Blindfolded Innocence

  Brad poured more champagne. “If sex is only for procreation, then yes, only have sex with your husband—it would be wrong to create young with total strangers. That mind-set thinks of sex only as a tool for reproduction. It ignores the essence of sex—the passion and enjoyment.”

  “I don’t think sex should be saved for marriage—that’s not what I’m saying. I just think that I should love the person I have sex with.”

  “What is love?”

  “What?”

  “What do you consider love to be? Not love for your family, but the love you’re talking about, toward a partner. What do you consider it to be? How do you know when you’re in love?”

  “I don’t know. I do know that I need to be more careful, not put a label like love on a relationship before I’m sure. Before, I felt like if I loved someone, then I was obligated to have sex with them. I wasn’t manufacturing feelings of love to justify sex, as you seem to think women everywhere are doing. I thought I was in love and felt like that was expected of me. Plus, I didn’t want to enter into marriage without knowing if I was sexually compatible with the person.”

  “Who were you thinking of marrying?”

  I toyed with a hunk of soft white bread before deciding to butter it. I wanted something to keep my hands and eyes occupied, anything to avoid looking in his intense brown eyes and strong face. One hundred percent of his attention was on me, and I felt as if I was under a microscope. He was asking me things and making me look at ideas and feelings that I hadn’t had a chance to examine, and I didn’t know what or how I felt yet.

  “I was engaged to a guy named Luke. We dated for six months, I thought I was in love, and I probably was. It was just... He was just the wrong guy for me. I wanted too many things from him, and he didn’t have the skill set or work ethic to provide them.”

  “Material things?” His voice seemed a little dark.

  “Eventually. I want to live my life a certain way. One that doesn’t involve unpaid bills and run-down apartments. Luke was older than me, twenty-seven, and couldn’t keep a job and had no aspirations. I was looking at a future of me working constantly and nagging him all the time. I didn’t like the person I was turning into and couldn’t accept the person he was. I had deep feelings for him, but I felt like if he was my true love, I wouldn’t have been trying so hard to change him.”

  “And the other?”

  “Other what?”

  “The other love you had—your first.”

  “Oh. That guy was a jackass. He was the first guy I wanted more than he wanted me. He promised me the world and then dumped me two weeks after he took my virginity. We had been together six months and had sex on my nineteenth birthday. I hate thinking about him. There wasn’t even anything great about him. He was a weak, pathetic, silver-spoon asshole.” I grinned suddenly and looked up at Brad. “Do I sound a little bitter?”

  “A bit. It’s okay. Early loves can be a bitch.”

  “Did you love your wife?”

  “I met my wife in college, and yes, believed I loved her.”

  “And now?”

  “Do I love her now?”

  “No. In retrospect, do you think you were in love with her?”

  “I think love is a Hallmark idea that society has created. I cared very deeply for her. All of the books and movies adore the phrase, ‘I loved her—I wasn’t in love with her.’ I think for a marriage to work, both parties have to understand that it’s not about being ‘in love.’ Both people need to care deeply about the other person, to put the other’s needs before their own, and to make a daily commitment to that person to stick it out. Hillary made that commitment to me, and probably would have stuck it out till we were old and gray and dead. I wasn’t committed and dropped the ball. But what I should have added first is that choosing the correct person is the most important step. There’s no point in putting all of the daily time, effort and commitment into a lifelong marriage with the wrong person. Hillary and I were the wrong people.”

  “But you said on our first date that you wouldn’t get married again.”

  “All of my beliefs about what makes a marriage work are based on my work experience and marriages I’ve seen that do work. A woman who can meet my needs sexually wouldn’t fall into the same criteria that I would want in a wife. It’s a catch-22.” He shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head at me. He drained his glass and set it down, staring at me with hungry eyes. “You look breathtaking.”

  I laughed and leaned forward, shaking my finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah, you are not going all Rico Suave on me. We haven’t finished this conversation.”

  “Fine. What else do you want to pick my enormous brain about?”

  “God, you are cocky. Okay, last question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How many women have you slept with?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me! If I’m even going to think about sleeping with you, I need to know what number I’m going to be.”

  “So you are thinking about sleeping with me?”

  His hand was back on my knee. The unexpected touch caused my breath to hitch. I swatted his hand away again, but slower this time, looking at him through lowered lashes. “Kind of. You are very persuasive, though I don’t want to know how many times you’ve given that ‘sex is society’s blessing’ opening statement.”

  He laughed and removed his hand, but lingered as he did so, grazing my inner thigh with his fingers. I waited for his response expectantly, and he rolled his eyes. “God, Julia. I don’t really know.”

  “What? Of course you do! Don’t guys notch it into their bedposts or something?”

  “Not gentlemen.”

  “Oh, please, don’t pull that. Okay, rough estimate if you’re too ‘gentlemanly’ to give me an exact.”

  He thought for a while, pulling on his ear, his eyes getting hazy. He finally shrugged. “If I had to guess, probably in the hundred-fifty-to-hundred-eighty range.”

