It’s for tomorrow. And we don’t have a single available escort.
This is something that we cannot afford to turn down.
She’s asking.... me... to fill in.
My stomach turns to ice.
My sister, still paused on the video chat, sends a pesky text: You really need to rest.
What I need to be doing is running a successful company. Making money. Facing my fears.
And more importantly, taking away Lexi’s worries. Right now, I can ease her mind, even though it’s a little bit of a stretch of the truth. And while I’m at it, make a little extra money for her wedding.
I pull the call back up. “Actually, Lexi, I have a surprise. It looks like I have a date. For next week.”
Holding in a laugh at the sound of her high-pitched squealing I say goodbye, hanging up before she can ask too many details. I tap back my reply to Sam.
I’ll do it.
Chapter Three
Gabriel
I walk up to the nurse’s station. I’m not leaving here until I know exactly what we’re dealing with.
“Excuse me.”
A woman a good decade older than I am with her hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, doesn’t look up. Her lips are pressed in a thin line, and she holds her pen so tightly I feel badly for it. Not exactly super friendly.
“Mhm?”
I clear my throat. I don’t like being ignored. Still, she doesn’t look up, and I don’t have a lot of time to waste, so I press on.
“Can I get some information on the patient in room number 239, please?”
She looks up, prepared to give me what I suppose is a withering look, but she freezes mid-wither. Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen, before she realizes she’s gawking.
She blinks once. Twice. She clears her throat, and adjusts her glasses.
“I’m sorry, sir. What was that?”
I flash her my most charming smile, and little splotches of red bloom on her cheeks. “Room 239. Could I get some information, please?”
She blinks again, then glances at a board behind her. “New patient,” she says. “A relative of yours?”
“Miranda Montague.” I shrug and keep up the grin. It’s working. “We’re good friends.”
It’s a lie, but I won’t get away with the relative card.
She frowns, and looks abashed. “So sorry, but I’m not allowed to give information to anyone who isn’t a relative without prior written consent—”
She freezes when I lean on the counter and fold my arms. Her eyes rove over my forearms and biceps, and she gives an audible little gasp.
“Oh, I know,” I say pleasantly, giving her the full force of my smile. Her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink. I lean in and drop my voice to a whisper, so she thinks it’s only just the two of us. “I just have some concerns, is all.” I say this with empathy and concern, like I’m asking how I could possibly contribute my fortune to save starving orphans, or is it possible for me to sponsor a school in Africa?
She clasps her hands. “Of course you do,” she sighs. She looks around her again and whispers back. “What do you need to know?”
I cut to the chase. There aren’t many things about Miranda Montague I don’t know, to be honest. I clear my throat. “Does she have health insurance?”
She glances at the computer screen, scrolls through a few things, then shakes her head. “Looks like she likely isn’t up to date,” her voice trails off. “She might be eligible for free care the hospital can assist with…”
I shake my head. “No need. Have them contact me, please.”
I give her my business card.
She nods, mesmerized, her eyes flitting from the card back to me again. “Yes, of course,” she says sympathetically. “That’s so kind of you.”
She has no fucking idea.
This has nothing to do with kindness.
I slide into the driver’s seat, my mind a mile away. The warm leather seat feels comfortable and luxurious, and for one moment, I imagine she’s here. Miranda. Sitting on the passenger seat beside me. She’d flick through the radio station and make small talk, the interior of the car filled with her musical laugh and sexy, throaty voice.
I’ve never been so taken with a woman before. If you could call it that. Jesus, I must be losing my mind.
In the past, women were something to be enjoyed like fine wine, or a hundred-year-old scotch—not too often and never two evenings in a row. I’ve… dated. Well, from the woman’s perspective we were dating. For me it was just a fling gone on too long. Nothing seems to last beyond my two week grace period, though. Women are fascinating but complicated creatures, and I'm busy building my empire.
But Miranda… she makes me want something... more. I have this desire welling in my chest, the urge to take care of her. To keep her safe.
I mentally check off everything I know about her.
Five foot six, one hundred and twenty-nine pounds. Natural blonde, accentuated with salon highlights, and those baby blues make her look younger than she is. Curves for days. She’s the whole fucking package.
I blow out a breath and focus on the road ahead of me.
I can’t quite put my finger on what attracts me to her, but I know that there’s something special about Miranda. Something exquisite and unique, and I mean to find out what.
And I always get what I want.
I head down the strip toward Vegas, Baby, my mind on all things Miranda.
I call Shane Barr, my best friend and personal assistant. He runs interference with private investigators when necessary.
“Shane.”
“Hey.”
“Lemme guess. You want to see if I’ve got any more news about your pretty little lady?”
“Drop the cute stuff, asshole. What have you got for me?”
He chuckles, clearly pleased as if I’ve just given him a compliment. “Well, hello to you too, dick.”
I shake my head. It’s always this way with us.
“To answer your question, compadre, I’ve found out lots that you’d like to know.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me everything.”
“She’s a businesswoman, alright, like you suspected. But did you know she runs Sugar Daddies Escort service?”
Escort service? Daddies?
Maybe I’m in over my head with this one. I swallow hard. “What’s that?”
He laughs, and I want to whip the phone out the window. Asshole.
“Only the hottest, raciest, escort service in all of Nevada.”
“Thought escort services were banned here.”
“Oh, well, you know. They have their methods, don’t they?”
I feel my body tighten. “I wouldn’t know.”
He chuckles again. “But wouldn’t you like to find out?”
I don’t answer the question, because I’m actually thinking about it. “Tell me more.”
“Well, an escort service is—"
“Shane. No. I know what an escort is. Tell me about this service.”
My sudden interest grows cold as I think about her with other men. I hate the very thought. I want to find any man who’s ever touched her—