King of Diamonds (Vegas Underground 1)

And then we break apart. I stagger to the bathroom to dispose of the condom.

When I come back, Sondra’s sitting up, eyes wide and frightened. She stands and pulls down her skirt.

“Hey.” I reach for her, but she turns away. I pull her back against my front, wrap my arms around her and hold her fast. “You’re scared.”

She draws in a long, shaky breath.

“Don’t be scared of me, piccolina. I’m a dick. I say asshole things. Doesn’t mean I don’t respect you.” I turn her to face me. She bursts into tears again and I go ice cold. What have I done? “I’m sorry.” I cup the back of her head, lift her face to me. “Did I hurt you? Look at me, Sondra. Please? Did you feel like I forced you?”

“No.” She answers immediately, which gives me some measure of relief.

“What is it, then?”

She wipes her tears. “It was just intense.”

I pull her right up against my body, hold her tight. “Hell, yeah, it was intense. For me, too.”

She blinks those big blue eyes at me. “Why was it intense for you?”

I consider for a moment. I want to answer truthfully, but the answer scares the shit out of me.

Because she cares. She cares about me. And our relationship.

And this is exactly why I shouldn’t be messing with sweet Sondra Simonson. Because I’m not even remotely available. Even if I wasn’t promised to another, I can’t devote the time and attention to her that she deserves. Just look how poorly tonight went—our date ruined by the kind of mishap that happens hourly around here.

Sondra’s already giving me her heart, and I’d be the worst kind of stronzo to take it.

The very worst.

Sondra

“So you’ll help?”

Nico grimaces, but he nods. “I’ll help you.”

I clutch his arm. “You won’t hurt him?”

His nostrils flare. “I can’t fucking stand you begging me on his behalf, bambi.”

I can’t really stand it, either. Tanner shouldn’t be screwing up my relationship with Nico. But I feel responsible for taking the car. I knew when I did it, it was the wrong thing to do, but I wanted to punish him. But not with death.

I drop my forehead against his chest and he strokes the back of my neck. I still can’t believe such a powerful man is so into me, but knowing he’s willing to give me this means everything.

“I won’t hurt him,” he mutters, disgust registering in his voice. “But if it costs me thirty large, I’m going to take payment out on your ass.”

I jerk my head up to read his expression and find him smirking. My butt clenches at the threat. Does he mean more spanking? Because I pretty much loved every time he’s done it.

“Give me the details on the car. I’ll send my guys over there tonight to find the drugs.” I tell him everything I can about the car and the salvage yard and he gets on his phone and barks orders. When he hangs up, I thank him.

“Do I still get my surprise?”

He barks out that booming laugh and it seems to surprise even him. “Yes, piccolina. Come on.” He grabs my hand and suddenly we’re headed out the door of his suite, back into the elevator. He uses his keycard to punch in a number, which means we’re going to a private floor. I’m intrigued.

He pushes me up against the elevator wall and claims my mouth, not stopping the kiss until the doors open and I squirm. Then he turns on a dime and tugs me out of the elevator, moving briskly through what appear to be management offices. We arrive at a door flanked by two security guards.

“Mr. Tacone.” They nod their deferential greetings. Nico presses his thumb to the pad, then brings his eye level for a retinal scan.

High tech.

The heavy door unclicks and one of the guards pulls it open for us.

We step into a giant, room-sized safe. Carts of neatly bundled cash make my eyes bug out, but Nico heads over to a cabinet, which he opens. He pulls out a rectangular object draped in black cloth.

Art.

I rush to his side, my heart already beating faster. I know before he uncovers it it’s a Picasso. Even so, a shudder of pleasure, of recognition, runs through me. It’s from his blue period, of a woman sitting in a chair.

“Nico,” I breathe. “Where did you get this?”

He doesn’t look at the painting at all—he’s only watching my reaction to it.

“I occasionally collect debt payment in the form of fine art and gems.”

“Do you know what this is worth?”

“I had it valued.” He says this casually, like the ten million-dollar painting isn’t what interests him.

“What’s the name of this one? I’ve never seen pictures of it.”

“Woman in Chair.” He reaches in the cabinet and pulls out another painting, then another. He unveils four Picassos, one Rembrandt, two Rothkos and a Renoir.