Vegas Royals: A Love Inc. Prequel Read online

  Vegas Royals

  A Love Inc. Prequel

  Ella James

  Contents

  Untitled

  Prologue

  1. Elizabeth

  2. Elizabeth

  3. Hunter

  4. Elizabeth

  5. Elizabeth

  6. Hunter

  7. Elizabeth

  8. Elizabeth

  9. Hunter

  Afterword

  Vegas Royals is the introduction to the Love Inc. Collection of interconnected stand-alones.

  Prologue

  Hunter

  September—Las Vegas

  IT’S EARLY SUNDAY MORNING, and I’m coming off a two-day tournament. I’m tired and hungry, chugging down a DeVille bottled water as I steer my Aston Martin through the clot of traffic on The Strip, crawling toward the private airport behind the golf club.

  I won again, with a full house over queens in the last hand, but it was closer than it should have been. I collected my chips just after midnight, and we wrapped the show at 1:30. There was a room at the Bellagio for me, but I’m sick of the Bellagio. The last two times I stayed, I found company in my suite. I didn’t ask for any company.

  I’m flying to the vineyard: my house, my big bed, absolute quiet. I won’t get to sleep for another couple hours—I can’t sleep on the Gulfstream—but it’ll be worth it once I get there. I’m tired of Vegas.

  I’m still dressed in my poker black, and the jeans and button-up feel like sandpaper on my skin. I take another gulp. My head is throbbing like I just snorted a gram, but I didn’t. Four months sober. Four months celibate, too. No real reason why. I just got bored.

  I’m starting to get that empty, ill feeling in my stomach that comes from lack of sleep when my buddy Marchant starts blowing up my phone. I let it ring as I navigate South Maryland Parkway. Twice, three times, four… On the fifth call, I pick up, sounding more pissed than I mean too. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got a favor, man.”

  I groan, because I can hear in his voice that Marchant is hyped the hell up. “You got a favor you want to do for me?” I drawl. “Cause I could use a favor.”

  “Nah, man.” He hesitates, the way he always does before he drops a bomb. “I need you to come out here. I’ve got something going on. I need you to run backup.”

  Run backup? I’m not sure what that means, but I can already tell it’s going to be a pain in my ass. “You must be out your mind. It’s two forty-three.” I move the phone away from my face, scowling. “Are you rolling?”

  “What? No. Look, just—hold on just a second.” I hear shuffling, followed by Marchant’s hiss as I roll into the parking lot of the tiny private airport where I keep my plane.

  “Dude,” he says, after a moment of muffled static. “I got Priscilla Heat out here.”

  He pauses, I guess expecting me to be impressed. When I’m not, he says, “She wants me and some of the girls for one of her videos.”

  I shake my head. “I’m at the airport, March. I’m going to the vineyard for a little R&R.”

  “You’re a bourbon heir, Hunter. You shouldn’t even have a fucking vineyard.”

  I hit a button on my steering wheel, the garage door lifts, and I slide into the fourth slot in the garage. It’s dark in here, making me ache for sleep. “The word is ‘no.’ Have Rachelle watch the ranch for you.”

  “C’mon, man, this is Priscilla Heat.”

  Marchant is the kind of guy that has a favorite porn star, and Priscilla Heat, the lasered, lipo’d two-time World Boner Award winner, has been Marchant’s ultimate fantasy since college.

  “I get it, dude, but use Rachelle.” Rachelle is Marchant’s right-hand woman. She can watch the cameras at Love Inc. just as well as he can, and besides, he’s got Richard on the ground. Richard and a team of big-ass bouncers.

  “Rachelle is out,” he says sourly.

  “What do you mean, she’s out?” I know for a fact she lives at Love Inc., Marchant’s fluffy bunny brothel.

  “I mean her sister died. Rach won’t be back till October first.”

  I rub my eyes. “Then tell Priscilla Heat to wait a week.”

  “She won’t.” Marchant’s voice is low, almost a growl.

  “Why not?” I throw my car door open, wincing as the garage’s interior lights blink on.

