Chapter 1

​

EDEN

​

“This is all a big misunderstanding.” I try to look innocent as the officer leads me through the sliding glass doors into the police station. Not that I look particularly innocent right now. The handcuffs that have my arms locked behind my back are a dead giveaway. 

Not to mention the red paint smeared over my thighs, my denim shorts, and – the pièce de résistance – the bright red handprint on my right breast. My own, in case you were wondering, inadvertently left when I thought I could brush paint off me like dust.

Before we reach the desk, I know I’m done for. You shouldn’t make a scene in front of one of the most expensive hotels on the strip if you want a quiet life. Not even when they’re holding an International Fur Convention inside their hallowed hallways

And you definitely shouldn’t stay around to get caught when one of the idiots you’re shouting alongside decides to throw a bucket of bright red paint on the elegant white walls of the hotel to make their point.

The desk sergeant looks up when I’m in front of her.

“What’s your name?” she asks in a low voice, her eyes flicking over me before she looks back at her computer screen.

“Eden Fitzgerald.” There’s no point in lying, the arresting officer already knows my name. 

The desk sergeant types into her keyboard. Her hair is dark, tied back so tightly it looks almost painful. “And your date of birth?” she asks.

I give it to her, and she says something like, “You look much younger than that.”

I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a compliment or not, to be honest. But since I like to assume the best about people I give her a smile. “Thank you.”

“Address?” she asks, not reacting to my thanks. Okay, maybe it’s not a compliment. More like a commentary on the fact that I should know better at the grand age of twenty-five than to be involved in something as futile as this.

“It’s complicated,” I say, because it really is. If you asked me where home was, I really wouldn’t know. And I’m not giving her the address of the project I was working on in Peru for the last few months. Firstly, they don’t need any bad publicity, and secondly, that wasn’t home. No where is home anymore, not even the small town I grew up in.

If home is a feeling, I’ve been numb for a long time.

“It really shouldn’t be complicated,” she says slowly. “Where do you live? The street address would be a good start.”

Oh boy. “Honestly, I really don’t have a home. I’ve spent the last few months in Lima, working on a project, living in a tent. Before that I was in Europe, staying in hostels, and now I’m making my way to the east coast to visit my sister. She’s pregnant and really wants to spend some time together before the baby arrives.” And I’ve already run out of excuses not to visit her. So please just let me go. 

The tiniest bit of empathy passes over her face, and I decide to jump on it.

“Please,” I say, trying to appeal to her kinder nature. “This really is a mistake. I honestly didn’t do anything. I didn’t throw the paint. I don’t even like the color. It’s too orangey. I prefer blue reds.” Oh God, shut up, Eden! You’re making it worse. I take a breath. “Can’t we just… I don’t know, pretend this never happened?” 

She stares at me for a long beat. “I’m sorry, but you defaced private property with red paint. Which at the very least is misdemeanor vandalism. So no, I can’t pretend this never happened.”

I bite my lip, hating how unjust that feels. 

From the corner of my eyes, I see the arresting officer pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a migraine.

The desk sergeant looks at me. “Just give me your last known address so I can put something in the computer,” she says like she’s doing me a favor.

In the end, I give her the address of the motel I stayed in last night. She doesn’t blink, just types it into the keyboard, then gives a curt nod to the officer at my side. “You can take her through to booking,” she tells him.

I can almost hear him sigh with relief. 

Checking his watch, he takes my elbow in his rough palm and leads me past a door that buzzes open with a heavy click. As we step into the booking area the air feels different. More ominous, maybe.

A fluorescent light overhead flickers in a stuttering rhythm, casting the gray-painted walls with a pale yellow haze.

He walks me into the holding area – a long, narrow corridor with a row of metal benches bolted to the floor. Each one has a ring attached to it for cuffing suspects in place. Dear God, this is not what I had planned today. Or ever. I don’t break the law, I don’t get arrested. Yes, I might be known in my family for being the forgetful, flighty one, but I’m not a criminal.

Or maybe I am. I swallow hard because I’m going to have a mugshot. And my prints will be on file. I’m pretty much at America’s Most Wanted level.

More importantly, my brothers are going to kill me.

“Sit down,” the policeman tells me.

Two of the benches are already occupied. One by a woman in a sequined dress, her face streaked with mascara from the tears pouring down her face. The other by a guy in a black vest that barely covers his stomach. He’s snoring with his mouth open, every third breath sounding like a death rattle.

The officer gestures toward an empty bench and releases the handcuffs. My skin almost sighs with relief. Then I sit exactly where he points. The chill of the metal bench seeps through my shorts, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Don’t move,” he tells me. “Wait here until I call you for processing. It could take a while.” 

“Wait!” I say, my brows pulling together. “Don’t I get a phone call?”

“After you’re processed, yes,” he tells me, like I should know. Like I’m a seasoned criminal.

God, I’m such a rookie at this.

