Melt Into You (9 page)

“Well, not
tonight
, of course!” Scott gave an uneasy chuckle. Hastily, he grabbed her hand. His fingers, wet and sticky from his drink, kneaded hers. “Tonight is all about us!”

“No. I’m not introducing you to Damon. Ever.”

Now Scott appeared wounded. “Why not?”

“Maybe you can mull over that question yourself.” Natasha snatched away her hand. With dignity, she rose. No one in the dark, crowded bar noticed. “While you’re dining
alone
.”

“Wait.” Scott gawked. “You’re offended? Oh, come on!” She ignored him. It was hard to behave with poise when you were fishing surreptitiously, foot first, beneath the table for your slingback. Where was her damn shoe? She couldn’t
believe
she’d come on to him. Of all the people, in all the world ...

“I mean,” Scott went on in a more conciliatory tone, “you’re a very cute girl. You are! But your real value lies in being close to Damon Torrance, not in being ... well, just yourself. You must know that. It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends—”

“‘Friends’?” Indignantly, Natasha arched her brows. “I was planning to invite you back to my room tonight, if things went well!” Because of Milo, it was tricky for her to arrange grown-up “sleepovers” at home. Also, Carol lived right next door in the adjacent duplex apartment; not much sneaked by her—including manly overnight guests doing the walk of sexy conquest. Irately, Natasha regrouped. “But now
that’s
out—”

“It doesn’t have to be out.” With a suddenly ingratiating demeanor, Scott leaned back in his chair. He smiled, spread his knees, then rested his drink-holding hand near his crotch. He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m still up for it if you are.”

Oh God. “No, I’m not ‘up for it,’ you moron!”

Exasperatedly, Natasha gave up on discreetly retrieving her shoe. She dropped to the floor, grabbed her slingback, then stuffed it on her foot. When she rose, Scott was still giving her the come-hither routine. “Moron” was too good for him.

“I was letting you know what you’ll be missing tonight,” Natasha told him haughtily, “now that you blew it with me.”

“Oh.” Scott’s brows knit. “I get it.” Then he brightened. “So now that we’re
not
having dinner—or anything else—together, how about that introduction to Damon? Because if your objection was mixing business with pleasure, well ... there’s no problem now!”

Natasha grit her teeth. Usually, she tried to be nice. She truly did. But between Damon’s inconsiderate drunkenness this morning—she hadn’t mentioned to Jason that she hadn’t merely tried to sober up Damon; she’d also walked in on him engaging in some (fairly limber) shenanigans with the French acrobat—and Scott’s rude behavior tonight, she was ready to blow a gasket.

Maybe that’s why, when her iPhone rang, she took one look at the absurdly handsome photo of her grinning boss on its screen and felt like drop-kicking the device back to San Diego.

“You want to talk to Damon?” Natasha asked Scott archly.

Like an overeager puppy, he nodded. “Yes! I do!”

“Then here.” She grabbed her iPhone and hurled it at him. It smacked his chest. “Here’s Damon now. Knock yourself out.”

Triumphantly, Natasha swiveled on her heel, then stalked away. Unfortunately, she wasn’t as lucky as Scott had been. Because
her
grand exit was interrupted by the speedster driving the scooter. Before Natasha knew what was happening, she was on the floor. Dazedly, she raised her head. “Hey! Hit and run!”

The woman tactlessly zoomed toward the next bank of slot machines. A crowd formed as Natasha got awkwardly to her feet. As soon as the onlookers realized she was neither injured nor likely to chase down the scooter driver and exact revenge by assaulting the woman with a bucket of quarters, they lost interest. Chattering and smoking and drinking those foot-long cocktails served in Las Vegas, the bystanders meandered away.

Although Natasha felt embarrassed—and her knee hurt a little—she did realize one saving grace. Scott hadn’t noticed. In the distance, he merely jabbered away. “Natasha?” she heard him say into her phone. “Yeah, she’s right here.” A pause. “No, she gave me her phone.” Another pause. “Me? I’m Scott—”

Natasha stalked nearer. She snatched away her phone.

