Conquer Your Love (4 page)

Sylvie jumped up and regarded me with a smug
smile that told me I had just lost the battle.

“Or we could go the way we came. I don’t mind
the extra miles.” She pulled a card from her back pocket and waved it in the
air, inches from my face.

“What the hell is that?” I tried to grab it
out of her hand but she pulled it away and stepped back, pressing it against
her chest like a piece of treasure.

“Our very own personal taxi service. I figured
it wouldn’t hurt asking the driver whether he offered private trips. Turns out
he does. How cool is that?” Her eyes sparkled again and I knew I had, indeed,
lost the battle.

“Isn’t that expensive?”

She shrugged. “So?”

The girl came from a rich background; she grew
up as part of the upper class society. Of course she had no objections to
throwing money out the window—unlike me.

“Come on,
chica
. My
treat.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that you need it.”

I sighed. Just because I’d inherit an estate
didn’t mean it came with a bank account set up for nights out.

“Brooke.” Her blue eyes bore into mine and she
pouted again. “Let’s go out. Only tonight. You know me. I can’t be
this
.” She smirked and pointed around
her at the stunning house and the setting, like it was a bad thing. “I honestly
don’t mind a long drive or a huge taxi bill. Any small club is better than no
club. Please.”

Puppy eyes again. My hesitation faltered
because, first, I knew a lost cause when I saw one. And second, come to think
of it, a bit of fun wasn’t such a bad idea. I was single—I cringed
inwardly at the thought—and in one of Europe’s most famous vacation
spots. I had sworn off alcohol for good but I could at least dance the night
away.

“We’ll be back by midnight?” I asked.

“Sure.” Sylvie shrugged and averted her gaze,
which was a dead giveaway that she was
lying
. In that
moment, I knew I wouldn’t be able to pry her away from the clubs with a
crowbar—unless the bouncers threw us out.

With a strange sense of dread gathering in the
pit of my stomach, I watched Sylvie pull out her cell and dial the number on
the card. A moment later she had agreed on a time and hung up.

We hadn’t even fully unpacked our bags yet,
and she had already secured a trip to a local nightclub. Talk about priorities!

I followed her inside as she began to rummage
through her suitcase, and I sat down on the bed, watching the mess she was
about to unleash upon her room. Soon her clothes were scattered all over the
floor and bed. Judging from the half full suitcase, there was more to come.

Back home Sylvie insisted we pack everything
we might need, which in Sylvie’s dictionary was the equivalent to cramming
everything from her overflowing closet to the contents of her bathroom cabinets
into the oversized suitcase she wanted to take with her. Needless to say, we
had paid the price for extra baggage at customs. But at least she knew how to
dress. I stared open-mouthed at one designer dress after another, some barely
resembling a dress at all. More like pieces of sheer fabric that left nothing
to the imagination.

“You need to get laid,” Sylvie said as she
pulled out two short dresses and compared them. “And pronto. Jett might have
been hot, but newer is always better.”

Where
the hell did that come from?

“I never said I wanted to get laid,” I said
through gritted teeth.

“Of course you didn’t.” She smirked and tossed
one dress aside, then picked up another. “But I know you want to. Or at least
that’s the way to go if you want to rid your heart of him once and for all.”

I slumped against the pillows as I regarded
the dress in her hands. She was right about that.
In her own
way.
Ever since I came back from my trip with Jett, she seemed to have
recovered from her own heartache. If I wanted to move on, all I had to do was
be like her. Forget the world. And just have fun, even if that meant dating
lots of men within a very short time. She wasn’t cheap. She didn’t sleep with
most of them—she just liked soaking up the attention and then moving on
to the next.

She winked. “Whatever you do in
Italy,
stays in Italy. I promise my lips are sealed.”

Oh,
Lord.

She tossed the first dress to me. I caught it
in mid-air. “Try this.”

I held up the strapless dress and eyed it
suspiciously. The black material felt soft in my hands, almost weightless. It
was so tight and thin, I had no doubt people would see my
underwear—particularly under the neon lights of a club. Definitely not
the kind of dress I had in my wardrobe.

Under normal circumstances I’d have objected
to wearing something that daring, but today was different. I wanted to be
someone else, preferably someone that wouldn’t remind me of my old boring self.

What
do you want to prove, Stewart?

Ignoring my rational mind, I shrugged out of
my jeans and casual shirt. Sylvie dangled a pair of black pumps in front of my
face.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to walk in them,”
I said, slipping into the shoes nevertheless. The heels were so high I almost
toppled over and had to hold on to the dresser for support.

“You can’t say no to
Jimmy
Choo
. It’d be a sin. Plus, you look
hot. If I were a guy I’d totally do you.” Her dead serious expression told me
she wasn’t kidding.

I inspected myself in the large mirror. This
was a dress I’d never wear back home, but we weren’t back home. No one knew me
here. Besides, Sylvie was right, I looked hot. The dress hugged my body in all
the right places, emphasizing my curves, of which I had always been ashamed
until college when I realized men liked them. The heels made my legs appear
thinner and sky-high.
Maybe not as long as a model’s, but I
could certainly see the benefit in wearing them.

“Told you,” Sylvie said, grinning. “Now, let’s
rock this town.”

Biting my lip, I nodded and averted my gaze.
How could I tell her that Bellagio wasn’t exactly a town? More like a village.
I was yet to find out just how tiny it actually was.

Sitting in the
backseat of the taxi with my arms wrapped around me, I realized Sylvie’s dress
choice had seemed a good idea in the privacy of our four walls. Not so much in
public. I kept pulling the hem in the hope of giving it more fabric, or
length—anything that would help me feel less naked.

