Читать книгу All or Nothing - Catherine Mann - Страница 8

Monte Carlo, Casino de la Méditerranée

It wasn’t every day that a woman bet her five-carat, yellow-diamond engagement ring at a roulette table. But it was the only way Jayne Hughes could think of to get her pigheaded husband to take the rock back.

She’d left Conrad messages, telling him to contact her attorney. Conrad ignored them. Her lawyer had called his, to no avail. Divorce papers had been couriered, hand delivered to Conrad’s personal secretary, who’d been told not to sign for them under any circumstances.

As Jayne angled through the crush of gamblers toward the roulette table, her fist closed around the engagement ring Conrad had given her seven years ago. Since he owned the Casino de la Méditerranée, if she lost the long-shot bet, the ring would be back in his possession All or nothing, she had to lose to win. She just wanted a clean break and no more heartache.

Jayne plunked down the ring on the velvet square for 12 red. The anniversary of their breakup fell on January 12, next week. They’d spent three years of their seven years married apart. By now Conrad should have been able to accept that so they could move on with their lives.

Familiar sounds echoed up the domed ceiling, chimes and laughter, squeals of excitement mixed with the “ahhhh” of defeat. She’d called these walls full of frescoes home for the four years they’d lived together as man and wife. Even though she moved with ease here now, she’d grown up in a more down-to-earth home in Miami. Her father’s dental practice had kept them very comfortable. Of course, they would have been a lot more comfortable had her father not been hiding away a second family.

Regardless, her parents’ finances were nowhere close to touching the affluence of this social realm.

Her ring had been a Van Cleef & Arpels, one-of-a-kind design that had dazzled her back when she believed in fairy tales.

Cinderella had left the building. Jayne’s glass slipper had been shattered right along with her heart. Prince Charming didn’t exist. She made her own destiny and would take charge of her own life.

Nodding to the croupier in charge of spinning the wheel, she nudged her ring forward, centering it on the number 12 red. The casino employee tugged his tie and frowned, looking just past her shoulders and giving her only a second’s warning before …

Conrad.

She could feel his presence behind her without looking. And how damn unfair was that? Even after three years apart, never once laying eyes on him the entire time, her body still knew him. Wanted him. Her skin tingled under the silky beige gown and her mind filled with memories of spending an entire weekend making love with the Mediterranean breeze blowing in through the balcony doors.

Conrad’s breath caressed her ear an instant ahead of his voice. “Gaming plaques can be obtained to your left, mon amour.”

My love.

Hardly. More like his possession. “And divorce papers can be picked up from my lawyer.”

She was a hospice nurse. Not a freaking princess.

“Now why would I want to split up when you look hot enough to melt a man’s soul?” A subtle shift of his feet brought him closer until his fire seared her back as tangibly as the desire—and anger—pumping through her veins.

She pivoted to face him, bracing for the impact of his good looks.

Simply seeing him sent her stomach into a predictable tumble. She resented the way her body reacted to him. Why, why, why couldn’t her mind and her hormones synch up?

His jet-black hair gleamed under the massive crystal chandeliers and she remembered the thick texture well, surprisingly soft and totally luxurious. She’d spent many nights watching him sleep and stroking her fingers along his hair. With his eyes closed, the power of his espresso-brown gaze couldn’t persuade her to go against her better judgment. He didn’t sleep much, an insomniac, as if he couldn’t surrender control to the world even for sleep. So she’d cherished those rare, unguarded moments to look at him.

Women stared and whispered whenever Conrad Hughes walked past. Even now they didn’t try to hide open stares of appreciation. He was beyond handsome in his tuxedo—or just wearing jeans and a T-shirt—in a bold and brooding way. While one hundred percent an American from New York, he had the exotic look of some Italian or Russian aristocrat from another century.

He was also chock-full of arrogance.

Conrad scooped the five-carat diamond off the velvet, and she only had a second to celebrate her victory before he placed it in her palm, closing her fingers back over the ring. The cool stone warmed with his hand curling hers into a fist.

“Conrad,” she snapped, tugging.

“Jayne,” he rumbled right back, still clasping until the ring cut into her skin. Shifting, he tucked alongside her. “This is hardly the place for our reunion.”

He started walking and since he still held her hand, she had no choice but to go along, past the murmuring patrons and thick carved pillars. Familiar faces broke up the mass of vacationers, but she couldn’t pause to make idle chitchat, pretending to be happy around old friends and employees.

Her husband’s casino provided a gathering place for the elite, even royalty. At last count, he owned a half dozen around the world, but the Casino de la Méditerranée had always been his favorite, as well as his primary residence. The old-world flair included antique machines and tables, even though their internal mechanisms were upgraded to state of the art.

