Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

He frowned and glanced from side to side, like he was sweeping the bar for trouble. “There’s a war in Vegas I’m not aware of?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not a photojournalist any longer. Now I shoot fashion—lingerie and boudoir. I’m here doing the high-end catalogue for Veronica’s,” she said, naming the famous lingerie chain with which she’d nabbed a plum gig. “Some of the shoots are at the Cosmopolitan and around town. We did the Venetian Canals earlier today. Caesars Palace is tomorrow.”

“So this is you now,” he said, waving a hand at her. “Shooting barely dressed women in silk and lace instead of racing across the desert in a Humvee?”

She nodded. “From shrapnel to strapless.”

“What happened to make you leave?”

“Death happened.”

So did heartbreak and unfinished love.

He nodded in agreement, his expression turning somber. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear about Julien.”

Her throat hitched, but she fought past that goddamn lump. She’d cried enough to end California’s drought. “Thank you.”

More quickly than she’d expected—and she was eminently grateful not to linger on talk of Julien with this man—Michael led them out of this conversation, returning to safer ground. “You like fashion better?”

She glanced up at the ceiling, considering. That was a tough question. She’d loved the adrenaline rush of photojournalism, the thrill of chasing a story that didn’t want to be found, the chance to capture an image that would show her nation the truth of what was happening in the world, whether during her days in the Middle East, or covering breaking news across Europe for a French news agency. But the job became too risky and the costs too high, so she’d pivoted.

She had no regrets.

She met his eyes to answer. “Yes. I like fashion better now. I love what I do.”

They chatted more as she told him tales of the models and their over-the-top requests at shoots—from the imperious blonde who required celery sticks chilled to a crisp 65 degrees, to the willowy brunette who would only drink artesian water—and how it compared to the bare-bones style of hunting images in her combat boots, cargo pants, and photographer’s vest, in one of the most dangerous areas of the world.

“What about you, Michael? You’re not fronting a band. I didn’t see your guitar in any of your company photos,” she said, nudging his arm gently. His strong, toned arm. So firm. She was going to need a reason to nudge him again.

He shrugged. “That was high school. I was just messing around in the garage with friends. I don’t play much anymore.”

“What happened to going to Seattle and becoming the next Eddie Vedder?” she asked, then her stomach dropped. “Merde. I’m sorry,” she said, heat flaming across her cheeks. How could she have been so foolish? She knew the answer. She brought her hand to her face, embarrassed, and lowered her chin.

His hand touched hers. Her breath caught the instant he made contact. “It’s okay. It was just a teenage dream.”

Just a teenage dream. They’d had so many. They’d felt so real at the time.

“We had a lot of those,” she said, softly.

“We did.” He looked away. His jaw was set hard, but when he returned his gaze to her, he simply said, “I barely think about all those crazy dreams. I like my life now. I like running the security business. That’s why I work on a Sunday. Speaking of work, how long are you in town for?”

“A few days,” she said, and her voice rose higher, as it did when she was nervous. Because the first thing she’d thought when she landed this assignment was—Michael. Like a big, blaring sign. Like a flashing light at the end of a road. She had to see him, had to find him, had to connect with him. “I’m glad you’re happy now…Michael Sloan.” She paused, his new last name rolling around strangely on her tongue. “I’m trying to get used to it. Sloan.”

“Took me a while, too.”

“When did you change it?”

His eyes darkened. She’d touched a nerve. “Ten years ago,” he said, his tone gruff.

The journalist in her didn’t want to back down. “After I saw you in Marseilles?” she asked, nerves tightening her throat as she mentioned that day. That wonderful, horrible day.

He stared up at the ceiling, his brow knit together. “I suppose that’d be about right. But that wasn’t the reason,” he added.

“Why, then?” she pressed. “It made it harder to find you. I had to ask Becky.”

He heaved a sigh. “Made it easier for me to live.”

Unsure how to respond, she swallowed, then reached for her cup. Her fingers felt slippery. She gripped the ceramic more tightly as she brought it to her lips and took a sip.

He rubbed a hand across his jawline, silence sneaking between them, but not for long. “Tell me. Why did you look me up?”

“Because I was coming to town,” she said, stating the simplest answer first, avoiding the tougher topic.

He stared at her, his blue eyes hooked into hers, telling her he didn’t buy it.

“Because I was seeing Sanders and Becky,” she said, mentioning her host family from when she was an exchange student.

“Did you see them?”