“Here,” I say gruffly as I hold the necklace up. “Turn around so I can put this on you.”
I easily clasp the necklace around her neck, running my fingers over her bare shoulder when I’m done. I get a blast of satisfaction over the way she shivers. She turns back in her seat, taking her gold hoops out of her ears and putting in the diamond solitaires. Pulling the visor mirror down, she looks at herself with a smile.
“Thank you,” she says without looking at me. Her voice is so warm with affection, I feel my throat constrict. Almost as if she could sense my unease, she adds, “For a non-date… you know, actually just working tonight, I’m taking home a pretty nice haul.”
The tension within me releases, and I laugh at her. “Just the earrings, let me remind you.”
Trista grins as she turns in her seat to face me. She puts a palm on my thigh and squeezes. “Seriously… thank you. The earrings are totally unnecessary but totally appreciated.”
I smile back at her, feeling like I just won something. A prize. A medal. Something big and shiny that denotes I achieved something monumental here. I’m quite afraid the warm feelings I’m developing for Trista are the achievement, and I don’t know if that makes me happy or scared.
CHAPTER 22
Trista
Jerico and I meander along the perimeter of the ballroom, looking at the items available for silent auction bids. The charity dinner is being held at the Bellagio and is set to begin soon. But first, patrons are liquored up and then set loose on the tables, all to raise money for homeless veterans.
“Do you do this often?” I ask Jerico as he strolls along with me. Each of us have a glass of champagne in hand, but that doesn’t stop him from putting his other hand on my bare lower back, which is super sensitive to his fingers.
“Charity events?” he asks to clarify and I nod as I look at a set of front-row tickets to Adele along with backstage passes. I don’t even bother to look at the bids, because I couldn’t even afford to touch it.
I’m surprised Jerico does fancy events like this. Not that he’s not suave and sophisticated as well as rich, so he can afford to do these things. But the man I know is completely satisfied to stay tucked in his club, running his business and fucking until his heart is content, so it’s just a little odd. Not the charity itself. Given his military connections, I get why this would be important to him.
The next item we come to is a pair of boxing gloves that are old and worn. As I look closer, I note they’ve been signed by Muhammed Ali. I gasp as I lean forward to look at them, and then my eyes glance down to the paper where people can write their bids. There are several already, but the last one makes me swallow hard.
$9,500.
Holy shit.
“You a fan?” Jerico asks, nodding at the photo of Ali hanging on the wall above the gloves.
“Of boxing,” I tell him with a smile. “I love it, and well… Ali was one of the greats.”
“I would have never pegged you as a fan of boxing,” Jerico muses. “Hockey, maybe. Football, I can see. But not boxing.”
“Hello,” I reply tartly with a roll of my eyes. “This is Vegas. Boxing is huge here.”
“That it is,” he murmurs before taking a sip of his champagne.
“Not that I’ve ever been to a live event, but I’ll usually go to a sports bar and watch.” I turn to look back at the gloves, knowing they’ll fetch a very good price. “I hope more people bid on those gloves. Totally worth more than that.”
“I’m with you,” Jerico says. “I paid almost twice as much for them at a non-charity auction.”
My head snaps around, the champagne sloshing in my glass. “You donated those?”
“Yup,” he says with a shrug. “I have all kinds of sports memorabilia, and this was definitely a worthy cause. I’m sure these gloves will go for a lot more. There are some serious spenders here tonight.”
He’s not kidding. The number of jewels being worn by the women is almost blinding, and some of the bids I’ve seen have been in the tens of thousands of dollars. It’s mind boggling to me.
Jerico and I walk around a bit more, and he bids on a painting by a local artist I didn’t particularly care for, but that stuff is so subjective anyway. He also steps aside for a moment and talks privately with the man in charge of the auction, but I don’t suppose it was a necessary introduction to me. And then someone is at a microphone, asking everyone to take their seats at their assigned tables for the meal to be served.
We’re at a table with six other people who Jerico knows. It hits me suddenly that he’s not just a hermit who hides in The Wicked Horse, but a real businessman. He owns a prominent security-consulting company and is probably very involved with the community if he’s attending functions like this.
I sit quietly, feeling like Julia Roberts in Pretty Women as the men discuss business and politics and the women talk to each other and ignore me. I only hope to God they don’t bring escargot because I definitely cannot eat it, and I don’t feel like being embarrassed by flinging a shell across the room.
When the salad is served, however, the chatter across the table dies down and Jerico turns slightly toward me as we eat. Leaning over, he whispers, “I hate all this polite chitchat.”
I have to swallow down a giggle before I whisper back to him. “Well, suck it up and eat your salad.”
Jerico responds by putting his hand on my leg, giving it a squeeze, and then using his fingers to pull at the silk of my gown. He gets it to rise right to my knees and then his hand is snaking under. I slap a hand on his wrist, look around the table to see everyone engaged in food or personal talk, and then I make a decision.
Not to stop him but to pull his hand up higher. I do this while watching Jerico’s nostrils flare and his eyes darken with arousal. But he does nothing more than squeeze the inside of my thigh before taking his hand away. I grin at him in satisfaction when he leans over once more to whisper, “Would you have really let me finger you under the table?”
“Yes,” I whisper back to him, my skin tingling with the prospect of what I almost let him do.
“Dirty girl,” he says with appreciation in his eyes. “But even I have my limits on what I’ll do in public. Besides, you’re too much of a screamer. We would have never gotten away with it.”
He’s so right. It would have been stupid, but I still cherish that feel of his hand on my leg knowing he was thinking of me in that way.
The salads are removed efficiently after we finish. Within moments, the main course is served—Kobe beef tenderloin and lobster tails—and private talk resumes around the table. Not sure this is really the norm, but Jerico is not engaging anyone, content to talk to me as we eat.
“So… tomorrow is pancake day, huh?” he asks as he cuts into his steak.
I nod as I do the same. “I’m trying to establish routines… habits with Corinne. Things she can count on. Sunday is always pancake day.”