Trophy (3 page)

Cam laughed in my face. “Darling, I’m above suspicion—I don’t need your help. If anything, I would worry about myself if I were you. You’re much too pretty and too . . . calculating to be a
true
grieving widow. You wouldn’t want people to start . . . gossiping about you?”

I felt my face grow warm as he left and closed the door behind himself.

Ugh, how could such an innocent love have started to turn to hate so easily?

I was my parents’ daughter after all. If my father could do what he did to my mother then surely I wasn’t above doing the same. The only problem was it would be much harder to explain Cam’s death than Richard’s, and for the time being, he had me stuck between a rock and a hard place.

I had nowhere to turn for the time being.

However, if and when I got my way, everything would change. I refused for any man to control me, and that included Cam too.

By the time I arrived to Fantasy, the place was packed wall to wall with writhing young bodies and the music played loud enough to drown out any form of conversation.

While most of the revelers had to wait in line, as the late Mrs. Richard Conlon, the bodyguards waved me through and I was guided to the VIP lounge.

“Mrs. Conlon, as the manager of Fantasy, please let me extend my condolences for your late husband. Please accept a bottle of champagne on the house,” an attractive gentleman told me as I sat down in one of the plush velvet lounge chairs.

“Please, that’s not necessary Mister . . .”

“Brooks. James Brooks. And it’s not from me, it’s from the owner, Mr. Petersson. He’s decided to put in a rare appearance tonight. Usually he stays mostly in Vegas but he’s flown in for the weekend.”

I looked past James Brooks to a gorgeous man who sat in a particularly dim corner of the VIP lounge. I couldn’t get a good look but I knew he was fair-haired, had light eyes and appeared to be clean-shaven. He glanced right at me as a bevy of gorgeous women sat around him, vying for his attention but as our gaze locked on one another, a heat traveled from my face straight to that spot between my legs. It wasn’t panty wetting, thank the Lord, but if he wasn’t a sight to behold then I was either dead or well on my way to losing my touch.

Brooks popped open the bottle of Cristal and poured me a generous helping in a fluted glass before he handed it to me, bowed slightly, and walked away without another word.

I held my glass up to Dorian Peterson in salute before I drained my glass and stood, leaving my handbag on the plush lounge chair. In the VIP section, guests had allotted seats and the security was so tight, I could go downstairs to dance without fear that any of my personal effects would be molested.

That’s exactly what I did as I walked down the stairs and blurred in with the crowd as a popular remix of an oldie but goodie, “Summertime Sadness,” began to blast from the speakers.

Lana del Rey and I could be great bosom buddies. I had a feeling we had more in common than not. Only problem was although both my parents had been in the entertainment industry, I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life. My mother’s smoky, whiskey-tinged voice—the perfect mixture of Shirley Bassey and a young Tina Turner—did not get passed down to me. Instead, I got the perfect combination of her and my father’s looks—French Creole and Irish blood was a lethal mixture, and all their tendencies to excess were passed down to me.

I loved, loathed, fought, and defended with a fierce loyalty that no one could break. Too bad I didn’t have any positive feelings for the men in my life. My only female friend—and former lover—Grace, and I, were usually inseparable but even she was giving me time to get over my “grief.” She knew it was as phony as a four-dollar bill but that’s what made us such perfect friends. We knew each other inside and out.

The music swept me away and as “Summertime Sadness” blended into Kaskade’s “Move for Me,” the champagne had taken on its desired effect and I was having the time of my life. I didn’t need a dance partner to cut loose on the dance floor. My own vanity and need to be seen as the strong, independent woman I was ruled every part of my life. I would never be anyone’s victim—not even Campbell’s—but the problem was getting rid of him out of my life for good, and I hadn’t discovered the key to making that happen yet.

I didn’t want to kill him but I would if I had to do so.

That was the problem with murder.

Once you did it once, it became easier and easier to do.

I refused to become my father in that regard but the genetics were there, and if he could murder the woman he loved then what did that say about the homicidal tendencies lurking inside of me?

