Tacone’s employees are well-trained because there’s not a trace of curiosity in the receptionist’s expression, only an efficient, eager-to-please attitude as her fingers fly over the keys. She looks at me and smiles. “How long will you be staying, Ms. Simonson?”
“Um…one or two—”
“Indefinitely,” Tacone cuts in. “Close it off for the next few months at least.”
Months? I was going to say nights. A suite at the Bellissimo runs $450 a night high season.
“Okay, I just need a picture ID and credit card for incidentals,” the receptionist says, gaze sliding to Tacone.
I reach for my purse, but he gives an impatient shake of his head. “No charge for incidentals.”
The buzzing that started in my chest when he said I could stay here for months gets louder. Nico Tacone is going to let one of his housemaids stay in a luxury suite and order room service to her heart’s content for free? I know he likes me, but the warning bells are going off.
Tacone seems to notice, because he shoots me a look. It’s one part warning, one part reassurance. Just take it, he seems to be saying.
“Okay, you’re room 853, that’s in the north tower. Take the elevator to your left.” When the receptionist slides the card to me, Tacone takes it and hands it to the bellhop, dismissing him with a jerk of his chin.
The bellhop rolls soundlessly away with my bag. Tacone places a hand at my lower back and guides me toward the bank of elevators. People glance at us as we go by. He’s dressed in his beautiful suit and I’m in cut off jean shorts and a halter top. Crap, do I look like his whore?
My steps falter.
Tacone stops and turns me to face him. A muscle in his jaw tightens. “Take the fucking room,” he snaps, like he already knows I was about to bail. He releases me and holds his hands up, fingers spread wide in surrender. “I’m not gonna go up with you. You don’t have to see me again. You don’t work for me. In fact, you’re fired. And now you have a place to stay while you figure your shit out.” He jerks his chin toward the elevator, where the bellhop is holding the door open for me. “Go.”
He turns and walks away, not waiting to see what I’ll choose. I hesitate. The bellhop has my suitcase, so I have to go get it, regardless.
I might as well find out what it’s like to sleep in a Bellissimo suite.
Just for one night.
Tomorrow I can figure my shit out.
Chapter 6
Nico
Because I’m way too obsessed, the next day I check to see if Sondra quit or checked out. She didn’t, but she did call in sick.
I search the casino video feeds until I eventually spot her lying out by the pool.
I smile. Good for her.
But then I wish I hadn’t found her, because the urge to go out on the pool deck and rip that string bikini off her body and lick every place the sun hasn’t touched overwhelms me. And that’s closely followed by a blast of white hot jealousy. Because every fucking guy on the pool deck is seeing the same thing I am.
And something about a scantily clad Sondra Simonson is way more risqué than the showgirls and cocktail waitresses who parade around my club with more of their asses and tits showing.
I do the only thing reasonable—get the hell away from the security feeds and out on the floor, terrorizing my employees.
I see Corey on the floor and her eyes meet mine, bold and confrontational.
Yes, I handed your boyfriend his ass and told him to get out of your life. I may have a bit of a god complex. Sue me.
Because I’m feeling like a tyrant, I head right over to the floor manager, Ross. “Stand in for Corey Simonson for a moment. I need to have a word with her.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Tacone.” Ross hustles over to Corey, who’s working the roulette wheel, and murmurs something in her ear. As soon as the play is over, he steps in for her, making all her customers groan. People get superstitious about their croupier, especially when she’s a tall, gorgeous redhead.
Corey lifts her chin and strides over to me, wearing the hell out of a pair of pumps and a slinky black dress with a plunging neckline.
“You have something to say to me?” I demand as soon as she arrives.
Her eyelids flare for a moment before she hides her surprise. She’s silent a full beat. “No, sir.”
“You sure?” I challenge.
Another beat, then she shakes her head. “I don’t give a shit what you to do him.” Disgust infuses her voice and I experience a flash of sympathy for her. It’s a wonder how beautiful women end up with losers for boyfriends.