Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Brandon

Damon is sitting in the booth when I get back, legs stretched out under the table, stroking Rose’s empty cocktail glass with his thumb.

“Where’s Rose?” Like I need to ask. The smug smile on his face is telling me everything I need to know.

“She left. Rather suddenly. Didn’t say where she was going.”

“What did you say to her?”

His mouth twists into the sinister grin he perfected as a child whenever our parents were looking the other way. “I might have let it slip about our little wager.” He inclines his head, striking a pensive pose. “She didn’t take it as well as I thought she would.”

I knew I should’ve told her myself. I wanted to. I was waiting for the right time, but the right time never seemed to come along. I should’ve known Damon would find a way to get to her first.

“Do me a favor, Damon, and don’t come looking for us.”

Outside, the strip is crawling with people, none of them in a hurry to get anywhere. I scan left and right for a glimpse of Rose’s gold shirt, but this is Vegas where gold and silver walk hand in hand with glitter and diamantes. I didn’t even think to ask how long ago she left.

I try calling her. Her cell phone rings out, no option to leave a voicemail message. I try again, muttering under my breath, “Come on, Rose. Pick up.”

Third time lucky? Her phone is switched off now, the deadness on the other end of the line even more alarming than finding Damon sitting in our booth and Rose gone.

I hail a cab and ask the driver to take me back to the hotel. This isn’t the first time Rose has run away from me, but she did at least take time out to pack a bag with her stuff before she fled Ruby Island. She might not want to keep the clothes I bought her for this trip, but she won’t leave without her own personal belongings.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I scan the sidewalks for a glimpse of her through the passenger window. Several times, I spot a woman with the same color hair and press my forehead against the glass to be certain, but they’re either wearing different clothes or they turn around before I can ask the driver to stop the car.

Damon always did have shit timing.

The Rod Stewart gig might not have been my first choice of entertainment, but it was fun, the songs memorable, and watching Rose enjoying herself, the smile on her face, and the wide eyes, was enough for me.

And now this. Sometimes it feels as if the rest of the world is conspiring against us. Each time I’m close to peeling away another layer of Rose Carter, something happens to push her away, and it’s becoming a dangerous pattern that Damon is involved again.

I stuff some cash into the driver’s hand and get out of the cab before it has stopped moving. Moving as quickly as I can through the hotel lobby and corridors without drawing attention to myself, I hurry straight to the room. My fingers are trembling, and I drop the key card, cussing to myself as I bend to pick it up off the floor, wasting precious moments.

Because I already know that she isn’t here.

The room is exactly as I left it earlier. I open the closet, and Rose’s clothes are still on the hangers, minus the gold shirt she’s wearing tonight. Her suitcase is still in the storage cupboard where she put it after we unpacked.

I check that my laptop is still inside my briefcase, hating myself for making that a priority, and turn three-sixty. Nothing out of place. No signs of hurried packing. She didn’t come back here.

Downstairs in the lobby, I speak to the concierge in his peacock-green and gold outfit. “Sorry, sir, I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Weiss this evening.”

Mrs. Weiss.

I’m about to correct him when I realize that’s Rose’s name now, at least, for the time being.

“Can you call me if you speak to her?” I hand him my business card and a huge tip which he pockets in one fluid movement.

“Certainly, sir.”

Rose isn’t in the bar, and the bartender tells me that he hasn’t seen her since we left before the show.

She isn’t in any of the hotel bars, or the casino, which is now buzzing with voices, the night only just beginning. I go to the pool deck, remembering her enthusiasm for the pool loungers, and she isn’t there. Sprinting now, my breaths coming in rapid gasps, I check the Palazzo pool deck too. Few people are hanging around outside, everyone either in the bar or chancing their luck on the roulette table.

I dash back outside to the strip and stand on the busy sidewalk. Catch my breath. Calm my racing heart.

I need to stop panicking and start thinking like Rose Carter. Where would she go? Experience tells me that she’d either get drunk or go home.

But this is Vegas. The strip is lined with hotels, all of which have multiple bars and casinos, and thousands of people of all ages and backgrounds having a good time. If someone wants to get lost, this is the place to do it.

On the other hand, if she fled directly to the airport, she’d be easier to track down. I dial Harry Reid International airport and choose the option for security, explaining to the advisor that I’m Rose’s husband, and that her father has been rushed into hospital and I need her to delay her trip.

The female voice on the other end of the line is filled with genuine concern despite the late hour and the fact that she’s either nearing the end of a long shift or has a long night ahead of her. But she has no good news to deliver: Rose hasn’t checked in on any flights.

“Can you put a call out for her?” I ask.

I leave my number with the advisor and pocket my phone.

Searching every bar on the strip is a futile exercise, but I can’t stand around waiting for Rose to walk up behind me and tap me on the shoulder. I don’t even know if she has money of her own to spend in a casino. The treasure hunt prize was $10,000, but I have no idea if my mother honored the prize after Rose’s hasty retreat from the island, or even if Rose would’ve accepted it.

She’s proud. Her reaction to the prize at the treasure hunt awards ceremony was enough to demonstrate her embarrassment at accepting such a large sum of money. It’s at odds with the million bucks I offered her father as part of our arrangement, but I know she was thinking of him when she accepted. She had a panic attack in Tiffany’s for fuck’s sake.

I duck into the nearest bar and navigate the tables, scanning the bobbing sea of heads for her, aware that while I’m inside, she could be walking past on her way to anywhere.

Why am I panicking?

She’s probably on her way home, wishing she’d never met me. I’ll no doubt receive the engagement ring, neatly packaged in its box, on my desk in a couple of days’ time, no explanation, no goodbye. Over and done with.