  As I reach up to pull the cord that turns the automatic light off, I hear another puff, a pause where Marchant hesitates. Then he lowers his voice another octave. “She wants you here, man. She wants to spend the night with you and shoot the video here all week. It’s more than a video. It’s like a doc-u-fuck-ery or something.”

  I lean my hip against my ride, looking out the garage window at my waiting jet as I start to understand.

  “You need the money.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Damnit, Marchant.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose and swallow a sigh. “When this is over, I’m chaining you to one of your beds. No more going to Tao on Rach’s admin nights, either.”

  I’m backing out of the garage a minute later, wheeling around and heading out toward I-215.

  MARCH AND I met at Tulane, at the frat house. I had a shitty attitude because I joined under pressure from my father, and March was a party boy, moving through sorority girls like an assembly line. I thought he was full of shit, and he thought I was an uptight prick. But somehow the next semester we got stuck in adjoining rooms, and we’ve been good since.

  March’s parents died our junior year—plane crashed into the peaks of the Ecuadorian Andes—and around then my dad won his U.S. Senator gig and left for D.C., so we said fucks to the frat house and moved into what we dubbed West Manor.

  Marchant claimed the entire downstairs, parading women in and out like cattle. The weird thing was, they always stayed friends after, so he had a lot of chick pals. Sometime in our senior year, I bedazzled some of his inheritance, and he decided to use the money I made him to open a Vegas brothel. A very Marchant thing to do. And Marchant being Marchant, he doesn’t go for something reasonable like Radcliffe Ranch; he names it Love Incorporated.

  It’s a two-thousand acre, dusty, barren strip of Nevada desert, but the three sprawling English manor houses and the forty or fifty acres around them—Marchant’s got that shit looking like the Garden of Eden. He sold that image to a lot of people, too. Mostly people with dicks.

  I’m not charmed when I give my Aston Martin to the valet and follow Krista, one of my least-favorite escorts, into the vast Love Den. She’s got her strawberry-blonde hair thrown back over her shoulders, and it’s kind of curly. Her blue eyes twinkle with a genuine smile, something I just don’t understand.

  Tonight she doesn’t stop me in the den, with its many cozy alcoves, to ask me how I’m doing and bat her lashes. In fact, I’m staring at the back of her head as she leads me down the nearest of four wide, candle-lit hallways. I watch her black silk dress sashay around her upper thighs, listen to her designer heels tap on the hardwood. Against the soft brown wallpaper, her pale skin looks ghastly white.

  For some reason, her silence makes me feel compelled to speak. “You doing alright tonight, Krista?”

  “Just fine, Mr. West. Thank you for asking.” She says it without missing a beat. “How are you?”

  I rub my forehead, trying not to watch the crease between her thigh and ass. “I could be worse.”

  It dawns on me that most people would probably be happy with my weekend. I just won five million dollars. But one of the strange things about being rich as shit is five million’s just not that exciting.

  What most people don’t know is that I haven’t gotten my pocket of gold coins from great-granddaddy West. Not
yet. Not until I’m thirty-five. When I turned eighteen my father gave me one of his stock portfolios to manage. He’s fond of trial by fire, and I think he wanted to see if I would sink or swim. Before I graduated college I was able to triple what he gave me. Since then, I haven’t stopped.

  March’s suite is behind a large mahogany door at the end of the hall, but I can’t see it because there’s a film crew camped outside. A few of them must recognize me because they tip their hats or nod as we squeeze through. I nod back, and Krista knocks briskly when we reach the door.

  The camera mounted on the wall makes a creepy-ass mouse squeak as it swivels, and I hear Marchant’s voice over the intercom. “Good to see ya, West. Krista, thanks.”

  I press a Benjamin into her palm, because that’s what any other guest would do, and the door swings open as she walks off.

  Marchant is grinning. I can see relief and jubilation on his face as he pulls me into a bro hug. As always, I try not to wince.

  “Thanks for coming, West.”

