The VIP Doubles Down
Page 63
“That’s no excuse for indulging in a drinking binge. The last time I did that, I made some bad decisions.”
“The bet?”
He stopped midstaircase and directed a piercing look at her. “How do you know about that?”
“I don’t. Frankie referred to it.” She kept walking. “But I’m curious. What did you bet on?”
He remained where he was, his head tilted back to watch her. “Love.”
Allie made a face at him. “If you don’t want to tell me the truth, just say so.”
“Do you think I’m so blackhearted that I wouldn’t hope for true love?”
She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into his face with its sharp angles framed by wind-tousled hair. He looked . . . vulnerable, as though he’d dropped the facade of wicked cynic for a moment. She found these glimpses of the sensitive man behind the pain dangerously compelling. “I think your heart is well defended, which is a natural reaction to being hurt by those who should care about you.”
His expression shifted to self-mockery as he finished ascending. “Moats and battlements with archers on the ramparts. Or perhaps Julian with his sniper rifle.”
“So you bet with Frankie?” Allie couldn’t picture the self-contained club owner doing something that fanciful.
“Frankie doesn’t believe in true love. I bet with Trainor and Archer, who were also drunk. No, maybe Archer wasn’t at that point. The evening is somewhat blurred in my memory.” He gestured toward a door. “The office.”
But Allie stopped on the gallery, stunned. “Wait, how long ago did you make the bet?”
“Last fall. We gave ourselves one year. The clock is ticking.” He made a pendulum motion with his hand.
“So Nathan hadn’t met Chloe, and Luke hadn’t met Miranda? Those two couples seem so . . . so . . .”
“In love?” Gavin’s voice sliced like a knife.
“Even more than in love. So . . . bonded.” Allie didn’t know how to explain it. Chloe and Miranda were quite comfortable with their powerful partners. She didn’t think she could feel that level of ease as quickly.
Then she remembered what Frankie had said about the bet: that by letting Allie into the club, she was trying to help Gavin win it. That meant the worldly, sophisticated Frankie thought Allie might be Gavin’s true love.
She reached blindly for the gallery railing, clinging to it, as the world seemed to tilt off its axis. She’d considered him out of reach, their relationship something that would come and go swiftly like the flare of a match. But maybe . . .
Then the truth hit her. Gavin would have kept the bet a secret if he had the slightest thought that she might be the woman who would win it for him. Instead, he’d revealed its details without any hesitation.
“Allie? Are you all right?” Gavin put his finger under her chin to angle her face upward. “You’ve gone pale. Let’s get you to a couch so you can lie down.”
He took her elbow and hustled her into the office before she could protest. Just the feel of his fingers supporting her arm took on a new resonance. She couldn’t dismiss it as simply sexual. Now that she had stopped denying there was more, her heart cartwheeled with joy before it sagged with despair.
Had she been crazy enough to fall in love with this cranky, sarcastic, cynical man? Yes, but she’d also fallen in love with the generous, courageous, sensitive man who hid behind the cynicism.
She shook her head in disbelief.
“Sit,” he commanded, lowering her onto the taupe-colored cushions of a plush sofa. He stooped to take her ankles and swing them up so she rotated sideways. “Lie down.”
“I’m not a dog,” she said, pushing his hands away from her shoulders as he tried to ease her backward.
She needed to get away from him to figure out what the heck to do about these feelings. Her phone pinged from her back pocket, and she seized on that as an excuse. “I’d better check this text. It might be a prospective client,” she said, putting her feet back on the floor and jogging out of the room.
She was afraid he would follow her, so she dodged through another doorway, finding herself in some sort of library–cum–game room. Bookcases lined the walls, and a polished wooden pool table dominated the middle. She braced her hands on the lip of the pool table and rocked forward, sucking in slow breaths to counterbalance the acceleration of her heartbeat.
Clearly, she suffered from some sort of self-destructive urge, going from an abusive actor to a blocked writer. A blocked writer whose mother had left him, whose stepmother hated him, whose father had recently died, who loathed his ex-fiancée, and who drowned himself in alcohol when he was upset.
But he had stopped drinking when she arrived at the Bellwether Club. He was beginning to create again. He was a passionate, generous lover. He helped out debut authors despite considerable emotional trauma to himself. And he was becoming attached to Pie. So he wasn’t beyond redemption.
However, he wasn’t in love with her.
She picked up the cue ball and rolled it across the table so it caromed off the bumper and back to her hand.
“Maybe that’s better,” she said. “I can’t repeat my mistakes.”
Her heart didn’t agree with her brain, though. A slash of anguish hit her right in the chest at the idea of Gavin walking away without a backward glance. Well, maybe he’d toss a sarcastic quip over his shoulder as he went.
Unclenching her fingers from the cue ball, she placed it back in the center of the table. To distract herself, she pulled out her phone, hoping the ping meant a possible job. But the text was from Troy and said, Call me. You’ll want to hear this.
She swallowed against the anxiety clamping a fist around her throat, typing, Are you in LA?
Yeah, so you don’t have to call the cops, he typed back.
His dig sent anger prickling through her, even as the tightness in her throat eased at the knowledge that he was three thousand miles away. It was so typical of him to jab at her when he was the one who had initiated the communication.
She’d learned that it was better to respond promptly or Troy would escalate his attempts to reach her. He refused to believe she really meant that he should not have any contact with her. And since she didn’t have the heart to notify the police when he called, it was partly her fault.
But she didn’t want Gavin walking in on a conversation with her ex. She made her way back to the office to find him standing at the window, staring out at the sea again. As soon as he heard her, he pivoted, raking her with an inquisitor’s gaze. “You look like it was bad news. Can I help?”
