“Brooke.” Her blue eyes bore into mine and she pouted again. “Let’s go out. Only tonight. You know me. I can’t be this.” She smirked and pointed around her at the stunning house and the setting, like it was a bad thing. “I honestly don’t mind a long drive or a huge taxi bill. Any small club is better than no club. Please.”
Puppy eyes again. My hesitation faltered because, first, I knew a lost cause when I saw one. And second, come to think of it, a bit of fun wasn’t such a bad idea. I was single—I cringed inwardly at the thought—and in one of Europe’s most famous vacation spots. I had sworn off alcohol for good but I could at least dance the night away.
“We’ll be back by midnight?” I asked.
“Sure.” Sylvie shrugged and averted her gaze, which was a dead giveaway that she was lying. In that moment, I knew I wouldn’t be able to pry her away from the clubs with a crowbar—unless the bouncers threw us out.
With a strange sense of dread gathering in the pit of my stomach, I watched Sylvie pull out her cell and dial the number on the card. A moment later she had agreed on a time and hung up.
We hadn’t even fully unpacked our bags yet, and she had already secured a trip to a local nightclub. Talk about priorities!
I followed her inside as she began to rummage through her suitcase, and I sat down on the bed, watching the mess she was about to unleash upon her room. Soon her clothes were scattered all over the floor and bed. Judging from the half full suitcase, there was more to come.
Back home Sylvie insisted we pack everything we might need, which in Sylvie’s dictionary was the equivalent to cramming everything from her overflowing closet to the contents of her bathroom cabinets into the oversized suitcase she wanted to take with her. Needless to say, we had paid the price for extra baggage at customs. But at least she knew how to dress. I stared open-mouthed at one designer dress after another, some barely resembling a dress at all. More like pieces of sheer fabric that left nothing to the imagination.
“You need to get laid,” Sylvie said as she pulled out two short dresses and compared them. “And pronto. Jett might have been hot, but newer is always better.”
Where the hell did that come from?
“I never said I wanted to get laid,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Of course you didn’t.” She smirked and tossed one dress aside, then picked up another. “But I know you want to. Or at least that’s the way to go if you want to rid your heart of him once and for all.”
I slumped against the pillows as I regarded the dress in her hands. She was right about that. In her own way. Ever since I came back from my trip with Jett, she seemed to have recovered from her own heartache. If I wanted to move on, all I had to do was be like her. Forget the world. And just have fun, even if that meant dating lots of men within a very short time. She wasn’t cheap. She didn’t sleep with most of them—she just liked soaking up the attention and then moving on to the next.
She winked. “Whatever you do in Italy, stays in Italy. I promise my lips are sealed.”
Oh, Lord.
She tossed the first dress to me. I caught it in mid-air. “Try this.”
I held up the strapless dress and eyed it suspiciously. The black material felt soft in my hands, almost weightless. It was so tight and thin, I had no doubt people would see my underwear—particularly under the neon lights of a club. Definitely not the kind of dress I had in my wardrobe.
Under normal circumstances I’d have objected to wearing something that daring, but today was different. I wanted to be someone else, preferably someone that wouldn’t remind me of my old boring self.
What do you want to prove, Stewart?
Ignoring my rational mind, I shrugged out of my jeans and casual shirt. Sylvie dangled a pair of black pumps in front of my face.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to walk in them,” I said, slipping into the shoes nevertheless. The heels were so high I almost toppled over and had to hold on to the dresser for support.
“You can’t say no to Jimmy Choo. It’d be a sin. Plus, you look hot. If I were a guy I’d totally do you.” Her dead serious expression told me she wasn’t kidding.
I inspected myself in the large mirror. This was a dress I’d never wear back home, but we weren’t back home. No one knew me here. Besides, Sylvie was right, I looked hot. The dress hugged my body in all the right places, emphasizing my curves, of which I had always been ashamed until college when I realized men liked them. The heels made my legs appear thinner and sky-high. Maybe not as long as a model’s, but I could certainly see the benefit in wearing them.
“Told you,” Sylvie said, grinning. “Now, let’s rock this town.”
Biting my lip, I nodded and averted my gaze. How could I tell her that Bellagio wasn’t exactly a town? More like a village. I was yet to find out just how tiny it actually was.
Chapter 3
Sitting in the backseat of the taxi with my arms wrapped around me, I realized Sylvie’s dress choice had seemed a good idea in the privacy of our four walls. Not so much in public. I kept pulling the hem in the hope of giving it more fabric, or length—anything that would help me feel less naked.
“You look so hot,” Sylvie whispered, probably misinterpreting my fidgeting. “I bet every guy in that club will be all over you the moment you enter the door.”
Did I want that?
Not really.
I wasn’t the attention seeking type or the one who wanted to be in the spotlight, but I couldn’t share that with Sylvie. She wouldn’t understand.
