Seconds tick by, and I can almost feel the tension curling in and around him, thickening the air until I can barely breathe. I wonder how he can. “Everything okay?” I ask softly.
His gaze shifts to me, and his eyes are steely hard and impossible to read. “Do you gamble, Ms. Miller?”
“Badly,” I admit, unsure where this abrupt change of topic is taking us. “And only when I have no other option.”
“Well, here’s the only sure thing you’ll get in Vegas and this job: Something is always not okay. You either deal with it or you crash and burn.”
“And you deal with it,” I say, admiring him for the strength that takes, in a way I once might not have.
“Yes. I deal with it.” He scrubs his hand over his jaw, and when he refocuses on me, his eyes are clearer; his worry over whatever that text said is contained. “Let’s cover the basics. When you get back to the hotel, go to the front desk and have them page Terrance. He’s the head of security for my entire operation, and he’ll be expecting you. He’ll ensure you have everything you need to start work tomorrow.”
“Yes, okay. Terrance. Got it.”
“Now let’s cover when to contact me, what’s urgent and what’s not, and who to go to if you can’t reach me.”
I nod and realize I left my notebook by the testing station in the temp service. I retrieve my phone from my purse. “I’m going to record this, if you don’t mind.”
Suddenly his hand is covering mine, heat climbing up my arm, and I could breathe if his knee hadn’t somehow ended up pressed to my leg. For a moment we just sit there, and I am frozen by the look in his eyes and still warm all over.
“No recording,” he says, and there is a raspy quality to his voice that could be anger or something else I don’t dare kid myself exists. “Not now or ever.”
“I … yes. Or, no. I wasn’t. I’m not. I need this job. I’ll use my notepad on my phone instead.”
“No.” He takes my cell from my hand, but he doesn’t move away. “You won’t.”
“I don’t want to forget—”
“You won’t.” He sits back abruptly and lifts his knee from mine, then reaches into his briefcase and hands me a pad and pen. “Write it down.”
I nod. “Yes. I didn’t have time to prepare, or—”
“We only have about ten more minutes. Write, Ms. Miller.”
My lips thin; my spine stiffens. I have no idea what was in that text message, but he hasn’t banked his reaction to it as I’d thought. He’s harder now, colder. It’s as if a block of ice went up between us. He is the arrogant, demanding boss I expected him to be, but I will not cower. “Understood,” I say, clicking my pen. “I’m ready.”
He wastes no time wondering if I really am ready. He begins spilling out information, and I can’t write fast enough to get it all down.
We are just pulling in to the terminal when he says, “We need to exchange phone numbers.” Then, to my shock, he grabs my phone and takes the liberty of typing his number into it before handing it back to me.
I accept it, careful not to touch him, and I am almost certain that he is careful, as well. “What’s your number?” he asks.
“It’s still a Texas number,” I warn before reciting it.
He puts it into his address book and then glances at me. “When are you getting a Vegas number?”
“I … soon.”
“Get one tomorrow. Text me when you have it.”
He opens the car door and steps out, then slams it shut a little too hard. I jump at the harshness of the action and then frown. He’s moody, far too good-looking for my sanity, and impossible to figure out. He definitely is not a sure thing, and neither is this job, but I’m committed. I’m going to gamble on them both.
Part Three
Where I belong…
My return to the hotel lands me inside the main security operation for the casino, tucked away in a tiny waiting room that feels like a prison. Apparently I don’t formally have the job until I am cleared as employable by the company standards. For an hour, I sip coffee and try to watch the news on a flat-screen television, but it can’t hold my attention and I pace instead. Not that I have anything to worry about with my clearances; I just want this job solidified. I want to be officially employed, even if it’s technically as a temporary worker. It’s a foot in the door.
Finally, an hour into my captivity, Terrance Monroe, the blond, thirty-something head of security for all three of the Vantage properties, joins me. He lifts a folder in his hand and motions to several chairs against the wall. “All right, Kali,” he says as we claim two seats, having torn down the airs of last names in the first sixty seconds we’d met. “We have your security check, fingerprints, and credit scores. You’re clear for temp employment.”