People vacationed here to cling to tradition, dressed to the nines in Savile Row tuxedos and Christian Dior evening gowns. Diamonds and other jewels glittered, no doubt original settings from Cartier to Bvlgari. Her five-carat ring was impressive, no question, but nothing out of the ordinary at the Casino de la Méditerranée.

Her high heels clicked faster and faster against the marble tiles, her black metallic bag slipping down to her elbow in her haste. “Stop. It. Now.”

“No. Thanks.” He stopped in front of the gilded elevator, his private elevator, and thumbed the button.

“God, you’re still such a sarcastic ass.” She sighed under her breath.

“Well, damn.” He hooked an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve never heard that before. Thanks for enlightening me. I’ll take it under advisement.”

Jayne shrugged off his arm and planted her heels.

“I am not going up to your suite.”

“Our penthouse apartment.” He plucked the ring from her hand and dropped it into her black bag hanging from her shoulder. “Our home.”

A home? Hardly. But she refused to argue with him here in the lobby where anyone could listen. “Fine, I need to talk to you. Alone.”

The doors slid open. He waived the elevator attendant away and led her inside, sealing them in the mirrored cubicle. “Serving the papers won’t make me sign them.”

So she’d noticed, to her intense frustration. “You can’t really intend to stay married and live apart forever.”

“Maybe I just wanted you to have the guts to talk to me in person rather than through another emissary—” his deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners “—to tell me to my face that you’re prepared to spend the rest of your life never again sharing the same bed.”

Sharing a bed again?

Not a chance.

She couldn’t trust him, and after what happened with her father? She refused to let any man fool her the way her mother had been duped—or to break her heart the way her mother had been heartbroken. “You mean sharing the same bed whenever you happen to be in town after disappearing for weeks on end. We’ve been over this a million times. I can’t sleep with a man who keeps secrets.”

He stopped the elevator with a quick jab and faced her, the first signs of frustration stealing the smile from him. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“No. You just walk away when you don’t want to answer the question.”

He was a smart man. Too smart. He played with words as adeptly as he played with money. At only fifteen years old, he’d used his vast trust fund to manipulate the stock market. He’d put more than one crook out of business with short sales, and nearly landed himself in a juvenile detention center. His family’s influence worked the system. He’d been sentenced by a judge to attend a military reform school instead, where he hadn’t reformed in the least, only fine-tuned his ability to get his way.

God help her, she still wasn’t immune to him, a large part of why she’d kept her distance and tried to instigate the divorce from overseas. The last straw in their relationship had come when she’d had a scare with a questionable mammogram. She’d desperately needed his support, but couldn’t locate him for nearly a week, the longest seven days of her life.

Her health concerns turned out to be benign, but her fears for her marriage? One hundred percent malignant. Out of respect for what they’d shared, she’d waited for Conrad to come home. She’d given him one last chance to be honest with her. He’d fed her the same old tired line about conducting business and how she should trust him.

She’d walked out that night with only a carry-on piece of luggage. If only she’d thought to leave her rings behind then.

Standing here in the intimate confines of the elevator, with classical music piping through the sound system, she could only think of the time he’d pressed her to the mirrored wall and made love to her until she could barely think, much less remember to ask him where he’d been for the past two weeks.

And still he wasn’t talking, damn him. “Well, Conrad? You don’t have anything to say?”

“The real problem here is not me. It’s that you don’t know how to trust.” He skimmed his finger along the chain strap of her black metallic shoulder bag and hitched it back in place. “I am not your father.”

His words turned residual passion into anger—and pain. “That’s a low blow.”

“Am I wrong?”

He stood an inch away, so close they could lose themselves in a kiss instead of the ache of all this self-awareness. But she couldn’t travel that path again. She stepped closer, drawn by the scent of him, the deep ache in her belly to have his lips on hers. The draw was so intense it took everything inside her to step back.

“If you’re so committed to the truth, then how about proving you’re not your father.”

When Conrad had been arrested as a teen, the papers ran headlines, Like Father, Like Son. His embezzling dad had escaped conviction as well for his white-collar crimes thanks to that same high-priced lawyer.

In her heart she knew her husband wasn’t like his old man. Conrad had hacked into all those Wall Street companies to expose his father and others like him. She knew intellectually … but the evasiveness, the walls between them … She just couldn’t live that way.

She reached into her large, dangling evening bag and pulled out the folded stack of papers. “Here. I’m saving you a trip to the lawyer’s office.”

