The elevator dinged, finally, and the doors opened into the foyer of the four-thousand-square-foot suite overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. If the day had not been so overcast and gray, I was certain the view from the arched windows that bracketed the fireplace would have been even more impressive, especially when night fell and the neon glow of the city cast its spell.
“Look, it’s Ass.” Someone drawled out the first syllable of her name, and when Astor did a slow pan to me, I gave her a wink.
“Courage, dear heart,” I whispered, and she gave me a nod, recognizing and appreciating that I was quoting C.S. Lewis for her.
When the man called her name again, she turned from me at the same time that he rushed across the room, arms open wide to receive her.
There were no pictures in the file; there never were. Jared didn’t like us to make snap judgments about people based on their appearance. The thing was, though, when people were rich or famous, all it took was an image search in Google to get what you needed.
This was not Brigham Stanton.
Nolan Stanton looked a bit like his brother, but whereas Brigham stood at six-three, Nolan was shorter at six-one, and didn’t have his brother’s perfect swimmer’s build. Every picture I’d found of Brigham, whether in a tuxedo, cargo shorts and a T-shirt, board shorts, or jeans and a sport coat, showed the same defined, sculpted physique. The man put as much time into his body as he did the other areas of his life, which was why he could have walked the catwalk in Paris or Milan if he hadn’t decided on business instead. Nolan, on the other hand, would not have been given the option. That wasn’t to say that he wasn’t a fine-looking man, with the same russet and mahogany-brown hair and dark sapphire blue eyes, but the difference was in how the two men carried themselves. Nolan didn’t cut an imposing figure. Brigham, in all the pictures I’d seen, carried himself like a king.
Nolan Stanton was gracious when he turned and greeted me, shaking my hand firmly and welcoming me to another tedious weekend in Vegas. I had a moment to wonder what the draw was for him right before his smile went from polite to dazzling.
“Hello,” a blond man called to us as he walked into the living room. “I’m Chase Baldwin; I don’t think we’ve met.”
I offered him my hand. “I’m Croy, Brigham’s friend. He invited me along for the weekend. I hope it’s not a bother.”
“Oh no,” he said, studying my face. “Not at all.”
He squeezed my hand and held on a bit longer than was customary. It would be rude to ease myself free of his grip if he wasn’t ready to let go, and I guessed, in the way his brows pinched together, there was more he wanted to say.
“Originally, I thought it was just going to be Brig and me on a—but then he suggested the whole Vegas thing, and there’s no arguing with him, so…here we are.”
I waited, because sometimes staying quiet gave people the moment they needed.
He coughed softly. “I was surprised when he told me Astor was coming,” he said under his breath, and I heard the ache in the words.
Chase Baldwin had a plan. An agenda. He had hoped it would be just him and Brigham celebrating his becoming partner. This was supposed to be his weekend, and he had looked forward to it being just the two of them. The question was, why? Why wasn’t a big party with lots of alcohol, maybe drugs, shows, gambling, and even women, appealing to him? It was a true Vegas weekend. Why didn’t he want that?
If Jared had been there beside me, he would have warned me to stop obsessing over something so benign. The Jared in my head was right. The point was to deal with what was on the surface, not dredge for what was below. People didn’t like to spill their secrets, no matter how insignificant they might be.
“Vegas not your scene?” I asked him nonchalantly.
“No, it’s—fine,” he said hoarsely, like he was choking down his heart.
“Who the hell is this?” a voice called out as another man advanced on us, smiling wide.
I took the offered hand and met Tremont William Ashcroft the Third, who was tall and blond with a ready grin and chiseled features. He squeezed my shoulder in a warm greeting.
There were others who followed, quite a few, whose names I heard and promptly forgot, because I wasn’t here to make friends. Jared had been right, though. They’d have fit right into my former life, and I’d have to remember to apologize to him when I checked in tomorrow, for questioning his judgment.
I’d had it all too, fifteen years ago—the boarding schools and country clubs and the trust fund. Anything and everything I could’ve possibly wanted. Then it all came crashing down when, at seventeen and a freshly minted high school graduate, I came out to my parents. And they, in turn, promptly disowned and disinherited me for what they deemed my “moral turpitude.” Yes, I was the throwaway kid, and had it not been for our family lawyer, Mr. Abernathy, who’d had to fight for the twenty thousand dollars my parents eventually agreed to give me—he’d paid for the one-way ticket to California himself—who knows how I’d have ended up. The choice to have faith in anyone but myself had been shelved with their betrayal. Now, at thirty-two, the walls I had built were solid. No one got in.