Bender (Vegas Venom Book 4)

Sitting in the shadow of the apartment building where Madison claims to be living, I notice a trickle of sweat travel down between my shoulder blades. I went through everything I own before I left the house tonight while trying to decide what to wear. How formal should I dress? Most of the guys on the team think that dressing up is a bad thing… or at least, dressing up too much.

If Dante were going to take someone he liked on a date, he would wear ostrich leather shoes, a silk suit, an expensive watch, and style his hair. Then again, since I arrived in Nevada, I have discovered that my boss does not like people. He likes the power he has over them.

This is another thing that troubles me. All of the other players on the Vegas Venom seem to win women over by being bold and brash. Many times, Anders has told me to be direct. But when I am too direct, he acts like that is a bad thing. According to him, I am supposed to make Madison understand that I want her without telling her that I want her, and I should try to impress her without looking like I am attempting to impress her. Like so many things, I do not understand this part of life in America.

In Italia, things are easier. They flow. They are more honest and simple.

But that does not mean I will stop trying to understand. As an orphan, all I have ever wanted is to fit in somewhere.

I jump when someone taps on the window, and I look up to see Madison’s smiling face. She waves before opening the door of the car and sliding in beside me.

It is hard not to let a tiny frown crinkle my nose. “Non, bellissima. I was supposed to get you at the door. Like a gentleman.”

“I’m an independent woman who can walk to a car without an escort. And you’re dressed up,” she observes.

At the sight of her, I relax a little. Something about this particular woman has turned me inside out from the moment I laid eyes on her. For one thing, she is stunning. Her full figure leaves me breathless with desire, and the soft fall of her honey-brown hair makes me want to run my fingers through it. Her full lips beckon to me, and I want to kiss her before I say a word. Is that what Anders means by showing, not telling?

I decide against it and rub my sweating palms against my gray silk slacks instead. “Too dressed up?” I ask. I went with a button-down shirt but no jacket and no tie. Fancy, but not trying-too-hard fancy. I wish someone would teach a class on how to charm American women, but with clear rules.

All of this reading between the lines only confuses me.

Madison studies me, then shakes her head. “No. You look good. Classy.”

“Ah, grazie. And you, of course, you are tasty today, as always.” Her high-waisted brown dress shows off a few inches of thigh between the hem and the top of her boots.

Madison chokes on a laugh. “Tasty?”

I sigh in defeat. My English has gotten better since I moved to Las Vegas, but I still get words wrong all the time. Sometimes I wish I could just think what I mean straight into other people’s heads. “Sorry. I do this. What is a word for when something is so sweet you want to take little bites?”

She stares at me for a moment with her lips parted, then begins to laugh. She looks as lost as I feel, but her laugh warms my heart. “Tasty seems like as good a word for that as any, I guess. And if we’re going with that definition, then you look pretty tasty yourself.”

Heat climbs my neck, and I suddenly wish I had not buttoned my collar so high.

“So, is this the date?” Madison asks. “We just sit in a car for a while?” There is humor in her voice, so I do not think that she is annoyed. In fact, she sounds nervous and a little bit shy. My eyes sweep her body again, before landing on her cheeks. They are just a tad rosy, which is a first and I like it. Despite her fierce confidence, maybe she is not completely immune to me.

“Of course not. Buckle your seats-belt and prepare for amazement.” I start the car up again.

“You’re on time,” she teases. “I’m already shocked.”

“So am I. You gave me the right address. I thought, after the other night, you might give up the ghost.” I check for traffic, then pull out.

“Huh? Oh, you mean that you were worried I would ghost you?” Madison twists around in her seat to examine me. “Yeah, I don’t usually give out my address, but you refused to let me meet you there. And Anders Beck gave you the green light, which means something to my brother. Besides, I like a man who knows what he wants and goes after it. You’re nothing if not persistent.”

“I am hard to shake,” I say proudly. “Like a dog with a boner.”

Madison lets out a horrified laugh and covers her mouth. My heart sinks again. This is the trouble with not understanding everything about a language. Verbs still trip me up, and American customs are often confusing, but idioms are the worst.

“My English is still coming,” I mumble.

She giggles. “It’s better than my Italian. Che ne so?”

I almost swerve off the road in my excitement. “You speak Italian? You did not say!”

“I don’t. Not really.” From the corner of my eye, I see her face turn red. “I, um, may have done a little research over the last couple of days? All in the interest of good communication of course.”

For me? I almost ask, but I stop myself. I am allowed to be desperate for her, but not look desperate. I cannot believe that she would bother to learn Italian just for our date. Over the last few days, I convinced myself that she only agreed to this date to get rid of me.

