The Resistance(22)

“Dalton with a D. Mystery solved.” She turns around, leaning back on the dresser. “Do I need to be concerned you’re this deeply involved with a criminal?”

I laugh. “He’s not a criminal,” I say, sitting up. “Although I think he might have stolen my heart.” I flop back down in hysterics.

“Oh my God, what has he done to you?” She rushes over and pulls me up to shake me. “Holli? Are you in there, Holli?”

“Stop it.” I swat at her. “I’m just feeling giddy. It’s silly I know, but I haven’t felt like this in so long that I’d forgotten I could.”

Smiling, she says, “You deserve giddy. Now when do I get the details about Mr. D and this second technically third chance romance?”

I stand and walk to the window. Like Dalton, we also have a view of The Strip. “Tonight,” I reply. The sun is lower in the sky and I check the time. 4:36 p.m. Seven hours with Dalton felt like thirty minutes. Turning to get my phone, I check my texts. Two from Tracy and one from Cara: Dinner at seven, meet at Maestro.

“Remember Cara from the marketing meetings?”

“Cara who didn’t get our account, Cara?”

“The very one. She invited me to dinner. Want to go?”

“Guess she’s not mad she lost the account.”

“Nah, she was nice last night.”

“I’ll go,” Tracy says, “I’m almost finished with my makeup, so I just need to get dressed.”

“We’ve got time. I’m gonna shower.” The tension in my shoulders eases under the heat of the pounding water and I close my eyes and move my head under the spray. “Stairway to Heaven” intermingles with memories of Dalton’s hands on me—caressing me, taking me, making me his. I glide the soap over my body noticing there are no physical marks to match the ones he’s left on me emotionally.

It’s all too much, so I rush through the rest of my shower and go about getting ready for a night out with friends while trying to block those green eyes, the light and the dark, the two sides of Dalton that he lets me see. One side is so open and friendly, bright as the desert sun. The other, burdened as a darkness overshadows him. Dalton has secrets. Secrets I’m intrigued enough to want to explore and discover, but I need to forget all that. I’ve got his name and his room number, and not much else.

Tracy grabs her clutch and walks to the door. With the knob in hand, she says, “I’ll meet you downstairs at the bar near the elevators. I need to make a call.”

I’m worried about her. Something happened after the engagement or she wouldn’t be here in Vegas with me. “Sure,” I reply, giving her the space she needs.

Because I’m in Vegas—anything goes, so I pull on my skintight couture black dress, the one that shows a lot of leg. I’m not normally conservative, but this is really pushing the boundaries for me. I wonder if Dalton would like it on me.

We walk into the restaurant right on the hour and I see Cara sitting at a large round table in the corner. She waves us over.

After she introduces us to everyone, we take the remaining two chairs and are sandwiched between two men in suits. The one next to me is named Jack—I do a double take when we’re introduced because of the name alone. My reaction piques Cara’s curiosity, but she doesn’t say anything about it. This Jack is mid-thirties, shaves his head completely, and is wearing an expensive suit and watch. The man next to Tracy is European and must be well into his fifties with a dark spray tan and blinding white teeth. She elbows me when we sit. I chuckle under my breath.

Conversation around the table picks up as we start looking over the menu. “I saw you at the banquet last night. Congratulations on the recognition,” Jack says.

“Thank you. It came as a surprise. I probably looked dumbfounded. I’m not good in the limelight.”

“Limelight. That’s clever.”

“Well, I didn’t mean my company, more the spotlight.”

He nods and smiles. “It was funny though. What are you drinking tonight? I was thinking about a bottle of Cabernet. Will you join me?”

Shaking my head, I say, “I’m not a big red wine drinker. It gives me headaches.”

“Maybe you haven’t tried the right one,” he says and I get the distinct feeling we’re not talking wine anymore. When I don’t say anything, he does. “I highly recommend this bottle.” He points to the wine menu.

Not wanting to be rude, I say, “Sure. I’ll try a glass.” One glass then I was done. Like the man sitting next to me, the wine is overrated. Fortunately, the pasta isn’t. It’s delicious.