He pinches his nose again before disappearing through a door at the far end of the corridor. And I lean my head back against the wall with a soft thud, listening to the hum of voices in adjoining rooms competing with the buzz of a radio. Followed by a loud clang that sounds scarily like a cell door closing.

Why didn’t I just take a flight directly to New York? Oh no, I had to be a good girl, and make the trip as ecologically friendly as possible. Taking trains and buses, because my carbon footprint is already way too big. 

Right now I could already be on Liberty, the small island I once called home. Instead of here, covered in ugly red paint, feeling the panic rise inside of me because I am in so much trouble.

I shift on the bench, trying not to cry and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Think, Eden. Come on, you have brains don’t you?

You’ve been arrested. You’re in Las Vegas. You’re almost certainly going to be charged.

And after that I get a phone call. But who the hell do I call?

I mentally scroll through the Fitzgerald Rolodex of family disaster responses, grimacing as I picture each of them.

The obvious option is my brother, Hudson, but there’s no way I’m calling him. He’s the oldest of the six of us, the most intense. He’ll yell at me, bail me out, then lock me up in a dungeon until I’m sixty.

Asher might skip the yelling, but he’d probably burn the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department to the ground, all the while calmly explaining why it was the only logical choice.

Zach’s somewhere across the world buying art nobody understands, and Wyatt’s probably charming tourists off the North Carolina coast. And let’s face it, neither of them would answer their phones.

Which leaves Autumn. My bossy but level headed sister. The only one who might help without telling Hudson.

I let out a long, low sigh that turns into a growl because I’m so annoyed with myself for getting into this position. I was already dreading going home. Now I’m rethinking all of my life choices.

“Is that… blood?” the crying woman across from me whispers, pointing at my top.

“You should see the other guy,” I joke. She looks away, like she’s not sure whether I’m a liar or a psychopath.

I’m not sure either, to be honest. All I know is that right now I’m supposed to be heading to Liberty Island, to see my pregnant sister. And as much as I hate the way that place makes me feel, I think I’ll hate being in jail more.

I blow out a breath, rub my aching wrists, and look up at the paint-peeled ceiling. If this isn’t rock bottom, I’m not sure what is. Things can only get better, right?

And as my name is called, and I’m lead to the booking room, I do the only thing that’s left to do.

I start to pray.

 

 

* * *

 

WEST

 

Taking a deep breath, I swirl the bourbon in the cut crystal glass, painting an easy smile on my face. I’m tired. So damn tired. But right now I need money more than I need sleep. Or more specifically I need cash flow. And I’m sitting opposite the only man I know who has more cash than he could spend in ten lifetimes.

And every so often he likes to put it through the wash.

Vin Marchetti is a man who has his fingers in more pies than he can count. He grew up destitute in New York, got in with the wrong – or right, depending how you see it – people, and now he owns hotels and casinos across the country from Las Vegas to Atlantic City.

Which is why I’m showing him the plans for the exclusive resort I’m building on Liberty Island. My escape plan. Even though I know he’s as dirty as they come. Not that I can talk.

I might have grown up in complete luxury compared to Vin but I’m not exactly squeaky clean either. 

Vin likes me, though. He’s been taking an interest in me and my business for years. Maybe because I’m useful. The kind of L.A. lawyer who can get anybody out of anything. I clean up problems, make them go away, and get paid handsomely for it.

And I’ve come to hate it. I’m ready to move on. To the little island on the east coast where my best friends live. Where I’ve already built a house and broken ground on the resort that will bring in even more money to the small town.

Or it will, if I can get Vin to agree to a cash injection. Because all of mine is already tied up in the resort. 

“Remind me again why you need my help?” he asks.

“Because the bank has a schedule for releasing the loans. And they’re being difficult. Without a bridge loan we can’t pay the staff or put money down on materials. And without the materials and labor we can’t hit the next milestone so the bank will release the funds.”

It’s a catch twenty-two. And yes, I have Hudson and Parker – my best friends – who are also investors in the resort, the same way I invested in Hudson’s refurbishment of the late Victorian hotel on the island, but they don’t have the available funds a man like Vin does.

Nobody legit does. Which is why I’m here at his club asking for help, and not requesting a loan from the First Bank of Dirty Money.

Behind Vin, one of his bodyguards leans forward and whispers in his ear, the movement exposing the gun belt around his waist.

I don’t flinch. I’m not afraid of his goons and I’m certainly not afraid of his guns. He’s a businessman first. A gambler second. Both would work for me.

“If it was anybody other than you asking, I’d say no way,” he tells me, his voice gravelly, like it’s inhaled far too many cigars. 

“Then I’m glad it’s me.” That’s no word of a lie. If Hudson or Parker knew I was here, trying to make a deal with a man like Marchetti, they’d hate it. That’s the funny thing, my friends love the results of me dancing with the dark, but they hate knowing about the footwork.

Which is why I never tell them. 

