Secrets and Seduction Las Vegas (Sexy Italian Imports Book 1) (12 page)

When he leaned to put the kickstand down, she touched his arm. “Don’t get off. I need a little time to sort through this.”

His stomach clenched. “What are you saying?”

“I can’t get involved with you right now. The way you are.”

“The way I am.”

“When you’re rude to me, I know it’s just your way of getting my attention. And it worked. You’ve got me.” She blinked rapidly as she held back tears. “But your behavior tonight scared me. I don’t feel I can make a commitment to a relationship…until you get some help.”

He looked away, testing his raw emotions. She was right, they may have started out just wanting sex, but now she wanted more. Damned if he didn’t want more.

But no one had the right to tell him to get mental help. He squeezed the clutch hard, the pain in his wrist drawing his attention away from the pain in his heart. His anger churned but he fought to hold it back. Gritting his teeth, he tried to stop the words, but out of his mouth shot, “You want someone safe, go screw the quarterback.” He started his bike and gunned the throttle, roaring out of her driveway.

****

Valerie stood for a minute watching Antonio go, listening as his bike quieted then accelerated loudly through the security gate. She couldn’t believe he’d said that to her. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t this be easy? She wiped the tears from her cheeks and walked into the house. What she had to do wasn’t going to make Antonio happy, but it was the only way to help him.

She collapsed into the desk chair in her home office. Waiting for her computer to fire up, she questioned her decisions. She hoped to share her bed with Antonio, a casual relationship, no commitments expected. But something happened to change that and made her want more from him.

He was still too sexy to resist, but tonight she’d seen an intriguing side of him. His intelligence, his sense of humor, his introspective tendency, his modesty despite his fame. Her heart opened, not slowly like a flower but all at once, in an instant, like clouds parting in front of a bright sun. She fell for Antonio—something that never happened to her before.

But she recalled his parting words. “Go screw the quarterback.” She shook her head. He had some major issues.

She logged into a directory of therapeutic psychologists and found someone who could relate to him but who didn’t know her professionally or personally.

Accessing the photos on her phone, she attached the photograph of Antonio standing at the ice cream counter to a text message. She typed,
This is the Antonio I would like to be with.
She included the name, address, and phone number of Jarrodd, a therapist she heard great things about.

She pressed send and said a quiet prayer for Antonio.

****

The next morning, Monica rolled over in bed and picked up her ringing phone. “Dr. Kane.” She cleared the sleep from her brain and prepared to deal with whatever emergency made someone wake her this early.

“Monica, it’s Joe.”

She was silent, trying to remember…

“Joe Pappa, from LA?”

“Oh, hi Joe. Sorry, I’m not quite awake yet.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry to call so early, but I have great news.”

She sat up and yawned. “What is it?”

He laughed. “Are you still in bed, Doctor? It’s after six.”

“Remember what I do for a living? I’m a cosmetic surgeon. Translation: cushy office hours and afternoon surgeries.”

“I get it. Okay, I won’t call before ten.”

“No, I’m glad you called. I didn’t hear back from you when I left the message Friday.”

“Yea, sorry about that, too. It just gets busy.”

She waited for him to talk about his great news and heard a female voice asking him to sign a release.

“Are you at the hospital?”

“I am, but not for long. I’m coming to Vegas.”

“Super. When?”

“In about two hours.”

Okay, so Joe wasn’t the type to give a girl a lot of notice. “What’s the occasion?”

“To see you.” He sounded perplexed, as if she should know that was the reason for the visit.

“Well, that’s nice. Where are you staying?”

“Eh. I figured I’d find a hotel when I get there.”

Her brows drew together. Did he think he’d be staying with her? “There’s a nice casino a few blocks from here. I can make a reservation for you.”

“Perfect. Will you send me directions to your place?”

“Sure. I’ll text you.”

“Listen, if this isn’t a good time, just tell me. I know it’s short notice. I’d hoped to do it next weekend, but everyone’s schedule worked out better for me to do it mid-week.”

“I’m free for a few days. It’ll be nice to see you. What time do you think—” She heard a siren in the background. Then another.

