that didn’t make her feel any better.
She not only ached with worry for her baby, but the slender thread of hope that she’d have someone on her side had snapped when she’d first seen Nick. She was on her own. Which would have been okay if it hadn’t been for Patrick. What kind of life would he have under the wing of such a vicious hawk?
Her eyes filled with hot tears and though she tried to blink them back, it was no use. Watching the Strip grow larger as they sped down the freeway turned the nightmare into reality.
Never before, not the whole time she’d been in Milford, had she felt so alone. Her wet gaze moved back to Nick, to his tense shoulders, his hand gripping the steering wheel. All the way to Las Vegas she’d staved off hysteria by thinking about Nick. Once again, she’d proved to herself that she was nothing more than a naive fool. Wrong in the most fundamental ways. Hell, she’d been wrong since the day she’d first met C. Randall Todd. But even so, some prices were too high to pay.
She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands and prayed to a God she no longer believed in. She was heading to hell in a white chariot. Alone. Completely alone.
LOCATED BETWEEN the Flamingo and Balley’s, Xanadu was more of a palace than a hotel. With more than three thousand rooms, seven world-class restaurants, one of the largest casinos on the Strip, and a reputation for customer satisfaction unparalleled in a city known for indulgence, Xanadu far exceeded anything Kubla Khan could have imagined.
The building itself was silver and in the bright June sunlight it seemed molten and fluid, which was exactly what Todd had wanted. Using the old Coleridge poem as his guide, Todd had built the stately pleasure dome, complete with sunless sea, more than a mile of meandering river through woods and dales, leading to the mystical caverns below, where designer shops were carved out of rock and the music of the dulcimer floated in the purified air. All of it skillfully, masterfully, designed to part guests from their money.
As the limo approached the porte cochere, Jenny’s stomach clenched as the fear she’d been keeping at arm’s length sunk into her very bones. She had to swallow hard to keep from being sick and it was only thoughts of Patrick that kept her from running.
The window separating her from Nick lowered as they moved into the valet lane. “No place like home, eh?”
His sarcasm was as bitter as the bile in the back of her throat. “You’ve certainly made it yours,” she said, struggling to keep her voice cool. “You must be so proud.”
He parked the limo on the far side of the entrance, near the private elevators for the high rollers, then turned back to look at her as if she were something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. “I am. But then, I never said I wanted out.”
The valet opened the back door. She shot a look at Nick. “You bastard.” She got out, blasted by the furnacelike heat of desert sun. The hotel was busy, as always. Taxis waited like schoolchildren to be called into service by the costumed bellmen. Limos stretched long and private in their own lanes. The glass doors leading inside were huge and thick, double doors meant to keep the real world firmly outside.
Nick walked to her side, holding her overnight bag. She hadn’t brought much with her. Makeup, pictures, vitamins. Everything else would be provided for, down to her bra and panties. Oh, God, she couldn’t do it.
She had to. Patrick was up there, scared to death, wanting his mommy. They’d never been apart this long. She had to see him—now.
“Come on,” Nick said, his hand on the small of her back.
The contact made her shiver as it always had. Her foolish body didn’t know any better, but it would learn. She stepped forward quickly, breaking the contact. She wanted nothing to do with him.
He led her inside to the atrium, twenty stories high, capped by a blanket of mirrors and hanging crystal in a flash of glitter. The sound of the casino was muted here. In fact, one of the conditions for having slots in this hotel was that there were no bells and whistles. People threw away their money quietly in Xanadu.
They walked past gardens, gazebos, pergolas lush with foliage. It took a staff of more than a hundred people to maintain the gardens in Xanadu, and in all the time she’d spent here she’d never once seen a brown leaf.
The smell of the place brought back too much. Of course, there were no unpleasant odors. The air, along with everything else, was strictly controlled, manipulated. There were no clocks anywhere, the sky inside was always blue in the perpetual daylight. There was no breach of the fantasy where any guest might catch an inadvertent glimpse.
She looked up as they crossed to the private elevators, built slightly behind the public facilities, and saw the hundreds of smoky-glass domes in the ceiling and along the walls. Domes that hid security cameras. No hotel was more carefully monitored. The security staff outnumbered the garden staff.
Nick called for an elevator. Once they were inside, he slipped a key into the slot that would allow them passage to the upper floors, to the suites for the whales and Todd’s enclave. It felt like forever to climb the forty-one stories. All she could think of was holding Patrick. Keeping him safe.
When they finally reached the penthouse, Nick walked with her down the hallway, her boots sinking into the thick pile of the burgundy carpet. The theme continued even here in the lofty heights, with Chinese and Mongol influences in the wall sconces, the paintings and the wallpaper. She’d been awed the first time Todd had brought her here. No detail left unattended, everything had a beauty and a serenity meant to soothe and to comfort. It didn’t work on her. All she could think about was the fact that she’d need a key to get into any of the elevators on this floor. A key he’d never give her.
They stopped at the double doors to Todd’s suite. It was, of course, the most extravagant room in the hotel. More than fifteen-thousand square feet, it was larger than a lot of the motels on the side streets of the city and more decadent than a rock star’s dreams.
Nick knocked and the door opened. A butler she didn’t recognize bowed slightly, took her bag from Nick, then led them into the dragon’s lair.
Marble floors, glass walls, Picassos, Renoirs, antiques; there wasn’t an inch of the suite that wasn’t detailed and designed to be the best of the best. Six bedrooms, twelve baths, a private swimming pool, spa, massage room, grand piano, private dining room and kitchen. It made her physically ill.
But she kept her expression neutral as they neared the master bedroom. He was going to test her—punish her. It would be horrible, but she could take it. She had to take it.
Patrick.
At the door, the butler knocked, then she heard Todd’s voice. She gripped her purse, stood straight, focused. Feeling Nick beside her should have been a comfort, damn it.
The butler led them inside, and then she saw him. Patrick. Sitting on the lap of the man who would own her. Todd’s hair, thick and shockingly white, was immaculate, as was the suit on his tall, muscular frame. A devilishly handsome man, he hid his wickedness behind hypnotically beautiful blue eyes.
“Mommy!”
She tore her gaze from Todd and hurried forward, her anxiety to hold her child stronger than any fear. Patrick squirmed, trying to escape. When he couldn’t, he cried, screamed, his panic loud and shrill in the cavernous room.
She reached the bedside chair where Todd held her son. Just as she was about to fall to her knees and beg,
