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Not for doing what needed to be done. You can take today off, with pay, but your job will be waiting for you tomorrow if you still want it.”
    If possible she looks even more astonished, eyes wide and mouth half-open in an adorable display of shock. “Are you serious right now?” she finally demands.
    “I’m completely serious.”
    “But I racked a whale.”
    “I am aware of that.”
    “With my drink tray.”
    “Yes. I saw the footage.”
    “Hard.” She draws the word out, stresses it, just in case I have any doubts about what I saw on the casino video. “I hit him hard.”
    “And I’m really glad you did. My only regret is that you didn’t hit him harder—the bastard still managed to get up and hobble away a few minutes later. More’s the pity.”
    “More’s the
pity
?”
    I shrug. “He deserved that and a hell of a lot worse, in my opinion. Men who treat women like they’re property deserve what they get when it turns out that the property bites back.”
    She does jump up from the chair then, and this time I don’t stop her because she’s not planning on running. She’s filled with nervous energy that needs an outlet. I have more than one suggestion on how she can deal with that energy, but sexually harassing my employees isn’t something I make a habit of. Ever. Especially ones who have to deal with it at work every night.
    And so I clench my fists to keep from reaching for her and I watch, and wait, as she paces to the window and back.
    “I don’t get it,” she says when she’s once again standing in front of me. “What’s the punch line?”
    “No punch line. Your job is yours if you want it.”
    “Even though I assaulted a customer?”
    “Assault is such an ugly word. Let’s just say you defended a customer and leave it at that.”
    “That’s not actually untrue. But you know, if you keep me here, he’s probably going to sue you.”
    I smile then, a predatory baring of my teeth that has her eyebrows shooting up and her eyes sharpening with something that looks an awful lot like interest. Or fear. I can’t really tell at this point.
    That makes me uncomfortable—I want a lot of things from Aria, things that include sweat-drenched sheets and unlimited access to every inch of her gorgeous body—but I don’t want her fear. Don’t want her to feel, even for a moment, like she isn’t safe with me.
    “He can try to sue,” I tell her. “He won’t succeed.”
    “How do you know?”
    “It might be ten years since I’ve set foot in the Atlantis, Aria, but I grew up in Vegas. I know how this town works.”
    “So do I. And I knew when I hit that bastard I was going to end up paying for it one way or another. So if I’m not losing my job, how exactly are you expecting me to pay?” She’s back to pacing toward the window.
    Anger sparks inside me at the implication, pricks along the inside of my skin. At her for thinking all I want from her is a fast blow job or a faster fuck on my desk as payment for doing the right thing, for taking care of her. And at the world she’s living in that has taught her to be so suspicious. That has taught her all rich men want only one thing from her.
    Because it won’t get me anywhere with her right now, I shove the anger down deep. Concentrate on being cool and rational, on showing her that I’m in control, since instinct tells me that’s the only way to reassure her at this point.
    “I expect you to repay me by doing your job. From what I hear, you’re a hell of a cocktail waitress. That’s why David and Todd have you working the high roller area. I don’t plan on losing you because some asshole doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”
    I see the moment she picks up on my phrasing, and the double meaning that can be applied to the concept of me losing her. Still, she doesn’t respond the way I expect her to. Doesn’t seem relieved by my reassurance. Instead, she narrows her eyes at me and demands, “Are you fucking with me?”
    The