Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

Later this afternoon he had a meeting with a client, then this evening he’d review some new contracts for work. Sometime this week he’d meet with the detective working his father’s case, touching base with him before he left for a trip. He also needed to check in with the private—

His phone bleated from his back pocket, and he grabbed it quickly. His friend Mindy’s name flashed across the screen. “Hey there,” he said, while winding his way through the throngs of visitors on the sidewalk.

“Whatcha wearing?” she singsonged. “Wait. Don’t tell me. You went for your favorite jeans and a lucky T-shirt.”

He laughed. “I assure you I don’t have a lucky T-shirt.”

“Well, you should. I would get on that right away.”

“Duly noted. I’ll order up one lucky T-shirt after this meeting.”

“Meeting. You make it sound so businesslike.”

“How should I make it sound?”

“Like you’ve been counting down the hours for this since you received the letter,” she said, making the note sound ominous. An information Hoover, Mindy had a way of wheedling details out of him, ever since they’d graduated from professional colleagues to good friends over the summer when they’d paired up on a moonlighting project.

“Speaking of counting down the hours, I’ll see you early evening still?” he asked, sidestepping her far too accurate assessment of how he’d measured the time since Annalise’s missive had arrived.

“Yup. I’ll be there at five. I fully expect you to tell me every dirty detail.”

“There won’t be any dirty details.”

She scoffed. “Oh, I bet there will, and I plan on extracting them all.”

“Good-bye, Mindy,” he said.

The thought of seeing Annalise Delacroix had pretty much played on a loop in Michael’s mind since he’d flipped through the mail on his desk two weeks ago, the lavender envelope sliding from the top of the pile into his palm, the past thundering into the present. He had a shoebox full of her letters from years ago. He hadn’t looked at the others in ages. He couldn’t bring himself to chuck them, but he also wasn’t interested in inflicting the kind of self-torture that reading them would bring.

He threaded through the crowds outside the Bellagio as sprays of water from the fountains arced in their daytime ballet, his shoes clicking against the stone pathway that curved around the man-made lake. He stepped into a wedge of the revolving door, which whisked him into the hotel lobby with its polished marble floors, glass sculptures, and grand archways.

As he cut a path toward the casino floor, he tried to pretend he was here at this hotel for business. Meeting a potential client. Seeing an old friend. But the way his heart tried to torpedo out of his skin, he was going to need some much better tricks to fool himself.

When he reached the hostess stand at the upscale Petrossian Bar, he simply resigned himself to the storm brewing inside of him. Besides, how else was he supposed to feel right before he was about to see—as his brother Colin had so aptly called her—his “what if” girl?

“Like this,” he muttered to himself. Like a case of what if bombs had exploded inside his chest.

“May I help you?”

The even-toned, sweet-sounding voice jarred him because it was so normal. How could anyone feel fine this second? He felt the opposite of fine. He felt a mixed-up, jumbled mess of emotions that boiled down to two warring ones—a fervent wish that this meeting would not be a repeat of the airport in Marseilles, and the hope that all his ex-girlfriends were incorrect in their diagnosis of his heart trouble.

He was not hung up on her. No matter what they had said to the contrary.

The hostess in her trim gray suit cocked her head, waiting for him to answer.

“I’m looking for…someone,” Michael said, his voice gravelly, as if words were new to him.

“Would you like to have a look around and see if…” She trailed off, letting him fill in the blank.

“Yeah. I’ll take a look.”

The pianist in the bar tapped out an old Cole Porter song. Michael turned the corner, scanning the lounge-style seating for a tall, willowy woman.

Briefly, he wondered if he’d recognize her. He’d first known her when they were teenagers, then he saw her again at age twenty-four in Marseilles. That was ten years ago, and surely he didn’t look the same. He had crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes, and his hair, inexplicably, had darkened. His sister Shannon joked that it was turning black, like his heart.

He was also sturdier than he had been before. His shoulders were broader, arms more defined. At twenty-four, he’d been in the army, working in intelligence; now, he was a twice-daily fixture at the gym and had the bigger muscles to show for it.

But whether Annalise Delacroix had dyed her hair or shaved it all off, he was pretty confident he’d find her easily without having seen a photo of her recently. He hadn’t stalked her on social media, but he had researched the most important detail before he’d emailed her back.