  I think my eyebrows hit a new high on my forehead. I had been expecting something high, but this took the cake. “Bullshit.”

  “I have no reason to brag to you. If I calculate about two a month—there were probably ten before I got married—I’ve been divorced five or six years.... It’s got to be in that range.”

  “You pig!” I sputtered.

  “Why? Because I love sex and enjoy having it with beautiful women?”

  “I don’t know—it just seems wrong. Haven’t you had any relationships in the last six years?”

  “Of course I have, but they weren’t monogamous, on either side.”

  “Then that’s not a relationship. The whole definition of a romantic relationship is exclusivity—monogamy. Otherwise you’re just two friends who fuck.”

  He waved a hand at me, dismissing my point. “There are couples who have a loving, normal relationship and aren’t monogamous.”

  “I don’t think you are a good authority on how a loving, normal relationship works.”

  “Don’t judge me when you don’t know me. Just because I currently choose to be single doesn’t mean I can’t be a good husband.”

  I stared at him in stony silence. I couldn’t even process his contradictory words; I was too stuck on the number of women he had slept with. That was way too many. I didn’t have any good reason why. For the same reason I didn’t have any good response to his argument that women should have carefree, emotion-free sex. He had bended my thinking on that, but I’d be damned if I was going to let him know. I finally sighed and relaxed my angry shoulders. “I’m still hungry. Are we ordering dessert?”

  He laughed and leaned forward, cupping my chin in his hand and kissing me. “Yes, we are, but not here.” He gestured to our waiter, who had been waiting for a lull in our conversation. He presented the check, which Brad quickly si
gned. “Come on, let’s go.” He stood up and held out a hand to me. I grabbed my purse and stood, smoothing down my dress. My hand clasped firmly in his, I followed him through the restaurant, past George Clooney—oh, my God!—and outside, onto the balcony.

  The balcony, where I had watched my first fountain show, now had several small round tables set up with tablecloths, silver and candles. A tuxedoed man held out my chair, gold with red velvet cushions, and I smiled at him and sat down. Brad took the seat across from me and nodded to our waiter, a new gentleman, older and short, with a thick white mustache.

  “Monsieur? Mademoiselle?” the man greeted us and poured Voss water into both our chilled glasses. He began to describe their dessert selections. Brad cut him off while he was still on the first dessert.

  “How many choices do you have tonight?”

  “Four, sir.”

  “We’ll have one of each.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a bottle of Dom Pérignon, 1996.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The man left, and I leaned forward and whispered to Brad. “You shouldn’t have ordered champagne. I’m going to be drunk if I have any more.”

  He leaned forward also, our faces now only inches apart, and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “What is drunk Julia like?”

  “Very horny and also very sleepy. It leaves a very narrow window of opportunity.”

  “Are you horny right now?”

  I wet my lips, our faces still very close. “No.” Yes!

  “Then you should drink some more.”

  “Don’t think you can close the deal without me being inebriated?”

  “Touché, Ms. Campbell.” He waved; the miniature tuxedo was instantly at his side.

  “Yes, Mr. De Luca?”

  “I think we will hold off on the champagne, please.”

  “Certainly, sir. I will let the wine room know immediately.” He rushed off in a blur of coattails.

  Faint musical notes began drifting across the water, and I turned to watch the now-still lake. Brad watched me, smiling at my rapt attention.

  I rose and walked to the balcony’s edge, leaning on the rail and staring. The notes were louder now, and the initial delicate fountains of water were beginning to grow, shooting higher into the sky. I wanted to stay there forever, in that spot, in that gorgeous dress, my skin glowing, a gentle breeze on my shoulders, watching lights and water dance on a lake to a man singing opera. I felt Brad’s presence behind me and he leaned forward, resting his hands on the railing on either side of me, his face next to mine, watching the show. We stayed there, silent, spooned together against the railing, until the last note traveled across the water and the lake went dark.

  “It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?” he said. “Heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time.”

  “What is that song?”

  “It’s Andrea Bocelli. ‘Time to Say Goodbye.’”

  “It is wonderful. Achingly beautiful.”

  “That’s a good way to put it.” He moved his hands from the railing to my arms and grasped them. Pulling on one and pushing with the other, he spun my body until my back was on the railing, my face tilted up to his. I stared into his eyes, pools of so many complex things I didn’t understand. I only knew one thing. I wanted him so badly it hurt, ached between my legs. I knew it wasn’t right—I knew I was one of hundreds, but I didn’t care. I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. I leaned forward, closed my eyes and kissed him with everything I had.

  He responded instantly, pressing his body hard against me, moving his hands from my arms. One hand grabbed the back of my neck, the other gripped my ass hard, and I hooked one leg around him, crazed to feel more of him against my body. He was hard, and I felt it, liked it. We kissed like teenagers for almost a minute before separating, breathing hard. He kissed me one final time, hard, and let me go. He smiled at me playfully, then we walked back to the table.

  Our waiter appeared so quickly I suspected he’d been standing in the shadows, waiting for our make-out session to end. I blushed, but he seemed completely at ease. He was followed by a tall man carrying a large tray loaded with desserts.