“I’m interested,” he tells me. “But I want a slice of the action. Give me the numbers and we can talk about a deal.”

Before I can tell him this is strictly a short term deal, repayment with interest – not an investment, my phone buzzes on the table. 

I glance down, expecting an SOS from an old client who can’t quite accept that I’m leaving L.A., but instead Autumn Davis’ name flashes across my screen.

I frown. She’s Hudson’s sister and also Parker’s wife but she never calls when she knows I’m working. Which immediately makes me want to take it.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I murmur to Vin, already standing and sliding my phone into my hand.

He gives me a grunt and goes back to sipping his Scotch, his Rolex Submariner catching the light of the candles.

When I step out onto the club’s balcony, the L.A. sprawl stretches out in front of me, yellow and orange lights arranged in grids as far as the eye can see. The cool night air cuts against my skin as I lift the phone to my ear.

“Autumn?” I murmur. “What’s up?”

There’s a pause, then a sigh. “West, thank god,” she says, sounding almost frantic. “I need a big favor. Like huge.” She takes a deep breath, likely to calm herself, and I don’t like it. Autumn doesn’t rattle easily.

“Of course,” I tell her, already sliding into the role of the man who fixes things. “Tell me what you need?” 

“It’s not what I need. It’s Eden,” she tells me, and my jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “She’s in trouble. How fast do you think you can get to Vegas?”

​

 

2

 

EDEN

 

“Get up,” a rough voice rasps in my ear, making its way through my broken dreams. It’s only when I feel the cold concrete pressing into my leg that I realize somebody’s pushing me, trying to wake me up.

And that’s when I remember where I am.

In a jail cell. In Las Vegas.

I sit bolt upright, the memories of yesterday rushing through me.

The bench on the other side of the tiny cell is empty, which probably means Miss Sequins was released at some point while I was asleep. She said she slashed her boyfriend’s tires. I never asked her why she wore such a pretty dress to do it and now I’m kind of regretting that.

As soon as I manage to slide my feet into my unlaced sneakers, I’m marched into the corridor that feels even more oppressive than it did when I first arrived.

We walk past the next cell, where somebody is wailing inconsolably. It actually makes my heart hurt. Halfway down the drab hallway the smell of vomit is so noxious it makes me gag as it wafts from another cell.

“I hate this shift,” the officer mutters, unlocking the door and pushing me into an empty room. “Wait here, I’ll get your lawyer.”

I frown. They told me the court-appointed lawyer wouldn’t get here until morning. And yes, technically it ismorning, but only three a.m., according to the clock on the wall of what I think is an interview room.

I sit there silently for five minutes before the door swings open, and I turn to greet the unlucky public defender, because lawyer or no lawyer, nobody deserves to have to deal with my mess at this godforsaken time of night. 

But instead of an exhausted lawyer in a crumpled suit and yesterday’s breath, I get slapped in the face with the last person I expect to see.

“West?” I manage to squeak.

Oh. My. God. I’m absolutely a dead woman walking. I should just plead guilty to whatever charges they throw at me and let myself rot in a cell for the rest of my life. It’ll be a walk in the park compared to what awaits me outside.

Because of course the six-feet-two-inches of infuriating perfection with a suit that costs more than I’ll ever earn in a year is West Abbott. My oldest brother’s best friend. 

He’s all charm and champagne and ethically questionable deals wrapped in a Tom Ford suit, and I’m… not.

“What are you doing here?” I ask with an unnaturally high voice, jumping out of my seat like I’m about to escape. “Did Hudson send you? Oh God, does he know? He’s not here, is he?” 

The thought of my big brother knowing I’m in jail makes me want to hurl.

“Please sit down.” West’s stupidly square jaw twitches as he talks. And because it’s so unusual for him to sound anything other than laid back, I actually do as I’m told. 

But he doesn’t take the seat on the other side of the table from me. Instead, he starts to pace the room. And for the next minute he says nothing.

Finally, he comes to a stop and looks at me. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asks, his voice low and sharp. “Do you have any idea what a mess this is?” Underneath the annoyance I can hear the worry. Which of course makes me want to sass him even more.

“I didn’t plan on any of this,” I say, lifting my chin, because I already have four brothers. I don’t need another. 

He arches one perfect brow. “You threw paint at a hotel in the middle of the Strip.”

I don’t bother telling him it wasn’t me. I’m pretty sure he won’t believe me anyway.

“It was just a little bit of paint,” I say instead. “And it was from Pottery Barn. Only the best.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t reply. I’ll take it.

He pulls out the chair from beneath the formica table, sitting down in it, his long legs stretching against the wool of his suit. Seriously, who wears a three-piece suit at three a.m.? 

“Why are you in Vegas?” he asks. “You’re supposed to be in Peru.”

“I’m heading home. Autumn asked me to visit.” My stomach twists even more. I’m already the family mess up and now I might be going home with a charge against me. Why is it that I always let them down?

