Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4) Read online

  But just like proximity breeds closeness, distance kills it. Too many days apart, weeks alone, and years gone by. Paper and ink couldn’t feed their hungry hearts. Eventually, their love became unsustainable. Stretched too far, it collapsed under the weight.

  They drifted apart after the first year of college. Even then, she’d clung to the distant possibility that someday, somehow they’d meet again. Hope powered her even in the years when they no longer talked. She took a job as a waitress at a local café during school, saving all her euros, thinking they’d fund a return trip to the United States. Like a piggybank for rekindled love.

  But by the time she’d have been able to use them, she and her high school sweetheart had faded to memories. The fondest ones to be sure, and she’d kept a book of photographs of their days together, a record of her young love.

  Besides, the euros had gone to something else.

  She’d had to move on. He’d moved on too.

  Annalise graduated from university, hunted for jobs across Europe, and eventually landed the gig of her dreams as a photojournalist. There she met Julien, a rival photographer, soon her lover, then her fiancé.

  That was what Julien was the time she’d seen Michael ten years ago. He’d just sent her the most beautiful and heartbreaking love letter, and it had ripped her apart knowing she couldn’t respond in kind. Mere days after receiving it, chance had ushered her to the airport in Marseilles on a job, and she’d run into him on a layover. He’d just moved to Europe and was stationed there for his work in army intelligence. It was unexpected and God, the sight of him, a man then, had punched her in the chest. She was in love with Julien, but guilt still gnawed at her when Michael’s eyes traveled down her body and landed on her hand. Her engagement ring.

  As if she’d broken a promise.

  And for the briefest of moments that afternoon, she’d been tempted to break one to Julien. She hadn’t. She wouldn’t. Straying wasn’t in her nature. But had Michael sent that letter before she met Julien, her life might have taken a different course, back to him. As it was, she’d had to march onward, and she did. But with so much that had once been between them, perhaps it was no surprise, really, that the first man she’d ever loved would be the one to rekindle all that was dormant in her body. Last night had ignited something inside her.

  Julien had said over and over that he didn’t want her to mourn him forever, or at all. “Love, I won’t be here always. You’ll need to move on. You’re young and beautiful and smart and vibrant.”

  She’d laughed him off, shook her head. “Darling, you aren’t going anywhere. I won’t let you,” she’d said, then mimed digging her claws into her husband’s chest as they’d relaxed on a park bench watching the sunset by the Eiffel Tower one evening. But Julien didn’t toss back his sandy blond head, or smile his sweet, sexy grin at her. Instead, he’d tugged her close. “The odds, Annalise. The odds. Five years is much more likely than fifty.”

  “Stop that,” she said. “Let’s not talk about this. The sun is falling. The lights are coming on.”

  The odds were not in their favor. They never had been, and she’d known that before he got down on one knee. He had a lethal arrhythmia, a genetic condition that meant he could die of cardiac arrest at any moment. Well aware she’d likely be widowed young, she’d walked down the aisle anyway. She wasn’t blind. She wasn’t foolish. But her love for him was powerful. It couldn’t be quashed by medicine or odds or statistics.

  “Fifty years or five years. I want whatever you have,” she’d said to him after he proposed.

  She’d gotten eight.

  A tear slipped down her cheek as she glanced out the tinted window of the Nissan. The car veered right onto the Strip, and the bright light of the sun pounded down from the sky. Las Vegas in daytime was exposed. Nothing hidden. Every trick, every mirror, every trap was starkly visible in the daylight.

  She’d always been so good at spotting sleight of hand, at something out of place, at shining the light in a dark corner. But with Julien, she’d chosen to believe in the illusion—in the glass half-full, in the possibility of fifty years with him. Hope was more powerful than knowledge, love stronger than evidence. She’d loved him fiercely until the day he died in his sleep two years ago.

  Knowing the odds had never prepared her for the wreckage of her heart when she found him that morning, unable to be roused. Over the next two years, the only things that got her through each day were routines. Work, walking, shooting photos, taking care of her mother, buying bread. Those simple acts had guided her out of the black hole of grief, as had the change in her career to fashion photography. Her heart had been too heavy for the weight of current affairs.

  As the car pulled into the portico at Caesars, she glanced at her watch. A few more hours until Michael arrived.

  Her stomach swooped, remembering last night, fast-forwarding to what might happen this afternoon.

  Julien had wanted her to move on. Her sister wanted her to move on. She didn’t think she’d ever want to love again. It was too risky, too dangerous. What if she let herself, then lost again? She shuddered at the thought. Once was hard enough to find the man you love gone from this world.

  But a moment, a snapshot of not feeling so goddamn empty and lonely? She’d experienced that last night. She’d held it in the palm of her hands, owned it deep in her chest.

  That.

  She wanted that. She was so fucking tired of denying herself everything good in the world.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Eighteen years ago

  “You want to do this?” Thomas scooped some pepper steak from the buffet onto his plate, eyeing his eldest son.

  “I do,” Michael said with a crisp nod, a fierce certainty in his stare. Thomas’s son had his eyes—cool and ice blue. Some people thought that meant he didn’t care. Hardly. Thomas cared too much at times. About everything. About his wife and how distant she’d become during the last several months. About his children and how they were growing up so damn fast. About his present job and the one that he wanted to do, the one that would make it possible for him to do more for his kids.

