Page 25 of Devil of Vegas

“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper as I step toward him and unbutton his shirt.

“You should be.”

His warning doesn’t dissuade me from sliding his shirt off over his shoulders and running my fingers along the scars that mar his torso. And it doesn’t discourage me from undoing his pants and letting them drop to the ground. Despite the gasp in mythroat upon seeing his impressive endowment, we both need to put our desires on hold after everything we’ve experienced. Vincent steps into the shower, letting the hot water run down his body and wash the crimson stream of blood away. I watched the water run down his body, checking for any signs of injury. And I can’t help but let my gaze on the stiff cock that grows between his legs. I briefly stop before removing the nightgown I wore while peacefully sleeping before chaos ensued. He says nothing, doesn’t remove it from me, instead he just stands there staring at me like a hungry wolf that is denying its primal instincts.

I slide my nightgown off and step under the running water to join him. His crew is outside the bathroom, quickly cleaning up and sweeping away any evidence of the carnage before nosy cops or anyone else can discover what happened. This small space distracts me. I reach for the soap and run the slippery bar over Vincent’s chest, somewhat surprised that he is letting me clean him in the shower with both of our naked bodies together and without trying totake me. Honestly, I’m not sure I’d resist at all if he did.

Neither of us speaks as we stand there locked in an intense gaze with slow hands sliding over the other’s skin. But something’schangedbetween us now.

“You belong to me now,” Vincent says, eyes hollow as if he’s giving in to a carnal nature that he can no longer resist. And something inside of me feels like I already knew that.

CHAPTER 11

VINCENT

Isla can’t stay in the penthouse. As fortified as the building is, and as many men as I have at my disposal to guard her there, there is nothing safer than her being withme. Because I can’t constantly monitor her at the penthouse, moving her to my primary residence is the most prudent course of action. My home has fewer opportunities to be hacked or men to be compromised, and significantly less foot traffic, as it is not located atop a casino. And what it has is my constant presence to monitor Isla. I have never done this before. In fact, I’veneverbrought a woman nor anyone outside of the tight inner circle of high-ranking advisors that I have inside of my home. But then again, no one expected the attack on the penthouse. And until I figure out who orchestrated that attack and who was trying to get to Isla, the threat remains significant.

“I can’t believe this is where you live,” she says as I bring her through the front door.

I have hidden my house well, away from the main drag of Vegas. I keep its location highly private, and my route coming and going from this house varies so that I’m never followed. No one, other than the people I explicitly approve, knows of its whereabouts.

As we walk inside, I do a quick check of the security cameras and a sweep of the house. My trusted guards patrol outside, yet I verify security before relaxing vigilance. When I return to the front entryway, Isla is no longer standing there.

“Isla?” I call out, touching the gun at my side, reassured that I can draw it instantly. I walk into the study and find her standing before the grand piano. “Do you play?” she asks as she runs her fingers over the keys.

“Not anymore.”

As she moves through my house, stopping to admire family photos and pick up a philosophy book, every aspect of her exudes grace, purpose, and beauty. “Surely, you’ve seen books and photos and music rooms before,” I remark, curious why she finds it so unbelievable that I would have such things in my home.

“Yes, of course I have. It just surprises me to see these signs of a life that you must have had before all the violence that now surrounds you.”

I’m unsure how to interpret that, so I shift topics to avoid discomfort. I have to stay on my toes, keep my senses sharp and aware, until I figure out who tried to break into my penthouse. I won’t rest until I do.

“Come, it’s late. You must be hungry.” I lead Isla into the kitchen and pour her a glass of wine.

She sits on a barstool at the kitchen island and watches me as I cook for her.

“Wait a second, youcook?” She’s completely taken aback by my simple plan to cook a meal. “So, you’re telling me that betweenbouts of killing people and taking their money, you engage indomestic pursuits? Are you a mafia kingpin or every woman’s dream?”

Ialmostlet a smile escape onto my face. I have to catch myself before I do.

“Of course I cook,” I say, keeping my amused chuckle inside. “How else would I eat?”

“I don’t know. I figured that you’d be eating out at all the fanciest restaurants in Vegas, or having your staff cook your meals,” she says.

“I also enjoy solitude. I need time alone, away from others. Besides, cooking can be an artistic pursuit too, which I’m sure is something that you can appreciate.”

Isla watches as I finely chop vegetables and drizzle extra virgin olive oil imported from one of my favorite regions of Italy into a hot pan. She notices my pleasure in creating delicious food. “Ah, now I get it,” she smiles as she finishes the last sip of her wine.

I pause my cooking to top off her wine. “You get what?”

“I get why you enjoy cooking,” she says. “It’s another thing that you can control. Just look at how you measure and place everything so carefully. Is there anything that you allow just tohappenwithout calculating it in your head first?”

“No.”

She sips her wine quietly for a few minutes, watching me cook and glancing around the house with her eyes. It’s a rare simple pleasure to have a quiet night like this, and an even rarer thing to have a woman like Isla here with me. I’m realizing that thereareno other women like Isla Hart, at least not for me. Despitefacing considerable danger, I’ve never felt more alive than I do with her. “Who were you before all of this?” she asks in a whisper as she leans over the counter toward me. “What did youusedto be, Vincent?”

I take a long, slow sip from my glass and lean back over the counter toward her as I answer.

---