“You’re about two thousand miles in the wrong direction,” West murmurs. 

“Yeah, well I got a ride here from the Mexican border. I was planning on catching a Greyhound or two.” I clear my throat. “But then I heard the International Fur Convention was here.”

“And you couldn’t resist, could you?” he asks. “Little Eden. Champion of the poor and weak.”

“That’s almost a compliment coming from the man who cleans Hollywood’s cesspits,” I reply.

His lips curl into another almost smile. His eyes flick down, taking in my bare legs, tank top, shorts, and then quickly back up like he’s punishing himself for looking. 

“What are you doing in Vegas?” I ask him. “Not that I’m not grateful. Did Hudson call you and ask you to come?” I make a mental note to kill Autumn for telling our brother. She promised not to say anything when I used my one telephone call on her.

“No,” he says, his tone clipped. He crosses his arms over his stupidly broad chest. “I was in L.A., working. Autumn called me and asked for my help.” His eyes lock on mine. I feel a weird pulse in my thighs. “So here I am. And your brother has no idea you’re even in Vegas, let alone in jail.”

I let out a relieved sigh. “You didn’t need to rush. I could have waited until morning.” And L.A. isn’t exactly a short distance from here.

“In a cell in Vegas?” He shakes his head, his gaze holding mine. “I don’t think so.” There’s a twitch in his jaw. It’s almost fascinating with its rhythm. I moisten my dry lips with my tongue and for a second, his eyes dip to my mouth.

“Come on,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s go.”

“Back to the cell?” I ask him.

“No. We’re leaving. I got you released.”

I blink. “I’m sorry?”

“They dropped the charges. You won’t have a record. You’re free to go.” He checks his expensive watch like he’s bored. 

For just a stupid flicker of a second, I feel like I can breathe again. Gratitude rushes through me. Followed by suspicion, because it shouldn’t be this easy.

Yes, I’m innocent, but I sure as hell look guilty.

“Wait… what? There are no charges?” My voice rises. “How did you manage that?” 

“You don’t want to know.” He knocks on the door and it’s opened from the other side. I stand quickly, almost running after him.

“Of course I want to know,” I hit back at him. “But I also know you won’t tell me.”

He sighs, like I’ve completely exhausted him. And as we step into the corridor he grabs my arm, as though he thinks I’m a flight risk. His fingers are hot against my skin, his grip strong. It feels weirdly like he owns me.

The door at the end of the booking area unlocks and we step through, into the almost silent lobby. My personal effects are already waiting in a clear plastic bag on the desk – such as they are. My backpack, shoe laces, and an old battered iPhone that is always losing power. And – oh joy – my menstrual cup. Wonderful.

West glances over my shoulder as I discreetly shove it into my bag.

“Want me to explain how it works?” I deadpan, already walking toward the door to hide the flush across my face. I’m not sure, but I think I hear him chuckle.

“Wait!” I say, remembering Miss Sequins. “There was a girl in here. What happened to her?”

West looks at me like he wants to kill me. 

“Seriously, she was so upset. She slashed her fiance’s tires.” And I really need to know that she’s okay. We kind of bonded over being criminals. And there’s a code, isn’t there?

“I’ll ask.” He sighs, then walks back over to the desk and murmurs something. Then he’s back by my side, his fingers closing around my wrist like a bracelet. “She’s fine. Got bail. Her friends picked her up.”

It’s weird how happy it makes me that she’s with friends. “That’s good.” I give him a bright smile and he scowls.

“Come on,” he mutters, pulling me toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

The cool air hits my skin as we step into the Las Vegas night. And of course, there’s a limo waiting for us right outside, on a yellow line.

“Is that for me?” I ask him. “Because I’m not really a limo girl.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get in, Eden.”

I shake my head. “This is stupid. You don’t have to babysit me.” But I still do as he tells me, trying to look grumpy, even though I’m insanely grateful to him for springing my ass from jail.

 

 

* * *

 

WEST

 

She falls fast asleep within ten minutes of leaving the police station.

I glance over at her, all curled up in the far corner of the limo like a stray cat, covered with paint and righteous fury. Even in her sleep her arms are crossed over her chest like she’s bracing for another argument.

But when she’s asleep it’s the only time she shuts up. I should appreciate it while it lasts.

I loosen my tie and lean back on the butter-soft leather seat, watching the Vegas lights blur past the window. I owe Vin big time. When I told him I had an emergency in Las Vegas, he offered his helicopter without hesitation, calling in the pilot so we were ready to go in no time.

Because apparently, I’m now the guy who bails out my best friend’s kid sister in the middle of the night after she goes full eco-terrorist.

Not that she looks like a kid right now. With her long legs and tumbling curls she looks like a sexy Jackson Pollock painting. And yeah, I know she’s an adult, but I’m twelve years older than her at thirty-seven and I really shouldn’t be looking.