  I roll my eyes after taking in his black silk robe and spiky, dark blond hair. “Thanks for inviting me to the slumber party.”

  From behind March’s wide shoulders, I hear a feminine laugh that makes my skin crawl.

  “Hunter West!” I see a slim, tanned arm reach around Marchant’s robe, and then she steps out from behind him. Priscilla Heat. Tonight she’s decked out in a zebra striped teddy with red lace garters, black thigh highs, and six-inch heels. Her breasts are perkier than melons, and my eyes go there on their own before I jerk them back up. Priscilla’s eyes are pale blue. Her smile is lasered, her teeth veneered. As she clasps my hand, I smell a whiff of sex.

  “Hunter West.” She smiles coyly. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’m a big, big fan.”

  I try to smile. I swear to God, I really do, but my mouth muscles aren’t working. I’m pretty sure I wince instead. This is confirmed by the small notch between her thin, dark, drawn-on brows.

  “I’ve seen some of your films,” I said. “You run a tight ship.”

  She bursts out laughing, then grabs my arm and jerks me toward the giant, claw-footed dining room table. Tonight, it’s piled with hors d’oeuvres and liquor. I’m eying a meatball, thinking how hungry I am, when she grabs my ass and squeezes. “Christ, you’re tight.”

  “Hands off,” I growl.

  She grabs my jaw, and as she lowers her mouth to my ear, I know that she’ll be trouble. “I do what I want.”

  She grabs my cock—or tries to. “I don’t know much about your business,” I say as I catch her wrist, “but in my line of work we shake hands first.”

  “Funny!” Her red smile curves, stretching her face. Applause erupts from all directions, and it’s nothing like the polite applause from an audience watching a round of Texas Hold ‘Em.

  “How would you like to be in an adult film,” she croons, “opposite me?”

  “I’m busy tonight.” I strut over to Marchant, ignoring my involuntary hard-on, and grab his shoulder. “Sarabelle, my room, now.”

  I keep my head down as I stride into the hall, shouldering past a smug-looking guy with sunken cheekbones and slick black hair; a short, bespectacled girl holding an enormous camera; and a couple of others I don’t see because my eyes are on the runner. In seconds, I’m at the suite that Marchant built for me, back when we were young and I was snorting blow and fucking like a demon.

  I figured Sarabelle would be free, because she keeps Tuesdays open for her favorite clients. But even if she was working, she would have cleared her schedule. I strip, stashing my clothes in the chifferobe, and slide into a cool silk robe. By the time Sarabelle arrives, wearing nothing but a blue teddy and wicked grin, I’m sprawled out on the bed, stroking my dick.

  “Mr. West, how can I help you?”

  I eat her out then fuck her. When we’re both satisfied I buy her for the rest of the night, as per our old arrangement. I’m ready to split when Donnie, one of the male escorts, knocks on the door. He’s got a bottle of West Bourbon and two glasses already poured.

  Under the bottle is a note, scrawled on a receipt: For being such a good sport. ~P

  I toss back one of the glasses, then shove the note into the pocket of my robe.

  I tip Donnie with the bottle and the other glass, and by the time he closes the door, the room is spinning.

  I hear a woman’s voice as I sink to my knees, but I’m not sure which woman. Sarabelle is asleep. At least I thought she was. The voice is high-pitched, kind of like my stepmom’s when she’s mad at me. I blink at the swirling ceiling. Maybe it’s my mother’s—but I can’t remember that far back. I can’t remember...anything.

  The next morning, I can’t even remember if Sarabelle spent the night in my room. All I know for sure is that she’s gone.

  Elizabeth

  November – Napa, California

  THIS IS WHAT happens when you don’t leave your house for weeks on end, trying to prep for grad school finals. For the first time in my life, I’m looking at a man, imagining him naked.

  Not just any man—my host for the evening, Hunter West. With tweed pants hugging muscular legs and his jacket carelessly unbuttoned so I can see his undershirt and black vest, he screams sex. The kind of sex that’s all slick skin and pheromones, bulging biceps and a six pack that ripples as he leans closer to plant kisses all over my face.

