Page 20 of Dirty Deal

A live band plays on one stage, drenched in a shaft of light. Their moody music twists around the room and heats my blood.

On another stage, two strips of white silk dangle from the shadowed rafters high above all the way to the floor. A woman, dressed in a short, fringed flapper dress, twists her limbs around the silks and climbs gracefully into the air.

“What are we doing here?” I murmur to Weston for the dozenth time, leaning closer so he hears my lowered voice. Hardness and heat greet my palm, and I look down to find my hand on his thigh.

Horrified, I snatch it back.

My palm tingles.

“We’ve come to see her.” Weston nods at the woman, already high above the audience’s heads, wrapping herself around and around with silks. “And them.” He nods at the band too. “And the other acts playing here tonight.”

I wet my lips, considering.

“But…why?”

There must be a punchline coming. A bait and switch. Our deal was five nights of psychological torture—Weston would hardly bargain for the chance to take me to a nice club. Where’s the misery in that?

“I’d like to hear your opinions,” is all he says. That handsome face is turned studiously away, watching the aerialist as she spins and twists. “You spent the last year working as an event planner, correct?”

“Uh.” Maybe it’s the dark room, or the scent of whiskey in the air, or the thudding beat keeping time with my pulse. Maybe that’s why I can’t make sense of this. “Yes. For a luxury ski resort in Switzerland.”

At the time, it seemed like the perfect escape route: a chance to use the unique skill set that comes from being born to parents like mine, but also to get far, far away from everything familiar.

My chest heaves, drawing in a deep lungful of warm, perfumed air. The mountains, with their wet rock and clean mounds of snow, have never felt more like a weird dream.

“You looked me up?”

Weston’s jaw works, but he keeps frowning at the performer. “You haven’t been what I expected, Lena. But the fact that you’ve been working hard for the last year, trying to start over somewhere new… that makes sense now.”

Oookay.

“Careful.” My fingers tremble as I reach for my vodka soda. I panicked when the server came to take our orders, said the first thing that came to mind, but as I sip, I’m glad for the cool tangand the pop of bubbles on my tongue. Ice clinks together in the glass, and beads of condensation sweat against my palm. “That was nearly a compliment. People will start to think you don’t hate me after all.”

Weston’s frown deepens, but he says nothing.

The song changes, bleeding seamlessly from one tune to the next. The woman has nearly reached the rafters now, all four limbs tangled up in silk. She pauses, her sparkly dress glittering beneath the spotlight—then falls without warning, somersaulting over and over as she unravels toward the floor.

“Oh!”

I’m on my feet, body tensed, likeIcould save her somehow. Never mind that I’m smaller than her and halfway across the room—my brain is screaming at me todo something.

But a hand on my elbow holds me back, the grip gentle. Soothing.

“She’s fine,” Weston says. “Watch.”

Sure enough, the woman catches herself a few feet off the floor, smiling serenely out at the audience as she turns in the silks. Applause breaks out, muffled by the music. It takes a second for my shock to recede, then I’m clapping too, sinking back into the cushioned booth.

Crap. Making a scene like that, and in front of Weston James of all people?

So embarrassing. If I could shrink down into a speck of dust on this seat, I would.

“We have performers in the casino now,” Weston says, his face still turned toward the aerialist. Still, I get the funniest feeling that even as he watches her, all of his attention is on me. “Did you look through the different floors while you were there?”

“No.”

To be honest, I was so tragically eager to see my father’s ex-protege, the man I’ve crushed on for so long, that I beelined through the back corridors to his office all three times.

Besides, Weston would hardly want me snooping through his new version of the Merritt. He resents every single minute I spend in that building—even when I’m on my knees in his bedroom, making him tilt back his head and groan.

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