The thought entered and exited my mind as a pair of strong hands caressed my waist, and I whipped around to see I was dancing with the one and only Dorian Petersson. What the hell did he think he was playing at? I wasn’t the type of woman who would coo, and say all the right things.

Those days were long gone but I couldn’t say I wasn’t pleased he’d decided to acknowledge my presence. In fact, I was downright giddy because up close, those sea-blue eyes were as entrancing as any ocean in the Caribbean. His hair was the color of ripe wheat; although blonds weren’t really my type, there was something dangerous, and yet, extremely addictive about him. He didn’t have a feature on his drop-dead gorgeous face that seemed effeminate about him despite his fair looks. The suntan, his strong male facial characteristics and height of at least six foot, four inches made us the perfect dance partners.

I wanted to chastise him for making the assumption it would be so easy to dance with me but there was something about his lean athletic body that innately told me he was much stronger than he initially seemed. It just didn’t make a damn bit of sense to win a battle, and lose the overall war.

Lust, love, and sex were always a battlefield. It wasn’t a philosophy I could switch off in my brain no matter how hard I tried. Maybe it was my damaged childhood but to me, two potential sexual partners were always in a state of battle. It was just a matter of who would win, and at the end of the night, I sure as hell wouldn’t be the loser.

I could play the victim—the damsel in distress—but the fact remained I was a viper in sheep’s clothing. I always looked for a way to wound my sexual partners mortally. It was no fun if they didn’t innately fear me even if they did love me. Without the risk, the chase held no reward for me at all. It was all too easy and safe.

I didn’t do either.

I couldn’t.

Women like me weren’t built that way.

I gyrated my hips, and moved in tandem with him to the song. It was hypnotic for the both of us, and I loved every minute of our seduction.

I could literally feel him melting in the palm of my hands. He was a musician for God’s sake—probably the sensitive, emo arty type who couldn’t hurt a fly. He had the look of a predator but he wasn’t truly one, and that made the smile on my face grow whether I realized it or not.

Dorian turned me around, and I continued to bump and grind against him as the current song blended into David Guetta’s “Dangerous.” He had no idea he should have been afraid of me because I was the predator tonight—certainly not him. The chemistry between us was absolutely beyond anything I could describe; all I could think about was if he was as good at lovemaking as he was at dancing, his sexual skills must have been phenomenal.

He wrapped his arms around my waist as he whispered in my ear, “Are you usually this forward, Alyssa?”

My heart thumped in my chest as I tried to play down my surprise—both at him knowing my name, and his guttural South African accent.

For the first time that night, I had a feeling I’d misjudged Dorian Petersson, and the mistake would cost me dearly.

Dorian was a natural born manipulator.

He’d always been an expert at fooling people his whole life. However, when he spoke, women usually took a step back, and men often did a double-take.

It made no matter he was American-bred—born in the City of the Angels to be exactly—or that his parents were both Yanks (although to be fair, they were both naturalized citizens). The fact that he’d spent his childhood and young adult years at South African boarding schools had shaped his life in more ways than one.

It was a pre-requisite he learned Afrikaans at his boarding school, and he’d never spent enough time in the States to ever have an American accent. He couldn’t even fake one despite carrying three passports—the second belonged to a Nordic country in the EU, and the third belonging to South Africa.

The whole point of approaching Alyssa was to throw her off her game. He could tell she thought she was a master but she would never be as exceptional as him.

They could fight, fuck or destroy one another but he would never surrender to a woman, let alone
her
. He’d never been in love, and he never planned for it to happen to him ever.

People like him couldn’t love. Not when they’d never known what it was like to
be
loved.

The best of everything in the world couldn’t ever replace the feelings only two humans felt when there was a real connection. Sex was good¸ and the electricity between them was off the charts but lust would never turn to love.

Dorian had to admit he would have lots of fun with this one, and perhaps she would last more than a month—the longest he’d ever tied himself down with a casual lover.