I let out a sigh and lean my head back, exhaustion washing over me.

I’m doing this for Hudson. Even though he can never know about it. 

He’s been my family since freshman year of college, when he and Parker took me in like I wasn’t some lonely rich kid with a smooth veneer and no substance. They gave me friendship, support, loyalty.

And I swore that I’d always protect them both.

During college, and for years after, I spent every summer on Liberty with Hudson and his family. Every Thanksgiving stuffing myself with turkey at the Fitzgeralds, feeling like I belonged somewhere for the first time in forever.

Eden lets out a soft snore, and I turn to look at her again, remembering the little kid she was when we first met. In the summers she was always barefoot, loud, and way too smart for her own good. Yelling at her brothers, trying to save oysters or whatever she thought needed rescuing that week.

Her top is slipping off one shoulder, and red paint is streaked across her skin like she’s about to go to war. Her mouth is parted, breathing soft and quiet, in a way that makes the back of my neck itch.

I pull her shoulder strap up and look away. Take a long drink from the minibar whiskey.

The limo slows as we pull under the portico of The Vantaggio, the luxury casino and hotel that’s owned by one of Vin’s many cousins – another favor I’ll owe him for. 

Eden stirs beside me, blinking with a sleepy, confused frown that makes something twist low in my gut. 

“Where are we?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep. 

“The Vantaggio.”

She sits up suddenly, almost making me jump. “We’re going gambling?” she asks, taking in the bright lights, cars lined up, and people milling in and out of the huge white edifice of a building. “Now?”

“We’re going to sleep,” I say firmly. “I have a room for us.”

“Just one?” 

My jaw tics. I was waiting for that. “Don’t get too excited. It has two bedrooms. I don’t trust you in a room far away from me.”

She stretches, arms high above her head, her tank top rising to reveal a sliver of her red paint-splashed stomach. 

Don’t look. Don’t look.

My mouth goes dry.

“Damn,” she says, grinning at me, back to her usual teasing. It didn’t take her long.  “And here I thought tonight was the start of something special.”

“Trust me,” I mutter, stepping out of the limo. “This is the last kind of special I need right now.”

Eden slides out after me, paint splattered, and still somehow managing to look like she owns the place. She’s woken up punchy. Maybe I should have kept her awake. I’m not sure I have the patience for this.

And every eye outside of The Vantaggio is drawn to her. I take off my jacket and offer it to her. She frowns at me. “I’m not cold.”

“Put it on,” I say sharply. “We’re going into a luxury hotel.” My eyes do a once over, hopefully expressing her attire is not ideal.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, you’re embarassed of me.” God, she sounds almost gleeful. 

“I have a reputation to uphold,” I tell her. “And The Vantaggio is an exclusive casino.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Her fingers brush mine as she takes my jacket, and my pulse kicks up even more. Another problem with being so busy making deals is that I haven’t touched a woman for way too long.

I need to get laid. And not by her.

The doorman gives us a tight smile, clearly trying to figure out if he should call security or roll out the red carpet. But then Eden grins at him, flashing him the full force of her ‘I’m totally harmless’ charm. It works, of course.

It always does. He opens the door, giving her a friendly nod, before he looks at me.

His expression tells me he thinks this is all my fault. That I’m the dirty old man with a slasher fetish.

My smile back at him tells him, I know.

Then I follow her inside, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck, as I remind myself of one very important thing.

She’s Hudson’s little sister. Too young. Too innocent. Off limits. And I don’t want her anyway.

But I’m almost certain she’ll be the reason I’m going to need a new fucking heart by the end of tonight.

 

 

3

 

EDEN

 

The Vantaggio is thronging with people. It’s the middle of the night, but you’d never know it from the amount of bodies, and the dizzy glow of slot machines flashing as people feed them like hungry animals.

The gaming floor reeks of desperation, cigarette smoke, and overpriced cologne, layered with the whir of machines and the occasional whoop from someone who thinks they’ve won big.

But as the kid of a gambling addict I know that high is always followed by a fall. And the memory of it makes my stomach tighten.

West has his hand firmly closed around my wrist, guiding me through the crowd like he owns the place and me. 

People glance at us as we pass. Some curious, some disapproving, but mostly they’re judgement is aimed at West. It’s not hard to guess what they’re thinking: him in his tailored suit, jaw like a movie star, and me looking like the world’s worst walk of shame. 

But he doesn’t flinch at their stares and he doesn’t let go of me.

And for some stupid reason, my skin tingles where he’s touching me. Not because I like it. Obviously.

It’s just… sensory overload. Casinos aren’t exactly my favorite place. They’re a reminder of how much of a mess I made when I was younger.

He keeps a tight hold of me as we weave our way through roulette and blackjack tables to the far end of the huge, glittering floor. Out here, it’s noisy and neon-lit, peppered with the clatter of chips and the cheers of half-drunk tourists who think spending all their money in Vegas is a good idea.