When already I want more.

“How much have you learned?” I ask in a strained voice.

“Not much. Yet.” Madison turns to look out of the window. “Maybe you can teach me some.”

The urge to kiss her sweeps over me again, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from pulling over to the side of the road and reaching for her. I know that this would be too much—not just for her, but for me. She might think that I am only interested in having sex with her, and I most certainly am that. Very interested. But sex alone would not be enough. I want more of her. Her mind. Her heart. Maybe even part of her soul. Something about her draws me to her. A brightness about her, as if she has stars in her pockets. I am sure that those are not the right words, and rather than be wrong again, I keep the thought to myself.

“I would like that,” is all I say.

By the time we reach the Armónico, I get a few more things wrong, but Madison does not correct me. We have both started to relax, and when I open the car door for her, she loops her arm through mine without prompting.

“Wow,” she breathes as I lead her into the lobby. The brilliant blue tiles above us make it look like we are underwater. “It’s so pretty. Nixon Caldwell owns this place, right?”

“You have never come before?” I ask.

Madison’s mouth twitches. “Not here.”

It takes me a moment to connect the dots and another little blush worms its way onto my cheeks. “I have not, either,” I admit. “But the food is good at Steakhouse. They have the Michigan stars.”

Her answering cackle makes other people in the lobby turn their heads to look at us.

“Sorry.” She slaps her hand over her mouth to hide her grin. “Can’t say I was expecting that. But I think you meant to say Michelin.”

“You mean like the fluffy white man?” I ask, thinking I saw him once on television.

She chuckles again. “No, like when a chef is one of the best in America, they get stars for their culinary creations. One is good but three is almost unheard of.”

“Oh, I see. I guess I am full of many things,” I tell her. “Including surprises.”

“Can’t argue with that,” she agrees and lets me lead her to the restaurant.

I have not spent a great deal of time at the Armónico. Dante and the owner have a bad past, the details of which I have not quite worked out. None of the team’s official events are ever held here, but my friends have brought me along a few times. Anders in particular has a problem with Dante, and as far as my friend is concerned, any opportunity to spit in our boss’s eye is good for him. He and Stella even had their wedding reception here. The Armónico is impressive without being gaudy, unlike the Mona Lisa.

I called in some favors to get this reservation, so the host leads us over to a table for two in a private corner of the restaurant that is already set. I hold Madison’s chair out for her.

“Your first course will be out shortly,” he informs us before he sails away back to the front desk.

Madison’s eyebrows wrinkle together as I sit down across from her. “Did you already order for me?” she asks. “In advance?”

“I ordered for both.”

“Oh-kay…” She draws the word out.

My stomach drops. “This is a problem?”

She folds and unfolds her napkin in a nervous pattern. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve had a few exes who’ve tried to, uh, shift my eating habits. Since I’m fat, you know?” She uses that word, fat, like a fact rather than an insult, but I know that it means something different in other peoples’ mouths.

“This is not a shift,” I hasten to assure her. “This is a tour. Of culinary stars as you say. Much like watching the stars in the sky.”

She tilts her head to one side and tucks her hair behind one ear. “A what now?”

“A tour.” I wave my hand to the table. “Many little plates to sample. A special menu.” I snap my fingers a few times as I search for the word. “How is it called?”

Her expression brightens. “A tasting menu?”

“Si!” I clap my hands, then spread them wide. “A tasting menu. The chef will pick your dinner, not me. If there is anything you are not liking, do not touch. And if it is not enough, we order more, no problem. But I see that there is a tasting menu. It says to Taste Your Way Across Italy! So together, we take a tour. And I am asking for wine pairings, so unless you do not drink…”

“Oh, I drink,” Madison cuts in. Her smile is back in place, and I wonder what the exes in her past have said. I suspect that I would like to bop their heads together to knock some sense into their skulls. Everything about this woman makes me want to do things for her.

Just to see her smile.

It is a new feeling for me, but one I used to have.

But then I lost it so very long ago when I became alone. I am glad it has returned.

Our waitress approaches with a little tray bearing our first plate and our wine pairing for the course. It features a scallop wrapped in crisp pancetta alongside a tiny salad made of shaved vegetables and edible flowers.

Madison gasps when she sees it and immediately whips out her phone to take a picture. “It’s too pretty to eat!”

“We eat with our eyes first,” I tell her, before spearing my scallop on my fork. It is delicious. The seafood melts on my tongue like butter, and I let out a little groan of satisfaction as I chew.

Madison’s eyebrows shoot toward the ceiling. “That good, huh? Have you had a culinary tour of Italy before?”