“You look so hot,” Sylvie whispered, probably
misinterpreting my fidgeting. “I bet every guy in that club will be all over
you the moment you enter the door.”

Did I want that?

Not really.

I wasn’t the attention seeking type or the one
who wanted to be in the spotlight, but I couldn’t share that with Sylvie. She
wouldn’t understand.

“No, I bet they’ll be all over
you
.” I pointed at her little black
dress, which seemed to ride even shorter than mine. Or maybe it was the effect
of her long and toned legs stretching up forever.

“You think?” Sylvie’s face lit up like a
Christmas candle. Not only was she stunning, she also had a constant need to be
reminded of it.

“I know,” I said, happy to no longer be the
topic of the conversation.

I stepped out of the taxi into the balmy night
air. My curls framed my cheeks and brushed my naked shoulders like soft
butterfly wings, making my skin tingle. Club 66—the only club in the
nearby area—was a tall, tower-like building with a glass front. The front
doors were open and the faint beats of some Top Forty song carried over. A
broad shouldered big guy stood to the side, eyeing us. I wasn’t sure whether he
was supposed to be some kind of bouncer or just a guest waiting for his date,
lighting up a cigarette or looking for phone reception.

“That’s all you could find?” Sylvie glared at
me from under heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

I shrugged. “Want me to quote you? Like you
said, ‘better than sitting at home, growing roots.’ If you don’t like it, we
can still grab a pizza on the way back home and watch reality TV.”

Actually, I wouldn’t have minded that.

Just thinking about it—sitting around in
pajamas, eating ice cream and watching a really sad movie, preferably where the
male main character died, because Jett was as good as dead to me—sounded
like the perfect night to me.

Sylvie scoffed and walked through the doors
into what resembled a dimly lit reception area, leaving me behind smiling. With
her it was all a matter of priority.
Any
sort
of club was better than no club. At times I wondered how the heck we managed to
stay friends for so long when we had so little in common.

The reception desk also served as a coat
counter, which was obvious from the few jackets dangling from hangers and a
lady standing there, cashing in. Sylvie and I weren’t wearing jackets, but we
paid the cover charge and our hands were stamped, and then we entered the
actual club area.

Being one of the few entertainment
opportunities for those aged eighteen and up within a fifty-mile radius of
Bellagio, the room was filled to capacity, overflowing with dancing girls and
young men vying for their attention. The walls were covered in mirrors.
Manufactured smoke wafted in the air, creating a dreamlike haze.
Surreal but also a bit tacky.
In the middle of the room was
a huge staircase leading to a second story that, gazing up from my position,
looked like it was bathed in darkness. I could already tell the music—the
same fast beat I had heard outside—would make any sort of conversation
hard. I mentally prepared myself for a long silent chat with the bottom of my
glass as Sylvie and I maneuvered around the gathered crowds of people, heading
for Sylvie’s most preferred spot: the bar.

“You order while I’m looking for a table,” I
yelled at Sylvie so she’d hear me over the background noise.

“What?” she yelled back, her gaze fixed on her
right where three people worked behind the bar, mixing and serving at a fast
speed. I couldn’t tell whether she was so transfixed by the outlook of getting
hammered, or the music was indeed way too loud. Tugging at her arm to get her
attention, I leaned in to repeat in her ear and watched her flinch. Nope, it
wasn’t the music.
Just the anticipation of an alcohol-infused
night.

I didn’t wait for her reply. Making my way
past the staircase with a rope running across it and marked as ‘VIP area’, I
scanned the tables and chairs lining the walls. They were all occupied, apart
from one table. I dashed for it like a maniac, eager to ‘claim’ it before
someone else spied me and beat me to it. I didn’t even care that my dress exposed
way more of my thighs than was acceptable as I slumped onto the plush leather
settee and bumped my knee against the table in front of it.

Long pangs of pain shot up my leg. I cringed
to hold back a startled yelp, already missing my jeans, which would have
provided a layer of protection.

“You okay?” Sylvie said, sliding next to me.

I nodded and grabbed a drink from her
outstretched hand, realizing she had made the effort to remember I had sworn
off alcohol for good because every time I so much as took a sip, something bad
happened.

Like me waking up half-naked in bed next to a
man who turned out to be my boss.

Or revealing all the things I wanted to do with
said boss,
which
reminded me that I was jobless now,
and probably had bad references. Talk about stupid!

I took a sip of my water with a slice of lemon,
and placed the glass on the table as I watched Sylvie gulp down half of her
margarita while searching the area for prospective male targets. Half a minute
later they had spied her, and the first suitor found his way to our table. I
looked away and tuned out because I knew he most certainly wasn’t going to
offer
me
a drink, ask for a dance, or
whatever he was about to say.

“You okay if I go for a dance?” Sylvie
whispered in my ear. “He’s quite cute.”

“Have fun.” I smiled at her encouragingly. In
all the years we had known each other, I had grown used to guys probably
thinking I was the less hot friend, the baggage, at times even the gatekeeper
of the hot tall blonde.

For a few minutes I just sat there listening
to the club music
;
my mind wandered off to the estate
and my own life plans. I had no job but would inherit a property that was worth
quite a bit of money. Not that losing a job had happened to me before, but it
wasn’t my style to live off someone else’s cash. As soon as I figured out how
long I’d be staying I knew I’d find employment, even if just for a few weeks.
The language barrier might be a problem, but I hoped in a tourist area someone
might have something for me that wouldn’t require fluent Italian language
skills.

“Thanks for saving our spot,” Sylvie said,
sliding back into her seat. I looked from her to the full margarita glass in
her hand. It was at least the second drink and that barely twenty minutes
within our arrival.