The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

That Painting is Mine

Jared

Tonight sucks. I don’t want to be here, schmoozing with these uppity, so-called high society buffoons. They pretend to accept me because, well, I’m me. Jared Hart. Owner of one of the most successful casinos on the strip.

But they don’t respect me. I can see it in their eyes. I’m thirty-five now, but they still see me as that twenty-two year old kid who inherited an empire from his dad. Destined to fail with no choice but to succeed.

And succeed, I did. I made The Black Hart what it is today, but none of that matters, because my dad started from nothing. He wasn’t born into money, so he was somehow less-than. New money. A street urchin in a two-thousand dollar suit.

I don’t give two shits what they think. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.

The Pollock.

My muscles tense as I look over at it. The gentleman I’m speaking to keeps rambling about some investment he thinks I’d be perfect for, but his words are muffled beneath the sound of blood whooshing through my ears.

My father bought that painting for my mother as an anniversary gift after their first year of marriage. It was her most-prized possession, displayed on her dining room wall for as long as I can remember…until last year.

Her second husband, a veritable snake oil salesman who conned her into believing he adored her, begged her to put it into storage because, and I quote, “It’s a grim reminder that you will never love me the way you loved him.”

Of course, she wouldn’t, fuck-face. My father was the love of her life. We lost him suddenly and unexpectedly to a heart attack thirteen years ago, and neither of us have fully moved on.

I’ve spent the years since trying to fill his shoes at the casino, and my mother hid in the home they shared for a decade before finally venturing out into the sun and getting back to the business of living. She met Harrison Ainsley—the third—shortly after that, and after a lengthy, devoted courtship, he begged her to marry him.

The marriage only lasted a little over a year. Harrison couldn’t handle playing second fiddle to the memory of my father, and Mom eventually tired of his constant whining over the matter. When he turned his ire on me, her only son, she’d had enough. She filed for a divorce, and he demanded alimony payments. In order to forego monthly payments and completely sever ties with the man, she told her lawyer to agree to anything.

She gave him ten million dollars, a vintage Rolls-Royce…and the Pollock.

She fought hard to keep it, but the dipshit refused to budge. He wanted the one thing most dear to her since she was supposedly taking away the thing most dear to him—herself. It was all a bunch of bullshit. Obviously.

He only wanted the Pollock to punish her for not adoring him the way he felt he deserved. Proof positive is sitting right across the room from me. He waited a mere six months before putting the painting up for auction.

And now, I’m going to have to pay tens of millions to get it back, most of which will go right into Harrison’s greedy paws.

Fuck.

I take a deep breath and refocus on the man before me. I’ve been nodding as he spoke, but I have no fucking clue what his proposition entails. I just hope he hasn’t taken my head bobbing as any sort of agreement.

“Excuse me, Mr. Pennybags, but I see someone I really must speak to,” I say.

“It’s Pennyworth,” he corrects me, and I give him a fake apology before making my escape.

The man obviously doesn’t realize he looks like Rich Uncle Pennybags from the iconic board game, and the similarity in his name is almost funny. Almost. Maybe tomorrow I’ll laugh about it.

But tonight, I have more important things to focus on. Tonight, that painting will be mine, a gift for my mother’s sixtieth birthday, which happens to be tomorrow. She has no idea dipshit-the-third put it up for auction, and I know it’s going to be the most wonderful of surprises when I present it to her…if I win it.

No. When I win it. Nothing—and I do mean nothing—is going to stop me from taking that painting home and making my mother happy again.

As I stroll toward the painting, I notice a woman studying it intently. Her bright red hair is pulled up into a low knot near her nape, a few loose tendrils escaping captivity to float around her neck. The black dress she’s wearing is simple and elegant, cinching in at the waist before flowing loosely around her knees.

She turns toward me, and I inhale harshly. She’s really pretty. Big blue eyes dominate her features, complimenting a pert little upturned nose and full, ruby-painted lips that match the shade of her hair.

On any other day, I might strike up a conversation. Maybe flirt a little to see if she might be up for a night of fun. Maybe even two nights.

But her stance puts me on edge. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s guarding the Pollock, those blue eyes daring anyone to so much as look in its direction.

Well, you have another thing coming, Red. That painting is mine.

Her eyes meet mine as I approach, and I see a flash of appreciation streak across her face before her features settle into a blank expression. I’m still several steps away when a voice booms through the sound system, asking everyone to take their seats so the auction can begin.