She pushed them against Conrad’s chest and hit the elevator button for her floor, a guest suite, because she couldn’t stomach the notion of staying in their old quarters, which she’d once decorated with hope and love.

“Conrad, consider yourself officially served. Don’t worry about the ring. I’ll sell it and donate the money to charity. All I need from you is your signature.”

The elevator doors slid open at her floor, not his, not their old penthouse, but a room she’d prearranged under a different name. Her head held high, she charged out and into the carpeted corridor.

She walked away from Conrad, almost managing to ignore the fact that he still had the power to break her heart all over again.

Conrad had made ten fortunes by thirty-two years old and had given away nine. But tonight, he’d finally hit the jackpot with his biggest win in three years. He had a chance for closure with Jayne so she wouldn’t haunt his dreams every damn night for the rest of his life.

He stalked back into the lobby toward the casino to turn over control for the evening. Once he’d been alerted to Jayne’s presence on the floor, he’d walked out on a Fortune 500 guest and a deposed royal heir, drawn by the gleam of his wife’s light blond hair piled on top of her head, the familiar curve of her pale neck. Talking to Jayne had been his number-one priority.

Finding her thunking down her ring on 12 red hadn’t been the highlight of his life, but the way she’d leaned into him, the flare of awareness in her sky-blue eyes? No, it wasn’t over, in spite of the divorce papers she’d slapped against his chest.

She was back under his roof for tonight. He folded the papers again and slid them inside his tuxedo jacket. As he walked past the bar, the bartender nodded toward the last brass stool—and a familiar patron.

Damn it. He did not need this now. But there was no dodging Colonel John Salvatore, his former headmaster and current contact for his freelance work with Interpol, work that had pulled him away from Jayne, work that he preferred she not know about for her own safety. Conrad’s wealthy lifestyle and influence gave him easy entrée into powerful circles. When Interpol needed an “in” they called on a select group of contract operatives, headed by John Salvatore, saving months creating an undercover persona for a regular agent. Salvatore usually only tapped into his services once or twice a year. If he used Conrad too often, he risked exposure of the whole setup.

The reason for the missing weeks that always had Jayne in such an uproar.

Part of him understood he should just tell her about his second “career.” He’d been cleared to share the basics with his spouse, just not details. But another part of him wanted her to trust him, to believe in him rather than assume he was like his criminal father or a cheating bastard like her dad.

The colonel lifted his Scotch in toast. “Someone’s in over his head.”

Conrad sat on the bar stool next to the colonel in the private corner, not even bothering to deny Salvatore’s implication. “Jayne could have seen you there.”

And if the colonel was here, there had to be a work reason. The past three years in particular, Conrad had embraced the sporadic missions with Interpol to fill his empty life, but not now.

“Then she would think your old headmaster came to say hello since I’d already come to see another former student’s concert at the Côte d’Azur.” Salvatore wore his standard gray suit, red tie and total calm like a uniform.

“This is not a good time.” Having Jayne show up unannounced had turned his world upside down.

“I’m just hand delivering some cleanup paperwork—” he passed over a disc, no doubt encrypted “—from our recent … endeavor.”

Endeavor: aka the Zhutov counterfeit currency case, which had concluded a month ago.

If Conrad had been thinking with his brain instead of his Johnson, he would have realized the colonel would never risk bringing him into another operation this soon. Already, Jayne was messing with his head, and she hadn’t even been back in his life for an hour.

“Everybody wants to give me documents today.” He patted the tux jacket and the papers crackled a reminder that his marriage was a signature away from being over.

“You’re a popular gentleman tonight.”

“I’m sarcastic and arrogant.” According to Jayne anyway, and Jayne was a smart woman.

“And incredibly self-aware.” Colonel Salvatore finished off his drink, his intense eyes always scanning the room. “You always were, even at the academy. Most of the boys arrived in denial or with delusions about their own importance. You knew your strengths right from the start.”

Thinking about those teenage years made Conrad uncomfortable, itchy, reminding him of the toxic time in his life when his father had toppled far and hard off the pedestal Conrad had placed him upon. “Are we reminiscing for the hell of it, sir, or is there a point here?”

“You knew your strengths, but you didn’t know your weakness.” He nudged aside the cut crystal glass and stood. “Jayne is your Achilles’ heel, and you need to recognize that or you’re going to self-destruct.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” The bitter truth of the whole Achilles’ heel notion stung like hell since he’d told his buddy Troy much the same thing when the guy had fallen head over ass in love.

“You’re definitely as stubborn as ever.” Salvatore clapped Conrad on the shoulder. “I’ll be in town for the weekend. So let’s say we meet again for lunch, day after tomorrow, to wrap up Zhutov. Good night, Conrad.”

