The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (34 page)

I slid on the light silk gray slip dress that sat mid-thigh. The fabric was so thin, underneath I had had to don the line-free underwear the personal shopper had insisted I buy. When I turned around, dressed, Jace smiled at me, doing up his pants.

“You look incredible. But I wish you’d wear jewelry. Makes me look like a cheap bugger.”

I glared at him. “I told you I can’t wear it. It is highly distracting.”

Emotion had affected my mood.

“Also, for the record, I am not yours to dress, or show off as a symbol of your wealth,” I added with a harsh tone. His comment had created a defensive feeling in me. Why? Or was something else the source of my rudeness?

He stared at me with sudden, intense focus. I had no idea what emotion I was experiencing from him, but it was powerful. He was on the verge of saying something, I could tell, but, for an unknown reason, the words never came. He simply turned back to his wardrobe and grabbed a shirt off the hanger.

I had wanted to clarify, actually, in that moment, that I was indeed his to enjoy and spend time with, but that wasn’t true either.

I left the bathroom, feeling gloomy.

• • •

I was a “no-hoper” at poker, according to Jace. We started out at the low-stakes table and moved to the high-stakes room for Jace’s sake, after he was finished teasing me about my lack of a poker face. In fact, I think he was delighted rather than embarrassed at my inability to lie. Both our moods had swung back around, no doubt due to the time zone fatigue, alcohol, and gambling high.

Of course, I understood the game perfectly well. And while I could not technically count cards, as I do not have an eidetic memory, I could remember enough cards to say with some certainty whether Jace’s opponents would make a given hand.

I do not support cheating as a rule; however, given how I was betraying Jace, providing certain signals as I pretended to flirt beside him, to ensure he won the bigger hands, seemed like the least I could do. Furthermore, doing this together, teaming up to cheat, gave him great delight, I could tell, and that buoyed my spirits. Also, as I mentioned, I was drinking more than I usually do, perhaps because this city demands everyone lower their inhibitions, and definitely because I felt decidedly doomed. Yes, that was it. Doomed.

I’d taken a page from my mother’s book and used alcohol to stave off the inevitable. So what? I deserved one night of freedom with Jace. One night where I was not hounded by guilt and regret, or looking over my shoulder for international spy agents. Jesus Christ! (And I try never to swear—I giggled to myself.) My circumstances struck me as so terrible they were funny, and then that struck me as even funnier, since it was illogical.

My giddiness infected Jace, and we laughed during our dinner at the Bellagio’s Jasmine—a gourmet Chinese restaurant decked out in elaborate yellow butterfly wallpaper. The fountains splashed behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Jace kept cracking jokes about the men we had played poker with; how the one with the incredible blue eyes (I confess, I have never seen such symmetrical, soulful eyes), kept swearing under his breath in German at his losing hands, which, when mimicked by Jace, was extremely funny. Michael, as he had finally introduced himself, had struck up a conversation with us; us being the only other English-speaking players at our poker table.

He told us about his last big win, how he had scored it in Monte Carlo, and chatted about how we should visit the place sometime. He recommended a hotel there he liked. I had listened quietly with interest.

Over dinner, I asked Jace why he had never opened up a hotel in Monte Carlo. His face darkened, and he confessed it had always been a dream of his but that it was next to impossible to get approval from the monarchial run state; at least, not without spending a tidy sum. The fun was momentarily replaced by a hint of grit in his tone, body language, eyes that startled me.

He checked himself, and said, “No more work talk.” After dinner, he talked me out of strolling down the strip, saying it was full of wankers and too bloody hot. Instead, we strolled down the walkway in front of the Bellagio and leaned against the cement railing, waiting among the gathering crowds for the next fountain show.

Jace checked every person who walked by or leaned in near us, and this reminder of the danger he was in sullied the mood. I shivered, even though the desert temperature here does not drop significantly at night. I glanced up at Jace, so handsome in his suit, who was staring at an elderly couple who had moved in beside me.

