I’m confused. “All right?”
“I’m not going to argue with you, and I’m certainly not going to force you. If you think you need to make a quest and go home, then I won’t stop you.”
His expression is warm but intense. “I already know who you are, Jamie Archer. But I also know you have to figure it out on your own.”
His phone chimes, and he pulls it from his pocket, then glances at me, amused. “You texted me to rescue you?”
“I—oh. Yeah. Sorry. I realize it’s a little weird seeing as how I walked out on you, but...” I trail off in a shrug. “You were the first one I thought to text, so I tried to think of other people. But I couldn’t, and so...at any rate, it doesn’t matter. You rescued me even before I asked.”
He moves back in front of me, then reaches down and pulls me to my feet. “Thank you,” he says simply.
I shake my head in confusion. “For what?”
“For knowing that I will always be there for you, no matter what.”
“Ryan...” My voice is soft and full of emotion. Because he is right. I do know that, and the knowledge wraps around me like a soft blanket.
He smiles in what I think is understanding. Then the smile intensifies, and a hint of amusement touches his lips. “If getting to Texas is what you need, then I’ll get you there. First Vegas, then on to Dallas.”
“I can drive myself,” I say.
“Maybe,” he says. “But do you really want to? I provide a quality transportation service,” he adds with a cocky grin. “And all for a very reasonable price.”
“Price,” I repeat, amused. “What kind of price?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “And since we’re going to Vegas, we’ll let roulette decide the terms.”
“I’m still not following you,” I say.
“Then let me be more clear. One spin of the roulette wheel. Black, you pay me. Red, you fuck me.”
I gape at him. “But I just told you. Getting my head straight. Sex. How it messes me up, and—”
“You said it wasn’t about avoiding sex. Just that sex knocks you off track. But I’ll be keeping you on track, Jamie. First Vegas, then Dallas, and then I go back to LA, no questions asked.”
“I—”
“We won’t be dating,” he says. “Nothing like that. Just the same terms as before.” The heat in his voice is unmistakable. “You. At my mercy.”
I swallow. My head says I should say no, but every other part of my body is screaming for me to say yes.
I lick my lips. “And the payment? If it’s black, I mean?”
“I’m salaried at Stark International. But I’ll calculate my hourly rate. We can start the clock when we arrive in Vegas.”
I narrow my eyes. “How much exactly,” I demand. He does a quick calculation and tells me a number that comes near to making me faint.
“Are you insane? I can’t afford that.”
“Well then,” he says with a wicked grin, “you’d better hope for red.”
Chapter Eight
Because we slept until almost noon and then had an absolutely fabulous breakfast of greasy eggs, bacon, and melt-in-your-mouth biscuits at the motel’s dive of a coffee shop, it is already past four when we finally roll into Vegas.
Even in the daylight, the city feels alive.
If Manhattan is your snooty stepmother and Los Angeles your hippie brother, then Las Vegas is your crazy-ass cousin who doesn’t know what to be when he grows up.
Everything is gaudy, bright, and larger than life. Paris bumps up against Egypt, and the whole place has a Disneyland feel to it.
It’s probably terribly wrong of me to love it, but I do. Especially the Strip, where all the biggest and best casinos and hotels line up like a receiving line, welcoming everyone, from people with Stark-like billions all the way down to me, with my nearly empty checking account.
I gawk out the window as we drive, feeling a bit like an eager puppy taking in the sights. I don’t even gamble much, and I still love Vegas. I think I feel a camaraderie with it. We’re both a little bit tacky sometimes.
We pass the iconic Caesar’s Palace, and moments later, pull up in front of the magnificent Starfire Resort. The drive circles a fountain, and I watch, mesmerized as colorful columns of water rise and fall.
A bellman hurries to open my door while a valet takes the car from Ryan.
“Shall we?” Ryan asks, taking my arm.
“I’ve never stayed here before,” I say. “I’m pretty much a low-rent end of the Strip kind of girl.”
“You’ll love it. And I’m not surprised the producers are putting the actors up here. Starfire is one of the most luxurious hotels on the Strip.”
I’d received the follow-up e-mail from Georgia while we were on the road. The station has booked me a room at the Starfire, and I have an interview scheduled the next morning with Ellison Ward, a British actor who is all the rage now that he’s won an Oscar. They’ve even flown in a cameraman to do the filming. All I need to do is review the file, tweak the suggested questions, and not screw up.
When I first read the e-mail, I was surprised that a Dallas station could arrange a one-on-one with somebody of Ward’s stature. But after I read the research material, I understood. Apparently Ward’s mother lived in Texas for a few years and had a fondness for The Metroplex that she’d passed on to her son.
Honestly, it was quite a coup for the station and for me. Undoubtedly, the piece would go national, and I’d get some serious exposure, all of which would help in my quest to get back to LA someday.
That, of course, only made the “don’t screw up” part of the equation all the more important.
An efficient young woman in a pencil-style skirt and tailored blouse meets us as we step into the stunning lobby decorated in what I think is an Art Deco style. “Mr. Hunter, Ms. Archer. We have you all set. Would you like to follow me?”
“That’s okay,” Ryan says. “We need to go to the casino first. The room is ready?”
The girl nods. “Absolutely. Enjoy your stay, and don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.”
I glance at Ryan, slightly confused. “Efficient staff.”
“Very,” he says as she moves across the tiled floor to the registration desk.