That isn’t what I want though. It’s true, I didn’t consider Rose’s feelings when I delivered the proposition to her, but I never wanted to hurt her, and the arrogant asshole in me assumed that this scenario would play out whichever way I wanted it to go.

Fake engagement? Sure, no problem.

Choose a ring, Rose.

Wear the designer clothes I bought you.

Smile for the cameras.

The difference is that people like Rose Carter don’t take these things for granted. Asking her to wear the ring as if it were nothing more than costume jewelry was like mocking her dreams. Perhaps Rose doesn’t even want to get married someday, but if she does, I’ve gone and spoiled it for her with my goddamned fake proposal.

This is why I need to find her.

I want to put things right. I want to apologize, tell her that I didn’t enter the situation lightly, and that … and that there is no one else I’d rather have shared the experience with.

I want to feel her in my arms again. I want to kiss her, fuck her, and—the timeless cliché from all good love stories—take her to heaven and back. I want to hear her groan, scream, and beg for more. I want to taste every inch of her.

Outside, my pulse is racing even faster than it was before I entered the bar, my thoughts taking me to places I shouldn’t be going right now.

I hear raised voices and follow the source of the sound with my eyes. A scuffle has broken out amongst a group of young lads on the opposite side of the road. One guy, tall, beefy, with a wide neck and buzzcut, grabs one of the other lads and hurls him into the road in front of oncoming traffic. A black Merc slams on its brakes, tires screeching across the tarmac to avoid hitting the lad on the ground.

I turn around and keep walking in the opposite direction.

A short distance ahead of me, a bachelorette party all dressed in white with pink sashes and pink crowns on their heads, are singing ‘Like a Virgin’ loudly, dancing around other pedestrians. One woman grabs the hand of a silver-haired guy in smart pants and formal shirt and swings him around while his wife stands back, laughing at his attempts to remain upright.

Everywhere I turn, people are drunk, loud, out for a good time. But good times can flip on their axis in a heartbeat, especially when copious amounts of liquor and heavy casino losses are involved. This vibrant jangling city can become a dangerous place.

I hit redial on Rose’s cell phone number—it’s still dead.

But this doesn’t sit right with me either. Rose wouldn’t cut herself off from everyone she knows—she’s too responsible for that. She’d worry that her dad or her best friend might need to contact her in an emergency.

It dawns on me then, that if Rose is going to contact anyone, it will be her best friend—what’s her name? Jo? Jess? There must be a way to find out. Julia would know how.

I scroll down to Julia’s number and hesitate. I can’t ask her to help me—she killed whatever mutual trust we’d developed over the past few years of working together when her sister sold those photos to the tabloids.

I keep walking.

I’m instinctively heading towards the chapel where Rose and I got married the night before. Was it less than twenty-four hours ago? I can picture tomorrow morning’s headlines: Has anyone seen the new Mrs. Brandon Weiss? The once eligible bachelor is more careless with his loved ones than he is with his money.

A tram trundles past and I peer through the windows for a glimpse of Rose staring back at me. I call the transit center—it’s a long shot, and I draw another blank. The next bus to New York leaves in the morning, and travelers don’t need to supply their name when they buy a ticket.

I end the call without pressing for more information. I might be fooling myself, but I don’t truly believe that Rose has run away. She’ll come back to me when she’s ready, once she has processed Damon’s revelation and decided to hear my side of the story.

I’m about to turn around and head back to the hotel to wait for Rose in our suite when my phone vibrates with an incoming call.

My stomach somersaults when I check the caller ID.

Not Rose.

Julia.

I hesitate. Is it too much of a coincidence that she’s calling me now? Would Rose have contacted Julia for help rather than a close friend?

Rubbing my face with my free hand, I spot a young guy with a lurid red Mohican and spears through his nose heading towards me and hit the green button.

“Brandon?” Julia’s voice sounds far away.

“I’m here.”

Pause. “I didn’t think you would pick up.” There’s forced lightheartedness in her tone—she’s scared that I’ll hang up before she says her piece.

“What do you want, Julia?”

“Where are you?”

“Vegas.”

Another pause. “It’s true then?”

“What’s true?”

“You got married.”

“Julia, I’m pressed for time.”

I can see the top levels of the Palazzo in the distance on my right, the chapel will be a couple of blocks down on my left. People are jostling all around me, their evenings just beginning.

“Brandon, I’m sorry about what happened with Wren. I didn’t know?—”

“It’s done now,” I interject.

“I-I know you don’t trust me now, and I can’t change that, but I want to help.”

Help?

“You’ve done enough, Julia. Is that all?”

“I know you’ve been trying to find Carlos Russo.”

I freeze. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

“He never made it to his residence in Rome.”

I turn away from the crowds, switch the phone to my other ear—it’s a difficult habit to break. “How do you know this?”

“I have my contacts.”

“What happened in Rome?”

“I’m not sure.” There’s an edge to her voice that I didn’t pick up on before.

“But he was there?”

“I don’t know, Brandon.” She lowers her voice as if worried someone might hear her. “I don’t know where he is.”

I swallow. My thoughts are racing. “Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s gone too far. Wren… She’s in over her head. I’m worried about her.”

I ignore the bit about Julia’s sister. “What’s gone too far?”

“That’s all I know. I’m sorry, Brandon. I’m sorry for everything.” She ends the call.

I call her straight back, but the number is unobtainable.

“Fuck!”

I try Rose’s number again and get the same result. Unobtainable. What is it with all these fucking off-grid numbers?

Head down, I make my way back to the hotel to wait for Rose and process what Julia told me about Carlos Russo.