Darkest Sin (Las Vegas Sin Book 3) Read online

  “Hey, beautiful,” he chirps with a gleam to his black eyes.

  His pupils are the size of nickels, eclipsing any potential color from his irises. Fabulous. I can only imagine what he took. His blond hair brushes against his shoulders as he sits back, making himself comfortable. He’s wearing jeans and a well-fitted t-shirt though it’s anything but warm outside.

  “I was taking bets with a buddy of mine,” he continues, pointing in the direction of the glass wall that separates the coffee shop from the hotel’s main floor.

  “How inventive to do so in Las Vegas,” I deadpan. “You must be so pleased with yourself that you figured out how that all works.”

  He gives me a wide grin, looking me up and down, catching on my legs at the approximate place where the hem of my skirt rests against my thighs. His gaze continues to drag up to my breasts, where he blatantly stares for what feels like forever.

  Is this guy for real?

  He licks his lips, his fingers rubbing in a rhythmic pattern, and my guess is ecstasy as his drug of choice for this evening. Not to mention the collection of sweat building along his hairline.

  “Actually, the first bet I won was coming in here to talk to you. Then we bet on where you were going after here. Dressed like that, I know it’s not home to bed.”

  I peek down at my outfit. Black Vans because I always wear comfortable shoes. Short black skirt. Tight black and white striped shirt. Then back up to him. Not exactly club wear in a town like this. Plus, I have a paperback in my hand, and I’d rather die than feed into his comment about going to bed.

  I tilt my head.

  “Um yeah, no thanks. Have a good night.”

  “Do you roll? We have some great hits.”

  “You can save your thinly veiled, pathetic attempt at a pickup line for someone who’s interested. I’m not going anywhere with you or your invisible buddy. Nor did I ask you to join me. Next time try dropping your hits of X right before you enter the club. Makes the whole experience that much better. Bye now.” I give him wiggly fingers before lifting my book back up, essentially blocking him out.

  “You looking to get fucked tonight, honey?”

  I suppress my growl and go for boredom instead. “Go away, douchebag.”

  “If you’re reading stuff like that, you want it. You’re practically begging for it.”

  Christ. I forgot about the book I’m holding. There’s a mostly naked couple on the cover essentially getting it on. I like paperbacks. I like bookstores. And I don’t like websites having my shopping patterns and location of delivery on their very traceable, hackable sites.

  He reaches across, covering my book with his hand and lowering it very deliberately to the table between us. “Have you ever experienced two guys at once?”

  For fuck’s sake.

  “Yes. You can consider that one checked off my fantasy bucket list. Now move on to the next victim,” I state firmly, an unmistakable edge to my tone. “I’m seriously not the girl for you tonight. Or any night,” I tack on in case he’s smart enough to play with my words in a way that will keep this conversation going.

  “Don’t be like that. We can have a good time together.” He leans in, one hand dropping directly on top of mine over my book. I slip it away quickly, folding my arms over my chest. His gaze follows, growing hungry with a potential he’ll never taste. “Those legs wrapped around my waist will be epic.”

  “Not in this lifetime. Now get. Lost,” I bark harshly, as I plant my foot into the leg of his chair, shoving hard when what I’m really tempted to do is kick the thing out from beneath him. The feet of the chair scrape loudly against the floor, only moving back a few inches but garnering the attention of other patrons nearby all the same. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself, but sitting snugly against that truth is the realization that I might not have a choice with this twatwaffle.

  This is why women inherently distrust men. You’d think eventually DNA would catch up and humanize the lesser sex, but no. Things have only gone downhill, and the glory days of Mister Darcy long since forgotten.

  His eyes narrow, his lips setting into a thin line.

  “You’re a fucking bitch.”

  “Right. I’m a fucking bitch,” I drawl, rolling my eyes. “Of course. Because not taking no for an answer makes you a prince.” I smirk, my gaze holding steady, letting him know I’m not afraid in the least.

