“You’re here.”
I quirked my brow, knowing what he meant, but still playing confused. “Where else would I be?”
The corner of his mouth twitched up, his head nodding. “I wasn’t exactly sure.”
“But you thought I might test the boundaries?”
“Wouldn’t that be the rational thing to do?”
“Perhaps.”
“Are you no longer a rational being?” he asked as he handed me a paper bag and a bottle of water.
“Oh, I am.” I sat down on the bed and took a sip from the bottle. “I’m rational enough to know that there are three other highly trained killers who would be after my ass, plus your threat of killing my ex-boyfriend. That results in a pretty easy answer that the devil beside me is my best bet.”
He moved to the table and opened a second bag. “Okay, I’m glad we’ve come to an arrangement.”
“So, what’s on the agenda?” I reached in and pulled out a container with a fork and some napkins.
“Waiting to hear from a contact.”
I pursed my lips, thinking about the boring afternoon ahead. “There’s a lot of waiting in your line of work, isn’t there?”
“The more information you have, the better prepared.”
“Ah, the control aspect you’re so fond of.”
I opened the container and took in a whiff of the most wonderful smell, my mouth salivating. “Where did you get a tenderloin sandwich out here?” The thing was huge, taking up the entire container and then some.
“There was a place around the corner.”
I picked up the bun to survey the giant breaded hunk of meat. It was two meals or more worth. Spots of red caught my eye and I stared down, trying to figure out what was on it.
“Ketchup?”
“Hm?”
The corners of my mouth turned down as I scraped the bun off on the container.
“What the hell? You don’t put ketchup on a tenderloin!”
Ew, just ew.
“Why?”
“You just don’t. I’ve never seen ketchup on a tenderloin, it’s just not done.”
“How are you an expert?”
“My grandparents lived in Indiana. The tenderloin is like the state sandwich, if there was such a thing.”
He shook his head at me and took a bite.
I let out a moan at my own bite, memories of a different life flooding in.
It was a surreal moment. Sitting with the man who kidnapped me, almost as equals eating a sandwich that reminded me of my former life.
I was still there because I didn’t leave.
I was still there because I couldn’t.
In the early evening a few days later, Six’s phone rang. More elusive words, and after only a minute or two, the call was done.
The instant the phone was down, he started stripping. “Your outfit from Paris.” He pulled both of our suitcases up to the bed. “Put it on.”
“Oh, we’re going glam.” I pulled out my makeup case and curling iron. “Same underneath?”
He stopped searching in his bag and looked up to me. He reached up, running his fingers across his lips as his gaze drifted down and back up.
“Just…get dressed,” he said, turning back to his search.
I had to admit, making a strong, ruthless killer into a man ruled by his dick was quite empowering, especially in my situation.
It took about an hour to get to the level of dolled up my outfit called for, but the groan of approval that left Six made it worth it.
The drive to our destination was longer than I expected, and suddenly brighter as we neared the strip. The sun had set, yet it was as bright as day on the streets. People flooded the sidewalks, drinks in hand. The flashing of slot machines was visible through open doors, calling people in with their pretty-pretty lights and air conditioning.
Not that the air conditioning was needed right then, but in a few short months it would be a strong pull from the desert heat.
We ended at the far end near the airport, at Mandalay Bay, leaving the car with the valet and entering the gigantic establishment.
“Shit, this place is huge,” I said in awe.
While the gaming floor was comparable to the Venetian’s, the high ceilings and dark décor area was packed with people.
“Stay close,” Six said as he slipped his hand in mine.
I stared down at our hands that were joined like any other couple. It wasn’t like we hadn’t held hands in public before, it was the way he did it was such ease. The way my chest warmed and my heart raced.
That feeling scared me more than he did.
We weren’t really married. He wasn’t my husband, but in some ways, he was.
The more people we waded through, the more he squeezed my hand. Cut off, people stopping in front of us to stare—I began to wonder how close he was to pulling out his gun.
It wouldn’t happen, but they were testing his patience.
We made it to the blackjack tables and took two of the open seats. There were seven spots in all, and only two remaining open. There was another couple, probably in their forties, and an older gentleman in a suit with a glass of what I guessed to be whiskey.