“The bet?”
He stopped midstaircase and directed a piercing look at her. “How do you know about that?”
“I don’t. Frankie referred to it.” She kept walking. “But I’m curious. What did you bet on?”
He remained where he was, his head tilted back to watch her. “Love.”
Allie made a face at him. “If you don’t want to tell me the truth, just say so.”
“Do you think I’m so blackhearted that I wouldn’t hope for true love?”
She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into his face with its sharp angles framed by wind-tousled hair. He looked . . . vulnerable, as though he’d dropped the facade of wicked cynic for a moment. She found these glimpses of the sensitive man behind the pain dangerously compelling. “I think your heart is well defended, which is a natural reaction to being hurt by those who should care about you.”
His expression shifted to self-mockery as he finished ascending. “Moats and battlements with archers on the ramparts. Or perhaps Julian with his sniper rifle.”
“So you bet with Frankie?” Allie couldn’t picture the self-contained club owner doing something that fanciful.
“Frankie doesn’t believe in true love. I bet with Trainor and Archer, who were also drunk. No, maybe Archer wasn’t at that point. The evening is somewhat blurred in my memory.” He gestured toward a door. “The office.”
But Allie stopped on the gallery, stunned. “Wait, how long ago did you make the bet?”
“Last fall. We gave ourselves one year. The clock is ticking.” He made a pendulum motion with his hand.
“So Nathan hadn’t met Chloe, and Luke hadn’t met Miranda? Those two couples seem so . . . so . . .”
“In love?” Gavin’s voice sliced like a knife.
“Even more than in love. So . . . bonded.” Allie didn’t know how to explain it. Chloe and Miranda were quite comfortable with their powerful partners. She didn’t think she could feel that level of ease as quickly.
Then she remembered what Frankie had said about the bet: that by letting Allie into the club, she was trying to help Gavin win it. That meant the worldly, sophisticated Frankie thought Allie might be Gavin’s true love.
She reached blindly for the gallery railing, clinging to it, as the world seemed to tilt off its axis. She’d considered him out of reach, their relationship something that would come and go swiftly like the flare of a match. But maybe . . .
Then the truth hit her. Gavin would have kept the bet a secret if he had the slightest thought that she might be the woman who would win it for him. Instead, he’d revealed its details without any hesitation.
“Allie? Are you all right?” Gavin put his finger under her chin to angle her face upward. “You’ve gone pale. Let’s get you to a couch so you can lie down.”
He took her elbow and hustled her into the office before she could protest. Just the feel of his fingers supporting her arm took on a new resonance. She couldn’t dismiss it as simply sexual. Now that she had stopped denying there was more, her heart cartwheeled with joy before it sagged with despair.
Had she been crazy enough to fall in love with this cranky, sarcastic, cynical man? Yes, but she’d also fallen in love with the generous, courageous, sensitive man who hid behind the cynicism.
She shook her head in disbelief.
“Sit,” he commanded, lowering her onto the taupe-colored cushions of a plush sofa. He stooped to take her ankles and swing them up so she rotated sideways. “Lie down.”
“I’m not a dog,” she said, pushing his hands away from her shoulders as he tried to ease her backward.
She needed to get away from him to figure out what the heck to do about these feelings. Her phone pinged from her back pocket, and she seized on that as an excuse. “I’d better check this text. It might be a prospective client,” she said, putting her feet back on the floor and jogging out of the room.
She was afraid he would follow her, so she dodged through another doorway, finding herself in some sort of library–cum–game room. Bookcases lined the walls, and a polished wooden pool table dominated the middle. She braced her hands on the lip of the pool table and rocked forward, sucking in slow breaths to counterbalance the acceleration of her heartbeat.
Clearly, she suffered from some sort of self-destructive urge, going from an abusive actor to a blocked writer. A blocked writer whose mother had left him, whose stepmother hated him, whose father had recently died, who loathed his ex-fiancée, and who drowned himself in alcohol when he was upset.
But he had stopped drinking when she arrived at the Bellwether Club. He was beginning to create again. He was a passionate, generous lover. He helped out debut authors despite considerable emotional trauma to himself. And he was becoming attached to Pie. So he wasn’t beyond redemption.
However, he wasn’t in love with her.
She picked up the cue ball and rolled it across the table so it caromed off the bumper and back to her hand.
“Maybe that’s better,” she said. “I can’t repeat my mistakes.”
Her heart didn’t agree with her brain, though. A slash of anguish hit her right in the chest at the idea of Gavin walking away without a backward glance. Well, maybe he’d toss a sarcastic quip over his shoulder as he went.
Unclenching her fingers from the cue ball, she placed it back in the center of the table. To distract herself, she pulled out her phone, hoping the ping meant a possible job. But the text was from Troy and said, Call me. You’ll want to hear this.
She swallowed against the anxiety clamping a fist around her throat, typing, Are you in LA?
Yeah, so you don’t have to call the cops, he typed back.
His dig sent anger prickling through her, even as the tightness in her throat eased at the knowledge that he was three thousand miles away. It was so typical of him to jab at her when he was the one who had initiated the communication.
She’d learned that it was better to respond promptly or Troy would escalate his attempts to reach her. He refused to believe she really meant that he should not have any contact with her. And since she didn’t have the heart to notify the police when he called, it was partly her fault.
But she didn’t want Gavin walking in on a conversation with her ex. She made her way back to the office to find him standing at the window, staring out at the sea again. As soon as he heard her, he pivoted, raking her with an inquisitor’s gaze. “You look like it was bad news. Can I help?”