  Right now, though—as his sixteen-year-old son spooned lo mein from the silver vat at their favorite cheap Chinese restaurant, the one that boasted all-you-can-eat for $4.29 a person—he cared about Michael. The kid was a chip off the old block. He’d fallen madly in love at such a young age. Hell, Thomas knew what that was like.

  He’d been like his son, crazy for the girl in high school. Course, he’d gone and married her a few years later, and they’d had their first kid when they were both only twenty and scraping by at crummy jobs. No college, no nothing. That was why he was heading to night school after this meal, to shore up on his associates degree in accounting. A practical skill, and one that would surely help him get the job he wanted.

  If he scored the new gig, that would spell opportunity for his kids. “All right, let’s find a way to get you to Paris next year.”

  “Dad, you think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Michael asked when they sat down at an orange booth with cracked vinyl seats.

  “For being in love?” Thomas raised an eyebrow.

  “For wanting to be with someone who’s going to be really far away.”

  Thomas shrugged happily. “Nah, love is good. Chase it. Embrace it. You’re focused and driven in other areas of life, and now you’re that way about her.”

  He’d do everything he could to help Michael follow the girl. He’d help him go to college abroad if he could pull it off. Help him see her more. A love like that, you didn’t throw away. Especially with Annalise. She was a special girl; she’d do right by his son. It was a long shot, a Hail Mary pass, but maybe Michael could nab a scholarship at a university in Europe, find some study program for Americans, and learn the French language.

  But even if he landed financial aid, they’d need money for airfare and lots of new expenses. Ergo, Thomas needed a new job badly. Being a limo driver only got you so far. Sure, it wa
s a step up from driving cabs, which he’d done for years, but he’d have to reach higher.

  “How would we ever be able to pay for it?” his son asked him as he picked up his fork and dug into the steak.

  Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s a promotion opening up at work. Think I’m going to apply for it.”

  “You are?”

  “Can you see me being a desk jockey? Instead of a driver?” he said with a wry smile.

  “Sure. Why not? You already have to wear a suit and tie.”

  Thomas wanted that job. Wanted it badly. Wanted the bigger salary to help fund his kids’ dreams.

  That night at class, he focused on how to apply his newfound math skills to the job application, and when he returned home he told his wife about an upcoming work party.

  “We should go. I think it’ll help as I try to get a new job. Get to know the people in the other departments,” he said as he took off his jacket.

  She glanced up from her sewing machine, her green eyes eager for once. He was happy to see that look in them. Lately she’d been so far away.

  “Will there be piano again?” she asked, her tone strangely breathless.

  He shrugged. “I think so. You mean like at that other party?”

  He’d taken her to a holiday party last year, and she’d been transfixed by the Christmas tunes some local musician had tapped out on the piano.

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty sure there will be piano.”

  “I’ll go,” she said, and she seemed happy.

  That was a relief.

  At least she wasn’t giving him a hard time about money. She used to do that a lot. Too much. Always nagging him about their finances. She wanted him to make more, wanted to have more. But that had slowed lately, and he was glad of it.

  Glad, too, that something so simple would make her smile. They hadn’t had the easiest time all these years, but maybe, just maybe, things were changing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A half-dozen beautiful women lounged by the Venus pool at Caesars, closed for a few hours for the shoot. One rested elegantly on a lounge chair, small scraps of bathing-suit fabric covering her long, tanned legs. Another leaned provocatively against the Roman column in the center of the secluded pool, water lapping at her feet, her face tilted toward the sun. A leggy blonde was perched on the edge of the pool, absently splashing the crystal blue waters.

  Around them fanned a sea of people. Women in black jeans and tanks stood by with makeup cases, ready to powder a shiny nose at a moment’s notice. Attendants carried towels and robes on their fingertips, poised to cover the models the second the camera stopped clicking. A man with a trim beard and skinny plaid pants seemed to preside over the shoot.

  The pools at Caesars Palace were lush with palm trees, and rich with stately Roman architecture and statuary. The Venus pool was the most exclusive of all—it was topless, though today all boobs were covered.

  Barely.

  The whole scene was such a stark contrast to Michael’s morning. After his run, he’d met with Curtis, who operated a gentlemen’s club that Michael’s company handled security for. Curtis wanted to beef up the services, given the increased gang activity across town. That was something Michael had been hearing from many clients these days. Even his brother Colin had recently helped to strengthen security around the community center where he volunteered and his girlfriend worked. Caution was the new watchword, as the Royal Sinners and their crimes made businesses wary. After Michael’s meeting with Curtis, he’d finished a walk-through of a bank that had hired more protection in light of some recent robberies.

  Funny how he’d gone from armed guards in aviator shades to perfect tens soaking in the rays.

  He was liking the way the afternoon was shaping up to be much better.