But then we pass beyond a velvet rope, lifted by the security guard who gives West a nod. And everything changes.

In this part of the casino the air feels cooler. Less frantic. The lights are softer, the tables wider. 

There are no slot machines. No shouting filled with glee or annoyance. 

This is where the whales swim. 

The rich men and women with more money than sense. And the professionals who stake their lives on the next turn of a card. 

I swallow hard, because I know these people. I know how they think. My dad had been one of them, after all.

He wasn’t a whale. Not a rich man either. But he wanted to be both.

I remember the way he used to play poker like it was a religion. How he'd mutter under his breath about odds and tells and "reading the room". He believed the cards could save him. That if he played them just right – if he stayed in the game long enough – he’d win it all back.

But of course that’s not how it works. 

My back stiffens as West walks us past a table where two men are locked in a stare-off so tense I feel it in my chest. One flicks his chip forward with a single finger, and the dealer doesn’t even blink.

I only have to look at his cards to know he’s going to lose.

He’s holding suited connectors. They’re pretty, but weak, and the guy across from him has stopped tapping his left thumb. 

I bet the guy in the suit folds within thirty seconds. Thirty-five, max, if he’s trying to save face.

It’s another weird thing about me.

I don’t just see the cards. I see the patterns. The pulse of the table. The way a player’s eyes flick when the stakes rise. The micro-shifts in posture that tell you everything you need to know.

It’s like a puzzle I already know the answer to.

Dad used to call it my superpower. Said I could read the table like it was lit up with neon lights.

Just thinking about that makes my heart ache. All the things that happened. All the things I don’t want to think about. I push them back down, where they belong, and let West march me forward like we’re on a drill.

We’re walking past a private room – the kind only the richest are allowed in – when his phone starts to ring in his pocket. He pulls it out and mutters a low oath.

“I have to take this,” he tells me. It’s probably one of his Hollywood starlets, wanting a booty call. Or to be saved from a mess.

Whatever. I shrug and rub my wrist where he’d been holding me.

“Do. Not. Move,” he says, his voice low but firm, his eyes piercing mine.

“Yes, sir.”

He rolls his eyes at me. 

Still, the moment he walks away, it feels like the air shifts. I pull his jacket tighter around me, and lean against the wall right outside the open doorway, letting my eyes drift over to the high roller’s room.

It’s so serious I can taste it. There are no gawkers, no tourists, just a handful of unsmiling players, silent as statues, their chips stacked in precise, menacing towers.

And then I see her. And she’s so unexpected.

She’s young, maybe my age. Blonde hair down, dressed in a black jersey number she could’ve grabbed off a Banana Republic clearance rack.

She’s not rich. Not yet. But she wants to be, and she’s determined to make it happen. You can see it in the way she sits up straight, like she belongs here. She’s making her own money, not here to snag a rich guy. She wants to be one of them, not with them.

I’m impressed by her. She’s holding her own.

But something tugs at me. A flicker of recognition. Maybe it’s because I know exactly what it’s like to fake your way into a room you were never invited into.

The only other player left in the game is a slick thirty-something with a tie pin and a jawline that screams generational wealth.

He’s lounging back like the win’s already in the bank, twirling a chip like this is all beneath him.

That’s the thing about poker. It’s like watching a Broadway play. There’s a story, a rhythm, sometimes there’s even a happy ending.

Although most end in tears.

Maybe that’s why the dealer’s hands get my attention. The movement is barely perceptible. Just a twitch before he places the next card.

But it’s a tell. A big one. My stomach turns cold. 

This is a setup. I can feel it.

The dealer’s in on it. Feeding cards to the smirking rich jackass while the woman slowly bleeds chips in her last season dress.

And she doesn’t even know it’s happening, because she can’t see the other hand. I look around for West, hoping he is seeing it, too. But there’s no sign of him. Of course there isn’t.

My chest tightens at the injustice of it all. She doesn’t know he’s cheating. She’ll just think she lost. That she took a risk that didn’t pay off. And the rich will keep getting richer.

I hate that so much. 

My fists clench at my sides. I take one step closer to the open door. Then another. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, my heart thumping hard against my ribs.

The dealer slides a card toward her. The smirker leans back, like he’s giving her a sporting chance.

And that’s what tips me over the edge.

“This game is rigged,” I say, my voice sounding braver than I feel. If West comes back now, he’ll be furious. 

The woman startles at my sudden intrusion. 

And then the man with the tie pin raises a slow eyebrow, his attention fully on me.

 I try not to squirm.

“Excuse me?” the dealer says, like I’ve just told him his kids are ugly.

“You heard me,” I say, feeling less scared now, as I step into the room. “You’re cheating. You’ve been palming cards, stacking the deck in his favor. I watched you do it.”

The dealer looks me right in the eye. “You need to leave,” he says tightly, pressing a button under the table. “You’re not authorized to be in here.”

