CHAPTER SIX

 

By the time the plane touched down in Las Vegas, Karen had experienced an epiphany. It had started when she’d left the lavatory and returned to the main compartment. Mason had moved across the cabin to sit beside Tristan, and as Karen went back to her seat, Tristan glanced in her direction, his brows narrowed, his face set in a murderously severe scowl.

He’d made no secret of the fact her presence displeased him, but up until that moment, she’d felt timid in response, as if she’d done something wrong and rightfully deserved his anger. With that look, that glower, something in her had snapped, and instead of looking away, she’d glared right back at him.

Fuck you, Tristan, she thought, hoping against hope his mind was open and he could hear her. I’m tired of this, tired of the games—and of you.

It might have been just her imagination, wishful thinking on her part, but she could have sworn that he looked away first, his expression growing somewhat sheepish, as if cowed by the ferocity in her stare.

By the time the jet touched down in Las Vegas—much to her white-knuckled relief—she found herself feeling considerably better, if not about flying, then about the status of her life. She had a three-step plan in mind, one she felt satisfied with.

Step one: call Michel as soon as we get to Las Vegas and give him my notice.

Step two: fall out of love with Tristan Morin—the sooner, the better.

Step three: enjoy my weekend.

A glossy limousine awaited them at the airport terminal—not one of the garish stretch varieties favored by teenagers on prom night, but a sleek, elegant sedan. The chrome wheel covers had each been emblazoned with B. Like his father, then, Karen observed, Mason preferred chauffeured Bentleys.

While Tristan lagged behind, Mason escorted her in genteel fashion, offering the crook of his elbow to guide her. As he swept her into the car and she settled back against the soft, buttery leather seats, she wondered vaguely why, if she had to be damned into a pair-bond attraction to one of the Brethren, it couldn’t have been Mason instead.

As they drove down the legendary Las Vegas strip, she found herself staring childlike out the window at all the passing buildings and colorful signs.

“It’s not as exciting as it is at night.” From beside her, Mason sounded nearly apologetic, as if she should be disappointed in the view.

“Are you kidding?” She’d seen casinos before, of course—Reno was chock-full of them, as was the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe—but none of those compared. Craning her neck as they passed, she gawked at the towering black pyramid of the Luxor and the regal sphinx standing stoic guard in front of it. “This place is like Disneyland for grown-ups.”

“This is the newer strip,” Tristan said. “There’s another one on Freemont Street, where a lot of the original casinos and hotels were built. They’re connected beneath this enormous canopy structure, and after dark, they run light shows on the hour, all along the canopy underside.”

These were the first words he’d said to her since they’d picked her up that morning, and she blinked at him, as dumbstruck as she’d been by the Luxor.

“Mason used to bring me along whenever one of his hotels here would open,” Tristan continued, as if they hadn’t spent the night before making love together, and as if after that he hadn’t, for all intents and purposes, ripped her heart out of her chest, tossed it on the floor, and stomped on it a time or two for good measure. The fact that he sounded so nonchalant, so normal, suddenly infuriated her.

“One of my hotels,” Mason repeated with a clumsy laugh, as if embarrassed. “You make it sound like I’m a mogul.” Leaning into Karen’s shoulder, he added, “I’m really more of a hobbyist.”

“Not many ‘hobbyists’ have their own NASDAQ symbol,” Tristan said, and Karen blinked again, this time in genuine surprise. “He’s one of the principals at Triumvera Trust.”

“Triumvirate,” Mason corrected mildly. “It’s a modest investment firm specializing in full-service and luxury hotels in the U.S. and abroad.”

“With more than eight billion dollars in assets,” Tristan added.

“Is the Trésor one of them?” Karen asked Mason, and when he nodded, she could have sworn he was blushing.

He’d shown her a picture of the resort on the plane, a conceptual rendering that had depicted a pair of towers that faced one another, with an expansive shopping plaza between them. He’d explained that several hotels would be housed within the nearly six-million-square-foot facility, as well as three permanent stage shows, eleven restaurants, six swimming pools, a conference center, and retail facilities.

In the painting, the towers had been shown at night, with gold-accented, cream-colored facades standing out in stark contrast to the dark sky. As they approached, Karen could see that in the bright, full light of the afternoon sun, however, the buildings gleamed like they’d been electroplated in gold, dazzling and stunning complements to the backdrop of mountains visible in the distance beyond the city’s limits.