With relish, she ended the call. “Whoops. I forgot my phone. I guess you’ll have to make a first impression later.”

Scott appeared stricken. His mouth froze in an O shape.

“Oh, wait. I forgot. You only get one chance to make a first impression. I hope you didn’t intend to ever do business with Torrance Chocolates, Scott.” Natasha leaned nearer, making sure he discerned exactly how flattering her first-date dress was. The minute his gaze slipped to her cleavage, she smiled. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? You should never piss off the gatekeeper. And at Torrance Chocolates,
I’m
the gatekeeper.”

Scott swallowed hard. He seemed taken aback to be hearing such blunt language from her—a usually sunny girl from So Cal.

“I’m ... sorry?” he ventured. His gaze wandered to her iPhone. Not surprisingly, it rang again. Damon was persistent that way, especially when he wanted something. “I’m really,
really
sorry!”

“Too late.” Musingly, Natasha regarded her iPhone. She showed its screen to Scott. “Oh, look. It’s the superstar stud of our industry, calling
me
.” On behalf of beleaguered personal assistants everywhere, Natasha smiled. Scott’s fingers jerked with a reflexive urge to take her phone. “I’d better get this.”

Then, casually raising the phone to her ear, Natasha sauntered away—and this time, fate was with her. She didn’t even get smacked by a runaway tourist for her trouble. “Hello?”

“Natasha? Thank God you’re there,” Damon said.

Striding through the casino, Natasha made a disgruntled face. Why did her phone calls so often begin with that phrase?

“Yes, I’m right here, as usual,” she said curtly. “I’m the Red Cross of personal peccadilloes. The ‘fixer’ of front-page predicaments. The person who can be counted on for the inside exclusive on the latest business deals
and
for fresh coffee—”

“Hey. You know I don’t drink that stuff anymore.”

Right. He’d interrupted her rant to obliquely remind her of his ill-fated marriage to Giada—the same marriage that had wrecked her hopes for a little something personal between
them
.

Since then, Natasha hadn’t even bothered telling Damon about her divorce. He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t volunteered, partly for fear of seeing their working relationship change because of it. After all, she still had her reputation as Damon’s professional kryptonite to consider. She didn’t
think
Jimmy Torrance would give her the boot for being single, but ...

“Maybe you should.”
Drink some coffee, I mean
.
Buckets and buckets of coffee
. “I hear it’s useful for sobering up.”

Damon let that slide. “Who was that with your phone?”

“My date.” She kind of reveled in saying it. “Scott.”

There was a disgruntled silence. “He sounded like a dweeb. You can do better.” A pause. “So, the reason I’m calling is—”

So much for inciting a little curiosity about her personal life. Natasha exhaled. “Look, Damon. I’m busy. I only answered my phone in the first place so I could storm off in a huff.”

Predictably, Damon didn’t ask why she needed a huff.

“—because I need you,” he went on. “I’m in a bit of—”

“Trouble?” she guessed, marching through the thronged casino at double speed. She reached the taxi stand outside, then got in line. “What else is new? Can’t you handle it yourself? I’m tired. The good news is, the taxi line is so long that I’ll probably have time for a nap before I snag a ride, but—”

“I’m in
serious
trouble. I’m in my suite. I can’t move.”

Natasha scoffed. “You dialed your phone, didn’t you?”

“All right. Fine. Specifically, I can only move my left foot from the ankle down. And my head. A little. The thing is—”

“Does that mean you dialed with your foot? Or your head?”

“It’s not funny!” For the first time, Damon sounded concerned. “You’ll see what I mean when you get here.”

She’d already seen more than enough of him for one day.

“Damon, call someone else. Okay?” Feeling besieged, Natasha moved up in line. “I’m really not up for this tonight.”

“But ... there isn’t anyone else,” Damon said in a low, husky tone. “There isn’t
anyone
, Natasha. There’s only you.”

