Burned Deep (4 page)

“Stylish. Representative of the woman herself.”

“Right,” I scoffed as my cheeks flushed. “I'm a drowned rat.”

He didn't seem to think so. His beautiful eyes slid over me. Taking in my sensible shoes with a modest, chunky heel for extensive time on my feet, up my bare legs to the black pencil skirt I wore, paired with a silver satin buttoned blouse and Tahitian pearl necklace. My clothes were still damp, as was my dark-brown hair. It hung loose about my shoulders, the strands originally curled in fluffy beach waves. Now they were straight and combed away from my face with my fingers.

I applied more makeup during events than my normal business day and had turned my blue eyes smoky and added an extra coat of mascara for the occasion. Thank God it was waterproof.

His attention lingered for endless seconds on my glossy lips. Then his gaze slowly lifted to meet mine again.

My breath caught. Heat fringed the emerald pools and one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Your name is rather unique,” I said by way of idle chitchat as I willed my pulse to ease up a bit. Seriously, it was a wonder I got the words out. Desire flowed through every inch of me. My inner thighs quivered. My nipples tingled. All with just a blazing look from the sexiest man I'd ever laid eyes on.

“‘Bax' is from the German
bagan
—to fight.” Ah. Didn't that explain oh so much? Even the way he said his last name held a discernible
I don't let people fuck with me
connotation. He added, “I thought perhaps we'd met before, but I was mistaken.” A flicker of something contemplative and beyond my comprehension replaced the heat in his eyes. But then he grinned again, chasing away the moment or two of disquiet.

No, we definitely had not met before. I would remember this man.

I
will
remember this man.

It was an inescapable reality.

Maybe it was the fact that we seemed to be so aware of each other that had given him the impression I was familiar. Maybe that was why he'd stepped in at the bar. I'd probably never know for sure.

With a fluid movement he whisked out his own business card and handed it over. I studied the thick pewter-gray matte stock with his contact information in a satiny accent a hue lighter than the card. Very avant-garde. On the back was a rendering of an astonishing hotel facade.

“Oh.”
I glanced up, realization dawning. I'd seen this particular schematic for the ultra-lavish resort that was being touted as the West's Plaza Hotel. Though larger. More extravagant. More exclusive. Members only, along with elite guests upon special invitation. Rumor had it, the Bellagio rolled into Caesars Palace couldn't compete with the glitz and glamour of this destination hotel. “You own 10,000 Lux?”

“Yes.” His smile was more engaging this time, showing me straight, snow-white teeth against his tanned skin.

I fought the gravitational pull that coaxed me to take a step toward him. Not at all a common urge. If anything, I typically took steps backward when I felt crowded.

But this man—Dane Bax—was a magnetic force difficult to ignore. Difficult to break free of, even though I didn't know him. Couldn't afford to know him, or get tangled up in the mystery of him. I was smart enough to quickly deduce he wasn't anyone with whom I should get involved.

With a mental shake of my head, I reminded myself that I didn't get involved period
.

Yet I found myself saying, “I applied online for the Event Manager position a couple months ago.” I gave a small shrug and added, “Never heard back.”

“We've had some complications that have slowed our hiring process. In fact, I've pushed the grand opening to December.”

I let out what sounded too much like a dreamy sigh—planner's curse. “That'll be sensational with a light dusting of fresh powder on the sandstone buttes, and all the holiday lights and decorations.” I had no doubt they'd be gold and glittery and completely over-the-top.

“As long as nothing goes awry.” The tinge of angst in his tone made me wonder what sort of
complications
he'd encountered. They sounded serious, given that he'd had to move the launch.

“Well, I hope everything works out for you.” That seemed the polite thing to say to someone who'd rescued me. Not to mention, he might still be a potential employer.

“Thank you.” His gaze turned intently scrutinizing as he asked, “Why would you give up independent wedding planning for events at the Lux? You appear to be quite good at what you do. I snuck a peek at the festivities. Very impressive.”

