Page 63 of Ruthless Love

I have to get out of here.

I’m normally not this hard-pressed to leave the luxury digs of the penthouse suites of Aria, but Austin’s glare is melting me into a puddle of too many emotions to contain at a wedding. My feet are two seconds from carrying me to the nearest exit when Austin’s big arm sweeps me against him and his solid, muscular body.

His voice lowers to a low rumble. “You and I need to talk.”

A flood of tears burns behind my eyes as I stare down his darkening ones. With a hard swallow, I force my words ahead of my feelings. “Say what you need to say, Austin. Then leave me alone.”

“What I need to say? How about I need to know what the hell’s going on.”

“What’s going on is you, Austin. You and Gaby.”

The instant I say her name, his arms release me, and I’m free. I stumble back, locking my knees that threaten to give way. His eyes are wide and stunned, and I know I’ve caught him.

I move to walk away, and he lets me go. Devastated, I’m almost relieved when Jean stumbles into me with the smell of booze wafting off her. Making a quick decision, I slip my arm through hers.

“Come on, Jean. Let’s have a night with some strippers.”

“Yay,” she shouts with so much excitement, my own enthusiasm pops with giddy delight as I let the cougar out of her cage.

“Studs, here we come,” I say as I pump a fist into the air.

“Evie.”

Austin’s deep voice is loud and penetrating, and sends a shiver down my spine as his command locks me in place. A second later, I’m pinned in his gaze, and his uncertain eyes search mine. Guarded, I give him nothing.

“What?” I say, barely able to whisper the word.

He raises his hand, clutching my small Chanel purse. After I take it, he says nothing and simply steps out of the way, clearing a path so Jean and I can leave.

Having the manager know you by name at the best male strip show in Sin City is one thing. Having him give Jean a crushing hug that lifts her off the floor before he leads us straight to the preferred VIP seating? I now know exactly who I want to be when I grow up.

Once Jean and I each have a couple of drinks under our belts, two escorts grab us and lead us to chairs center stage. My shyness is apparent, the polar opposite of what I’m actually feeling. Or going to be feeling.

God, yes. A lap dance is exactly what the doctor fucking ordered.

As a cover of Elvis’s “Satisfaction” blares through the speakers, a brawny biker in leather and chains heads to Jean, while a cowboy makes a beeline for me wearing nothing more than his hat, boots, chaps, and tattoos. Though his face is masked behind dark glasses, I’d know that chest tattoo anywhere. Before I can make a move, he’s on my lap, grinding those hips like his tip depends on it.

Damn, can this man move.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I say, my libido soaring while my body stays glued to the seat. Gawking at every bump and grind of the controlled movements of his hips and abs, I somehow manage not to drool.

Lord, have mercy.

“Earning your time,” he says, firm when he says it, but playful as he pops his hat on my head. Tugging off his glasses, he slips them in my blouse.

I’m at a loss.

In front of hundreds of horny women shouting and cheering, I pour out what’s left of my heart. “You hurt me.”

His mind stays in the conversation, though his gyrations don’t skip a beat. “How did I hurt you, Evie?”

“You have Gaby. What do you expect from me?”

What was meant to be thrown as a harsh question makes him recoil. He’s not defensive. Something in his look is pained. His magnetic dance moves stop cold, and he stands up straight with shoulders squared and hands planted firmly on his hips. The stare that pins me is heavy and dark ... and maybe disappointed.

“I love you, Evie,” he says so hard and unapologetically, the tender words feel like a slap. The shock of his honest admission steals my breath until I hear the but. “But I love my daughter more. I guess I thought you were someone else.”

Before I can think or react or move, Austin is gone, and I’m sitting there under a spotlight with the crowd still howling with hormone-pumping excitement. To the right of me, a hard-partying Jean is a few thin layers of clothing from getting pregnant, and all I can do is process Austin’s words.

---