Colin had never brought it up again. While she knew the popular video was about her, she'd resisted every single urge to watch it. She didn't care to hear anything he could possibly say about her that was uttered in the same breath as ‘porn on his computer screen,' no matter how funny, or how trendy the video had become.
///
Brent was an asshole, and the way things had ended between them was entirely his fault. He'd had the choice to have both her and work, but he'd picked work and ditched her. Case closed, in a classic stone cold fucking of her heart. Maybe that was why she couldn't deny her delight in the wild goose hunt he'd taken himself on via Facebook. He might have found Shannon Paige-Prince and been checking out her profile, but she wasn't that person anymore, and she barely maintained that page. Hell, she didn't maintain any profile because she didn't want to be known, or to be found. She preferred her new name, and new life, and living it off the Internet.
When she'd started her company four years ago, after amassing several high-profile choreography jobs following West Side Story, she'd already switched her hair color from bright blond to dark brown. Next, she'd jettisoned the last name she had growing up. She'd needed a sleeker and sexier name. Companies wanted to hire Shay Sloan more than Shannon Paige-Prince. But she also didn't want to see that look, that furrow of the brow that came when someone heard her last name. "Are you one of the Paige-Princes of..."
Nope.
Those questions needed to be cut off at the knees.
She'd taken her cues from Michael, her oldest brother. They all had. They always did. He'd been the first among them to change his last name to Sloan, and had suggested they all do the same. Sloan was an everyman name. It had no history, no notoriety. They could slip easily through this town and live free of all those questions from people who remembered who they had been long ago. With new names, their old life faded away, receded far into the rearview mirror.
"Anyway, Shay." Her twin brother lingered on her business name, mocking her playfully as he said it. "The guy you hate won't be there."
"I don't hate Brent," she said quickly. But she did. Oh, how she did some days. She hated him with all she had.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. And no, I didn't tell James you were engaged to King Schmuck back in college." But even those words and the weight of their promise- engaged-seemed like a terrible understatement of what she and Brent had shared. They were everything to each other. "It's just not germane to the business deal we're striking. It's a private matter. Like a million other things that are private."
"A million things," she echoed. Things the four siblings would take to the grave.
"Then let's go to this meeting tonight and seal the deal to bring the hottest dance show around to the hottest clubs worldwide," he said, holding up his fist.
She banged her fist to his. "See you in three hours."
Shannon left their offices and headed to her nearby home, driving past a billboard of The Wynn, the place that had put Shay Productions on the map three years ago when she'd choreographed a sultry extravaganza of the senses for the theater housed inside that upscale hotel. The show has been called "lush, sensual, and a feast for both the eyes and the loins." That production had enabled her to quickly build her business, to take her routines and choreography well beyond one stage and on to worldwide venues.
She'd come far from West Side Story, but that first gig after college had led to the next one, then the next one, then to this.
She turned onto her block, a trendy street not far from the Strip, with an organic breakfast cafe and a hipster coffee shop, then pulled into the parking lot at her condo. As she locked the car door, she reminded herself that if she'd chased Brent to Los Angeles, she might never have had the chance to become who she was today. Her career had given her freedom and distance from the past, and that was a dream come true.
On the way upstairs she snagged her mail, slapping it on the kitchen table to look at later. She showered, blow-dried her hair, and applied fresh makeup, twisting her long chestnut hair into a neat updo. She slipped into a sleek black dress that zipped up the side-the whole damn side from hem to sleeve-then into a pair of four-inch red suede shoes that tied up her ankles and to her calves. Vegas nights could be chilly, so she grabbed a shimmery, silver wrap for her shoulders.
She looked the part. She needed to look the part. She might not be the one on stage, but she still looked like a dancer.
Hell, she still was a dancer, even if she'd never dance again the way she wanted to.
But she'd gotten over her injury.
She'd gotten over her loss.
She'd gotten over Brent.