“Monica, I’ve gotta run. But I’ll see you soon.” He hung up.

She flopped back onto her pillow and checked her calendar for the next few days. Not too crowded. Then she groaned. Her house was a mess! And her refrigerator was empty.

And she hadn’t cut the grass in weeks. Hells bells, she’d better get her butt in gear.

She rolled onto her side and pulled the sheet up over her shoulder. After just a couple more minutes of sleep.

****

Monica sat on the couch, tired but happy. After seeing her patients, she spent the day cleaning, shopping, and getting her legs waxed—just in case. She expected Joe to show up hours ago, but he probably got a late start. Maybe he was stuck in traffic.

She smiled. What prompted this visit? He sure didn’t seem like the spontaneous type. Their calls and text messages dwindled over the last few weeks, and she expected their friendship to die a quiet death.

Turning on the television, she watched a couple of sitcoms and a couple shows on The Travel Channel then fell asleep. A screeching bird woke her around midnight—The Travel Channel was at a wildlife preserve on Sanibel Island, Florida.

She checked her phone and saw one text message. “Sorry, won’t make it this week. More later.”

“Bastard!” She made a rude gesture in the general direction of Los Angeles and stomped into the kitchen. The steaks she bought were aging on the broiler pan in the fridge. “Jerk.”

She turned the oven on and slid the steaks under the flames. What better way to ease her anger and frustration than by mauing down fifty dollars’ worth of beef.

She poured a glass of the pricey red wine she selected and drank half. “More later,” she snarled. He couldn’t even call?

The wine mellowed her in a rush, and she made a resigned face.

She’d heard the sirens in the background when he’d called. There must have been something big going on in LA.

“Ugh!” She was not a patient woman! Flipping the steaks, she smiled wickedly.

She’d send him a reply as rude and calculated as his original message.

She jumped up and sat on the counter, opened her phone, and replied to his text message. When the steaks were done, she brought them, her wine glass, and the bottle to the living room and turned on an old Dirty Harry movie. She knew exactly how Clint was feeling when he said, “Go ahead, punk, make my day.”

****

Late that night, Antonio read Valerie’s text and saw the therapist’s name and the ridiculous picture of him holding the ice cream. He hit Delete then swore, undeleted, and saved the name and number of the therapist in his contacts list.

“What kind of a name is Jarrodd?” He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. That was petty. His anger still urged him to delete, but he wanted Valerie and would do whatever it took to overcome his issues and get her back. Shit. Why couldn’t he control himself last night? Now he had to apologize to her. Again. She thought it was just anger. It went a lot deeper.

He walked around his dark penthouse with a glass of red wine. He’d just showered and threw on a pair of jeans. His bare feet were silent on the hardwood floors. He looked at his furniture—modern, black leather and steel. A woman would know where to put a rug or pillow or lamp. It looked sparse as far as decoration. One of his brother’s paintings, a Dante Daniato original, hung over the fireplace, but he didn’t own a vase or a statue. He would ask Valerie to help him make it more like a home.

He walked to the wall of windows and looked down. The pool and spa glowed ethereal blue thirty-six floors below. He envisioned Valerie and him swimming then coming up here for a glass of wine. The expensive bottle he opened tonight…he wanted to share it with her. The women he used to pick up wouldn’t appreciate this fine wine. Once or twice a month, on nights he wasn’t working at the club, he went out to bars, with friends or alone, and invariably found a dancer or chorus girl looking for a good time. Since the evening at Caesar’s Palace, he wasn’t interested in a one-nighter. He wanted Valerie.

He sipped his wine and looked down The Strip. He lived in the middle of the casinos, and he could visualize her in her bed looking at the same lights, the same moon. He gave a disgusted laugh. She was probably looking at his building, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. A drop of water from his hair hit his chest, and he wiped it off. It reminded him of her tears. She was crying as he left her house, left her standing in the driveway.

He’d said something vindictive and rode off.