  Instead of doing the right thing, like getting up and walking away, he chuckles. By now, other assholes would have tucked tail and run. Then again, it’s been a while since I’ve been this crassly hit on, so maybe my barometer for douchebags is off? I honestly can’t say.

  He stands up slowly with method in his movements, his eyes never wavering. Clearly, he doesn’t like being made to look the fool. Ugh. I thought ecstasy was supposed to make people happy.

  The guy steps toward me, almost like he’s going to do something in the middle of a crowded coffee shop at eleven at night. I cannot believe this is happening. I sit up, squaring my shoulders and preparing to take him out at the balls when a dark figure slips in between us.

  I jar back in my seat, my eyes widening as the interloper blocks my view of the douche, almost as if he’s protecting me from whatever was to come next. At first, it frustrates me to no end. Why do men feel we’re incapable of handling our own battles? But…

  My gaze travels along his dark, low-slung jeans, his toned thighs hinted at beneath the dark denim. A black, well-fitted tee that strains against his tanned, smooth, insanely well-defined muscular arms and contoured back, all the way up to his sharp jaw and short, dark hair.

  Well, hello there, stranger.

  I can’t make out much of his profile other than that from this angle, but I don’t have to, to know he’s imposing and intimidating as hell. And sexy. I mean, who are we kidding here. But just one glance at my aggressor’s frightened expression is enough to have me shifting in my seat, anxious for more intel.

  I move my position, angling myself around the sexy stranger for a better view.

  The douche tries to stare the stranger down, straightening his spine as if that will somehow even the height and weight playing field. It won’t. He’s several inches shorter and at least thirty pounds leaner. He stumbles to his right, his eyes shifting nervously over to the glass wall where I assume his buddy is waiting on him.

  He takes a step back, banging loudly into the table behind him. Luckily no one was sitting there. “I-I was just leaving,” he stutters out, anxiously casting a glance over to me and then instantly back to the man.

  My eyebrows knit in confusion. This mystery guy hasn’t even said a word. Does he recognize him? Is he some kind of terrifying, mangled figure? Some dark underlord who chops up babies for spare parts?

  “You’re never coming back in here,” the stranger finally speaks, his voice so cold and sharp it sends a shiver up my spine. Jesus. If his face is half as terrifying as his voice, I understand why the guy is running. But that doesn’t stop my stomach from twisting in a forbidden, delicious way.

  “No. I won’t,” the guy mumbles.

  He starts to leave, but before he can even take two steps, the stranger orders, “Apologize to her. Now.”

  The douche glances back toward the glass, likely wondering if he should just make a run for it and decides, for whatever reason, it’s not worth the risk. He turns to me and forces something out that I don’t even care enough about to listen to. No, my focus is entirely on this other man. This tall, powerful, scary-as-fuck, man.

  I’m smiling. Crazily turned on. I can’t stop it.

  The asshole scurries away, and I know I should too. I should grab my stuff and run. That’s what my mind is screaming at me to do. This man. Hell, he’s likely here for me and I’m likely about to face his malicious wrath. He could very well hand deliver me straight to Sam.

  My skin prickles with adrenaline, my stomach knotting up along with my fists.

  But I can’t make myself move.

&
nbsp; Curiosity can be a real nuisance sometimes. Especially when you need your survival instincts to kick in. I mean, instead of doing the smart thing and running for my life, I’m sitting here like a voyeur, waiting to see his face. What if his face is as delicious as the rest of him? Regardless of that, I need to get some answers to questions I should know better than to ever think up.

  He watches him go before twisting back to me.

  He lowers his head and the moment our eyes meet, my breath catches in my chest, my heart skipping a beat. I’m paralyzed. Utterly transfixed. Horrifyingly frozen.

  It’s more than the alluring green color of his eyes or the way they effortlessly hold me captive before they do a long, languid sweep over me. It’s more than the insanely gorgeous features of his face–though he’s so much more than gorgeous it’s ridiculous. Straight nose; dark lashes framing those large, deep-set eyes; full, soft lips; chiseled jaw, rough with two days’ worth of stubble that could either be sharp or soft–I can’t decide which I’d prefer. I can go on.

