Secrets and Seduction Las Vegas (Sexy Italian Imports Book 1) (3 page)

He asked, “Have you gotten any more letters?”

“I don’t think so.” She looked flustered. “No. I haven’t.” Her eyes shifted around the room then focused on him. “Have you?” She clasped her hands together and tried to affect a poker face.

Damn, she was hiding something. Her guilt paraded in her eyes.

He took the latest note from his pocket and read, “Great trick...” The letter used his other name, Carlos. He wouldn’t give Valerie any ammunition, on the slight chance that she wasn’t the blackmailer. “Great trick…climbing the tree and getting your money back. But you only succeeded in doubling the amount we want from you.” He skimmed the note; nothing else she needed to hear. “It details the next drop-off.” He folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. “You going to be there?”

She shook her head. “I’m done. The blackmailers have the money I delivered.”

“You’re not the designated pick-up girl?”

She stood and walked to the window, looked out, then turned toward him. “I’m not associated with the blackmailers, if that’s what you’re implying.”

At eye level, he noticed how long her legs were. His fingertips itched as he thought about caressing the soft skin behind her knees. His gaze moved up her body to the pink blouse under her suit coat. Feminine, but all business. Sexy in a way that made him want to peel off layers of her clothes.

He had to get closer. He stood and walked to her side, catching the smell of her perfume—spicy, warm, vanilla—and it made him a little crazy. Make that crazi
er
. There was something about her. They’d be good together.

“
Bella
.” He touched her shoulder.

She smiled, shy, sensual.

She fascinated him, mind and body. “You
are
beautiful, you know.”

She looked at his face, his hair, and his lips. Spent a long time on his lips then met his eyes. “You aren’t so bad yourself.” She gave him a look that made his stomach clench and the blood rush to his genitals.

Looking down into her eyes, he recognized what he saw. Desire as raw as his own. When did she start wanting him? When he roughed her up in the park? Or when he called her a prostitute in front of the mayor? Shit. There was no accounting for taste, was there? She should tell him to go straight to hell, but instead she looked at him as if she wanted him. Right here in her office.

Something snapped; like Hoover Dam busting apart, he couldn’t hold back. He put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her close.

She tipped her head and opened her mouth a fraction of an inch. Did she know what her body language invited? He growled low in his chest as his eyes warned her he would have her. Now. He moved slowly, closing the distance between their lips, giving her the chance to say no.

But she didn’t. Her breathing quickened, her eyelids drooped.

His lips brushed hers and he hardened in his jeans. He kissed a path to her ear. “Tell me,
bella
, tell me his name.”

“Um.” Her breath came unevenly. “What?”

“Tell me your partner’s name. I’ll go beat the shit out of him, and we’ll call it even.” He felt her stiffen. “Then we can see where this…” He slid his hands down her back and pressed her against him. “…takes us.”

Her hands flattened on his chest, and she tried to push him away. “Why do you insist on believing I’m one of the blackmailers?”

With his fist under her chin, he tilted her face up so they stood nose to nose. “Just admit it, princess. You gave yourself away at the restaurant.”

She shoved against him, and he let her go. “How did I… What did I say?”

“Very convincing. You put up a good front, but I know you’re lying. I can see it in your eyes.”

She put her hands out, palms up. “I’m not lying.”

Her face seemed sincere, and for a second he questioned his suspicions. He stepped back and crossed his arms.

She dropped her hands and pressed them to her thighs. Sweaty palms meant guilt, didn’t it?

He said, “Tell me what you were doing at the dog park.”

She pointed to her desk. “You saw the note. It told me to—”

“It could be a fake. A way for you to make yourself look innocent.”

“I
am
innocent.” She heaved a sigh. “This conversation is going nowhere.” She stepped toward the door. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“I do mind.” He blocked her path, his anger boiling to the surface, as it did so often lately. Pointing his finger at her face, he said, “If I get one more letter, I’m going to come after you. It’s going to be public, and I promise it will be humiliating.”

He turned his back to her, walked to the couch, and grabbed his jacket.

