“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
Her breath gushed out in a rush. Disappointment over that lost chance for a quick kiss taunted her. She put her hand in his. “Thanks. Or should I say merci?”
His hand warmed her the whole way to the elevator, which was made mostly of glass, for riders to watch the whole casino on the way up. Her stomach dropped as the lift rose. She’d always prided herself on being so practical in her plans for her life, but the way she wanted to be with Troy was completely illogical. And now they were as far away from Salvatore, chaperones and intrusions as possible.
What did she want from this time with him while they waited for the all clear from Salvatore?
The answer came to her, as clear as the elevator glass—so smudge-free she almost felt like she could walk right through and into the open air. She wanted to learn more about Troy—and yes, she wanted to sleep with him. She needed to sort through his charm to find out what was real about him, then figure out how to walk away without regrets and restless dreams once she returned home.
The elevator doors slid open as she once again headed to a hotel suite. With Troy.
He palmed her back and guided her into the luxurious, apartment-sized space with a balcony view of the marina. High ceilings and white furniture with powder-blue accents gave the Parisian-style room an airy feel after the heavier Gatsby tapestries of their Chicago penthouse. She stared out at the glistening waters as the bellhop unloaded their bags and slipped away quietly.
Troy walked through her peripheral vision. “Something to drink before we head down for dinner?”
“I didn’t sleep at all last night and while you may have had an amazing nap on the plane—” damn his nonchalant soul “—I did not. I just want room service and a good night’s rest. Can we ‘do’ Monte Carlo tomorrow when I’ll be awake enough to enjoy it?”
“Absolutely.” He tossed his hat on the sleek sofa before walking to the wet bar. “What would you like to drink?”
“Club soda, please,” she answered automatically. “Thank you.”
He poured the carbonated water into a cut crystal tumbler, clinking two cubes of ice inside. “That’s not the first time you’ve turned down alcohol.”
“I told you before.” She took the glass from him, fingers brushing with an increasing familiarity. “I don’t drink. Ever.”
“Have I been around long enough to hear the story yet?” He rattled the ice in his own soda water.
Why not? It wasn’t a secret. “My mother was an alcoholic who hit rock bottom so many times she should have had a quarry named after her.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
He brushed her shoulder, skimming back her ponytail. “I’m still sorry you had to go through that.”
“I learned a lot about keeping up appearances.” She sipped her drink and watched boats come in for the day and others head out with lights already blazing for night travel. “It’s served me well in my current profession.”
“That’s an interesting way of making lemonade out of lemons.”
Enough about her and her old wounds. The point of this time in Monte Carlo, for her, was to learn more about him.
She pivoted to face him, leaning against the warm windowpane. “What about you?”
“What do you mean?” he answered evasively.
“Your childhood? Tell me more about it.”
“I had two parents supremely interested in appearances—which meant I never had to learn how to play nice. They were always ready to cover up any mistakes we made.” His eyes glinted wickedly as he stared at her over his glass.
“Us?”
“My older brother and I.”
“You have a brother? I don’t recall—”
“Ahh…” He tapped her nose. “So you did read my Wikipedia page.”
“Of course I did.” She’d been trying to find some leverage, since this man tipped her world about seventeen times a minute. “It doesn’t mention your brother.”
“Those pages can be tweaked you know. The internet is fluid, rewritable.”
She shivered from more than the air conditioner. “You erased your brother from your history?”
“It’s for his own safety.” He stared into his drink moodily before downing it.
“How so? What does your brother do now?”
“He’s in jail.” He returned to the bar and reached for a bottle of scotch—Chivas Regal Royal Salute, which she happened to know from event planning sold at about ten thousand dollars a bottle. “If the other inmates know the kind of connections he has, the access to money…”
She watched him pour the amber whiskey into a glass—damn near liquid gold. “What’s he in prison for?”
“Drug dealing.” He swirled his drink along the insides of the glass, just shy of the top, without spilling a drop.
“Did your parents cover up for him?”
“Periodically, they checked him into rehabs, before they took off for Europe or China or Australia. He checked himself out as soon as they left the continental U.S.” He knocked back half an inch.
“You blame them.”
“I blame him.” He set down his glass beside the open bottle. “He made his own choices the same way I have made mine.”
“But drug dealing… Drug addiction.” She’d seen the fallout of addiction for the family members, and as much as she wanted to pour that ten-thousand-dollar bottle of booze down the sink, she also wanted to wrap her arms around Troy’s waist, rest her head on his shoulder and let him know she understood how confusing and painful his home life must have been.
“Yes, he was an addict. He detoxed in prison.” He looked up with conflicted, wounded eyes. “Is it wrong of me to hope he stays there? I’m afraid that if he gets out…”
Her unshed tears burned. She reached for his arm.
He grinned down at her wryly. “You and I probably shouldn’t have children together. Our genes could prove problematic. Sure the kids would be brilliant and gorgeous.” He stepped back, clearly using humor to put distance between them as a defense against a conversation that was getting too deep, too fast. “But with so much substance abuse—”
“Troy,” she interrupted, putting her club soda down slowly. This guy was good at steering conversations, but she was onto his tactics now. “It’s not going to work.”