I glance around. I figure I have about a minute before security appears. Or West. I’m not sure which I’m more worried about.

“You’re being scammed,” I say, turning to the woman. “He and the dealer are in on it. You’re not losing because of bad luck. You’re losing because they decided you would. Ask to see the security video. It’s being done in full sight.”

The woman looks between us, confused, uncertain. A breath away from backing down.

And when World War Three breaks out in The Vantaggio’s most exclusive Whale Room, it appears I’m the girl who lit the match.

 

* * *

 

WEST

 

Five damn minutes. That’s all the time I was away for. Less, probably. And yet the moment I stride back around the corner, I hear shouting and I know in my gut it involves her.

As soon as I turn the corner I see her. She’s being held back by two security guards, her arms pinned behind her as she loudly tries to make her point. 

Some guy with oiled hair and a sharp suit is up in her face, yelling back in a tone that makes my jaw tighten.

“What’s going on?” I snap, annoyed by the way they’re holding her. Even though I was pretty much doing the same thing earlier.

Yeah, but I like her. Kind of. At least when she’s not pissing me off.

One of the security guards turns to me. “Sir?”

“Why are your hands on my fiancée?” It comes out before I can think twice. It’s a sad fact of life that men treat women differently when they know they’re in a relationship, especially one with a high-powered man, and right now I want them to take their damn hands off her.

The guard swallows. “This woman caused a disruption at a high-stakes table. She accused our dealer and a guest of cheating.” He takes a look at her, in her paint splattered clothes covered with a designer jacket, and it’s obvious what he thinks.

That she’s a hooker I’m trying to sneak in. Yeah, well fuck you. She’s my best friend’s kid sister and that means I’m defending her to my death.

“I saw the dealer palm a card.” Eden’s eyes meet mine. There’s a mixture of fury and panic in them. “And that guy was in on it. He—”

“Eden.” I step between her and the guy with the slicked-back hair before he gets brave enough to take another step. “Stop.” Before you end up in more trouble.

She closes her mouth and I send up a prayer of thanks to the gods.

“Sir.” A man who looks like he’s in charge of security walks over to me. “Can I see some I.D.? The young lady says she doesn’t have any.” The way he says ‘lady’ is almost comical. He absolutely doesn’t think she is one. 

I go to grab my wallet and realize it’s still in my jacket. The one she’s wearing.

I step toward her, ignoring the way the security guards tense. “Let her go,” I tell him calmly. “Before you make this worse.” Because his hands are still on her body and it’s pissing me off.

“This woman is my fiancée,” I say again, ignoring the look she’s shooting at me. Just go with it, Eden. “And you’re wrinkling a Tom Ford jacket,” I add.

Before the second sentence is out of my mouth, he releases her. I hate and I love how easily I can get people to do what I want.

Eden steps away from the guard and frowns at me, but I don’t give her time to ask any questions. Instead I step into her space, my fingers brushing the edge of the lapel as I slip my hand inside the jacket’s inner pocket.

Her breath catches. Just for a second. 

So does mine, if I’m being honest. Not that I let it show.

Retrieving my wallet, I flick it open for the guard, showing him my driver’s licence. 

Eden’s eyes flash but she says nothing. She’s not stupid, she knows this is trouble. She shifts her feet as the guard reads my name off my licence and mutters into his mouthpiece. There’s a little back and forth with whoever he’s talking to before he turns back to look at me.

“Mr. Abbott, sir. The owner has requested you both join him in his office. Now.”

Of course he has. Christ, I have a headache.

If there’s one thing I know about casino owners it’s that they don’t like noise. Or mess. 

They like quiet. They like profit. And they really like it when problems disappear fast and clean. So this is going to take some delicate negotiation. 

I slide my wallet back into my jacket that Eden’s still wearing and shoot her a warning look. “Come on, darling.” I brush my lips against her cheek. “Let’s go apologize to the nice man.”

They march us through the back corridors, and I resist the urge to rub my temples. Instead, I’m concentrating on our next move. Apologize, get out of here, and put Eden on the next plane out of here. And then I can get back to my damn job instead of thinking about how my jacket is going to smell like her.

When we reach the back rooms of the casino, the security guard leads us into a private office that looks exactly as I expected it to. Dark wood-paneled walls, cream marble floor, a massive desk at the center with green leather inlay. And behind it is a gray-haired man, a scowl painted firmly on his lips.

He looks up as we enter, his gaze flickering over me. A glass tumbler rests in front of him, empty but polished. Everything about him gleams, except the expression on his face.

“West Abbott I assume,” he says with a graveled voice. 

His gaze turns to Eden. From her bare legs to the dried paint on her skin to the oversized jacket swallowing her frame. His mouth twitches. His expression looks somewhere between amusement and disdain. “And your fiancée, I presume.”

I try not to wince at that. She’s going to give me hell about this for the rest of my life.

