intense as their affair had been, its demise followed a similar suit. Luther had come into her life like a whirlwind. She’d met him one night at the casino, watched him lose a few grand at the blackjack table without breaking a sweat, then stopped by to speak to some of the regulars and ended up leaving the table with him. He’d waited for her to finish with her shift, at which time they’d shared her favorite cappuccino and chocolate chip cookies that evening at the restaurant.
She’d been instantly overwhelmed by his charm and his quick wit. Surely a man like this couldn’t be a free agent, Noelle distinctly remembered thinking. And yet the next evening when Luther showed up at the blackjack table once more she’d been elated to see him. The physical aspect of their relationship happened fast, too fast, and before she knew it she was spending all of her free time in Luther’s arms.
Finally, as were so many things in her life, her time with Luther became too good to be true. And before the end of the second month that they’d been together she found out he was married.
Leaving him alone had been a no-brainer at that point; unfortunately, Luther was the hard-headed type. For the next four weeks he’d bombarded her with phone calls and gifts and then the pop-ups at her job started. Afraid that Linc, or worse, Trent Donovan, the ex-Navy SEAL turned private investigator with a fuse as short as her baby finger, would find out, and on the advice of her friend, Karena, she’d obtained a restraining order. Somebody probably should have warned her that those pieces of paper were just about worthless when it came to a man like Luther.
He wasn’t your typical stalker in that he wasn’t slashing her tires or breaking into her house—which would have been almost suicidal, since she still lived with Jade and Linc. No, instead, Luther sent her text messages, e-mails and letters by mail, all asking her to give him another chance, to give their love another chance. Luther was definitely not a threat—he was what they called a lover, not a fighter. So in the twisted world of stalkers, Luther was very low on the totem pole and Noelle was not afraid of him.
What she was, however, was tired. Sick and tired, to be correct, of all the drama. It seemed as if her entire life had revolved around the word. Whether she was a magnet for it or somehow thrived from the chaos, it was always there.
She’d told Jade a little bit about Luther, only because her sister was a constant worrywart where she was concerned and when she overheard a heated conversation Noelle was having on the phone with Luther, she’d questioned her. Jade had wanted to run directly to Linc, but Noelle had stopped her. Thank God.
The last thing she wanted was to bring this type of mess into the Donovan family. They’d all been so nice and loving to her over these past two years that she owed them so much more than to have some crazy married man trying to win back the affection she’d so foolishly given him.
“Cheer up. My house is air-conditioned,” Brock said as he watched her still sitting in the seat staring straight ahead. He’d gotten out of the car and had been holding the door open for a few minutes now, waiting for her to get out.
When she still hadn’t moved he touched a hand to her arm. She jerked, then those hypnotic eyes found his. He swallowed and willed himself not to have any other reaction. “You all right?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice just a little agitated because for a moment she’d forgotten where she was and who she was with. “I’m fine.” Pulling her arm out of his reach, she jumped down from the cab.
And just like that she moved past him, walking along the pathway toward the side door of his house. Taking her luggage out of the car, Brock figured that whatever was on her mind was her business. The fact that she now looked almost haunted shouldn’t have bothered him. And yet, it did.
His house was gorgeous. As far as spacious rooms, hardwood floors and a terrific view of the water went. However, it was a little on the empty side where furniture was concerned.
The concept that less meant…well, less, continued on into the kitchen where alongside the stainless steel appliances and on top of the blue-flecked granite countertop was a coffeemaker, with the smallest coffeepot Noelle had ever seen. Next to the pot was a medium-sized canister of decaffeinated coffee in a pretty average brand. There was a dishwasher but it looked barely used, no fingerprints at or near the handle as you’d usually see with stainless steel. Beside the dish drainer to the right of the double sink she spied a mug, one bowl and one spoon inside it, probably left over from his breakfast. It was quite neat for the kitchen of a man, riding close to the definition of sterile. However, it fit right along with Brock’s seemingly uptight demeanor.
But it was when they walked out onto the screened porch with its brick-encased fireplace that Noelle felt something slightly different. The furniture was made of heavy oak with deep, inviting cushions in a soft caramel tone. Rugs, not Oriental but plush and functional, aligned the tiled floor. There were coffee tables and end tables, but they only held lamps and the remote control to the entertainment system that lined one entire wall, she assumed. The fireplace looked well used, just as the chair closest to it. He sat there, she imagined, put his feet up on the table and read one of the books stuffed into the bookshelf in the living room.
“You spend a lot of time out here?” she asked, letting her hand touch the softness of the chair before sitting down.
“I do,” he admitted with a slightly questioning tone.
“You’re not a man of many words, are you?” Noelle asked, already assuming she’d get another one- to two-word response.
“I get by.”
She nodded and retained a knowing grin. This was going to be a long, dismal summer for her—getting by on his sparse answers and trying to make sense of them.
“So let’s talk about the casino,” she said because there was no use trying to discuss anything else. Brock Remington was not a talker. That was fine—she wasn’t here to talk or to get to know him. She was here to work and that’s all she planned to do, no matter how well he wore his jeans.
Chapter 3
It was all about business, Brock reminded himself as he pulled out the blueprints he’d retrieved from his office and laid them on the coffee table on the porch in front of her. She bent forward, letting her elbows rest on her knees as she surveyed them.
She wore jeans, fitted to perfection, he might add, and a T-shirt with “Las Vegas” in glittering, swirling letters across her breasts. If Brock had ever wanted to be something in his next life it would be those letters. Looking as if it was costing her dearly to sit still, she tapped her feet on the floor while she studied the papers.
For a moment Brock wondered if she even knew what she was looking at, then chastised himself for assuming that just because she was gorgeous and stacked like a Playboy magazine model that she didn’t have an ounce of sense. Linc had told him how she’d obtained her degree and still took managerial classes to keep sharp on the job. He’d be wise to remember that instead of the way that denim hugged her plump bottom.
“This is a different concept you’ve used,” she was saying.
Taking a seat in his favorite chair, Brock nodded. “Most casinos are designed to spread out, with gaming facilities going horizontally and hotel towers on top. My architect and I decided to break from the norm. Luckily Linc approved.”
She nodded. “I can see why he did.”
Taking that as a compliment, Brock cracked a small smile. “Do you like it?”
He
