Play Me Wild (Play Me 1)

He nods. “Absolutely.”

“And I want a meeting with all the heads of daytime staff today. I want to ensure everyone from floor security to the check-in staff understands that turning a blind eye to that kind of harassment is not acceptable and will not be tolerated.” I glance at my watch as we head out of my office. “Let’s say eleven o’clock.”

I pause at my secretary’s desk. She’s in her fifties, smart, shrewd and from what I understand, completely loyal to my father. I’ve yet to decide if she’s transferring that loyalty to me—maybe because she hasn’t decided yet, either. I hope she does. I like her and think she makes a really strong addition to this office.

“Linda, I need you to make a meeting happen in one hour. Every head, director, and manager of every area of the casino during the daytime is to meet in the conference room. Please let them know that attendance is not optional. Then set up the same thing for the nighttime managers. Let’s do that one at nine, okay?”

“Absolutely. What should I tell them it’s about?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll fill them in.”

—

Twenty minutes later—after making a couple phone calls that turned out to be quite enlightening—I’m standing outside of Rubinov’s door, waiting for him to answer. Of course, it takes a couple of minutes—classic power play of the weak and narcissistic—and when he does finally open up, he’s dressed in one of the hotel’s robes and nothing else. Just to make sure I understand how unimportant I am to him. Just to make sure I understand how important he is and how he’s got control of the situation.

Too bad no one ever taught him that those who have real control, real power, never have to flaunt it.

It’s a mistake most rich men make and one I swore long ago that I never would. I grew up watching my father play these power games. I know all about how they work and maybe, if I wasn’t so pissed off, I’d be willing to show Mr. Rubinov just a little of the respect he thinks he’s due. But I am pissed off and I don’t give a shit about how important this fucking bastard thinks he is. He doesn’t get to assault women in my hotel and then come crying for compensation when he gets called on it.

“I was expecting you half an hour ago,” he says as he makes his way to the luxurious couch positioned to look out over the Strip. It’s a view I’ve grown up with and one that ceased to awe me a long time ago—but it’s one that visitors to Las Vegas never seem to get enough of. Although in the daytime, it doesn’t look much different from any other city—provided you don’t count the pyramids and water fountains, the replicas of the Eiffel Tower and the Empire State Building.

I very deliberately don’t apologize, just as I don’t wait for him to ask me to have a seat before I claim one for myself. His nostrils flare and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s not happy, but then, I’m not here to make him happy. Just because I have no interest in petty power trips doesn’t mean I don’t know how to control a situation when I want to.

Rubinov picks up a glass of water, vodka—I don’t know or care—and tosses the contents back in one long gulp as he waits for me to open the conversation. He has a long wait coming—he wanted this meeting, he can talk first.

The silence stretches between us, taut as one of the high wires at the Cirque du Soleil show that’s headlining the Atlantis right now. Rubinov shifts uncomfortably as the silence grows, but I don’t move, don’t speak. I barely blink as I keep my posture deliberately relaxed. And wait for him to crack.

It only takes a couple minutes before he’s barking something in Russian. Two naked girls come out of the bedroom. They look barely legal and though neither of them are currently wearing bruises, both look like they’re coming down from a week-long bender. They settle on the couch next to him and he pets them like a normal person would pet his dogs.

I’m smart enough to know he’s putting on a show for my benefit and still it sets my teeth on edge, has my shoulders tensing. Because while they look like they’re here of their own volition, I can’t be sure. Not with Todd’s words about how Rubinov makes his money running through my head like a ticker tape.

He picks that moment to speak. “I want the waitress fired. And my limit raised at the tables to twenty million a hand, unsecured. I’d like to stay an extra week—my girls have grown fond of this suite.” He shifts his hand a little, squeezes one of the girl’s nipples. She doesn’t flinch from his touch, instead arches into it, smiling, and I feel a trickle of relief make its way through my veins. I might be disgusted at how he treats these women, but at least they don’t seem to mind. It’s one less thing for me to worry about controlling in an already untenable situation.

“And my girls, they like pretty things. Jewelry, lingerie, the like.” He shrugs like the concept baffles him. Like he’s not wearing a hundred grand in gold and diamonds on his own work-hardened fingers. “It would make me very happy for them to have whatever they want from the shops on the promenade level. And, of course, the spa as well.”

He looks me in the eye. “Whatever they want. If this is what happens, I am sure I’ll be able to forget the unfortunate incident that occurred last night.”

“Unlimited access to the shops and the spa,” I repeat. “An extra week at my hotel, comped, of course. A higher, unsecured limit at the tables. Do I have your demands correct?”

“Requests,” he tells me with a smile that says they are indeed demands. And that he is sure he is in control—all of which shows what a fool he really is. “That whore. She needs to be fired. I was assured by your employee that this has already taken place, but I want your assurance as well.”

I take a minute to decide what tack I want to take, but honestly, I’m out of patience with this bastard and his bloated sense of self-importance. It might be fun to play with him a little, to bat him back and forth like a cat does with a mouse, but I’ve never really had the stomach for games like that. Even when it comes to jerks like this.

So, instead of letting him twist himself up even more in his demands, instead of letting him think for one more second that he’s got the Atlantis—that he’s got me—on the run, I look him straight in the eye and say, “No.”

It takes a moment for the word to register, for the complacent and avaricious look to fade from his eyes and confusion to take its place. “I do not understand.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, as I thought no was fairly self-explanatory.”

He looks like a fish, his mouth opening and shutting like a guppy’s as he gapes at me. Then he’s barking at the girls in Russian and they’re jumping up from the couch, running back into the bedroom and slamming the door behind them. Not that that’s exactly a shock. Ego is always the place to hit guys like this.

“I assume you are joking,” he tells me after the sound of the door slamming fades.

“You assume incorrectly. But since you seem to be having trouble understanding me, let me spell things out for you. No to the extra week. No to the raise at the tables. No to the comped visits to the stores and spa for your `girls.’ And definitely no to firing the cocktail waitress, whose name is Aria, by the way, for doing what any number of my employees should have done. Does that make my position on this situation clear?”

Rubinov’s face is bright red by now and it’s only basic human biology that is keeping steam from coming out of his ears. “You think this is a game?” he demands. “You think you can fuck with me on this? I’ll destroy this casino.”

“You’re welcome to try,” I tell him. “I don’t think you’ll get very far—I saw the film of what was happening when my waitress hit you. She was very definitely trying to stop an assault that was in progress.”