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21
Deceitful Bed
DECEITFUL BED
My body flushes hot, then cold, and somewhere in the middle my throat closes off. My hand flies to my waist-length ponytail, clutching it protectively. “What do you mean you want to cut my hair?”
“I want you to cut your hair,” he says, and runs his fingers down the lock trailing over my breast. He grazes my nipple and it pebbles under his touch – damn my traitorous body – then he places his hand possessively on my waist.
“Why?” I say, breaking into a sweat, my guts dissolving into a pool of panic. “I thought you loved my hair.”
“I do. Look, it’s complicated. Trust me on this one, okay? I’ll take you to the best salon in Vegas. We’ll do it right. You’ve got a gorgeous face. You’ll look terrific with short hair.”
“No.” My stomach twists and I stumble out of this deceitful bed, putting distance between myself and the man who up until a few seconds ago I trusted more than anyone else in the entire world. “I’ve been growing my hair since I was thirteen.” Since the accident. But he doesn’t know that.
Dylan sits up and glares at me, determination wearing on his face, resolve blazing through blue eyes. “You hide behind it.”
“What’s gotten into you? I do not hide.” I slip behind the chair next to the desk and shove an upholstered armchair between us. “My hair is me. It’s my look. It’s who I am.”
He climbs out of bed and pulls on his briefs. “It’s a liability,” he says. “You tip your head when you need quiet. A wall of hair slides in front of your face when you check out.” He seizes my hand, easily navigating the blockade I just erected.
I jerk away. “Not true.” I look at my suitcase, my purse. Should I stay and figure out what the hell has gotten into him or should I grab my stuff and run? Is this what Mom felt like right before panicked and split? Oh, holy crap, am I turning into Mom? Fuck. Fuck.
“You mess with your hair when you’re nervous,” Dylan says.
“I don’t.” My knees feel wobbly. The ground I thought was solid is shaking.
“You do. It’s a tell to anyone who moves in these circles.”
“A tell? Circles? You’re the only gambler I know, Dylan. The only player I’ve dated.” My pulse races so hard it could be trying out for the Olympics.
“The circle isn’t just poker, Evie.”
“Don’t treat me like a child, Dylan.” My knees knock. “Don’t you dare treat me like a child.”
“The circle’s money. Big fucking money. Only people with money can afford to play games like this. Only people with big money can afford to hire a girl like you.”
“Then you shouldn’t have sent them my way.” I jut out my chin defiantly.
“I referred a few guys to Ma Maison who are like me. Good people you could help heal. They’re not the problem. Predators are the problem.”
“Then don’t send me predators.”
“Jesus, Evie. You think I would knowingly send you assholes, let alone sociopaths?”
“No.”
“Listen to me. Predators love big money circles. They’re lions to zebras. Cons to marks. It’s out of my hands. Word’s out and it’s a hell of a lot bigger than me.” He shakes his head. “You, Evie Berlinger, help powerful, rich men heal. You get them back on their game, help them regain power.”
“So?”
“Power’s money. I’ll bet the bank Ma Maison’s inbox is spilling over like a crimson fucking tide at an Alabama game. Filling up with inquiries from billionaires who want to hire you.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not.” He shakes his head. “I ran into a guy the other day who told me about you. Not the other way around.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m shaking. My hands. My heart. My recently acquired belief in myself. “You’re talking like a crazy person.”