  It’s his presence.

  Lord baby Jesus, the confidence with which he holds himself. The power in his stance and the dominance he exudes that refuses to let me go. I’ve never been lured by this particular type of alpha, but I cannot deny the way he makes my heart thump and my panties wet.

  Oh, he’s dangerous, alright. An indomitable predator. Of that, I have no illusions.

  His mere presence is a threat. A weapon I’d bet he wields meticulously yet unapologetically. He’s sinisterly beautiful. An intoxicating poison.

  I wait for him to say…something. For this thick tension to break. For his voice to slice through me the way it did the boy who cowered at his feet. For him to reach for some hidden weapon and make the easy kill as I sit here stupefied by a magnetism I’m completely incapacitated by.

  Instead, he smirks, a delicious sparkle to his eyes as he takes me in inch by inch, and my heart dumbly skips another beat for an entirely different reason. My face warms, my stomach tightening at the way his eyes ensnare my every sense.

  I want to look away.

  He’s just too fucking intense, but I can’t do it. I can’t look away for fear of missing a single second of…this.

  I shake my head, choking down a deranged laugh by sinking my teeth into my bottom lip and swallowing hard. He tracks the movement, his smirk twisting knowingly. Like he’s just as oddly strung out on this take-no-prisoners-stare-down-for-the-ages thing we’re volleying back and forth. We study, watching the other unabashedly for a few more agonizingly long seconds before he walks off.

  Just like that.

  I swivel around, utterly bewildered, smiling despite myself, and gawk as he exits through the back of the coffee shop, heading out onto the street beyond.

  Who the hell was that guy?

  Two

  Emma

  * * *

  Stepping into the marble lobby with the ornate glass Chihuly lighting and sleek modern decor, I wonder for the zillionth time why I don’t just leave this city. Move on to somewhere else. Believe the deaths of my family and friends are what they are labeled to be–car accident, suicide, mugging, hiking accident–and start a new life.

  Instead, I wait. I hide in plain sight. My resolve and courage split in two.

  I want Sam to find me. I want to look into his eyes before I take his life from him the way he took mine from me. And yet, I fear the encounter. Labor over every possible eventuality and outcome. Agonize through if he’ll come himself to face me or send someone else.

  I inwardly sigh as I walk up to the registration desk of The Turner Grand hotel and say, “Checking in. Kate Smith, I have a reservation.”

  The lady clicks a bunch of keys and then…“Yes,” she says with a kind smile. “Miss Smith. We have your suite ready for you.”

  My eyebrows knit together. “I didn’t reserve a suite. Just a king room.”

  Her brows knit in turn as she glances back down at her screen, clicking a few keys on her keyboard. I fold my arms on the cool stone counter, leaning forward as if this will afford me a view of her computer screen, which of course, it does not. She’s quiet for a long moment as I stare impatiently at her. I’m about to pull out my phone and the reservation I have saved in my untraceable email account when she nods her head as if all is right with the world.

  “I have it right here. It appears you’ve received a complimentary upgrade to one of our premier suites.”

  “Why?” I clip out, my tone harsher than I intend, but something is not right with this. She tilts her head to the side, but her customer service smile never wavers. I clear my throat, calming myself, and try to force a smile to match hers. I fall way short. “Why would I have received this complimentary upgrade?”

  “The only note I see in here is that the room you initially booked was sold out. It seems there had been an accidental double-booking, and management decided to upgrade you given the length of your stay.”

  I blink at her. “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

  She hesitates, glancing around at the other employees on either side of her who are helping other guests. “I’m not sure. I’ve only been working here for a few weeks. Would you like to speak with the manager?”

  I shake my head numbly, trying to remind myself that not everything is done with an ulterior motive. Right? Plus, I don’t exactly want to call further attention to myself. “No, thank you. The suite sounds wonderful.”