“Oh, Mason,” she breathed, eyes wide, mouth agape. The top of the car had been fitted with a retractable moonroof, and with the press of a button, Mason had opened it so that she could crane her head back and gawk.

“You like it?” he asked, sounding hesitant, hopeful even, like a little boy showing a new toy to a playmate.

Tristan uttered a low whistle, and a sideways glance proved he was as visibly impressed as she felt. “C’est magnifique,” he said. It’s magnificent.

Although Mason and Michel would sometimes lapse in and out of French with oblivious ease, Tristan seldom, if ever, followed suit. To hear him speak it now, with perfect dialect, raised the hairs along her nape, turning her on as instantly and powerfully as if he’d offered this within intimidate proximity of her ear. All at once the second step in her plan—fall out of love with Tristan Morin—so simple in the conception, seemed impossible.

Not if he keeps speaking French, at any rate, she thought.

****

The Trésor was indeed grand, even by the usually high standards of opulence an investment by Mason’s trust company demanded, enough so that even Tristan, who’d seen nearly every one of his uncle’s properties, was dutifully impressed at the sight of it.

To that moment, his proximity to Karen, and the bloodlust this would usually provoke, had remained dormant in him, but all at once, he had a jolt of telepathic sensation from her. Like the bloodlust, his telepathy had been quiet and quelled during the trip to that point, and this sudden burst of awareness was fleeting but strong. It was the French that had done it, his speaking it aloud. She’d reacted to it, and in return, his body reacted to hers.

Fuck, he thought in bright, sudden alarm, because that was what he wanted to do—suddenly, urgently enough to feel an immediate, uncomfortable strain against the fly of his jeans when he looked at her. Her heart had raced, just for a moment in visceral, reflexive response to his voice, but it had been enough to send a cocktail of adrenaline and epinephrine surging through her.

Fuck, he thought again, because he could feel his gums tingling, a dim ache as his canine teeth inched forward. All at once, the dazzling glow of reflected sunlight off the tower facade seemed even more blinding—his pupils had begun to dilate.

The pills. He’d stuffed them into his traveling bag, which was now stowed away in the trunk of the Bentley.

“Here,” he heard Mason say, then a quick snap of his seat belt as he unbuckled it. “Trade me sides.” Reaching up, he pressed another button on the moonroof control panel, and the tinted glass retracted, letting in a rush of warm air. “You can stand up, look outside.”

He wasn’t speaking to Tristan, he realized dimly as he watched Karen likewise unfasten her own seat belt.

No, he thought, stricken, pressing himself back into his seat. No, no, don’t do that.

Karen was oblivious, excited as she and Mason shifted positions, squirming to switch places on the seat bench. She’d taken off her coat at the airport, and when she stood, the hem of her sweater pulled up. Less than two feet away from him—well within biting distance—he could see a taunting glimpse of exposed skin at her lower back, and the upper edge of her panties.

Oh, Christ, he thought, clapping his hand to his mouth to muffle a groan. When he glanced at Mason, he found his uncle watching him with a bemused sort of expression, one brow slightly arched above the other.

Because he did it on purpose, Tristan realized. If I could sense Karen’s reaction, then he could too—and mine, along with it. You son of a bitch, Mason.

The limousine jostled to an unexpected stop as they pulled into the valet area outside the resort. Karen lost her balance and stumbled sideways. Reacting out of instinct, Tristan caught her, his hands shooting out, clamping against her hips. Her sweater was still askew, and his fingers touched her waist. Her skin was silken, soft and warm, and in that moment, he remembered the night before—taking her from behind, locking his fingers through hers, feeling helpless against her, helpless without her.

She blinked down at him, wide-eyed, and he blinked back, snapping out of his reverie. Could she notice his eyes, the slight descent of his teeth? God, he hoped not; his humiliation would be complete.

“I…I’ve got you,” he said, his voice ragged and hoarse. He couldn’t remove his hands from her. He tried not to think about how easy it would be to hook his fingertips beneath the waistband of her jeans and peel them down, her panties too—pull her down against him right there in the limo, in front of Mason, the driver, in front of God and everybody, because God, he didn’t care.

“Uh…thanks,” she said, sounding strained and uncertain.

“All right, mes chéris.” Mason clapped once, his mouth stretched in a delighted Cheshire Cat grin again as he reached for the door handle. “We’ve arrived.”