Although he had the reputation of being quite the manwhore, he was quite the opposite. He didn’t have the time to work as much as he did and bed as many women as TMZ claimed. Hell, a meeting over coffee with an attractive female musician talking about nothing more interesting than a possible remix became his latest lover. According to the website, he went through women like Kleenex.

In reality, he was actually very picky; he was a natural germaphobe that didn’t trust many women. Most of his limited partners got his dick and nothing else; he did not believe in oral sex in most cases, and he always wore a condom. He had too much on the line for accidental STDs or unexpected pregnancies.

Dorian’s life was carefully planned; every moment he’d lived had led up to the moment he shared these precious minutes with Alyssa. Everything was going according to plan until she made the small slip up.

He knew there was a part of her that was afraid of him, even if her own vanity failed to acknowledge it. She still thought she was in control when in fact, she wasn’t in control of anything but the luscious body he held against his own.

This was simply a small setback, and nothing that would prevent him from taking her home that night but he did have to reassure her. The moment the song changed into a more trip-hop number, he guided her carefully back to the VIP area.

His bodyguards knew what he wanted when he’d left the hanger-ons in his section. They were cleared out by the time he walked her to his area. Her bottle of Cristal champagne awaited her, chilled on ice, along with her small designer bag. He sat her down on the lounge sofa as if she were fragile as glass before he sat beside her, closing in on what little personal space she had.

Dorian couldn’t deny the photographs he had did nothing for her as opposed to being side-by-side with her in the flesh. Alyssa was a beautiful woman with olive skin, the most gorgeous hazel eyes he’d ever laid eyes upon, sculpted cheekbones while the rest of her face was classically beautiful including her perfect lips and generous mouth. She was a walking pin-up, and she knew it, from her handspun waist to the breadth of her hips, and long shapely legs despite her short stature. She couldn’t have been more than five foot, four inches but everything about her was perfect.

He couldn’t have been more pleased if he’d designed her in his own image of the ideal woman for him.

Dorian was a male version of his own mother, and if there wasn’t the DNA to prove it, he would have questioned whether the man he knew as his biological father was actually the right person. He looked completely Nordic in build and stature, and when people asked, it was easier to tell a little white lie and claim his mother’s entire heritage as opposed to just the genetic half that flowed through his veins.

He watched her as she drained her glass of Cristal, and before she was finished, he’d grabbed the bottle and was ready to refill it before she held her fluted glass out to him.

“Dorian Petersson.” Alyssa sipped from her champagne. “Fancy meeting the
artiste
who has turned so many mediocre songs into classic party anthems. You should be quite proud of yourself.”

He smirked, knowing her comment was meant to wound but he didn’t bruise that easily. “Why thank you. I didn’t realize you followed my career.”

She smiled wryly. “Sorry . . . occupational hazard when my deceased husband was one of the biggest and most sought after producers in the music industry. He never understood why he could never get a hold of you despite working with Introspect Records as much as he did. You are one of their signed artists, aren’t you?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows knowing she’d purposely phrased the statement as a question. “True but I prefer to work with artists in my generation—no offense. I have no wish to work with stars past their prime looking for a hit because their album didn’t live up to the great expectations of being produced by the late
great
Richard Conlon.”

“Funny you should put it that way.” Alyssa sipped from her champagne before tracing the rim with a perfectly delicate index finger. “I always believed my late husband’s best work was behind him. Back when he worked with real artists and not these . . . geriatric performers who still want to be considered relevant.”

Dorian couldn’t stop the laughter that escaped from his mouth. “Everyone has their time in the spotlight and for many ‘legends,’ the worst part of growing old is no longer being . . . the bright, shining star they once were. At one time they had Vegas but now Vegas is too hip for them. They have to be content with performances in second-rate Reno or Atlantic City. It’s a pity but so is life. No one ever said getting through it would be
easy
.”

She stared at him with those fascinating hazel eyes. “My sentiments exactly, Dorian.”

“You say my name in such a formal way.”

“Forgive me but aren’t we on a formal basis?”

He shrugged apathetically. “Formality only lasts for as long as you want it to . . . Alyssa.”