  And suspicious as fuck.

  I accept the key, grasp the handle of my suitcase and warily head in the direction of the elevators. The elevators that will lead me up nearly all the way to the top floor. I can’t stop myself from surreptitiously peeking around. Scanning from face to face. No one is so much as glancing in my direction. No one is lurking in an obvious way.

  I know I’m likely overreacting.

  And yet, I can’t help but feel like I’m being watched.

  I puff out a breath just as the doors to the elevator open. Stepping on, I shift to the back to allow a small group of Chinese tourists to enter with me. They’re speaking Mandarin, and I can’t fight my grin, listening as they talk excitedly about how they’re attending the Cirque du Soleil show at New York, New York tonight.

  Just as the doors slowly begin to shut, an arm thrusts through the divided metal, separating it with a loud, angry ding. The elevator jars, the doors abruptly parting. A man, tall with dark hair steps on, his gaze cast down to the phone in his hand as he quickly types something into it, but it takes me less than a second to realize it’s the sexy stranger from the coffee shop the other day. The one who took it upon himself to step in and save the day before leaving just as abruptly.

  First, the random suite, now this? What the hell is he doing here?

  I search around, but to my horror, I’ll never be able to push past the people standing in front of me and get out before the doors close. He twists back around, mumbling out some form of an apology to the other patrons as the doors close once more, trapping me in here with him. I slink silently into the corner, draping my long hair over my shoulder and the right side of my face like a curtain in a pathetic attempt to shield myself from him. I adjust my suitcase, so it’s slightly behind me in case I have to make a run for it.

  Whether he’s seen me or not, I have no idea, and if this is a coincidence, then someone up there has a fucked sense of humor.

  I do my best to keep my features impassive, my body hidden as much as possible behind another woman.

  His gaze hasn’t left his phone. His focus solely on the device in his hand.

  I study him, at a disadvantage since I can’t fully appreciate his face, but his clothes, his clothes I can see. A black coat slung over one arm. Long-sleeved, black, fitted henley. The sort that hugs absolutely every single toned, taut, and sinuous muscle in his broad back, arms, and chest. Dark, low-slung jeans that accentuate the muscles of his thighs–similar to the ones he wore last week. They’re designer, but roughed up like none of that is importa
nt to him. And…shit-kicking boots. Black. Like everything else.

  The car slows, and the doors pop open, and I realize I don’t even know what floor we’re on. My room is on forty-eight. That’s the button I pressed. I check the slip of paper the woman handed me downstairs. My suite is room 4812. I glance up at the glowing numbers at the top. Floor thirty-eight. Shit. Ten more floors.

  It’s only then that I realize he never pressed a button upon entering the elevator, so maybe, hopefully, he’s getting off here.

  The Chinese tourists exit, still chatting animatedly. I watch him, but all he does is shift to the opposite side of the car from me, allowing them to pass. A nervous bubble of energy builds within me. My head whips to the door, my mind rattled with useless indecision. I take a half-step forward, but before I can resolve to follow them out or not, the doors shut, making the decision for me.

  And once again, I’m trapped with him.

  Only this time, we’re alone.

  A five-by-six box of death with a man I’m growing insanely wary and suspicious of as the seconds tick and the floors climb higher.

  I catch a slight smirk at the corner of his full lips as he tucks his phone into his back pocket. He stares straight ahead. “The beautiful girl from the café.” I don’t respond. Hell, it was hardly a question, and if it was, it was goddamn rhetorical. His smirk turns impish. “Are you stalking me?” His voice is low, a warm, gentle hum, compared to the first time I heard him speak. All of my exposed flesh pebbles up as my heart races furiously in my chest.

  I inhale a deep breath and in doing so, catch his masculine scent. It’s not cologne, I don’t think. It’s him. Musk and sandalwood. Woodsy and sexy, and deceptively calming and enticing.

  “Obviously you have that the other way around since I was on this elevator first.”