“That’s right.” I give a small nod to the man, sliding into charm mode. “And you must be Mr. Riva.” Vin’s cousin. Or second cousin. Something like that. Vin has a big family. He called and got us a room here when I told him I had to leave for Vegas. “Thank you for your hospitality,” I tell him. “And I apologize for the uproar a moment ago.” I pull Eden close and kiss her brow like a besotted lover. “My fiancée has a very strong sense of right and wrong.”

“I didn’t realize you were here with your fiancée,” Riva says, his expression completely neutral. “Vin just said you had a problem to sort out.”

Eden laughs softly. “I guess I am a problem,” she says, leaning against me. Good girl. “I’m really so very sorry,” she says. “I absolutely regret everything that just happened.”

I squeeze her waist. Very good girl. Ten out of ten. 

But Riva doesn’t look convinced. “How long have you two been together?”

“Three years,” I say at the same time Eden says, “Six months.”

Damn.

“Well, it depends.” I give him an open smile. “I’ve been in love with her for three years. She’s only given me the time of day for the last six months. But to be honest, it’s all a bit of a mess.”

That piques his interest. “How so?”

In for a penny. I decide to keep lying through my teeth. “She’s my best friend’s sister. And he doesn’t know about us. None of her family does. Which is why we’re trying to keep our relationship,” I clear my throat, “Our engagement quiet.”

He looks at Eden. “You’re in love with this guy?” he asks, pointing his thumb at me.

“So much.” She looks up at me, her breath warm against my throat. Her eyes catch mine, and for a second, I feel a weird ache in my chest. “My one wish is that we could get married, but my brothers will never allow it.”

I arch a brow at her. Too much, princess. But she almost looks like she’s enjoying this.

“Honestly, it’s been a bad week,” she tells Riva. “West says if we can’t get married soon, we’re over. And then I came here to think about things, to try to find a way, and I got splattered with paint at some protest.” She sighs. God, she can be a good actress when she wants to be. Does she realize that Riva’s staring at her, captivated? “And then on top of that, I saw that man cheating at cards and I completely lost it. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m just lovesick, that’s all.”

My mouth twitches.

“My wife’s family didn’t want us to marry either,” Riva says. “We had to run away, do it, and then give them a fait accompli.”

I let out a breath. “So you understand the stress we’re under. Either way, I’m sorry for the disruption. We’ll head straight to our room and leave first thing. I appreciate your help, and this will never happen again.”

But instead of nodding, Riva puts up his hand. “Wait,” he says. “You say you want to be together?” A smile pulls at his lips. “You should get married. Tonight.”

What? I shake my head quickly. “It’s okay. We’ve caused you enough trouble. I’ll just take this little maverick to bed.”

But he looks almost excited. Like something inside of him has woken up. “No trouble at all. I have a chapel. And I’m very… close with the Clark County officiants. They owe me a favor. They can have somebody over within an hour.”

Eden looks up at me. This time she looks confused. “Wait, what’s going on?” she whispers.

I swallow hard. I should tell him I’m a liar and walk away. But if I do, he’ll tell Vin and… dammit, why can’t I think straight? What would I do if I was cleaning this mess up for somebody else?

I’d tell them to do it, then quietly walk away. I’ll handle the paperwork, get it annulled, and it’d be like nothing ever happened.

“We’re getting married, baby,” I tell her, a fake smile on my lips.

She blinks. “Of course we are. We’re engaged.”

“I mean tonight. Here.” I lift a brow at her. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Her mouth drops open. And all those sassy words disappear. Replaced by a look of pure panic.

Riva gives us a huge smile. “My wife is going to love this,” he tells us. “Romance isn’t dead. It’s alive and kicking.” He stands and claps his hands together, and his assistant walks in, looking at him like she’s ready for anything.

“Call the chapel,” Riva tells her. “And then Ryan at Clark County. Tell him to send somebody over right now. We need a licence, we need an officiant. And I need the chapel to be ready within the hour.”

His assistant blinks. “Mr. Riva, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.” He smiles at her, all thoughts of what brought us in his office forgotten. “But romance waits for nobody. Come on, let’s set these lovebirds free.” He looks at us both. “Enjoy the wedding. And the honeymoon suite.” 

My jaw is so tight with a fake smile I’m worried I’ve pulled a muscle. Eden is frozen next to me, like she’s considering how to escape this as soon as possible.

I tighten my arm around her, letting her know that there’s no way out. I need Vin’s money too much to mess this up. So right now, keeping Riva on my good side so I can build the resort is my only concern.

We’re getting married tonight. And tomorrow I’ll clean it up. The way I always do.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Isn’t that wonderful news, sweetheart?”

“Wonderful,” Eden echoes, sounding almost despondent. 

“It’s a pleasure,” Riva says. “Just make sure you name your first baby after me.” He winks. “And don’t worry. It only took my in-laws twenty years to forgive me for eloping with their daughter.”