Say You Need Me Read online

  Trent walked around the first floor, though he knew that if security caught him on the premises he’d be arrested on the spot. He was counting on the six intervening years to have wrought personnel changes and faded memories. He wasn’t here to make trouble. Only to pay tribute. In a few minutes, he’d move on.

  Indignant-woman noises punctuated his reminiscence. Garbled words, spoken in a low hiss, then louder, reached his ears. Security guards appeared from shadows and swarmed toward the elegant lobby.

  “Let go of me! I need my things. You can’t just toss me out with—oof.” A flash of long leg, obscured high at the thigh by a flash of jade green appeared at the center of a cluster of security guards.

  Time for him to go. Damsels in distress were usually up to no good in this town. He knew from crushing experience. Whatever heart he’d had left had been smashed, stomped, and blown to pieces when Penelope betrayed him.

  Bad Penny. A name he’d rather forget. One imprinted indelibly on his soul.

  Penelope, whom he’d met in this very casino. She’d been far away from this luxury, or faux luxury, when she’d nearly died. It might’ve been a kinder fate than the heroin that had eaten her from the inside out.

  At least he’d escaped. He was sworn off rescuing Vegas damsels, for life.

  “Can I at least get my stuff?” The angry woman pulled futilely against the burly guards. Her gold high heels threatened to rip holes in the carpeting.

  She didn’t stand a chance. Trent relived the helpless feeling for a moment. Then he took one last look at the elegant light fixture and the glittery gold lights and plush red velvet of the Astoria, tossed his suit jacket over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

  Sunglasses topped the bridge of his nose even before he made it to the first set of darkly tinted automatic doors, but he ducked his head as the security guards returned into the building. Just in case.

  They passed him without a second glance.

  “Send someone upstairs and get her boyfriend to pack her bag. I’ll take it out to her if she’s still there.”

  She was. The skimpy strapless dress looked cheap and trashy in the broad light of day. Her bare shoulders shook. Crying, probably.

  No tan lines.

  The expanse of smooth, evenly tanned skin between the bright fabric and the thick dark hair between her shoulder blades would be the first thing he noticed. The sight made his cock perk up.

  Down, boy.

  Trent glanced at his watch. Quarter to noon. The conference sessions that had broken fifteen minutes ago wouldn’t resume for more than an hour yet. He ought to find out where the attendees were clustering for lunch and try to make some business contacts. It was the only reason he’d come back to this town. Otherwise, he was content to never set foot in Las Vegas again for as long as he lived.

  She wobbled a few steps away, then stopped as though unsure where to go. Trent sighed. He could at least let her know she’d get her belongings back if she hung around. “You all right?”

  The girl stiffened as though he’d smacked her. A loud sniff. Then she raked back her mane of dark hair and rubbed beneath her eyes, a gesture that turned the dark smudges of mascara into huge circles. Like Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra, minus the poise.

  “Fine.” She glanced over her shoulder as though trying to figure out the best way to run if he attacked her in the middle of the street at high noon. The sun was at its zenith in the sky, the air hot and unforgiving.

  Then Cleopatra turned to face him directly. It was as if the sun had fallen out of the sky and landed on him.

  Holy tits, Batman.

  Trent choked. The tiny scrap of a dress clung to the two biggest, perkiest breasts he’d ever seen defying gravity sans bra. The distinct shape of nipples dead in the center of each globe strongly suggested he bend down and suck them until they pulled into hard, tight buds.

  The rest of the woman read his mind, and was less than enthusiastic about the direction of his thoughts. Her raccoon-rimmed eyes flared wide with outrage.

  He jerked his attention away. It’d been years since he’d been near a woman, and he wasn’t about to break his celibate streak with this one. If she was a woman and not a confused teenager. She looked very young.

  “Here.” He held out the suit jacket he was carrying over his shoulder. “I overheard the security guys saying they’d bring your things out if you stick around.”

  She sniffed and reached for the jacket. Then, she turned away to push her arms into the sleeves so he couldn’t get a second look at her.