  The little fantasy makes me blush, but I don’t look away from Hunter. We’re in the same room for the first time in at least six months, and I’m entranced.

  I pretend to tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ear as I steal another glance at him. He’s standing by a massive stone fireplace, surrounded by some of California’s most eligible bachelorettes. I recognize a few of them from Hargrove Day School: Honey Neighton, a former cheerleader who missed senior year due to some kind of Ambien addiction; Brina Lulle, a pretty, petite figure skater who once qualified for the Olympic team but broke her ankle and didn’t go; Mary Baldwin Greese, the painfully shy daughter of one of L.A.’s most powerful talent agents. There are more of them, decked out in designer gowns every color of the fall and winter fabric palette.

  Hunter is more than a head taller than most of them. His wide shoulders are almost triple the width of tiny Brina. He’s nodding at something she’s saying, the look on his face politely solicitous, but I tell myself that underneath, he’s mind-numbingly bored.

  Honey Neighton fans herself with her hand, drawing attention to her breasts, and I smirk down at my gown. It’s like a bad regency romance: Everyone gathers at the nobleman’s estate for a hunt and the unmarried ladies fawn all over the awkward and ornery—but charming!—duke.

  Hunter West isn’t a brooding romance novel hero, though. He has too much breeding to be awkward and he’s too straightforward to play at anything—although he is hard to get.

  I watch him produce a convincing and absolutely gorgeous grin for Brina before he turns to Mary Baldwin, ruffling her chin-length hair and laughing with his blond head thrown back. This earns him a small smile, which, coming from Brina, is like a lap dance.

  Suddenly, Hunter turns and looks over his shoulder, and I can see his eyebrows arch. Marchant Radcliffe, one of Hunter’s hell-raising friends, tosses a glass bottle over the heads of a cluster of guests, and Hunter catches it with one hand, saying something that makes his admirers smile before turning to the wet bar behind him and opening a cabinet.

  He pours as his ladies wait. Even filling shot glasses, he seems completely in command of himself and what’s around him. I’ve moved in or near his circle for a while, despite our seven year age difference, and I’ve never seen him not look like that. Like a man at the helm of the universe.

  It’s kind of surprising, considering he spends most of his time in Vegas, playing poker, man-whoring, and tossing back his family’s Louisiana bourbon. That was his great-grandfather’s legacy. Hunter’s father, Conrad West, a long-time politician, is currently Secretary of State.

  He disapproves
of Hunter’s lifestyle, or so I’ve heard. I’ve only actually seen Conrad West in person twice, and both times from a distance, so I don’t know much about him, but I wish I did. I collect Hunter details like my best friend Suri collects Hermès jewelry.

  Watching Hunter turn around with a platter of tall shots balanced on his big hand and a sly smile on his face, I can’t help imaging him lying on the Egyptian cotton sheets I know hug all the mattresses here at his Napa estate.

  It wouldn’t start there, though. As he tosses back his shot, I envision him backed against a wall, his shoulders bare and round and wide, that plump lower lip just begging to be bitten. Something about him makes me want to bite. If I was anybody else, maybe I would try to arrange that.

  As it is, I’m Elizabeth DeVille, super spy and resident poor girl, and watching him out of the corner of my eye will have to do.

  I nod at something my best friend Suri is saying to me, and then feel bad because I’m not really listening.

  “I’m surprised she’s wearing Oscar because I heard she’s not modeling for them anymore,” she says.

  “Oh really,” I reply, hoping that’s the right response.

  “Maybe someone on the design team is a friend of hers, because otherwise I don’t know how she would get her hands on it.”

  Hunter leans against the fireplace, fingering a flask that sticks out of his pants pocket. I catch him run a hand back through his slightly wavy hair as his groupies shift their attention to a curvy black-haired girl who’s gesturing wildly about something. For half a second, Hunter’s gaze lifts. I think it rests on me, but then a blonde bombshell in a wispy red gown steps around me, and I’m sure his attention is meant for her.