It's my choice. I can choose to be stupid if I want to be.

Before I see his cottage, I see the main house, and whoaaaaa. During my breakfast with Rachelle the morning I was here last, when she told me the main house would be built in under a month, I didn't believe her.

But...whoa. I'm not construction site-savvy, but I've worked on a few new builds with clients, and there have to be at least five crews working on this building. And what they've done in four days! There are walls now. Scaffolding walls, but walls nonetheless. Stone is piled high around the newly resurrected building skeleton; stone and shingles and shutters.

Marchant's place is on the end of the row of cottages-the one that's closest to the pond and the new "main house" at Love Inc. As soon as my eyes hit the front door, my pulse goes crazy and I start to sweat.

I tell myself this can't end badly. He's a pimp. I could never fall in love with a man like him. But I can have fun. And I'm overdue for some fun.

Marchant meets me on his porch. He's wearing dark slacks and a white shirt. His face sports stubble that's making its way into a beard. His eyes are sharp. I can feel him look me over. Can literally feel the heat.

I smile a little, but his lips don't curl at all. He looks...like a hungry tiger. It's a long moment before he takes the groceries from me. Our bodies brush, and I have a hard time making my legs carry me through the door he pushes open for me.

"Let's put your groceries in here," he says. "I've got the contractor waiting for us so we can talk about the timetable."

I watch the way his back ripples under his shirt as he puts my orange juice, butter, milk, and eggs into his wide stainless steel refrigerator. I watch the way his strong hands flex as he lets go of the other bags, leaving them lined up on his counter.

"I'm excited to meet him-or her."

"Him," he tells me, leading the way back to the front door. He's walking slightly fast, a step ahead of me; when he looks at me, he's glancing over his shoulder. I get the strange sense that he's wound up. Slightly tense. Is it possible I'm making him as antsy as he makes me? With his history, it seems doubtful. But still, I entertain the idea as I follow him out onto his porch and stand behind him while he locks the door.

I watch him slide the key into his pocket, noting the small, manatee keychain, and when he turns to me, our gazes collide. I take a small step back. A second passes as he seems to collect himself.

"Shall we?" He nods at the construction site two or three hundred yards through the trees, and I say, "Sure."

We walk close together, shoulders and elbows bumping once or twice. Past the pond. Past the grove of trees. He tells me about the construction crew-one big crew that typically does big, casino-style jobs-and the timeline as we move within sight of the pool.

He's saying something about, "Tom, the main guy," and how his last project was a dog track, but I'm not really listening. I'm imagining him on the concrete, shirtless and pale. I have a strange memory of myself, lying on my back, choking on blood beside my own pool. March 15. I wonder for the jillionth time what that date means to him.

"Suri?"

"Yes?"

He's standing in front of me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. "Don't think about that."

I feel a blush cross my cheeks. "How did you know?"

"You look like someone just killed your kitten."

I scrunch my nose. "I'm more a dog person."

"Then puppy," he says.

Behind him, men and women move about the cement and plywood site, but all I see is those brown eyes. Hypnotic eyes. Heat flows from his palms, through my blouse, into my shoulders, spreading downward. I can barely find the words to reply, "That's not how I look."

"It is," he tells me softly. "Don't."

There's a hint of something stern in his voice-almost harsh. A warning? Don't make this into more than what it is, he's saying.

"I won't." I toss my hair-to...what? To show him that I'm not getting too serious about all this.

"I mean it," he whispers. "I want you to forget about that. Forget everything that happened before right now. If you need help," he says with a smug look, "I'll help you when we're done here."

I'm so rattled I can barely manage a nod. A few seconds later, a tall African-American man strides over with his gloved hand outstretched. Tom.

We spend the next half hour walking the site, with Marchant introducing me to his construction crew and me asking questions. I discuss some of my ideas, little things to make the original design a little cozier, a little sexier, and Tom tells us how long it would take to make them happen. Since the escorts' dormitory building also got damaged, it's being gutted and expanded slightly, with new suites carved out for the girls (and guys). For coordination purposes, the building on the right, the one with the library, salon, doctors' office, and whatever else is there, will be getting new decor as well.

By the time our conversation with Tom is over, I've decided I'll probably be here at least three weeks. Maybe four. And I feel giddy. Middle school crush giddy.

The feeling quickly dissipates, leaving cold anticipation as we walk back through the grove. He feels it, too. I can tell. And I think it's just sexual tension-same as what I feel-until we reach his door and he turns to me. "Suri...there's been a change. You'll be staying here with me."

MARCHANT.

I watch her eyes widen. Pretty eyes. She looks startled.

"If that doesn't work, there's a decent hotel about seven miles away. I can book you there."

The sun is going down, casting a red sheen over her face. I can't tell what she's thinking. But I'm on edge, waiting for her answer.

She smiles. "You don't have to do that. I'm okay here. But where will you stay?"

