Page 11 of Caruso
I indulge in that pastime occasionally. Seducing the clientele is a game we have all played without revealingour identities. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, and there are many willing women who pass through our gold-edged revolving doors.
Not tonight, though. I have a more fascinating option, and as she wanders into the room, my breath deserts me.
She is stunning.
Her hair is washed and tumbles on top of her head, framing her beautiful face that requires no make-up at all. Her huge eyes burn into mine with curiosity rather than desire, and her slender frame is accentuated by the gold sequined dress I delivered to her closet. I ordered it from the store we use when we have guests, and I obviously guessed her size correctly. She is barefoot, no high heels needed because she must stand five feet seven, a tall, willowy beauty who would grace a catwalk in the starring role she is so beautiful.
I watch her approach, my whiskey swirling around the crystal glass I have grasped in my hand, and as I admire her, she holds eye contact, a small smile of appreciation on her lips.
“Matteo.”
“Taylor.”
She smiles, her perfect white smile a natural one rather than from a dentist’s chair.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Water, please.”
I raise my eyes, and she shrugs. “I never drink any different unless you count two coffees a day, one when I wake and one after dinner.”
I note her slender frame and wonder if food featuresmuch in her life, and I point to the table I had set for two that sits beside a view of Vegas.
“I have water.”
She smiles as she makes for the seat, and I surprise myself by pulling the chair out like the gentleman I am definitely not.
As I push it home, my fingers brush against her neck, and a surprising sensation confuses me. Desire, lust, protective—mine.
All of the above, and as I pour her some water from the carafe, I wonder when I became a waiter in her life.
I take my seat opposite and regard her with curiosity. Her slender fingers grasp the glass as she sips small mouthfuls of the cool iced water. Her nails are bare, straight cut and unmanicured, reminding me of how different she is from the usual women I seek the company of.
She’s not of my world. We are oceans apart, and yet here we are now.
“The man you killed is named Zachariah Brown. He’s a salesman of men’s haircare products and travels most of the time.”
She says nothing and merely sips her water, listening as if I am discussing the weather.
“He is single, with no wife, no children and lives on a trailer park on the outskirts of Oregon. His record includes several appearances for rape, but they have never been proven, probably because he chooses maids and hookers to attack.”
She raises her eyes. ”And they don’t count, I presume.”
There’s steel in her gaze, and I shrug. “I never said that.”
I point to the covered dish in front of her.
“Please, I took the liberty of ordering a selection of starters. I wasn’t sure of your tastes.”
For the first time I get a reaction, and I’m mesmerized when her eyes soften and fill with grateful tears, and I openly stare.
“Thank you.”
Her voice trembles, and her fingers shake as she reaches for the water, and I realize how that one thoughtful act has undone her.
I’m guessing she hasn’t experienced many of those, and a protective streak powers through my soul.
Her eyes light up when she sees the carefully arranged delicacies my chef provided, and her smile almost blinds me with its brilliance.