Behind him, her voice snapped low, angry. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He turned to face her. “Why? Because you’re the mayor’s protégé?” He walked to the door and opened it, looking back into her furious eyes. “How will he react when he finds out what you’ve been doing for a little extra cash?”

Her eyes narrowed, her hands fisted at her side. “Euro trash bastard.”

He stared at her. “Don’t fuck with me, bitch.” He walked out.

****

Valerie watched him leave, her body shaking from anger and fear. She inhaled the smell of his cologne: spiced wood and espresso. Add desire to her list of troubles.

She fell into her chair and closed her eyes, methodically calming herself, but the first indicators of an anxiety attack manifested. Rapid heartbeat, a smothering feeling, and dizziness—like being outside herself.

Rubbing the “sore spot” near her left collarbone, she repeated her relaxation mantra. “I am in control, I am relaxed, and I am breathing.” After six repetitions, she was breathing, relaxed, and again in control.

She grabbed her phone and called her cousin. “Betina, it’s Valerie. We have to talk. Something’s gone wrong.”

Betina whispered, “Not on the phone. Your office? Tomorrow at nine?”

She pulled up her calendar. “Perfect. Tomorrow’s my day off. No one will be here. Come to the back door.”

The actress sighed. “You sound frantic. Take a bubble bath, or have some wine.”

She bit back a nasty response. Betina wasn’t the one in jeopardy of losing her license—publicly and humiliatingly—as Antonio promised.

At seven that evening, Valerie pulled into her garage, glad to be in her oasis away from the world—her house in a gated, guarded community in Summerlin. She stepped out of her SUV and walked past her black Thunderbird convertible. Driving it always relaxed her, but tonight she was too tired. After dealing with Antonio then a full day of patients, she looked forward to that glass of wine and a bubble bath.

When she flipped on the kitchen light, the cherry wood, stainless steel, and black marble decor enticed her to cook something flamboyant. But her stomach rumbled painfully, so she pulled a low-calorie entrée from the freezer and tossed it into the microwave.

She walked upstairs to her bedroom. Gazing out the wall of glass that ran the length of the house, she looked down at the pool and whirlpool then beyond to the view of The Strip and downtown.

When she’d gone away to school, she’d brought a lighted picture of Vegas and fallen asleep watching it every night. She’d asked her architect to design this house so she could see the lights of the valley from every room.

She unbuttoned her jacket and stepped into her closet. Even after a year, she couldn’t believe her luck. She was back in Vegas and truly grateful to find a meaningful place in the community. Her practice was thriving and lucrative, she volunteered on her days off, and the mayor consulted her on matters that affected people’s lives.

Although she grew up with the glamour of Las Vegas, to her it was just a small town with a bright facade. But it was home, and this blackmail situation could irreparably damage her reputation. She paused and asked her higher power for a little assistance with Antonio Daniato.

After slipping into shorts and a tank top, she went back downstairs. In the kitchen, she reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of wine and poured a glass. She transferred her single-girl’s dinner from the plastic bowl onto a plate and carried it and her wine glass outside onto the patio. Under her bare feet, the concrete felt hot, and a soft evening breeze moved the ninety-five-degree air around her.

She sat at the table beneath a big sun umbrella and picked at her food then set her fork down and called Monica.

Her sister answered, “Hi, 007.”

“Guess who I ran into?”

Chapter Three

Monica said, “Hm. Somebody bad. Let me think—”

Valerie blurted, “Blackmailer.”

“No!”

“Yes. At the Omelet House. He knows the mayor.”

“No!”

“Yes. And, he thinks I’m the blackmailer.”

“Holy shit. Who is he?”

She smiled, loving the chance to surprise her imperturbable sibling. “Grey Thornton.”

Monica just laughed. “You should have gone bigger. How about Brad Pitt, or Johnny Depp?”

She waited for her sister’s laughter to stop. “I’m not joking.”

Silence.

“Mon?”

“Grey Thornton. The writer. Is a blackmailer.”

She sighed and walked into the kitchen for more wine. Cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder, she put her dishes in the dishwasher and filled her glass. “He swears he isn’t, and you know, when I analyze his behavior, he’s either a really good actor or he isn’t the blackmailer.”