She knew how to get over stuff. She'd done it since she was thirteen.
CHAPTER THREE
One thousand feet.
That was when the plane started getting service again, so Brent tapped the screen on his phone, ready for the barrage of messages to load. Wireless had been down on the return flight from Saint Bart's, and he was antsy to know what he'd missed. Edge had been expanding rapidly in the last year, so these days his company was like a busy airport with jets lined up, taking off and landing every fifteen minutes.
///
As his plane dipped closer to the runway in Vegas, the emails poured onto his phone. He scanned quickly for James's name, since his right-hand man was tasked with keeping him apprised of the latest deals, problems, and opportunities. Brent was the front man in their 70/30 partnership, but James was vital in helping guide the business and find the right opportunities for Edge.
Fortunately, the email that awaited him was of the opportunity variety.
"Meeting tonight with Shay Productions. Should be able to sign that deal."
Excellent news.
That deal had come together in record time-less than one week. Brent had been traveling to Ibiza earlier that month to check out the club scene there, and see what best practices he could adopt for his business. One of the clubs he'd visited had featured background dancers on pedestal stages throughout the club, dancing seductively all through the night. Some had circulated on the dance floor too, and the club owner had dropped the name Shay Productions. Brent had passed it on to James, who'd assembled the pieces quickly while Brent had traveled to Saint Bart's for the launch of his club there.
Brent hadn't slept in his own bed in ten days. He was damn tired, and ready to crash.
The Saint Bart's club opening had gone so smoothly that he'd returned one day earlier than planned. Hearing that the next deal was falling into place was music to his ears, especially since Edge's expansion into New York had been hitting roadblock after roadblock. He had a meeting in Manhattan later that week to deal with the latest challenges in that city.
He yawned as he began to reply good luck.
But then he covered his mouth, stifled the yawn and reminded himself that businesses didn't grow if the CEO made sure he got a good night's sleep. Edge had thrived when Brent had burned the midnight oil and kept his laser focus on the company. That included meeting all their business partners when he was in town and making sure everyone was on the up and up.
The second the wheels touched down in the city he called home, he dialed James.
"Hey, where's the meeting?" he asked, as they taxied. He'd flown commercial and had enjoyed the first-class seat. His brother Clay had taught him that early days were not the time for frills like a private jet; those would come with growth. Or better yet, make nice with people and they might loan you their jets. That was how his brother had flown the friendly skies in style.
"Mandarin Bar at the Oriental," James said. "You gonna join us?"
Brent nodded. "Yeah. I want to meet them before we sign off."
"Excellent. See you at eight then. Oh, and this deal kicks ass. Their dancers are fuck-hot," he said.
Brent laughed. "That's what we want, my man. That's what we want. I'll see you in two hours."
Soon he made his way off the plane, shouldering his bag from the overhead and heading down the escalator toward the terminal exit, where his regular driver waited for him. The black town car zipped along the highway as the sun fell below the horizon, and twenty minutes later he'd reached his home.
After a quick shower that both perked him up and washed off the remnants of cross-country travel, he pulled on jeans and a button-down. He tucked it in and considered a tie. There were plenty of times when he needed to go full suit, and that had been one of the biggest transitions for him in his new job. How the hell his brother wore a suit every day and liked it, he had no clue. Give him jeans and a T-shirt any day of the week. But this gig required a classier touch, so he added a tie, leaving the jacket behind.
He grabbed his helmet, locked the door, and hopped on his Indian Dark Horse, the new bike he'd bought last year to celebrate Edge's growing success. As the engine purred to life, he fast-forwarded to the meeting tonight with the entertainment services firm that choreographed dance shows around the world. Naturally he thought of Shannon, and couldn't help but wonder what she was up to these days. Was she still in choreography? Had she moved beyond West Side Story? Had she found a boyfriend? A husband? The thought curdled his stomach and made him gun the engine and ride faster, the cool evening air whipping past him as he drove to the hotel.