So I had felt his gaze again. A little thrill zapped all of my erogenous zones so that I had to tamp down a moan. The man lit me up like nothing I'd ever known before.

Forcing an even tone, though fiery sensations raged through me, I told him, “It was
this close
to perfect.” I held up my hand, pinching my forefinger and thumb almost together.

He brooded some more. “Nothing you can do about the monsoons, Ari.”

My stomach flipped at how my name fell so smoothly and easily from his lips. His extremely kissable lips.

It took a few seconds for me to catch up with the conversation. “I enjoy the weddings, absolutely.” But a grand opening, PR functions, and galas at a resort such as 10,000 Lux—a venue that would nab five stars right out of the chute, maybe even the elusive six—was an exhilarating prospect. It'd also keep me beyond busy. And I could use the steady paycheck. Plus … “It gets a little lonely working mostly by myself. Being part of a team would be nice. I don't have justification for staff at the moment. I don't bring in that sort of income.”

“Money's an issue for you?”

“Um…” That was a hugely personal question. Though hadn't I just divulged personal things about myself? “I didn't really mean it like that. Just, you know … Planners can spend weeks or months—even years—on a wedding and we generally only make ten to fifteen percent on the overall cost, so without a large company capable of handling numerous events at once, I have to schedule accordingly and—”

Christ, I was rambling. Thank God I didn't go off on a tangent about the cryptic e-mails I'd recently received from my estranged mother. I had a very good idea what they were all about, even if dollar signs hadn't flashed on the screen. Like my father, I literally could not afford to get caught up in whatever scheme brewed in the back of her devious mind.

It was difficult, though, to open my mouth and
not
spew when it came to Dane. The way he stared so fixedly at me, the way his eyes bore into mine … I found it challenging not to bare some of my soul. Completely out of character for me, but still. He was captivating in the most alluring way. Scary-captivating, which made anxiety skip through me. And yet he was so damn electrifying, I wanted to stay stuck in this moment with him, no matter what I gabbed about arbitrarily.

Having a conversation with a man who sparked my interest and left me ridiculously breathless was all very new and stimulating.

I found his brooding nature gripping in itself. His powerful presence thoroughly entranced me. But his hypnotic eyes … They were impossible to look away from, impossible to deny in that peculiar
I'm desperate to know him
sort of way.

So very dangerous.

Clearly, I wasn't inclined to play it safe. Otherwise, I would have made an excuse and hid out in the resort until he drove off.

He studied me closely as he said, “Money can be the root of all evil. Haven't you heard?”

“Says the man building the most luxurious hotel on the continent,” I half joked.

He didn't smile. Mine faded. He wasn't being cliché. Or glib. His entire visage turned stony with hard angles, which only made him more intensely provocative, more fascinating.

“I'll be sure to have my Vice President of Human Resources take another look at your résumé,” he said, effectively dismissing the previous topic.

A few tense moments passed between us. Then the soft, elegant purring of an engine drew my attention. A heartbeat later, Alex joined us. I wanted to send him away. Steal more time with Dane Bax.

“You're all set, Mr. Bax. And the rain has stopped. We kept your car covered.”

Dane appeared to reluctantly pull his gaze from mine. He fished a tip from the front pocket of his jeans and handed over the cash.

Alex beamed brightly, then said, “I'll get yours next, Miss DeMille.”

“Thank you.” Not surprisingly, Mr. Bax ranked much higher in priority than Miss DeMille.

Dane's head tilted and his eyes slid over me again. Unabashedly. Unapologetically. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ari. I look forward to seeing you again. Soon.”

He stalked off, all stealthy and pantherlike, as I fought the urge to gape—and wondered why I couldn't breathe normally around him.

As I stood there awestruck and shell-shocked—
so
embarrassing—Alex said, “Seriously cool sports car, huh?”

My gaze followed the shiny silver vehicle until it disappeared into the inky night. I'd never seen anything like it, with aggressive lines and a low profile.