I grin at her as I reach for my wine. “Not yet. But I am enjoying this one very much.”

Each dish is only a few perfect bites, and every entree is better than the last: cured venison in green pepper marmalade, oxtail ravioli with truffle butter, foie gras with hazelnuts and stewed cherries, and more.

When the waitress brings us each a dish of stewed boar in red currant jam, Madison sighs contentedly. “This is incredible. Is this how you eat in Italy?”

“Some,” I say. “Not me.”

She reaches for her wine. “How did you eat, then?”

“Alone, mostly, with much more simple fare.” I dab my lips with my napkin, savoring the tangy sweetness of the currants. “And I drank a lot of espresso. I was hungry, many of the times.”

She nods. “Because of all the hockey you played? I remember growing up with Silas, the boy couldn’t stop eating. And his friends spent so much time on the ice. All of them were like a bunch of bottomless pits. My mom moaned over the grocery bill every week.”

“Even when I was not playing hockey, I was hungry. I took care of myself.” I shrug.

“Ah, and let me guess, you’re not much of a cook?” Madison winks at me.

“There was not always something to cook. I am without a family, bellissima.” I do not know how to tiptoe around this, so I just say it. My stomach twists for a million different reasons as it often does when I have to revisit the past. “They are dead, and I was alone for many times. I hope this does not make you think less of me.”

Madison drops her fork with a clatter. “Oh, Marco. I’m so sorry.”

“You want me to teach you some Italian?” I wave away her comments. Pity is the last thing I desire from her. “Here is one thing to say: pane al pane a vino al vino. It means to call bread as bread, and wine as wine. To give the name for something as it is.”

Madison nods. “We’d say something like, I dunno, calling a spade a spade.”

“Si, like this. I am alone, but it is not for you to be sorry about. It is just… true.” I smile at her as I sip my wine, the dryness of which pairs perfectly with the dish.

She finishes her food in silence, but it is obvious that she is not as happy as before.

“What is wrong, bellissima?”

Madison pushes her dish aside. “I’m just sad, thinking about baby-Marco being all alone in the world.”

“I was not alone when I am being a baby, and I am not alone now. I have friends. I have you.” I shrug.

Madison shakes her head. “This is only our first date. I don’t even live in Las Vegas, Marco.”

My gaze finds hers and intertwines as if we have known each other for years. “But you are here now. You are listening to me. I am a simple man, bellissima, so I am happy. It is enough.”

She gives me a funny look as our waitress comes back with a miniature panna cotta for dessert. “Thank you for dining at Steakhouse, Mr. Rossi. Would you like anything else this evening?” she asks.

I gesture to Madison, who shakes her head. “It was spectacular, but I think I’m good,” she says. Her smile is back, even if a tinge of sadness remains in her eyes. But it does not matter because I am an expert at chasing sorrow away.

I have already paid, just in case Madison tries to do the thing that some American women do where they pay for their meal. I do not understand this. Anders tells me it is because they are independent and because they do not want to owe anyone anything. This makes me wonder about American men. Do they not like taking women out and treating them well? Do they not understand that a true masculine man—one confident and sure of himself—wants to pursue and claim a woman just because of her feminine softness, not what she can do for him?

We finish our dessert, and Madison leans back in her chair to examine me. “Thank you for bringing me here, Marco. That tasting menu was incredible. If you didn’t already know, I love food.”

“I am hoping to make you say this again sometime.”

Her mouth twitches again. “Let me get this straight. You’ve wined me and dined me…”

“And now I grind you,” I tell her.

Madison’s eyes pop wide. “Excuse me?”

“On the dancing floor,” I clarify. “We will go to the club, and I will show you my moves, and you will be impressionable.”

She laughs again as she gets to her feet. “I love to dance almost as much as I love to eat. I can’t wait. So far, you’re doing great in the date department.”

We walk out of the restaurant arm-in-arm, but when Madison tries to lead me into the door of the hotel’s club, I shake my head. “Tonight is not for club Velvet. There is another club I will take you to.”

“Ooh, is this, like, a Vegas insider hot tip?” She jiggles with excitement, and even though I am full, I am still hungry for her. Just a little sip would be like an after-dinner liqueur. “Like one of those pop-up clubs?”

“It is a place I have heard of many many times. What do you say we jump on the chuckwagon?”

“I think you mean the bandwagon,” Madison says. “And sure, I’m game to try a new place if you are.”

I do not care about the club itself, but I do want to impress her. This is my one chance to win her over, and I want to get it right.

I want Madison to be one of the people who does not leave.