Two to Wrangle (13 page)

“But why not?” Monica asked.

“Because we're American, not Spanish. Because this is the Hotel
Rodeo
.”

“But just think about the bulls, Ty.”

“What about the bulls?”

“You said you wanted to use bulls as your main attraction, so why not build a traditional Spanish bullring?”

“Forget it Monica. I already asked Cassie to work on something else.”

“That's it?” She jutted her chin. “You're dismissing the whole idea just like that?”

“Not quite. We just can't go off half-cocked, is all I'm sayin'.”

“I thought you were proposing a partnership?”

“I am.”

“I'm not going to be a silent partner, Ty.”

“Didn't expect you to be.”

“If you want me, you're going to have to give me equal say.”

“How can I do that when I'm talking bulls and you're going off about flamenco dancers?”

“You just illustrated my entire point!” she said. “If we're going to work together, you have to let me be a part of this. Partnerships require common goals and like minds. How can this work when we have none of that?”

Ty perched on the desk with a frown. “One little stumble and you're already getting cold feet? We can work through this if we try, Monica. And I'm willing to compromise—to a point. You just gotta understand that this whole thing was my vision. My idea. My dream. I can't let you or anyone else take that away.”

“I'm not trying to take it away from you. I just want it to succeed. We're talking about a huge investment. Look, Ty, I came in here with an open mind, but I can't take the backseat, and neither can you. Do you see now how incompatible we are? And why I've said we could never work.”

“I thought you had more grit than that.”

“That's not it! I wanted this to work. I really did, but we just don't have enough common ground. I admit the chemistry between us is incredible, but we burn too hot.”

“You're right about that part,” he broke into a dark chuckle. “We've been playing with gun powder from the get-go. But there's something you need to understand about gunpowder, Monica. Although it's highly combustible, it's also what makes fireworks. So only two things can happen here—we're either gonna blow like a stick of dynamite or we're gonna make some major fucking pyrotechnics. Don't know 'bout you, but I'm banking on the fireworks.”

“It's not enough, Ty,” Monica replied softly, her eyes growing misty.

Ty's chest tightened. Had she decided? Was it over? Was she leaving?

“Wait, Monica.” He stood, gripping her shoulders, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss away all logic and reason, because that would only be a temporary fix. In the end it would circle back around as it always did to the same tired arguments. It was time for a new approach to an old problem.

“Please. Before you decide to bail out on me, there's something real important I need to show you.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“You'll find out tonight,” he replied.

“It doesn't involve bulls, does it?” she asked warily.

His mouth twitched. “No bulls.”

“If it's so important, why not now?” she asked.

“Because it requires some special arrangements.”

“You're sounding rather mysterious.”

“Surprises are supposed to be mysterious.” He stood. “I've gotta take care of some things. I'll be back to get you at ten.”

“Ten tonight? Isn't that rather late?”

“Not in Vegas,” he replied. “Wear a dress.”

M
onica exhaled in relief when Ty walked out. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her again. She never could resist when he touched her, kissed her. Waking up with him beside her this morning had been almost too tempting to resist, but it was time to face reality instead of living in a fantasy. She'd spent far too many sleepless nights thinking about Ty Morgan.

Ty's ideas for a new hotel and entertainment complex were absolutely brilliant and well thought out, but even if he could secure the funding, did he have the business savvy to take on such a massive project? Tom's words echoed once more in her mind.
Ty needs you.

She recalled her answer to Tom, that Ty only needed Ty. Hadn't he just proven that? He'd rejected all of her suggestions outright. Was it just stupid pride?

She'd go with Ty tonight and see whatever it was he wanted to show her, but in truth there was nothing he could say or do to sway her. Her mind was made up. Although she wished him well, she could never be an unequal partner. If he asked for the money, she'd loan it to him interest free. It's what Tom would have wanted, but after that, she was done with the hotel.

And done with Tyrone Jefferson Morgan.

She rolled up the drawings, wistfully wondering if she could have stayed on had things been different between them. But they'd proven time and again that it was impossible to keep their relationship on a professional footing, and anything personal was only doomed to fail.

She left his office and returned to her suite, determined to book the next commercial jet back to New York. After arranging her flight, she dragged her suitcase to the bed and began packing up her things, but froze over the pile of Western clothes she'd taken off the night before.

Just last night she'd felt like someone else in those clothes. It had been liberating in a way she couldn't understand. Just as being with Ty always made her feel different, more easygoing and relaxed. Was it all just playing dress-up, or did she really have a softer side that she'd never explored?

Her entire life she'd known exactly who she was and what she wanted—or at least she'd thought she had. Until Tom had come into her life, her career had always come first and relationships a distant second, but now it seemed everything was shifting like quicksand under her feet.