  Trent turned away, too, trying to erase the image of Cleopatra’s rack from his memory.

  “Thank you.”

  He spoke over his shoulder, not trusting himself to keep his eyes where they belonged. “You’re welcome. I’m staying at the hotel across the street. When you get things sorted out here, you can leave it at the front desk.”

  “What’s your name? So I know what to tell the clerk.”

  Right, she didn’t care to know the name of the guy who’d shown a little kindness. He didn’t want to know hers, either. Trent knew she’d caught him checking her out, but he hadn’t been a complete asshole about it, and she probably got that reaction all the time. Understandable if she wasn’t in the mood for a pickup line, but he hadn’t offered one.

  “Mason.”

  “First or last?”

  “Both.” The less Cleopatra knew about him, the better. The less anyone knew about him, the better. “Here’s the guards. Good luck with everything.”

  “You too. Thanks again.”

  Clearly, she was a nice girl. Well-bred, probably had two married parents and a nice suburban upbringing. Like he’d had once. Before they’d died, and he’d gone off the rails with grief and teenage hormones. He was old enough now to know better than to get dragged into whatever trouble she was in.

  Trent was here for business, and it was time he got back to it. He waited at the curb for the traffic to clear. The Las Vegas strip was always busy, but if you caught the lights right you could make it across the street without walking to the corner. He’d hit them dead wrong, so he was still standing there, eyeballing cars, when Cleopatra’s outraged voice rang out.

  “Son of a fucking bitch!”

  Whew. The girl could cuss. Trent chuckled. It was almost funny to hear the string of foul language come from a cute chick. Maybe she wasn’t as young as she looked. Whoever she was, she reminded him of Penny, only with a worse attitude.

  “Goddamned bastard stole it. Wait. Come back—my wallet’s missing. My driver’s license, my debit card, my phone. They’re all gone. How the hell will I get home? Wait!”

  Trent turned to see the guards manhandling her away from the Astoria’s front door. One of two refrigerator-box-sized men grabbed her by the collar of his favorite suit jacket and dragged her back to the little pile of items on the sidewalk. He winced and hoped it hadn’t torn.

  “Stop touching me, you oaf!” Cleopatra fought the good fight, but it was hopelessly one-sided and she was losing.

  There was a tearing sound, and then the giant shoved her away. Trent closed the distance in two strides to steady her. Cleopatra gaped up at him with fierce green eyes that stole his breath.

  “You won’t win,” he told her. “Do you want to file a police report about your wallet?”

  She pulled away hard, out of his grasp. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t.”

  Oh, shit. Now he for sure didn’t want to know what she was into. “Is there someone you can call?”

  “No. I have to figure this out on my own.” Her hands shook as she bent and rummaged through her scant belongings, searching desperately for something that didn’t appear to be there.

  Pride. Trent recognized it, and pitied her for it. If she was into drugs, or prostitution, or any variation of those problems, he couldn’t help her. He couldn’t go down that road again.

  Cleopatra stuffed a jumble of soft fabric back into the small du
ffel bag and slung it over her shoulder as she stood up. She heaved a great sigh. It would’ve done wonderful things to her breasts if they hadn’t been obscured by his ruined jacket. It covered more of her body than her dress did.

  But he was trying not to think about that.

  “You’ve been very kind, Mason. I hate to ask this. May I borrow your hotel room for a few minutes to clean up and change clothes? I’ll get out of your hair right afterward. Promise.”

  Clean up, as in wash the makeup off her face.

  Change clothes, as in get naked before putting on something less slutty. Or not. She could hang out naked and a certain part of his anatomy wouldn’t mind a bit.

  He’d bet his left testicle Cleo shined up like a new penny.

  Bad Penny. Bad memories. A good reminder, though, of why he had to get Cleopatra Trouble Tits out of his life immediately.

  “Sure.” Well. His dick had won control of his mouth, and his brain was left flashing silent red warning signs.

  You’d have wanted someone to be kind to Penny if she was in a bad situation.

  Yeah, and she’d have made them regret it.