The man glanced at us, nodded, and Jace nodded back. I assumed that meant he considered them harmless. The bodyguards had moved up closer behind us, and the fountain show got underway to the sound of
The Pink Panther
. It brought a smile to my face.

When it was over, Jace pulled me even closer.

“Do you know how much I like you?”

“No,” I said, warmth spreading in me. This time I pushed away logic, which said I should protect him from me, the snake. Instead, I let feeling gush in, because it was so divine.

“Enough to marry you.”

The earth moved under my feet.

“Las Vegas style,” he amended, taking in my pale face. “Not for real, love. You didn’t think I was serious, did you? Crikey, my lawyers would have a field day! No, I meant for fun. We could just do the ceremony. It’s part of the Vegas experience.”

He was smiling at me, and I had to withdraw inside myself to sort through this new disarray of emotion. It was as though I had stepped on a land mine of cortisol, adrenaline and oxytocin, and it had blown up my heart into scraps of bloody flesh.

Of course I had thought he was serious.

I take everyone and everything at face value.

And I had been both horrified and flattered, deeply. Those simple words had momentarily opened up a door to a future where one element was certain: the man I would spend it with.

But now the social requirement was for me to shove that reaction aside, for a playful, carefree one, because the door had never really been opened.

He was staring down at me, waiting, and the horrible ache inside was only spreading further.

If I did not say yes, and pretend to want to fake-marry him, he would think I was serious, and that I had wanted him to ask me to marry him for real, which . . . I did not, of course. I was far too young to get married. I had not planned to commit to a man until I was twenty-seven, which would give us two years to get to know one another before we procreated. Moreover, the last thing I needed was to lead Jace on.

He was staring down at me, and the horrible ache, the loss, was getting worse and worse.

“Alright,” I whispered, staring at his mouth.

“Right on, Charlie,” he said, pleased. “Let’s go now. It’ll be a good lark, and you can show B the pictures. She strikes me as the sort who’d appreciate that.”

I did not agree with him on that assessment but was too winded to correct him. He kissed me hard and grabbed my hand, leading me to the limo line-up waiting outside the Bellagio entrance. But we moved around it and continued deeper under the leaded-glass ceiling of the portico, where a stretch limo he had on call pulled up shortly.

“Alright, now we’ve got two options,” he informed me once we were all inside, staring at his phone. The guards who joined us were very professional. They never made eye contact, and, if I tried really hard, I could pretend they weren’t crowded in with us, smelling of man sweat.

Jace passed one of them a bottle of champagne. “Be a good cunt and open this,” he asked. I would have taken a pass, but I was still smarting from the mix-up, and so held my glass out.

“I say we either do the
Elvis Presley
, or the more classic
Little White Wedding Chapel
ceremony,” he said. I obliged, checking out the two options on his phone. I did not actually wish to go through with this, but had only agreed because, I realized, my pride had been injured.

Oh. That made perfect sense.

Having resolved the emotional quagmire readily, I felt relaxed, and indeed, slightly affected by Jace’s enthusiasm. It could be fun.

And arguably, I did not have enough “fun” in my life.

“Let’s do the Little White Wedding Chapel,” I said with growing confidence. “We might even run into a celebrity. Look, they have married lots of them!” When I glanced up at him, he was smiling down at me with reverence.

“Alright then,” he said. He called ahead, and when he was done inquiring, he explained to me that we could do the chapel’s “wedding vow renewal ceremony” since we didn’t need a marriage license to do that. I said that sounded fine, Jace gave the driver the instructions and we set out. I was relieved when Jace told the boys to loosen up a little. They were indeed killing the mood.

They cleared their throats and conversed a little. One shared a story about how his friend had married a hooker here in Vegas on a bet. I expressed surprise that such a clichéd story was true; he nodded and said it happens all the time.

We arrived at the Little White Wedding Chapel in less than twenty minutes; it would have been sooner were it not for traffic on the strip. Inside, I was surprised the chapel was empty. The complex itself was little more than a couple of trailers, surrounded by fake lawn turf. The interior walls were lined with faux pine and peeling wallpaper, and the low ceiling barely held onto its water-stained panels. I thought of CrissCross for the first time in months. I certainly did not miss the trailer park.