For the space of a breath, Natasha went still. How many times had she dreamed of hearing him say that? A million? More?

With a tentative smile, Natasha hugged her phone closer, imagining Damon on the other end of the line. She’d been foolish to think she could happily date Scott or anyone else, Natasha realized. Although she’d had her share of short-term affairs since her marriage had ended, none of those relationships had made her want something more. That’s how she’d known she was meant for something bigger and better—something
truer
.

“Damon.” Touched to realize the risk he was taking with her, Natasha broadened her smile. “Do you really mean that?”

If he did, that was it; she’d be at the hotel in a heartbeat. Even from here, she could see its incandescent, ornate tower of luxurious rooms ... one of which contained Damon.

He was waiting there for her.

There’s only you
.
Only you
.

“Yes, I mean that,” Damon told her, sounding endearingly gruff. “You’re the only one with a keycard. Jason left his on the foyer table when he left this morning. It’s got to be you.”

Oh. Deflated, Natasha gripped her phone. The sea of cars and lights and taxis and people turned blurry. Was she actually
crying
? When was she going to learn she couldn’t count on Damon?

“Listen.
Please
just come,” Damon urged in a surprisingly (for him) no-nonsense tone. “The air-conditioning is on high, and I think I’m getting a serious case of blue balls.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Why are you being this way?” Damon asked in a genuinely mystified voice. “You know you’re going to come. You always do. If you want me to beg, I’ll beg. It’s that urgent.”

Just like that, Natasha made a long-delayed decision.

“You know what, Damon? I
am
going to come over there,” she said. “Because I have something important to tell you, and it can’t be said over the phone.”

“You’re really coming?” He sounded hopeful.

“Yes. I’m really coming.”

“Good,” Damon said. “Bring a Snuggie for my testicles.”

Completely against her will, she smiled at that. Such was the power of Damon Torrance’s charm. Even ribald humor sounded good coming from him. Everything sounded good coming from him.

“But you’d better brace yourself,” Natasha felt compelled to warn him as she moved a pace farther in the taxi line. “What I have to say to you might come as a big surprise.”

“I can handle it. Just as long as you bring the ball Snuggie,” Damon said. “Maybe a hot toddy, too, if you can swing it. The bar downstairs makes an excellent one.” He sounded immeasurably cheered by her imminent arrival. As always, he trusted her to save the day. “Natasha, you’re a lifesaver. My balls and I thank you. We can’t wait until you get here.”

“I know,” Natasha said, unable to suppress another smile. “I’m on my way.”

And that ... was that.

For better or worse, the decision was made.

Chapter 8

In his own defense, Damon
did
try to prepare Natasha for the sight she’d see when she came around the private foyer corner, strode through his deluxe penthouse suite, and reached the bedroom. Unfortunately, he wasn’t accustomed to being responsible. His version of a warning sounded a lot like ...

“Natasha? I’m in here! Hurry up! I’m freezing.”

Her footsteps sounded across the marble floor, barely overriding the nonstop, too-diligent hum of the air conditioner.

With a malevolent glare, Damon eyed the nearest vent. He wished he could cup his groin for warmth. He had goose bumps on top of goose bumps. He was pretty sure his
hair
had frostbite. After he got out of this, he was sleeping in a sauna tonight.

Natasha’s footsteps slowed, then stopped. Damon imagined her capably sizing up the situation. With Natasha’s reliable nature, take-charge demeanor, and perky nurturing ability, she could handle it, Damon knew. She could handle anything.

“Is that ... chocolate I smell?” she asked. “Hot ... chocolate?”

Damon sniffed. That delectably sweet, alluring fragrance still hung on the air, so familiar to him and—tonight—so condemning. It wasn’t surprising, given the circumstances.

“Did you host your workshop in here?” Natasha guessed.

He heard her handbag hit the sitting area table. Her iPhone plunked down, too, reminding Damon of the bewildering surprise he’d felt when a strange
man
had answered Natasha’s phone—and so intimately, too. What the hell gave
Scott
the right to do that?