from side to side, like he was sweeping the bar for trouble. “There’s a war in Vegas I’m not aware of?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I’m not a photojournalist any longer. Now I shoot fashion—lingerie and boudoir. I’m here doing the high-end catalog for Veronica’s,” I said, naming the famous lingerie chain with which I’d nabbed a plum gig. “Some of the shoots are at The Cosmopolitan and around town. We did the Venetian canals earlier today. Caesars Palace is tomorrow.”

  “So this is you now,” he said, waving a hand at me. “Shooting barely dressed women in silk and lace instead of racing across the desert in a Humvee?”

  I nodded. “From shrapnel to strapless.”

  “What happened to make you switch?” The question was direct.

  So was my answer. “Death happened.”

  So did heartbreak and unfinished love.

  He nodded in agreement, his expression turning somber. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear about Julien.”

  My throat hitched, but only briefly. I’d cried enough to end California’s drought. “Thank you.”

  More quickly than I’d expected—and I was eminently grateful not to linger on talk of Julien with this man—Michael led us out of that conversation, returning to safer ground. “Do you enjoy fashion more?”

  I glanced up at the ceiling, considering. That was a tough question. I’d loved the adrenaline rush of photojournalism, the thrill of chasing a story that didn’t want to be found, the chance to capture an image that would show my nation the truth of what was happening in the world, whether during my time in the Middle East, or covering breaking news across Europe for a French news agency. But the job became too risky and the costs too high, so I’d pivoted.

  I had no regrets.

  I met his eyes to answer. “Yes. I like fashion better now. I love what I do.”

  We chatted more as I told him tales of the models and their over-the-top requests at shoots—from the imperious blonde who required celery sticks chilled to a crisp sixty-five degrees, to the willowy brunette who would only drink artesian water—and how it compared to the bare-bones style of hunting images in my combat boots, cargo pants, and photographer’s vest, in one of the most dangerous areas of the world.

  “What about you, Michael? You’re not fronting a band. I didn’t see your guitar in any of your company photos,” I said, nudging his arm gently. His strong, toned arm. So firm. I was going to need a reason to nudge him again.

  He shrugged. “That was high school. I was just messing around in the garage with friends. I don’t play much anymore.”

  “What happened to going to Seattle and becoming the next rock star?” I asked, then my stomach dropped. “Merde. I’m sorry,” I said, heat flaming across my cheeks. How could I have been so foolish? I knew the answer. I lowered my chin, embarrassed.

  His hand touched mine. My breath caught the instant he made contact. “It’s okay. It was just a teenage dream.”

  Just a teenage dream. We’d had so many. They’d felt so real at the time.

  “We had a lot of those,” I said softly.

  “We did.” He looked away. His jaw was set hard, but when he returned his gaze to me, he simply said, “I barely think about all those crazy dreams. I like my life now. I like running the security business. That’s why I’ll work on a Sunday. Speaking of work, how long are you in town?”

  “A few days,” I said, and my voice rose higher, as it did when I was nervous. Because the first thing I’d thought when I landed this assignment was—Michael. Like a big, blaring sign. A flashing light at the end of a road. I had to see him, find him, connect with him. “I’m glad you’re happy now . . . Michael Sloan.” I paused, his new last name rolling around strangely on my tongue. “I’m trying to get used to it. Sloan.”

  “Took me a while too.”

  “When did you change it?”

  His eyes darkened. I’d touched a nerve. “Ten years ago,” he said, his tone gruff.

  The journalist in me didn’t want to back down. “After I saw you in Marseilles?” I asked, nerves tightening my throat as I mentioned that day. That wonderful, horrible day.

  He stared up at the ceiling, his brow knit together. “I suppose that’d be about right. But that wasn’t the reason,” he added.

  “Why, then?” I pressed. “It made it harder to find you. I had to ask Becky.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Made it easier for me to live.”

  That made all the sens
e in the world. “I understand,” I said, then reached for my cup. My fingers felt slippery. I gripped the ceramic more tightly as I took a sip.

  He rubbed a hand across his jawline, silence sneaking between us, but not for long. He was direct once more. “Tell me. Why did you look me up?”

  “Because I was coming to town,” I said, stating the simplest answer first, avoiding the tougher topic.

  He stared at me, his blue eyes hooked into mine, telling me he didn’t buy it.

  “Because I was seeing Sanders and Becky,” I said, mentioning my host family from when I was an exchange student.

  “Did you see them?”

  “I’m going to. Tomorrow.”

  “So, then this,” he said, pointing from me to him. “This is . . .?”

  I looked at his mouth, blinked my eyes back up to his, and dropped my voice even more. We were surrounded by noise—the clink of silverware, the slip of ice cubes against glass, and the chatter of nearby patrons ordering smoked salmon and vodka samplers. I spoke the truest words. “This is because I wanted to.”

  3

  Michael

  There were things I wanted as well. More time with her. More talking. Mostly, I didn’t want for this to end. She was like sugary sand crystals in my hand, slipping through. I wanted to clutch my fists closed and hold them tight for just a few more moments. A few more days.

  So I went for it. “What are you doing tonight?”

  The dealer slapped a card down on the table.

  “Wait. I want to write this down.” Mindy shook her head in amusement as she reached for the card. “I want to record this moment. You, asking me for dating advice.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I know how to date,” I grumbled.

  She held up a finger. “Correction. You know how to date women you just met. You don’t know how to date the woman you were in—”