Submersed (5 page)

             
“Okay. So, you’re a personal trainer. Now, we’re going to need to decide on how we met so our stories match.”

             
This was beginning to be a little fun. Collaborating stories, inventing relationships…Then again, we weren’t cultivating a plot for a network show on primetime. This was my
life
we were talking about.

             
“How about we tell everyone we met down at the casino?” Dillon suggested.

             
I scrunched up my nose. “No. Then Daddy will think you’re some strung-out gambler or something.”

             
Dillon suppressed a chuckle at that.
“How about the gym?”

             
I laughed out loud this time. Lord knew it looked like Dillon spent most of
his
time there, but that would never work as a cover story for me. “I wouldn’t set foot in a gym. No one would
ever
believe that.”

             
“Okay. Since you’re an artist, how about an art gallery?”

             
That sounded perfect.
Except for the fact that I rarely left the hotel.
I’m sure there was a plethora of galleries in Las Vegas, but I felt as awkward looking at other people’s art as I did having them look at mine.

             
Then I almost smacked the heel of my hand on my forehead. “That’s perfect!” I cried out. “There’s a gallery right downstairs.”

             
“Great,” he said, sounding relieved. “Now that that’s all settled, tell me about this charity dinner. Is there anything specific I should know?”

             
“Well, it will be very hoity-toity and most likely extremely boring. Oh, and its black tie. You’ll need a tux,” I explained. “Do you have one? I could arrange for one if you don’t.”

             
I had no idea how I would explain it to Frank, but it could be done.

             
“I have one. That won’t be a problem.”

             
“Great.”

             
Once we had the details of our fake relationship ironed out, I showed Dillon to the door.

             
“How ‘bout a hug?” he asked at the door.

             
I hesitated, all the reasons
why
I shouldn
’
t
screaming
through my brain. “Okay,” I reluctantly agreed.

             
After all, we were going to have to pass as a couple next week. If anything, a simple hug was a prerequisite.

             
When Dillon brought those big muscular arms around me, my breasts squished against him. I thought he had the type of chest a girl could melt into. A warmth radiated through his shirt that I’d never felt from a man before. It felt nice inside those arms.
Safe.

             
In that moment, I could almost forget about the circumstances of why he was there.
Almost.

             
I patted his back and when I moved to pull away, he apparently wasn’t ready to release me yet.

             
He held tight for a few more seconds, gave me a final squeeze, a million-watt smile and was out the door.

             
That night, as I lie in bed, I replayed everything that happened in my head. I shivered when I thought about Dillon’s warm arms around me. He had fully engulfed my senses. His smell drifted into my nose. His strong arms embraced all of me, his hands resting at my back. That rock hard chest pressed against me, making it hard to breathe.

             
I pulled my pillow over my head and squeezed it over my eyes. What kind of idiot was I? I had just paid $300 for a hug.

Chapter Three

             
The next week arrived in the blink of an eye. Before I knew it, it was Saturday night.
Time for the masquerade.

             
After a full day of preparation, I was as ready for the charity dinner as I was ever going to be. I had taken a long, hot bath, twisted my hair and pinned it up and carefully applied my makeup.
My game face.

             
The dress I chose was a slinky vintage number in emerald green that I
’
d been told matched my eyes. It wasn’t my usual casual attire and I felt slightly ridiculous and completely self-conscious.

             
When I walked around the suite, the cool silk fabric did feel soft on my skin, almost convincing me I was sexy.
Almost.

             
While I primped and prepared, I decided to think of the dinner as a play I had to act my way through. Dillon already knew the part he was hired to play and I knew mine. Too bad I was a painter instead of an actress.

             
If I had any doubt that Dillon wouldn’t show, it was squelched when he arrived right on schedule. If I hadn’t already been holding my breath, he would have taken it away.

             
Dillon was stunningly handsome in a designer tuxedo. I had to blink twice to convince myself he wasn’t a fragment of my overactive imagination.

             
He wasn’t. He was flesh and blood and lots and lots of muscle, tan skin and great hair. His shoes were shined, his tie immaculate, his smile beaming.

             
He was perfect.

             
This was a monumental mistake.

             
There was no way in hell anyone would believe a man like Dillon Milano would waltz into a hotel art gallery and pick
me
up. He belonged with a supermodel on his arm.
The kind with acres of cascading blonde hair and legs up to her bony hips.
He belonged lounging on a yacht in the bay of Saint-Tropez, soaking up the Riviera sun. He belonged on a catwalk in
Paris,
modeling exquisite suits for Dolce &
Gabbana
, Prada and Versace.

             
Anywhere but here.

             
Those incredible blue eyes looked me over. “Wow,
Livi
. You look amazing.”

             
His tone was genuine and I gave him a smile for that. “Thank you. Please, come in while I finish getting ready.”