“My friends call me Aly.” She glanced at him again before she downed the rest of her champagne.

“My friends call me Dough Boy.”

Alyssa laughed out loud as he refilled her champagne flute. “Sorry, not gonna happen . . . Dough Boy.”

“Then please, keep referring me to Dorian. It is my given name after all.”

“Only if you refer to me as Aly.”

His Caribbean blue eyes, so bright in color, narrowed. “When . . . exactly do we become less formal?”

She leaned toward him and whispered in her sweet, champagne-tinged breath, “You tell me.”

“Well, in my world . . . I would like to say when we fuck but seriously, it’s when the music happens. A track comes together and both the artist and I are extremely satisfied with the finished product. That . . . is intimacy—the closest I get to it anyway.”

“I’m not in the music business, and don’t have an artistic bone in my body so you tell me how we are supposed to become less formal?”

Her bright hazel eyes searched his and he couldn’t help but become mesmerized by her, and the sudden amount of vulnerability she conveyed despite her tough girl act. He forgot he was supposed to despise her. He had a vendetta to settle but it would have to wait. It wouldn’t happen tonight or the next day but eventually, she would get what was coming to her. He’d make damn sure of it.

Alyssa wasn’t a babe in the woods, and she sure as hell wasn’t innocent. Everything he would eventually put her through was well deserved but first came the hard part. He would have to find a way for her to fall for him and surrender. She was wounded; that was the difficult part. She wouldn’t show her weaknesses so easily; in the end, it was a complex game of Poker that they would both try to win. But only one person could hold the Royal Flush while the other held what looked like a winning hand.

When the time came, Dorian would make sure it wouldn’t be him on the losing end, no matter what he had to do.

He was a natural born hustler and he would use his skills with gusto if he had to. In the game of lust and love, all was fair. He would have to remember that and not allow this temptress to get under his skin.

Alyssa was good but he was better. He’d had years to perfect his craft—many more than she did despite her being a couple of years older than him. She’d known love before and lost it; he’d never known love at all from either parent. He was merely a chess piece they traded back and forth for money, power or their own fragile ego plays. It was no life for a child but he’d learned fast that the only person he had to depend on was himself.

Dorian became selfish, hardened. He learned self-love was the highest form of enlightenment, and everyone else should always come second. Never love anyone as much as he loved himself, and he’d never be hurt in this life. It had taken a lot of time and devotion but he’d reached that pinnacle; financial success and fame had been icing on the cake but he knew they weren’t real.

The only part of him that would ever last was his belief in himself and his abilities.

Everything else was a mirage, and he could handle those just fine.

Alyssa drained her fluted glass and set it on the table. She held her liquor well but he knew she was drunk. She’d never managed to eat enough to maintain her weight in the last few weeks, and he knew she suffered from weight loss. Not dramatic by any stretch but it was there.

Perhaps a heart beat in that cold, dead, calculating body of hers other than for pumping blood through her veins.

Dorian didn’t know, and he cared even less. The distance between them was a good thing. Lust and chemistry be damned—those were physical symptoms of the body and meant nothing. They had everything to do with the brain and nothing to do with the heart and soul.

If he could just remember this then he would be fine.

“So, where do you wanna go?” He leaned into her space, their lips inches from each other.

“Your place,” she whispered before she looked down. “I’m a widow . . . in mourning. It wouldn’t look right to the household staff if I brought a total stranger home. No offense . . . but unfortunately, I have a stellar reputation to maintain.”

“None taken.” Dorian pulled back a few inches. “Tell me, was your husband good to you? Did he love you?”

Alyssa chuckled out loud before she shook her head. “No, he wasn’t. I don’t think Richard Conlon was capable of love. He didn’t really like people in general—he collected possessions. Unfortunately, I was merely a trophy wife. Someone to make him feel better about getting older.”

Game.

Set.

Match.

Dorian knew this whole setup would be like taking candy from a baby. It might be
too
easy, and he would grow bored before the time was right.