The colonel tossed down a tip on the bar and tucked into the crowd, blending in, out of sight before Conrad could finish processing what the old guy had said. Although Salvatore was rarely wrong, and he’d been right about Jayne’s effect.

But as far as having a good night?

A good night was highly unlikely. But he had hopes. Because the evening wasn’t over by a long shot—as Jayne would soon discover when she went to her suite and found her luggage had been moved to their penthouse.

All the more reason for him to turn over control of the casino to his second in command and hotfoot it back to the penthouse. Jayne would be fired up.

A magnificent sight not to be missed.

Steamed as hell over Conrad’s latest arrogant move, Jayne rode the elevator to the penthouse level, her old home. The front-desk personnel had given her a key card without hesitation or questions. Conrad had no doubt told them to expect her since he’d moved her clothes from the room she’d chosen.

Damn him.

Coming here was tough enough, and she’d planned to give herself a little distance by staying in a different suite. In addition to the penthouse, the casino had limited quarters for the most elite guests. Conrad had built a larger hotel situated farther up the hillside. It wasn’t like she’d snubbed him by staying at that other hotel. Besides, their separation wasn’t a secret.

She curled her toes to crack out the tension and focused on finding Conrad.

And her clothes.

The gilded doors slid open to a cavernous entryway. She steeled herself for the familiar sight of the Louis VXI reproduction chairs and hall table she’d selected with such care only to find …

Conrad had changed everything. She hadn’t expected the place to stay completely the same since she’d left—okay, maybe she had—but she couldn’t possibly have anticipated such a radical overhaul.

She stepped into the ultimate man cave, full of massive leather furniture and a monstrous television screen halfway hidden behind an oil painting that slid to the side. Even the drapes had been replaced on the wall-wide window showcasing a moonlit view of the Mediterranean. Thick curtains had been pulled open, revealing yacht lights dotting the water like stars. There was still a sense of high-end style, like the rest of the casino, but without the least hint of feminine frills.

Apparently Conrad had stripped those away when they separated.

She’d spent years putting together the French provincial decor, a blend of old-world elegance with a warmth that every home should have. Had he torn the place apart in anger? Or had he simply not cared? She wasn’t sure she even wanted to know what had happened to their old furnishings.

Right now, she only cared about confronting her soon-to-be ex-husband. She didn’t have to search far.

Conrad sprawled in an oversize chair with a crystal glass in hand. A bottle of his favored Chivas Regal Royal Salute sat open on the mahogany table beside him. A sleek upholstered sofa had once rested there, an elegant but sturdy piece they’d made love on more than once.

On second thought, getting rid of the furniture seemed like a very wise move after all.

She hooked her purse on the antique wine rack lining the wall. Her heels sunk into the plush Moroccan rug with each angry step. “Where is my bag? I need my clothes.”

“Your luggage is here in our penthouse, of course.” He didn’t move, barely blinked … just brooded. “Where else would it be?”

“In my suite. I checked into separate quarters on a different floor as you must know.”

“I was informed the second you picked up your key.” He knocked back the last bit of his drink.

“And you had my things moved anyway.” What did he expect to gain with these games?

“I’m arrogant. Remember? You had to already know what would happen when you checked in. No matter what name you use, the staff would recognize my wife.”

Maybe she had, subconsciously hoping to make a prideful statement. “Silly me for hoping my request would be honored—as your wife.”

“And ‘silly’ me for thinking you wouldn’t embarrass me in front of my own staff.”

Contrition nipped at her heels. Regardless of what had happened between them near the end of their marriage, she’d loved him deeply. She was so tired of hurting him, of the pain inside her, as well.

She sank into the chair beside him, weary to her toes, needing to finish this and move on with her life, to settle down with someone wonderfully boring and uncomplicated. “I’m sorry. You’re right. That was thoughtless of me.”

“Why did you do it?” He set aside his glass and leaned closer. “You know there’s plenty of space in the penthouse.”

Even if he wouldn’t offer total honesty, she could. “Because I’m scared to be alone with you.”

“God, Jayne.” He reached out to her, clasping her wrist with callused fingers. “I’m fifty different kinds of a bastard, but never—never, damn it—would I hurt you.”

His careful touch attested to that, as well as years together where he’d always stayed in control, even during their worst arguments. She wished she had his steely rein over wayward emotions. She would give anything to hold back the flood of feelings washing over her now, threatening to drown her.

Words—honesty—came pouring out of her. “I didn’t mean that. I’m afraid I won’t be able to resist sleeping with you.”