             
He strolled into my suite as if he owned the place. Dillon had that type of confidence I wished I could bottle up and take a swig of from time to time.

             
Right away, I handed him his payment in the envelope. The dinner was scheduled to run for three hours, but I paid Dillon for the entire night just in case the schmoozing ran longer.

             
He tucked the envelope into his jacket, slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “So, how was your day?” he asked.

             
Ugh, beware of the small talk.

             
“Okay,” I said, inspecting myself in the mirror above the mini bar. “I started a new painting.” The minute the words left my mouth, I wished them back. Now he would probably ask to see it. My loose lips were getting me into all kinds of trouble lately.

             
“That’s great,” was all he said.

             
I was relieved when he didn’t press the subject. He must have been paying attention last week when I told him I didn
’
t like talking about my art.

             
“So, how was your day?” I asked, deciding to return the question.

             
“Good.
Real good.
I slept in and then went to the gym.”

             
After one last look in the mirror, I knew I couldn’t stall any longer. “Okay,” I announced. I think I’m ready to go.”

             
“
M’lady
,” Dillon drawled, offering me his arm. He grinned and those sapphire blue eyes sparkled at me.

             
I laughed and was satisfied with my decision to call him.
I had a sneaking suspicion Dillon’s humor and casual attitude were what was going to get me through the night.

             
I put my arm through his and we headed downstairs to face the gauntlet.

             
Luckily for me, I
didn’t
have to venture far from my safe zone. The Fourth Annual Sharpe Foundation Black Tie Charity Dinner was conveniently held in the Grand Ballroom at the Sharpe Hotel and Casino.

             
In the elevator, Dillon held my hand and I tried not to look at my reflection in the shiny doors. We didn’t say anything to each other and he didn’t try to make idle chit-chat, which was just as well because I needed to focus on keeping my breathing steady.

             
When the elevator doors swished open at the main lobby, my gaze was immediately drawn to a little girl at the reservation desk clasping tight to her mother’s hand. She must have been about four years young with golden blonde hair that hung down her back like a cape.

             
Suddenly, she turned around to face us and her big blue eyes grew wide, that golden hair framing her face like a halo.

             
I felt myself smile at her and she tugged frantically at her mother to get her attention.

             
“Mama, look!” She pointed at me as Dillon and I walked by. “A princess!” she exclaimed to her mother.

             
Automatically, my spine straightened. Her naive, yet kind words boosted my confidence.
Thank you, little angel.
I needed that.

             
Dillon must have flashed a smile at her too because she smiled back at us and waved.

             
There was something so sweet, so ethereal, so innocent about the little girl. Her angelic features
superglued
themselves to my temporal lobe and I knew she would be the subject of my next painting.

             
Like perfect hosts, my father and Gwendolyn greeted us at the door to the ballroom. Where my mother was an Ice Queen, Gwendolyn was warm and friendly. She reminded me of a watercolor painting.
Delicate and beautiful.
Tonight she looked elegant in a royal blue gown. The only jewelry she wore was the six-carat diamond platinum tennis bracelet I’d helped my father pick out for her birthday.

             
I was glad my father had found someone who was the opposite of my mother. He deserved his own slice of happiness in this cruel world.

             
“Hi, Daddy, Gwendolyn,” I greeted warmly.

             
“Olivia. I
’
m so glad you
’
re here.” My father leaned in and gave me his customary peck on the cheek.

             
“Daddy, this is Dillon Milano.”

             
Dillon, who was still holding my hand, used his free hand to shake my father’s.

             
My father offered Dillon a welcoming smile. “Dillon, it’s good to finally meet you.”

             
“Hello, Mr. Sharpe. It
’
s nice to meet you, too.”

             
“Please, call me Ronald.”

             
I watched as my father inconspicuously looked Dillon over. He must have been satisfied with what he saw because he gave me an approving smile.

             
I relaxed a little, relieved we were over the first hump.

             
Dillon and I were shown to our seats and polite introductions were made around the table. We were seated next to my father and Gwendolyn and Mr. and Mrs. Davenport sat across from us.

             
The Davenport’s owned an exotic car dealership near The Strip. Howard Davenport and my father had been good friends since before I was born. Howard was currently preoccupied by the model seated at the table to his left and his wife Cornelia seemed oblivious to her husband’s philandering ways. Cornelia had her eyes glued to Dillon. She wore bright fuchsia lipstick that clashed with her neon orange gown that looked like she stole from a showgirl who was two sizes smaller.

             
After everyone had arrived and the room was a sea of colorful evening gowns and black tuxedos, my father, founder and president of The Sharpe Foundation, took to the podium and thanked everyone for attending. He spoke a bit about the foundation and then introduced Gwendolyn, the Chief Executive Officer.