  History might not repeat itself, but as the saying went, it often rhymed.

  * * *

  How the ever-loving hell had she gotten herself into this mess?

  Janelle hunched her shoulders down inside the too-large suit jacket. It smelled of Mason, which was strangely comforting given she’d met him barely ten minutes ago. The warm, faintly spicy scent and the breadth of the jacket’s shoulders were the ghost hug she desperately needed to get through this humiliating shit show.

  Unlike Crystal, she hadn’t gotten a Barry for a sugar daddy.

  On the last night she’d had her own internet access in her own apartment, Janelle had submitted a brief and thoroughly halfhearted application to the website Crystal had sent. The application fee was fifty bucks, but it was refunded if they didn’t accept you. There was no risk, and she was desperate enough to try it.

  Janelle’s money had bounced back to her bank account a few days later.

  Rejected.

  We look for sugar babies of your age who are either enrolled in graduate school or pursuing non-remunerative employment (i.e., internship). Your credit report is an additional source of concern. Babies with poor credit have been known to attempt blackmail or other illegal extortion of their Daddies.

  Of course. Her entire life could be reduced to a three-digit summary: not trustworthy.

  But…her age? She’d just turned twenty-five, and she was too old?

  Rage of a kind she’d never experienced had blinded her for the last few hours of unpacking at her parents’ house. It wasn’t that she wanted to screw some guy having a midlife crisis for money; it was the principle.

  This should’ve been the nail in the coffin of her sugar baby experience, but pride had intervened. She was not too old, and she was going to prove it. In a fit of fury, she’d gone online and filled out applications at two other, less reputable-looking websites. One rejected her.

  The other called a week later.

  “I see you have some boundaries. No married men,” the woman on the phone noted. “No bondage, no threesomes, no more than two encounters a month, no anal sex, no rough play, no…is there anything you are willing to do?”

  “Oral sex,” she offered begrudgingly. “If I have to.”

  Janelle liked giving head, but the concept of doing it for a stranger was too weird to be more than abstraction.

  “Role play?” the agent countered.

  “I cannot imagine adults getting off by playing dress up. No.”

  “You’re limiting your prospects,” the woman replied crankily.

  Yeah, well, Janelle was used to not having a lot of options.

  “Is there anything else you’re willing to do?”

  “Travel,” Janelle said immediately. “But the, uh, daddy has to pay for all expenses.”

  Thus, she’d been matched with exactly one prospect. She’d spoken with Kyle, aka Rich Jerk (aka her new sugar daddy) on the phone twice, and bought a plane ticket to Las Vegas at his request. He’d promised to pay her back when they met. Janelle had scheduled a Friday and a Monday off from work and flown into McCarran International Thursday evening, ahead of Rich Jerk’s arrival. Since then, not one thing had gone according to plan.

  Now she was trotting after a tall, broad-shouldered, extremely good-looking man with only one name, while looking like she’d fallen off the back of a paddy wagon full of hookers.

  “Mace,” a male voice rang out. Her protector turned. Janelle kept walking as though she didn’t know him, eyes glued to the hideous hotel carpet. She turned the corner and waited out of sight.

  A minute later, “Mace” Mason appeared. She inhaled and finally took a good look at the man who’d gone above and beyond to help her. He had to top six feet, and Janelle was certain his muscles had muscles. Thick biceps stretched the fabric of his dress shirt. “Please don’t tell me my rescuer’s nicknamed for pepper spray.”

  Her reluctant protector’s mouth quirked up at the corners. She’d made him laugh, or at least, almost smile. This was the first good look she’d gotten at his eyes since he’d whipped his sunglasses off on entering the building. They were dead sexy, deep blue and fringed with lashes that would’ve made any girl abandon mascara for life if she’d been lucky enough to own them.

  “No, for a blunt weapon from the Middle Ages,” he shot back.

  “Too bad it’s not the spice.” Janelle inhaled, and all it did was send a hit of pheromones straight to her brain. He stared at her a long moment. Yeah, dumb comment. Her mind was busy plotting how to get her wallet and phone back so she could get on the first plane back to Florida. It had nothing to do with the weird drugged sensation that came with being near Mysterious Mace Mason, hottie and, apparently, decent human being.