Who was she
really
and what did she really want? Was it a real estate mogul with an expensive penthouse apartment in lower Manhattan, or a swaggering cowboy and his rundown hotel on the garishly lit Las Vegas Strip? For the first time, she put all logic aside to search her heart.

The answer wrenched her chest, making it hard to breathe. It was Ty. There had never been any real contest. She'd fallen for the damned smirking cowboy almost the moment she'd laid eyes on him—and the acknowledgment of that fact only made her more miserable.

She didn't know now whether to laugh or to cry. After indulging in a few minutes of both, Monica placed the boots and clothes in the closet and shut the door, just as she intended to close this chapter. She was shutting her suitcase when her phone rang. She reached to answer, but paused when she recognized Evan's ring tone. Guilt assailed her at the realization that she hadn't spoken to him in days. She hadn't even told him she'd returned to Vegas.

She reluctantly answered. “Hello, Evan.”

“Mon, Baby. Was starting to worry about you. Then your text was so abrupt.”

“My text?”
Ty.
Her lips compressed. He said he'd read Evan's text, but hadn't told her he'd answered it. She wondered what he'd said.

“Yes. I thought you'd call back by now,” Evan said.

“I got sidetracked,” she said. “Some unexpected things came up. I had to come back to Vegas.”

“You're in Vegas?”

“Yes. I had some decisions to make about the hotel.”

“I thought we'd already made an agreement on that?”

Monica exhaled a long sigh. “I thought so too, but there's an unexpected complication. Tom left a codicil bequeathing controlling interest to Ty. I only have a twenty-five percent stake, so selling isn't my decision anymore.”

“Then I'll buy
him
out.”

“Ty doesn't want to sell, Evan. He has plans for the place.”

“So do I,” Evan replied. “The north end of the Las Vegas Strip is prime territory for development.”

“Then you'll need to deal directly with Ty. I'm out of this.”

“Set up a meeting,” he said, abrupt and autocratic.

“Excuse me?” Monica snapped. “I'm
not
your personal secretary, Evan.”

“Please, Mon,” he said suddenly apologetic. “I need you to smooth the way for me. I want to make this deal.”

“You're wasting your time. He's not going to sell. He's planning to build an entire rodeo-themed entertainment complex.”

“Then he needs money. Does he have it?”

“Not yet,” she said, suddenly wary. “But he's working on it.” Had she told Evan too much? Once more she wondered if his renewed interest in her was only a subterfuge to get his hands on the hotel.

“When are you coming back?” he asked. “I'll send the plane.”

“I'm not,” she replied slowly, suddenly filled with an intense urge to escape. “You can do whatever you like, Evan, but I'm taking some time off for me.”

“I thought you'd already done that.” Evan replied in a terse and impatient staccato.

“No, Evan. I came out to Vegas to take care of Tom. Then I went to Oklahoma to put him to rest. I came back to Vegas to take care of more business, but now I think now it's about time I took care of me.”

Looking at the sketches of Seville's famed bullring had brought back fond memories. She hadn't taken a real vacation in years, hadn't been out of the country since grad school. Maybe it was time. Rather than New York, Nice called out. A month of exploring the Mediterranean coastline might do wonders to put her life back into perspective.

“We still need to talk about all this. About
us
.”

“There isn't any us, Evan. And I'm not going to act as your business conduit anymore.”

“Is that what you think? That I'm just using you?”

“Yes. Now that we got that straight, is there really anything left to talk about?”

As expected, silence filled her ears.

“Goodbye, Evan.” She said softly and disconnected the call.

Monica plopped down on the bed, feeling depressed and deflated. She was surprised he'd given up so easily, but that was infinitely better than if he'd lied. Evan needed her influence with Ty, and Ty needed her money, but neither of them really needed her, or was man enough to admit they did. Would she ever find a man who could love her for herself? After a few more minutes spent in emotional self-indulgence, Monica resolved to do whatever it took to break free of this downward cycle she found herself stuck in. Her next move was to call Tom's probate attorney, Bob Wright.

“Bob, it's Monica. I don't care what you have to liquidate, but I need a bank draft for fifty million and I need it today.”

Bob gave a low whistle. “Fifty mil's a hefty sum on such short notice, but I'll see what I can do. Is everything okay, Ms. Brandt?”

“I'm not in any trouble, if that's what you're asking. I just need to get away and decompress for a while.”

“That's certainly understandable under the circumstances,” he said. “You've been under a lot of stress.

“Yes, I have,” she said. “So I've decided to travel out of the country for a time. I trust you'll take care of Tom's estate in my absence. I'll text you later with all my contact info in case you need to get in touch with me.”

“If there's anything you need, please don't hesitate to let me know, Ms. Brandt.”

“There's nothing at present, aside from the check. Thank you, Bob.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Brandt. Safe travels.”

