Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(37)

“Thank you,” I say, shaking his hand quickly, but not happily. He’s snobby, and I only matter to him because Jason just told him I do.

Jason turns to Trevor, who’s loading our bags on a cart, a bellman by his side. “I’ll touch base with you when I get up tomorrow to confirm travel times,” Jason tells him.

“Sounds like a plan.” Trevor gives me a nod. “Nice to meet you, Skye.”

“Nice to meet you, Trevor.”

Landon quickly holds the door for us. Jason motions for me to go first and I enter the circular lobby, shiny tiles beneath my feet, the chilled air a shocking contrast to the heat outside, the sound of machines clanging nearby. I stand there in awe at the size of just the lobby. There are check-in counters to the left, with huge lines of people waiting to be attended to, and a store to the right, the giant gaming area easy to see beyond the entryway.

“This way,” Jason says, guiding me to the reception desk. “Thank goodness we get to skip the lines. Friday nights are hell in Vegas.” We stop at the counter and Jason has an exchange with a man who hurries to a back room to get something for him.

Jason rests his arm on the counter and turns to me. “Sorry about Landon. He’s an arrogant prick to anyone he doesn’t consider royalty. And since I’ve never brought a woman with me to Vegas who wasn’t my mother, he didn’t know how to react.”

He’s never brought a woman with him? “You brought your mother?”

“Of course. And my father.”

God, I’m liking him way too much. “Royalty,” I repeat. “That would be you?”

“Anyone who takes their money and might be convinced to give it back is treated like royalty.”

“That sounds so cold.”

“Money matters are rarely warm and fuzzy, baby.”

The man behind the counter returns. “Everything for your stay, including your room keys, is inside. I assume we’re using your house account for the charges?”

“As always,” Jason confirms, accepting the package. Then he tells me, “Let’s head to our rooms. Once we’re settled in, I need to register for the event.”

We cross the shiny walkway and exit onto a carpeted area framed by slot machines, and Jason links my arm with his. “What do you think so far?” he asks as I scan what seems like miles of gaming machines.

“It’s pretty darn cool,” I say.

“It is,” he agrees. “I’ve been coming here for nearly a decade and still feel that way.”

We chat about the different gambling areas we pass and are about to jump onto an elevator when a middle-aged couple go batty over Jason. He graciously takes pictures with them and then excuses himself because of time. “We’re on a private floor,” he tells me as we enter the elevator, and he slides a room key through a slot before punching in a number. “You’ll have to use the key to get to our level.”

“Okay.” The car starts to move, and so does my stomach.

“Count or sing,” he surprises me by saying, lacing his fingers with mine at our sides.

“What?” I ask, surprised at how comfortable I am with this man.

“Don’t think about the elevator.” He squeezes my hand. “Count.” He smiles. “Just not cards.”

“That would be bad, right?”

“Right,” he says, smiling. “And speaking of cards, the fans will be everywhere tonight. I know it’s overwhelming, but I try to be gracious about the attention.”

“I like that,” I say, and I start to believe he’s more confident than arrogant.

“You say that now, but if I get swarmed, please don’t feel like I’m ignoring you.”

“Of course not. You’re a star here. It will be fun to watch you play and be who you are.”

“I’m just a guy who knows how to play poker. Remember that.” He hesitates and adds, “Some of the fans are women who are—”

“Groupies,” I supply, feeling a little nauseous.

“I wouldn’t call them groupies, but they’re friendly, some skimpily dressed, and I’ll know a few personally. I need you to remember this is part of my job.”

My hand flattens on his chest. “I don’t need an explanation.”

His hand covers mine, holding it over his thundering heart. “But I’m giving you one. Vegas is called Sin City for a reason. But I’m here to do a job, and I’m here with you.”

It matters that he’s telling me this. Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe I’m being naive, but the word blackmail plays in my head, reminding me of the hell he’s living and hoping to escape. “I understand,” I say, wondering how he can even play with such a hatchet over his head.

“I’m counting on that.”

“I know. And I know why. I promise. I do.”

He studies me several long moments, his gaze probing, searching for the truth in my words, while we both hope I will find it in his. The elevator dings and he reaches down, lacing my fingers with his again and leading me into a long hallway, where he is quick to drape his arm around me and nestle me into the cocoon of his body.

We cut left and enter a short alcove with double doors, but Jason doesn’t release me. “Welcome to Vegas luxury, baby,” he says, sliding his card through the security slot and opening the door, before inching me in front of him.