On the bright side, the walls were covered with countless photos of celebrities, and real people, who had wed. I immediately took to examining those, searching for my favorite celebrities, while Jace took care of paying for the ceremony.

I was surprised when he asked for my ID. “Seems all weddings ceremonies need to be documented in the state of Nevada,” he said.

I looked to the haggard woman behind the desk. “That’s right, sweetie. We even gotta register wedding vow renewal ceremonies.”

“Remember, it’s just a lark, Charlie,” added Jace. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Nerves fluttered inside.

He was right, of course, about the fun bit. What harm was there?

But then I thought of how I would be hurting him—soon—and realized there was a good deal of harm in pretending to marry a man you were intending to sell down the proverbial river.

I shook my head. “I changed my mind.”

He stepped up close to me, in the tiny reception room, wrapping his arms around me. The bodyguards shifted back.

“Don’t do that thing you always do. Drives me round the bend,” he said quietly. “I know I said it doesn’t mean anything because it’s not real, but it does,” he whispered. “You don’t let me buy you pressies or jewelry. At least let me show you how much I care. For me, please, Charlie?”

I glanced up into his eyes and stepped right in selfishly, nodding. I didn’t leave those caves until it was over, even when I signed my name on the form, and certainly not as I stood in the musty old trailer, surrounded by plastic chairs and red-faced men, while a tall, skinny gentleman talked us through a cliché-ridden set of vows.

I even giggled at the end, when it was over, as we were declared man and wife, because Jace was staring down at me so seriously and I felt crushed by the intensity. He kissed my mouth, mid-smirk, hard, and did not stop until long after I felt was appropriate in front of the silent audience. I tried to breathe through my nose, as I was exhilarated and oxygen-deprived and very tipsy. He finally released me, but remained serious.

Too serious.

“I thought this was supposed to be fun,” I complained back in the car, having posed for a few pictures inside the “chapel.” They were to be mailed to us in Sydney, and I was glad I would never see them.

I gulped down more champagne. Jace glanced at me.

“So, wife,” he said flatly. “How does it feel to be mine?”

Flirtation.

Oh. Maybe not.

His eyes were on me like . . . like I was a possession.

I stilled, remembering the conversation in the bathroom earlier tonight; how I told him I was not his to dress up or show off.

Was that what this was about?

He kept on speaking silently at me with those eyes.

Had he wanted to show me, even by pretending, what it might be like to actually be his? And it hit me then, staring at Jace, how intelligent, how utterly calculating he truly was. His youthfulness, his casual attitude, his beauty, they were all fronts, covers, for a lifetime of clandestine planning, unscrupulous organizing, ruthless manipulation. He was king of his own wicked empire.

My stomach dropped. What was I doing? How could I even think for one second I could betray such a man and get away with it? Even if I learned of this alleged meeting of “imperialists” and recorded the events, then what? B would be saved, as Interpol promised. But what about me? Who would save me? I had been so wrapped up in B’s crisis I had not thought to ask Interpol about my own resolution. Jace would eventually find out. Surely. He was too smart. Clearly. He was much, much smarter than me.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

Jace swore, and everyone jumped into action after he confirmed “she’s not talkin’ shit, mates!”

“Ay!” barked one of the men at the driver, banging on the glass. “Pull over,” he shouted. All eyebrows in the limo furrowed. Jace pressed me forward and asked if I could hold it in. I shook my head. No. Not this time. My mouth was tingling, and a deathly shiver ran up and down my spine. 

We barely got the door open before I leaned myself, weakened, headfirst out the door, and emptied the contents of my stomach on the ground.

I heard swearing from inside the car behind me and hoots from pedestrians on the strip, and I managed to pull my legs down from the seat behind me, and under me. I heaved a few more times and all the alcohol and Chinese food puddled in front of me. When it was over, I was beyond relieved.

Jace had stepped out of the car, guards too, surrounding us, and he helped me wipe my mouth.

There was sympathy in his eyes. “Not exactly the answer I was expectin’, Charlie,” he muttered.