Monica's next two calls were to Air France and then the Hôtel Hermitage Monte-Carlo. She was trading the stark desert of Las Vegas for the famed turquoise waters of the Côte d'Azur.

 

Ty spent the better part of the day taking care of business Las Vegas style—making calls and greasing palms. After completing the necessary arrangements, he called the limo to take him back to his place, where he showered, shaved off his customary stubble, and changed into his one and only power suit, a black Armani he'd bought a couple of years ago for a funeral. He'd never have dropped that kind of cash, but he'd sent Gabby out with his credit card. Now he was glad he had. Even off the rack, the Italian-made suit fit like a glove. If he was going to persuade Monica, he knew he had to speak the language she understood best—business. If that meant pressing and polishing himself to a spit shine, so be it.

Overcoming his lack of business shoes, he polished up his black Lee Miller custom sharkskin boots, then finished the look with his only watch, a gold Rolex Tom had given him twelve years ago on his twenty-first birthday. Now, for maybe the first time ever, he looked like a Las Vegas hotelier, even if he couldn't quite bring himself to don the strangling necktie.

He'd promised to show Monica why the hotel was so important to him, but their partnership meant far more to him than just the hotel. That's exactly what he intended to show her—and in a way she'd never forget.

 

With several hours to kill before her mystery date with Ty, Monica decided to make a final shopping trip rather than pacing in her hotel suite. He'd said to wear a dress, but her entire wardrobe was comprised of black dresses, black skirts, gray and navy slacks, and white blouses. She had nothing worthy of saying the final goodbye to the love of her life.

After two hours of shopping and rejecting more than two dozen little black dresses, she recalled Ty's smart-ass remark about her wardrobe: “You should wear other colors, Ms. Brandt. I think you'd look mighty fine in red, preferably something short and tight.”

She might be gone from his life tomorrow, but she swore that tonight she'd make a statement he'd damn well never forget—a statement that began with an indecently short, corset-tight, vermillion-red Hervé Léger bandage dress, and ended with a pair of four-inch Jimmy Choo ankle-strap stilettos.

Two hours later she was applying a final touch of red lipstick when a knock sounded on her door. She checked her watch with a frown. Good thing she was ready. It was only nine-thirty. Taking a last fortifying sip of Calvados, and then the largest breath her constricting dress would allow, she flung the door open. “Ty, you're—” She jerked back in surprise, almost stumbling in her heels. “Evan? What are you doing here?”

“Holy shit, Mon.” Evan's black gaze traveled slowly up and down. “I had no idea you had it in you. It was worth the five-hour flight just to look at you. What's the occasion?”

“I have an . . . engagement . . . at ten.”

His gaze narrowed. “What kind of engagement?”

“It's hotel business, Evan, if you really must know, and I don't have time right now.”

“C'mon, Mon. I flew all the way out here to talk to you. Did you really think I'd let you blow me off without discussing this?”

“But I thought we'd settled everything this afternoon—”

“This afternoon was bullshit, Monica. Are you at least going to invite me in, or are we really going to have this conversation in the hallway?”

“Of course,” she stepped back. “So sorry; you just shocked me.”

He gave her his slow, ruthless, boardroom smile. “Shock and awe are my signature tactics, Monica. You should know that by now. Since I've already shocked you tonight, I think it's time to try for some awe.”

She arched a brow, undecided if she was more annoyed or amused. “Oh? And just how do you propose to do that?”

“Proposals? Engagements?” he cocked his head. “Is there something on your mind, Monica?”

“Those were poor word choices, not Freudian slips, I assure you, Evan.”

“I'm not sure about anything anymore when it comes to you, Mon. I admit I took you for granted before, but that's all in the past. If you were looking to shake me up, you've done it. You have my full and undivided attention.”

“That's not what this is about, Evan. My leaving you was never a ploy to get your attention. I came here to take care of my father. You could have supported that decision but chose to be a total asshole about it. That's why I didn't come back.”

“I admitted I was a dick and apologized. What more do I need to do to show you I really want you back? My coming out here tonight has nothing to do with the hotel and everything to do with us.” His gaze was questioning and his manner less self-assured.

Was he for real this time? It would seem so.

“It's too late, Evan. I don't feel the same way about anything anymore.”

“So it's not really me, it's you?” He gave a dry laugh. “Can't say I've ever been on the receiving end of that line before.”

“Rich, handsome, intelligent, successful, single alpha male? I don't imagine you have.” Monica laughed. “Want a drink, Evan? I have Calvados, and I think there might be half a bottle of Jim Beam lying around.”

“Sure, Mon. I'll take a drink.”

The moment of humor had cut the tension, but she still felt his eyes on her ass as she poured him a bourbon. He took his glass and dropped onto the sofa, patting the cushion. Painfully aware of her abbreviated hemline, she eased down beside him.