“What is it?” I asked, trying to get my mind churning once again, instead of leaving me in a mental standstill while my insides burned.

“Hennessey Venom F5. Only thirty are being made. Base model is like one-point-five mil or something, but Mr. Bax optioned his to the hilt. It's a blast to drive. I'd kill to take it up the switchbacks.”

My gaze shifted to the young valet. “I can see you're in a hurry to trade that thrill seeker's experience for my sensible Kia Sorento.”

He laughed. “I'll just be a couple minutes.”

“Thanks.”

My thoughts returned to Dane Bax.

I look forward to seeing you again. Soon.

What had he meant, exactly?

And did I really want to know?

*   *   *

“Time for the hand wedge, Ari.” My dad gave me that disappointed look any golf professional would throw his daughter's way when she'd just hacked the hell out of a bunker.

I scooped up the ball and tossed it haphazardly onto the green. Then I raked the sand trap and climbed out of it. Joining my dad—former PGA golfer Bryce DeMille—I said, “It's always this last hole that kills me.”

I'd just added five unnecessary strokes to my scorecard, devastating my respectable showing.

“You've got to let the sand work for you, sweets. Get underneath the ball and blast it out. I tell you this every time.”

Maybe it was my OCD that made it so difficult to create my own sandstorm just to get my ball onto the green. I was the same on the fairway, hating to leave divots, even though I always replaced the patches I took out when trying to avoid a worm burner.

“Easier said than done,” I muttered.

He chuckled. My father was the type who struggled to appear good-natured in order to cover a sullen disposition. The result of his doomed marriage and career. He and my mother had started going at it with venomous words not long after I'd turned five. The terrible twos had nothing on their tantrums. Apparently, when your heart had been ripped from your chest—as was my dad's case when he'd discovered my mother had cheated on him,
repeatedly
—you checked your civility at the door. And there was residual bitterness, no matter how hard you pretended to be “over it.”

They'd stayed together until I was thirteen. All those years, I'd spent an exorbitant amount of time wearing headphones blaring music to tune them out. And picking up the broken pieces of glass or porcelain when one of them got particularly miffed and hurled something at a wall or slammed a door too hard, making windowpanes rattle and picture frames fall to the floor.

It'd been a toxic state of affairs for all parties concerned. My maternal grandparents had suffered the same nasty fate, rivaling
The War of the Roses.
Leaving me full-on convinced it was genetic and I should therefore avoid romantic relationships and marriage at all costs.

Kind of a painful bane of existence, given that I loved weddings. Obviously. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't make believe that all of my brides and grooms were as deliriously happy the day after they'd exchanged vows as they were during those few magical moments. I was pretty good at creating my own little Emerald City so that
I
wasn't bitter.

Reaching for my putter, I lined up my shot and employed a nice, clean sweep toward the ball. It rolled tried-and-true to its target, made one pass around the rim of the cup, then popped up and out, rolling downhill. Even farther away from the pin than where I'd started.

“Son of a bitch,” I grumbled.

My dad laughed a bit heartier this time. His cerulean eyes crinkled around the edges. He was of medium height with brown hair several shades lighter than mine. Perpetually tan from his hours spent on the course. A handsome man in excellent physical shape for his forty-seven years, with the exception of the crushed rotator cuff that had been operated on twice, along with a semi-detached bicep muscle. The very reason he'd gotten so close to a championship but hadn't been able to pull it off. Something we never talked about, though I knew it was a lost dream never far from his mind.

“Circle of love?” I asked of my wayward ball, calling on the sympathy factor that would put me out of my misery without adding more strokes.

I'd tried all morning to keep my focus on my game—mostly for my dad's sake. But in the back of my mind were thoughts of Dane Bax and 10,000 Lux. I tried to play it off, to myself, that all I was really interested in was a call from the HR department about my application. Another internal lie, of course. I wanted to see him again. I wanted to know if that magnetic force had been a fluke. Though that sort of curiosity wasn't exactly sane.