Page 2 of Hitched to My Enemy
We walked through the casino in relative silence, my heels clicking against the polished marble floors as I took careful notes. He was right—I needed to see everything. But I was acutely aware of his presence beside me, the subtle scent of his cologne that reminded me of expensive whiskey and warm skin, the way he moved with fluid confidence through his domain like he owned not just the building but the very air inside it.
"Impressive," I admitted grudgingly as we paused at the high-limit gaming area. Tables upholstered in butter-soft leather, crystal tumblers that caught the light like captured stars, dealers who looked like they belonged on magazine covers. "You've clearly invested significant resources in security measures."
"I told you I'd learned from my mistakes." His voice dropped lower, meant for my ears alone. "The question is, Investigator Clarke, have you?"
I turned to face him fully, lifting my chin in defiance. "Learned what, exactly?"
"That not everything is black and white. That sometimes the rules need to bend to accommodate reality." He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of blue in those storm-gray eyes, close enough to count his ridiculously longeyelashes. "That maybe the world isn't as simple as your reports make it seem."
"The rules exist for a reason, Mr. Hardwick. To protect people from those who would exploit them."
"From people like me?" His voice carried a note of genuine curiosity. "Tell me, do I look like a predator to you?"
Yes. But not in the way the gaming commission cared about.
"Danger comes in many forms," I managed, my voice slightly breathless despite my best efforts.
"Indeed it does." His gaze dropped to my lips for just a heartbeat before returning to my eyes. "Shall we continue?"
***
The Dragon's Crown VIP lounge occupied the entire top floor of the Jade Petal, a testament to understated luxury that made my government salary feel embarrassingly inadequate. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Strip that was worth a fortune per square foot. Leather seating areas were arranged for both privacy and spectacular views, while original artwork lined the walls—pieces I recognized from auction catalogs that had made headlines with their astronomical selling prices.
Easton moved to a bar that looked like it belonged in a high-end whiskey distillery and poured two glasses of what I recognized as exceptionally fine Scotch. The amber liquid caught the light like liquid gold.
"I don't drink on duty," I protested as he offered me one of the crystal tumblers.
"It's after five o'clock, and technically you're off the clock until tomorrow's inspection." He pressed the glass into my hand,his fingers brushing mine in a contact that sent unwelcome heat up my arm. "Besides, I have a proposition for you."
I accepted the drink but didn't take a sip, studying his face for tells. "I'm listening."
"Tonight is our grand opening gala. Celebrities, high rollers, media—the works. I insist you attend." He settled into the chair across from me, completely at ease in his designer suit and surroundings that screamed old money despite his relatively recent success. "Consider it... educational."
"I don't think that would be appropriate—"
"Why? Because you're afraid you might actually enjoy yourself?" His eyes sparkled with mischief that was probably illegal in several states. "Or because you're afraid of what people might think?"
Both, I realized with uncomfortable clarity. Camilla's text message echoed in my mind:Politics matter more than perfection.Perhaps showing up would demonstrate my commitment to thorough oversight. Or perhaps it would be walking directly into whatever trap Easton was setting with his trademark cunning.
"The commission expects me to maintain boundaries," I said carefully.
"The commission expects you to do your job thoroughly and fairly. How can you assess the Jade Petal's operations without observing how we handle our biggest night?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and for a moment the polished facade slipped to reveal something more genuine underneath. "Unless you're concerned you can't remain objective around me."
Another challenge. Damn him and his ability to find exactly the right button to push.
"My objectivity has never been in question."
"Then prove it." For just a moment, his smile turned genuinely warm, transforming his entire face from handsome to devastating. "Come tonight. See what we've built here. Judge for yourself whether it meets your impossibly high standards."
I should say no. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to politely decline and maintain appropriate distance. But something in his expression—vulnerability beneath the confidence, genuine pride in what he'd accomplished—made me hesitate.
"I'll consider it," I heard myself saying.
"Excellent." He stood and moved to an antique desk in the corner, returning with a business card made of heavy stock that felt substantial between my fingers. "That has my direct line. Call if you need anything. Anything at all."
As I took the card, he caught my hand and held it just a moment longer than necessary. His skin was warm, callused in surprising places that suggested he did more than sit behind a desk all day.
"I'll have a dress sent to your hotel. Consider it a peace offering."