He ran a hand through his hair. God, he was an asshole. He blamed it on the stress of hiding so much from her. He needed her. But he couldn’t have her and keep his weekend life a secret from her. He had a choice to make, and a therapist might be the best way to work through it. He’d been in therapy before but never told them the truth about his stripping. Of course, he never felt so much motivation to make a change.

The next morning, he called the therapist, and because of a last minute cancellation, was lucky—or unlucky—to get an appointment that same afternoon. He tried to write, but his mind drifted to what he would tell the therapist. In a new document on his computer, he listed the things he wanted to cover with him. He would lay it on the line, get everything out, and see what the reaction was.

Sitting back in his chair, he deleted the document. It felt odd revealing something he worked hard to keep secret for five years. He closed his eyes and pictured Valerie, in her office, looking at him with intense desire in those beautiful eyes. At Caesar’s Palace, her body draped in the sequined gown that made him insanely jealous of the quarterback. At the restaurant, her face after she climaxed then reached for him—ready to give him pleasure. Then in tight jeans, climbing onto his bike.

He wanted her with a passion more intense than his love of writing. But was it more intense than the high he got on weekends when he became Carlos?

****

Wednesday evening, he pulled up to her guard house in his Ferrari, gave his name, and the guard let him in immediately. Surprising. She hadn’t cut him off? He drove to her house, rehearsing what he’d say.

A big Mercedes sat in her driveway. Was it the quarterback’s? He stopped for a moment. Should he leave, come back another evening? No, he’d do it tonight. She could slam the door in his face, but at least he’d see her.

He rang the doorbell, repeating Jarrodd’s advice. “Examine whatever’s making you angry and deal with it internally, not externally.” Antonio smiled, recalling the fascinated look on the therapist’s face when he told him he danced for money on weekends. He asked Antonio why a millionaire would crave such attention-seeking entertainment. The same question Antonio had been asking himself for three years, since the money started rolling in and he no longer needed to work to survive.

Her face appeared for a second in the glass on the side of the door then she opened it…but just a few feet. “Antonio.”

God, he wanted to grab her and kiss her, but instead he smiled and held out a bottle of wine, from the same case as the one he drank alone earlier in the week. “Peace offering?”

She wasn’t looking at the wine but at his clothes. He wore a cotton, button-front shirt, shorts, and sandals.

She smiled. “Your legs are showing.”

“Thought I’d give you a thrill.”

“You know how to get a girl excited.”

He took a deep breath. “May I come in? I’d like to talk.”

“Well…” She made a sour face. “I have company.”

“I can come back.”

“You’re welcome to stay. It’s my parents. We’re just sitting down to dinner.”

He paused a minute, not excited about meeting her parents when their relationship was this new, and this turbulent, but wanting to spend time with her. “I’m fine with that if you don’t think it would be a problem.”

She smiled brightly, her eyes sparkled, and she stepped back. “Please, come in.”

She wore a pink fluffy sundress that made him think of cotton candy, and his mouth watered, wanting to taste her sweet lips. Reminding himself the parents were in the next room, he gained control of his libido and handed her the bottle of wine.

She looked at the label. “Thank you. This is a beautiful wine.” Then she whispered, “I’m going to hide it until after they leave.”

“Great.” They would be alone later.

She set the bottle in the kitchen, and he followed her into the living room. Her parents sat on the love seat, holding cocktails.

“Mom, Dad, a friend dropped by, and I’ve asked him to join us for dinner.”

Both her parents stood. He could see where she got her good looks. Her dad was tall, with graying black hair and green eyes. Her mom looked like her but shorter, with short hair. They both wore suits, probably came directly from work. He felt underdressed.

“This is Antonio Daniato. My mother, Dena. My father, Scott.” They shook hands and exchanged greetings.

Her parents sat and stared at him like he was a virus under a microscope—something they needed to exterminate before it attached itself to their daughter. Good thing he didn’t wear his usual jeans, T-shirt, and motorcycle boots, or they’d really have something to stare at.

Valerie asked him, “Would you like a cocktail?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll be right back.” She went to the kitchen.

“So,” Scott asked before Antonio got the chance to sit, “how do you know our daughter?”