  The world could use a few more of those.

  She’d have to meet him looking like this, too. It was too much to ask fate to show any hint of mercy.

  Janelle followed him into the smallest hotel room she’d ever seen. Instead of the usual double queen beds, there was only one. Shoved against the far wall was a two-seater couch, next to a chair and a table that could be used as a desk. Facing the bed, there was a clunky dresser topped with a large television. In other words, it was a normal hotel room except for the size.

  Small hotel room. Muscular, attractive man. What could go wrong?

  “I’ll just be a minute.” She pushed the bathroom door open, hung Mason’s jacket on the back of the door, and upended her sloppily packed bag. Then she ripped off the skimpy dress she’d packed to make an impression, never once imagining it would be seen outside the confines of a hotel room, and stuffed it down to the very bottom of the bag. The gold heels almost chipped the tile wall, she kicked them off so hard.

  Janelle cringed at the sight that greeted her in the harsh light over the mirror. The toiletries by the sink were still wrapped. Janelle tore the paper off a small bar of soap and rubbed her hands in the water, then scrubbed her face until it was clean of makeup. Afterwards, she tugged on a bra, t-shirt and leggings and finally stuffed everything back into her bag and squared her shoulders.

  The least she could do was try to mend Mason’s torn jacket.

  “Feel better?” he asked as she emerged.

  Janelle nodded, hardly able to look at him. “I think I can fix this.”

  Mason plucked the fine wool from her hands. “Right now, you have bigger problems. I’m going out for a sandwich. Want one?”

  “I don’t have any money. It was in my wallet.” She was always broke, but she’d never been penniless until now.

  “It’s a sandwich. Don’t worry about it.” He’d rolled up his sleeves so his sinewy forearms showed. His hair was short on the sides, a little longer on the top, like someone in the military who’d recently been discharged and hadn’t quite adapted to civilian life yet.

  “Why are you being nice to me?�
� Janelle pulled at the hem of her shirt. It was a V-neck and clingy, not her usual style, but all the clothes she’d brought were revealing. By her standards, anyway.

  “Good question. Maybe I should throw you out of here, like those bouncers did.”

  Mason took one step closer, and for a second she thought he’d do it. Her heart flapped like a pigeon desperate to take flight, but all he did was reach for her shoulder bag and drop it onto the couch.

  “I’m leaving my phone here, unlocked. If there’s anyone you can call for help, do it while I’m not here to listen. I’m here for a conference, and I can’t babysit you.”

  “I’m self-sufficient.”

  Mason raised an eyebrow. Janelle ducked her head. His skepticism was warranted.

  “Go to your conference, I’ll figure something out. Promise. I’m not a mooch.” The instant Mace departed, Janelle reached for the phone. She sucked in a hard breath and dialed her own mobile phone number.

  A familiar male voice answered. “Janelle?”

  She shivered as the air conditioning chilled the sudden sweat that broke out over her neck. “Kyle.”

  “If you want your wallet and phone back, get back here and get naked. Now.”

  “I’m not doing that.”

  A beat of silence. “I’ll ruin you.”

  Janelle’s teeth caught her lower lip. The words were punch in the gut. “I’ll report you.”

  He laughed. “For what? Rape? Assault? You consented. In writing.”

  “For being an asshole,” she seethed, knowing full well she’d have a hard time convincing anyone she’d resisted, and he’d insisted, even after she’d emphatically told him no.

  Kyle laughed, that rat bastard. “There’s no statute against hurting your feelings. But prostitution is definitely illegal. So is breach of contract. I can sue you.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Oh yes you did. If you want to go crawling back to your pathetic life in Florida without anyone knowing what you’ve done, you’ll come back to this hotel room and get on all fours. Naked. You’ll pretend to enjoy everything I do to you or everyone in your contacts is going to get a copy of the little video I made this morning. Check your email.”