“No, I bet they’ll be all over you.” I pointed at her little black dress, which seemed to ride even shorter than mine. Or maybe it was the effect of her long and toned legs stretching up forever.
“You think?” Sylvie’s face lit up like a Christmas candle. Not only was she stunning, she also had a constant need to be reminded of it.
“I know,” I said, happy to no longer be the topic of the conversation.
I stepped out of the taxi into the balmy night air. My curls framed my cheeks and brushed my naked shoulders like soft butterfly wings, making my skin tingle. Club 66—the only club in the nearby area—was a tall, tower-like building with a glass front. The front doors were open and the faint beats of some Top Forty song carried over. A broad shouldered big guy stood to the side, eyeing us. I wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be some kind of bouncer or just a guest waiting for his date, lighting up a cigarette or looking for phone reception.
“That’s all you could find?” Sylvie glared at me from under heavily mascaraed eyelashes.
I shrugged. “Want me to quote you? Like you said, ‘better than sitting at home, growing roots.’ If you don’t like it, we can still grab a pizza on the way back home and watch reality TV.”
Actually, I wouldn’t have minded that.
Just thinking about it—sitting around in pajamas, eating ice cream and watching a really sad movie, preferably where the male main character died, because Jett was as good as dead to me—sounded like the perfect night to me.
Sylvie scoffed and walked through the doors into what resembled a dimly lit reception area, leaving me behind smiling. With her it was all a matter of priority. Any sort of club was better than no club. At times I wondered how the heck we managed to stay friends for so long when we had so little in common.
The reception desk also served as a coat counter, which was obvious from the few jackets dangling from hangers and a lady standing there, cashing in. Sylvie and I weren’t wearing jackets, but we paid the cover charge and our hands were stamped, and then we entered the actual club area.
Being one of the few entertainment opportunities for those aged eighteen and up within a fifty-mile radius of Bellagio, the room was filled to capacity, overflowing with dancing girls and young men vying for their attention. The walls were covered in mirrors. Manufactured smoke wafted in the air, creating a dreamlike haze. Surreal but also a bit tacky. In the middle of the room was a huge staircase leading to a second story that, gazing up from my position, looked like it was bathed in darkness. I could already tell the music—the same fast beat I had heard outside—would make any sort of conversation hard. I mentally prepared myself for a long silent chat with the bottom of my glass as Sylvie and I maneuvered around the gathered crowds of people, heading for Sylvie’s most preferred spot: the bar.
“You order while I’m looking for a table,” I yelled at Sylvie so she’d hear me over the background noise.
“What?” she yelled back, her gaze fixed on her right where three people worked behind the bar, mixing and serving at a fast speed. I couldn’t tell whether she was so transfixed by the outlook of getting hammered, or the music was indeed way too loud. Tugging at her arm to get her attention, I leaned in to repeat in her ear and watched her flinch. Nope, it wasn’t the music. Just the anticipation of an alcohol-infused night.
I didn’t wait for her reply. Making my way past the staircase with a rope running across it and marked as ‘VIP area’, I scanned the tables and chairs lining the walls. They were all occupied, apart from one table. I dashed for it like a maniac, eager to ‘claim’ it before someone else spied me and beat me to it. I didn’t even care that my dress exposed way more of my thighs than was acceptable as I slumped onto the plush leather settee and bumped my knee against the table in front of it.
Long pangs of pain shot up my leg. I cringed to hold back a startled yelp, already missing my jeans, which would have provided a layer of protection.
“You okay?” Sylvie said, sliding next to me.
I nodded and grabbed a drink from her outstretched hand, realizing she had made the effort to remember I had sworn off alcohol for good because every time I so much as took a sip, something bad happened.
Like me waking up half-naked in bed next to a man who turned out to be my boss.
Or revealing all the things I wanted to do with said boss, which reminded me that I was jobless now, and probably had bad references. Talk about stupid!
I took a sip of my water with a slice of lemon, and placed the glass on the table as I watched Sylvie gulp down half of her margarita while searching the area for prospective male targets. Half a minute later they had spied her, and the first suitor found his way to our table. I looked away and tuned out because I knew he most certainly wasn’t going to offer me a drink, ask for a dance, or whatever he was about to say.
“You okay if I go for a dance?” Sylvie whispered in my ear. “He’s quite cute.”
“Have fun.” I smiled at her encouragingly. In all the years we had known each other, I had grown used to guys probably thinking I was the less hot friend, the baggage, at times even the gatekeeper of the hot tall blonde.
For a few minutes I just sat there listening to the club music; my mind wandered off to the estate and my own life plans. I had no job but would inherit a property that was worth quite a bit of money. Not that losing a job had happened to me before, but it wasn’t my style to live off someone else’s cash. As soon as I figured out how long I’d be staying I knew I’d find employment, even if just for a few weeks. The language barrier might be a problem, but I hoped in a tourist area someone might have something for me that wouldn’t require fluent Italian language skills.