  He’d told the intern—at least, he guessed the young woman with purple hipster glasses, jet-black hair, and a clipboard, who’d done her best impression of a sentry at the pool area door, was an intern—that he was here to see Annalise. The gatekeeper checked the list, found his name, and waved him in. Michael picked a potted palm tree on the terrace, out of the way of the models and the photographic entourage. He could have stared at the blonde, let his eyes travel across the wispy brunette, or roamed his gaze over the chestnut-haired beauty floating on a gold raft.

  Nope. His eyes were fixed on the redhead, watching her work. Such a familiar image—Annalise viewing the world through her lens, snap, snap, snapping. Strong arms raised her camera, hands working the shutter, her eye capturing the women in repose. She wore jeans and a black tank top. Her red hair was swept high on her head, some sort of chopstick stabbed through it.

  After several minutes she stopped shooting, and the bearded guy in the odd pants clapped and told the models to take a short break. “Get a bottle of water. Have a salad. Be back in twenty minutes. You were all amazing. Perfect. Brilliant. Gorgeous,” he said, then blew kisses to the bikini-clad women who scattered from their posts. The man draped an arm around Annalise, and she nodded several times as he talked quietly to her.

  The man then joined the models, who were flanked by attendants, while Annalise scanned the pool area. Soon, her eyes landed on Michael and lit up, beaming at him. His heart slammed against his chest at her reaction. She weaved through lounge chairs, around the edge of the pool, and soon stood face-to-face with him, then lips-to-cheek. She whispered, “You’re here.”

  She sounded amazed that he’d made it.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t show?” he asked, regarding her curiously.

  She shrugged as a small smile of admission crept across her lips. “Maybe.”

  “Hey,” he said softly. “Why would you think I wouldn’t show?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s just…” Her voice trailed off as she raised her chin, meeting his eyes. Her gaze went soft, almost vulnerable. “It’s just that…you never know.”

  He nodded his understanding. Yeah, he got that. You never knew if someone would show or if something would derail them, or if a fate would change in the blink of an eye.

  She grabbed her camera bag from a nearby table under a big yellow umbrella. He followed her. “Thanks for inviting me,” he said, looking at her over the tops of his shades. “Was it a good shoot?”

  She raised her face, and little wispy tendrils of red waves moved with her. “It was. These women are terrific. They love the camera and the camera loves them. It makes my job easy, having such talent to work with.”

  He smiled at her comment. It would be simple for her to say something catty, to toss a quippy one-liner about a too-skinny model. Instead, she’d done the opposite—praised them, not for their beauty, but for their ability.

  “I doubt your job is easy,” he said. “You’ve always been good at what you do. Yours is a natural talent as well. You have an eye.”

  “All I do is point, shoot, click,” she said with a wink, then lifted her camera and snapped a candid of him without even looking in the lens.

  “Hey now,” he teased, covering his face with crossed arms, pretending he was a star avoiding the shutter.

  “Too late. I’ve got you here. For all posterity,” she said, tapping the camera. Her gaze drifted to the back of the Nikon. “You look good.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “I mean it. Come see,” she said, gesturing for him to come closer.

  He waved her off. “I don’t need to see myself.”

  “Oh, stop being so modest. You are beautiful, Michael Sloan. You were always one of my favorite subjects,” she said in her straightforward way, so open and direct. His heart pounded faster, his skin heating up from her compliments. It grew tougher to keep her in a neat, organized corner when she said things like that.

  “Thank you,” he said softly, as he moved in near to her, his arm bumping her shoulder. A slight hitch of breath escaped her lips as they looked at the image. He resisted touching her, even though all his instincts told him to. Instead, he st
udied himself on the screen of the camera, and he looked like the guy he’d always been. And yet, as he saw himself through her eyes, through her lens, he seemed…happier.

  Maybe he looked more complete because he’d been caught staring at her.

  “See,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “Your eyes are so expressive. Your cheekbones are perfection. And your lips are…”

  He picked up where she’d stopped. “My lips are what?”

  She met his eyes. “Red,” she whispered, saying it in the same tone he’d uttered the word last night. Her cheeks flushed pink.

  Ah, hell. He was going to have the hardest time not losing himself in her. She was going to have to stop this right now. It was past time for him to put an end to all these sweet nothings, or he’d be utterly ruined. But no fucking way could he tell her to stop. He liked her compliments too much.

  “By the way, I liked watching you work,” he said, sidestepping to a safer topic.

  “You did?” she asked as she returned to her camera bag and zipped up a compartment.

  “You sort of radiate energy, but it’s focused. It’s almost like an athletic event when you take pictures.”

  Her lips curved up. “Sometimes it feels that way.”

  “You perform like that. Top of your game. You with your camera, seeing the world in ways other people don’t.”

  She stilled her movements and cocked her head, looking curious. “Is that how it seems?”

  “Yeah. It does. Both watching you work and seeing what you saw. I always got a kick out of looking at your photos. Like when you took pictures at the Pearl Jam concert we went to. Eddie Vedder didn’t look the same way to my eye as he did to yours. Seeing the pictures afterward was like opening a whole new view of something I’d already experienced,” he said, taking off his shades and tucking them on the neck of his shirt. “What’s your favorite thing to photograph?”

  “Surprises,” she answered quickly, as she zipped another compartment.

  “What do you mean?”