  Fifteen minutes later, I had eaten small bites of tiramisu, pineapple cheesecake, fruit-loaded crème brûlée and some extremely rich chocolate mousse. We had downed ice water but no alcohol, and I stretched luxuriously, my stomach filled to the brim. Candlelight flickered off the remnants of our desserts and Brad’s face glowed across from me in the light. I licked the last bit of mousse off my spoon and played with it in my mouth, eliciting a smile from Brad.

  “You are incorrigible,” he murmured.

  “That I am,” I said. I smiled, too, our eyes meeting and holding for one delicious moment. I finally broke the contact, looking away. “Do you typically come to Vegas alone?”

  “It’s probably half-and-half. Vegas is a wonderful place, but it can be lonely as a single.” He shrugged. “It’s not a difficult problem to solve—beautiful women fill the casinos.”

  “You mean prostitutes?”

  “I think the preferred title is escort, but no, I don’t meet with them.”

  “Never?”

  He sighed and looked at me, bemused. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “As do you. And I answered all of yours.”

  “Point made. A previous host I had sent up a girl once. I declined the escort and spoke to the host. They understand to not have it happen again.”

  “So you just sent her away? Was she pretty? What did she say?”

  “She was extremely pretty, young, nineteen or twenty, had too much makeup on and a short dress, something similar to what you’re wearing.” Great. I’m dressed like a hooker. I pulled my dress down a bit, trying to get it to cover more leg. “I had just gotten up to my room and was getting ready for dinner when she knocked on the door.”

  “What did she say when you opened it?”

  “God, I’d hate to sit through the opera with you. Let me tell the story, or I’ll really stretch it out. She said that Blake—he was my old host—Blake had sent her up, and then she gave me a look that I think was supposed to be sexy. She asked if she could come in. I asked her if this is what I thought it was, and she didn’t answer, she just walked past me into the room.”

  “And?”

  “And...we didn’t do anything. I told her I appreciated the gesture, but was not interested. I think I lied and said I was in a relationship or something. It was a few years ago. I offered her a drink, we talked for a bit and then she left.”

  “Really? Just talked? You, who have been pushing the envelope with me since we met, sat in your Vegas hotel room with a nineteen-year-old girl, had a drink and talked. Then your gentlemanly self walked her to the door and she left.” I crossed my arms, shook my head and fixed him with a stare. “I’m not buying it.”

  He laughed and leaned forward, pulling one of my arms until it was free, and held my hand. “Why do you have such a low opinion of me?”

  “You admit yourself that you are a sex fiend. Why would you pass on it when it’s right there for the taking?”

  “Because it is right there for the taking. That girl rode up that elevator to my room not knowing anything about me and was ready to have sex with whoever opened the door. There’s no worse turnoff than that. Now, you, who are fighting me supposedly tooth and nail, that is a big turn-on for me.” His voice had lowered. He fixed me with a look that he probably thought was sexy, which it was—deadly sexy—but I wasn’t about to admit that.

  “Supposedly? I am fighting you tooth and nail. And listen to what you just said. In that line of thought, rape should be right up your alley.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You know what I mean. I like the chase.”

  “Is that the only reason I’m sitting here? Because I
’m an intern in your firm, therefore off-limits? And because I said no when you initially asked me to lunch?”

  “You’re taking this personally. I invited you here because I enjoy spending time with you. You challenge me and make me laugh. And because every time I see you I want to rip your clothes off and put my hands on you.” He finished the sentence in almost a growl. My eyes widened and I felt myself get weak despite my resolve to keep him at bay.

  “So you didn’t have sex with her?”

  “No. Believe it or not, I do have some restraint.” He lifted his head, catching the waiter’s eye. The man scurried over with the bill, which Brad signed. He took a final sip of water, and nodded at me. “Let’s go.”

  We walked out to the big double doors of the casino floor, and I held tight to Brad’s arm, balancing carefully on Becca’s shoes. The casino assaulted our senses as we entered—mechanical sounds of coins clinking, colors and lights everywhere, and a musical chime of voices talking and laughing. The faint smell of smoke was in the air, and we had to move slowly, crowds of people everywhere. I gripped Brad’s arm, giving it a quick squeeze. He looked down at me and smiled. Then he leaned over and kissed the top of my head. He slowed a bit as we passed the blackjack table, his eyes lingering, and I pushed him on, laughing. We finally made it through the casino and lobby, and the exit doors were opened for us by two white-gloved doormen with beaming smiles.

  “Mr. De Luca, your car is ready.” A suited man appeared at Brad’s side and held out his arm, indicating our limo. It looked just like the one that had brought us from the airport, and then I saw the familiar face of the driver, whose name I couldn’t remember.

  “Leonard,” Brad said, shaking his hand.

  “Got the car all ready for you. We going to New York, New York?”

  “Let’s talk in the car. I need to check with the boss.”

  Leonard grinned broadly and winked at me, holding open a door. “Ms. Campbell, you look beautiful.”