The lawyer Holly had hired arrived, and while he took Jack’s statement, I stepped out to call her. She answered on the first ring.

“How bad is he?”

“Not too bad. Sprained shoulder, black eye—he looks worse than he really is.”

“He got lucky. Doesn’t sound like the police are going to press charges. But you can bet there’ll be a lawsuit.”

“I was afraid of that. They’re letting him out after lunch. How’s the press?” I looked through the window into his room.

“Stories are all over the place. His fans love him, though. They just want to know he’s okay. He needs to release a statement.”

“No, he doesn’t. You put out a statement for him. He’s fine, he’s resting. Just a few scrapes, but he’s okay. That’s it.”

“Sure, sure. I can work with that. You’ll be so pleased to know that I’ve heard through the grapevine—the grapevine being his sleazy publicist—that Adam is in the same hospital.”

“Great! There’ll be a doctor close by when I slap that face right off his head,” I snapped. “Not kidding, Holly. I better not see that guy.”

“Easy, trigger. He’s too busy tweeting to worry about you. This kind of press is great for him. Furthers his bad-boy image, you know?”

I seethed.

“Anyway, I’ve got Bryan flying out there now. He should be there soon. He can get you guys out, but where are you going to go?”

I peeked back into his room. He looked exhausted.

“We’ll go back to his hotel. He needs to get some sleep. That’ll give the lawyer time to figure out everything and determine whether Jack can leave town. This is quite a mess.” I sighed, leaning against the wall and yawning. The night and the drive were taking their toll.

“Yep, but we’ll figure it out. I talked to the hospital administrator, and they’re gonna play ball. They’ve had VIPs there before, so they know how to handle this kind of thing. I’ll handle the press on this end.”

“You got it. And, hey, Holly?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling me last night.”

“Of course. Besides, you would’ve killed me if I let you wake up to this, right?”

“Dead. Would have killed you dead.” I laughed.

We said our good-byes just as I saw Bryan coming down the hall. He and I went into Jack’s room and began to plan exactly how to get him out of there with the least amount of fuss and muss.

In the end, it was Adam who created a perfect diversion. That asshole held a press conference right in front of the hospital while we slipped out the back in a laundry truck. Honestly, sometimes it was like being in a movie . . .

“Wow,” I breathed, setting down my bag. Spread out in front of me was a bird’s-eye view of Las Vegas as seen through the impossibly tall, floor-to-ceiling windows of the Brit’s suite. This place was mac daddy and tricked out: dining room, living room, two bedrooms—sweet mother-of-pearl, it was a palace! “Wow,” I said again, earning a sheepish smile from Jack as he moved past me and farther inside.

He had said not a word since we left the hospital, other than a slipped curse when he bumped his shoulder while moving from the laundry truck into Bryan’s Suburban. Now he moved around the giant suite, first sitting on the couch, then moving to the dining room table, standing by the balcony but not going out. He fretted and fidgeted, not able to stand still but clearly dead on his feet. Nervous. He was nervous. His eyes met mine, then glanced away, then came right back just as fast, full of questions.

Not ready for that, I said briskly, “Okay, let’s get you comfortable and into bed. You need to get some sleep.” I crossed to him, tugging on his good arm. “Come on, baller, which giant bedroom is yours?”

He rolled his eyes but began to move toward one of the rooms. Once inside, he let me help him out of his jacket, which was a little difficult with the sling on his arm. Pulling down the covers, I patted the pillow.

He finally broke the silence. “You think a nap is gonna make this better?”

“I think it’s a start, yes. And then we’ll see.”

“We?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “We. Now get in bed.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he wisely got in. As I smoothed the covers down I caught a glimpse of tomcat on his face. “Would be nicer if you got in with me . . .”

“Sleep, Jack,” I warned as he snorted, settling back.

I went into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, and by the time I was finished, he was sound asleep. I went back out to the living room, tucked my legs underneath me on the couch, and began to decide what to do next.

In a town built on playing the odds, I hoped like hell I hadn’t bet everything on a long shot . . .

Seriously? Gambling metaphors?

Quiet.

nineteen

Jack slept all day, through the night, and well into the following afternoon. Calls came in almost constantly—everyone wanted updates, everyone wanted to know what was going on. With the exception of the lawyer, who gave us the all clear to go back to L.A. when Jack was ready, I stopped answering the phone, needing the quiet.

Holly put out a statement acknowledging that indeed there had been an incident involving Jack Hamilton but that he was fine and in good health, and there was no further information to be shared with the media at this time.

Adam, on the other hand, took full advantage of the interest, using the press to tell his own story. He spun a tale that furthered his bad-boy image: that it was just him and his friends out on the town for a night of drunken excess. Confirming an earlier eyewitness account, Adam let the press infer that it was Jack who had started the fight, had escalated the argument that ended in punches thrown, and that Adam had just jumped into the fray to “help out my boys.”

Yeah. He’d called too. I picked up, then promptly hung up the phone, then called down to the front desk to make sure no more calls got through, and that they knew Adam Kasen was not to be allowed upstairs under any circumstances. Jack could argue with me about it later, but that guy wasn’t getting anywhere near me.

I slept too, on the couch. Thinly. Not much more than dozing, really, so when Jack finally came out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes, I sat right up. Wide-awake.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, yourself,” I replied.

He looked around the room, looked at the light outside. “I’m starving.”

“I’ll bet. You’ve been asleep for a thousand years.”

“That would explain why I feel a thousand years old.” He smiled, wincing as his face wrinkled a bit and stretched his stitches.

“You need to eat, then take some of your pain medicine. You slept through the first round.” I started for the table where I’d left everything from the hospital. “Come on Jack, you really must be starving, and then we should probably—”

He stopped me with a hand on my arm as I walked past him. “Then we talk, Grace,” he said, his fingertips brushing over my skin as he held me in place. “Then we talk.”

I stopped breathing.

He licked his lips.

I licked my own in response.

His tummy growled.

I smiled.

“Okay, we eat, then we talk,” he said, smiling a little as well.

I sniffed.

“How about a shower, then we eat, then we talk?” I offered.

“Deal.” He went to get the room-service menu.

He wants to talk? That’s new.

That’s good.

One shower, two cheeseburgers, and three chocolate shakes later, we sat at the table, across from each other. Over his shoulder I could see the lights of the Strip, the evening made the entire city sparkle.

“So . . .” he began, startling me a little bit.

“So,” I responded.

You really should go back to speech writing . . .