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I heard the shift of him, felt the brush of his arm, but didn’t open my eyes.
“Do I scowl?”
There was humor in his tone, and I risked a peek, turning my head to see a hint of a smile on his lips. “Oh yeah. Big time.”
“I only scowl when I’m being tormented by a beautiful woman.”
“Oh please.” I reached forward and found the seat control, returning it to the upright position. The car rolled over a speed bump and barely rocked. I wanted to ask him why he showed up at my house in the middle of the night. I wanted to ask him where we were going. I wanted to ask him what he meant by “tormented.”
I swallowed my questions, and looked out the window, watching neon signs pass, their colors muted by the tint. I suddenly felt like a kid. Next to Dario’s powerful presence, I felt so young so…inexperienced.
It was unnerving, but in an entirely different way than I’d felt that night at the barn. While I felt powerless in his presence, I also felt protected, his strength giving me comfort instead of fear. As the Rolls hummed down the Strip, I felt another foreign emotion. Excitement.
This was his turf. His domain. The car slowed, and I straightened as it turned into the entrance of the last place I wanted to be.
Thirteen
“The Majestic?” I turned and looked at him, panic starting to thump through my chest. We shouldn’t be here. I thought of Thursday, just three days ago, and how brazenly I’d followed him into that private alcove in the club. Then, I’d only been thinking of his wife. I hadn’t thought about her father, and all of the danger that being Dario Capece’s fling might put me in. “Why are we here?”
Dario cocked his head at me, a question in his eyes. “You’re worried. Why?”
My hand tightened on the door handle, as much to hold the door closed as it was to shove it open and escape.
“I can’t walk in there. People will see us together. They’ll—”
The Rolls Royce continued through the valet area and down a hill, slowing before a gate, which slowly opened.
“We aren’t going anywhere that anyone will be able to see us. Trust me.”
I leaned against the door and watched as we drove down a parking garage tunnel, weaving around until we pulled into a small spot, one caged in by concrete walls. “This is a bad idea.”
Dario reached forward, opening a compartment and pulling out a bottle from the ice. “If you don’t want to go in, then we don’t have to. But I want to show you something. Something I think you’ll like.”
He held out the bottle of water. I took it, unscrewing the lid and taking a sip. The car shuddered, and the walls beside us started to move. I froze.
“It’s an elevator. It’s taking us to the premier level. It’s perfectly safe, I promise.”
An elevator. For a car. I’ve lived in this town for two years and thought I’d seen everything. Still, tonight was the first night I’d ever been in a Rolls. And now, the first time I’d ever taken a car into an elevator. The movement stopped and the doors opened. The sedan rolled forward, down a row of garages, one opening halfway down. We pulled in, and I turned to see the garage door closing. I thought of his promise that no one would see me. I thought of Lance’s story of cocktail waitresses disappearing and understood how—with a setup like this—it could occur. “Is this where you live?”
“No. We live a few levels up.”
We. A subtle reminder that this man was not up for grabs. Where was Gwen now? Was she above us, wondering where her husband was? And why, of all places, had he brought me here?
His door opened, and I watched as he stepped out, his hands moving to the front of his suit and fastening the button there. It was the middle of the night, and he was in a suit, getting out of his Rolls Royce. I looked down at my baggy T-shirt, at the chocolate stain from a Crunch ice cream bar, and my mismatched socks.
He closed the car door, and it softly clicked into place. My stress level spiked.
* * *
His security left through a side door, and I took the hand that Dario offered, letting him lead me to the double doors at the end of the garage. There was a keypad and he released my hand, gesturing to it.
“The code is 04182996#.”
He waited, and I realized he wanted me to enter it. I hesitated, my fingers on the white keypad, and he repeated the code. 0-4-1-8-2-9-9-6. I typed in the code, the digits familiar.
“My birthday…” I mused. “And the last four of my phone number. Creepy.” I hit the pound key and the lock quietly buzzed, a green light illuminating.