"I've got a suite downstairs in the basement."

"Oh." She nods. "That sounds fine. Did you run out of rooms?"

"Something like that."

"Are you sure you don't mind? I could do the hotel if that's easiest."

"No-you're fine."

I lead her inside and wave toward my room. "I've got another bedroom by my room, but it's kind of bare bones. My room is yours if you want it."

I watch the uncertainty flit across her face, followed by a long look into my eyes. She's trying to see what I want, but I keep my face neutral. I want to see if she'll take the lead.

"Um, okay. If you're sure?"

I like the way she hesitates. Polite. I don't see that often in Vegas.

"I wouldn't want it any other way," I tell her, as I step to the couch where I sat her bag. I throw it over my shoulder and lead her down the hall. Turn on the light to my room. It's large, with a bed, a bookshelf, a dresser, and a couch.

Truth is, I don't like being in it. Not after the last few weeks. I need a break. And there's something good about seeing her in it. I have the preposterous thought that the room deserves an occupant like her-to sort of clear out the bad vibes. But that's just fucking stupid.

"Bathroom's in here," I say, opening that door. "I already got my stuff out. Just use what you want."

She gives the bathroom an appreciative glance-it's large, and done to the nines-and I realize I left my medicine in the medicine cabinet. Stupid!

No-wait. Rachelle has it. Because no one trusts me.

Which leads me to remember I need to go see Libby. Soon.

I surprise even myself by grabbing Suri Dalton around the waist and tossing her onto my bed. Pulling down her pants and eating her pussy. She's screaming by the time I'm done, and I'm laughing, because really, I do enjoy eating her pussy.

I lick my lips and scoop the TV remote off a bedside table, toss it her way. Walk over to the wall and press the button that brings the TV down from the ceiling.

"Wow," she giggles, pointing the remote at the screen.

I arch my eyebrows. "I'll be back in a little while. You eat meat?"

That earns me a laugh. "Yes. I eat meat-when I'm in the mood." Another giggle, followed by a palm-muffled, "I'm sorry. I'm not usually quite so weird."

If this is weird I don't even wanna know what she would call me.

"There's a TV guide if you press the round, blue button. I'll be back in an hour."

I saunter down the hall feeling oddly light, despite where I'm going.

17.

SURI.

"Okay, you said not to say it, but I've gotta say it. Suri, I think the odds are really good that you have lost your mind. Like...really lost it. Or maybe been abducted by aliens. Is that what happened? You're the freakish, robotic, sex-obsessed-"

I squeak. "C'mon, Lizzy! No! This is not about sex."

She laughs. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying!"

"And that's how I know you are. Your voice goes up and gets all squeaky, and-"

"It's not! It's not about sex! It's about...freedom."

She laughs even louder. "Being free to be Marchant's little bunny?"

"Is that why they call it the fluffy bunny ranch? I thought bunnies were Playboy."

Lizzy snorts. "There are actual bunnies, Suri. Look outside."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm really not."

I frown at the phone. "How did I miss that?"

"I have no idea."

"Hmmmm...I'm not sure I believe you."

"I know I don't believe you! You've had sex with him. I can hear it in your voice. And it's okay-really, I'm the last person on earth to have an opinion about that. But...seriously, Suri, be careful. Marchant is... He's Marchant. He's done a lot of not smart things lately and I just don't want to see you caught up in that."

I cross my legs. I'm sitting on his cozy couch, staring at his bed. "I'm not getting attached. Cross my heart and hope to die. This is just a fling, you know? Something fun."

"You need something fun." See? This is why Lizzy is my BFF.

"So Hunter is...better?" I ask her. "He seems to be adjusting?"

"Sort of. I mean...he's being really nice, and he hasn't left or called off the wedding or anything-"

"I knew he wouldn't!"

"But he's not himself."

"Like how?"

"Just not himself. It's hard to explain. Trust me. He is being weird. But he is still here, and so I'm hoping we can work out...all the other."

"You guys are like salt and pepper."

"Salt and pepper?" Lizzy says. "Wasn't that a band when we were in elementary school?"

"Cinnamon and sugar?" I offer.

"Yep," she says. "Like cinnamon and sugar."

We talk for a few more minutes, during which she urges me to befriend some of the women here, and during which I ask if she knows what Marchant's tattoo means.

"I didn't even know he had a tattoo," she says. But she promises to ask Hunter.

I hang up feeling strangely satisfied. Then I hear the front door open.

MARCHANT.

I'm looking for the Adobo seasoning when she walks into the kitchen. I can feel her standing there, looking at me, and I don't like it.

I wish I'd never volunteered to make burgers. I did offer to make burgers, didn't I? Now I can't even remember what I said to her.

It's like going to talk to Dr. Libby took me back four days. I feel like I can't fucking think straight. I feel like shit.