“Did he tell you what he was doing at the dog park?”

“He said
he’s
being blackmailed. He showed me a note telling him to tape the money under the fountain.”

“Notes can be forged. This could all be some kind of elaborate plot. Like a dress rehearsal for his next book. He could be trying out the scenes to see if they work.”

Valerie sat on a tall stool at her kitchen island. “If he is…” She did her best Godfather impression. “…I will contact my Mafia connections and have him rubbed out.” She massaged her temple. “He’s messing with a lot of people’s lives.” Her voice came out whiny. “I think it’s the real thing.”

“What do we do now?”

“Just wait and see, I guess.” She wouldn’t burden her sister with the rest of her problems. The possibility of Antonio exposing her, and her irrational and lusty desire for him. She rolled her eyes. God, what a muddle.

“Monica, I’m going to let you go. I want to call Troy before he goes out with the guys tonight.”

“Okay. Say hi for me. Oh, and—”

“I know. Remind him you’re still waiting for him to set you up with the running back.”

Monica laughed. “Tell him I’m a young, sexy doctor who wants to give him the best physical of his life.”

“Love that sick sense of humor you have.”

“Bye!”

Valerie locked the doors, set the alarm, and carried her wine glass up to her bedroom. She propped pillows against the headboard and sat back, her cell phone on her lap. Troy was her dream man. A gentleman, kind, with a great sense of humor. But he just didn’t get her hot. She squirmed. Antonio Daniato, however, was just the opposite. She was hot for him, but that was it. Not even close to boyfriend material.

She closed her eyes for a moment and let herself drift off.

Her receptionist yelled from behind him, “I’m so sorry, Dr. Kane, I tried to keep him out, but he barged right in!”

Valerie looked up from her desk. He stood there unmoving; wearing riding leathers and dark sunglasses, his hair looking deliciously windblown.

She dismissed her receptionist. “That’s fine, Sally. Thank you.”

He took off his sunglasses. “You thought you could keep me out?” The look in his eyes startled her. Angry, dangerous, aroused. He stormed into her office.

“Please—”

“I told you I would find you.” His voice rumbled deep, sexy. He slammed the door in the receptionist’s face and turned the lock.

“Let me explain.” Valerie stood and sauntered out from behind her desk. She wore a black satin mini-dress, no bra, no panties, and a pair of black stiletto sandals.

Even in her sleep, she smiled at her vivid imagination. As if she would ever wear anything like that—especially to the office. She rolled over in bed and let the dream continue.

“There’s only one way you can prove your innocence to me, Valerie.”

His accent was thicker, awakening a primal need she never felt before.

He took off his black leather gloves and tossed them aside then removed his jacket and dropped it on a chair. His sleeveless white shirt displayed his well-muscled body to perfection. He appeared even more golden, more irresistibly touchable.

Black leather chaps covered his worn jeans, and he stood with his booted feet spread apart, making him seem unyielding, uncontrollable.

“Come here.”

She licked her lips and gave in to his demand too easily.

“What do you want?” she whispered as she walked into his arms. She breathed deeply; he smelled of leather and dry desert winds.

He put his fingers in her hair and pulled her closer. His deep brown eyes burned with intense desire.

“We’re both going to get exactly what we want.” He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers: hot, powerful, and demanding. His tongue plunged into her mouth, touching and tasting every inch of her, drawing her tongue to twine with his. He sucked her lower lip, bit her gently then began again. A growl reverberated from low in his chest. She put her hands on his shirt then grabbed with fists to keep herself upright.

“Woman.” The word—the way he said it—seemed both a compliment and a curse. He looked into her eyes. “What you do to me.” He put his hand on her bottom and pulled her against him. His hard shaft strained against his zipper, pressed rigid against her belly. She couldn’t stop herself and moved her hips against him, shamelessly.

“Now.” His eyes locked with hers. “I want you now.”

Chills rushed through her body, centered in her womb, making her wet. He moved his hand from her bottom, deeper between her legs. When he touched her there—