by Alix Nichols
Honest, my foot.
He wasn’t just the most handsome Gypsy she’d ever seen—he was the most spectacular man, all ethnicities included.
Now, that was honest.
She turned to him and cleared her throat. “Shall we go back? Target amounts and all.”
“Sure.”
The sleek-haired dealer was leaving when they returned to their seats. Both giggling Brits and Greasy Hair were gone. The elderly couple and the bimbo still played, but judging by their dismal faces and the measly number of chips in front of them, they weren’t doing well.
Kes had been right about the dealer.
“What does your gut tell you about this one?” Amanda eyed the middle-aged man who had taken over for his colleague.
“He’s the best.”
Her face fell.
Kes grinned. “Not for the house, ma belle, for us. Move closer so I can see your cards without twisting my neck.”
She moved as close to him as their chairs allowed.
“Now relax and do exactly as I say.”
Amanda glanced at Kes, but he had already turned his full attention to the cards.
* * *
For the next hour, they played in near silence. The few times Amanda tried to strike up a conversation, Kes shushed her with a smile and a whispered “counting for two here, remember?”
And count he did.
Amanda’s job was easy: she hit when he said hit, stood when he said stand, and split her cards when he said split. Their chip stacks kept growing until Kes laid his palms on the table and mouthed to her, Stop.
She gave him a puzzled look. “Now?”
He nodded and then tipped the dealer. “I’m going to call it a night.”
“But we’re winning. Please, you can’t stop now.”
“Oh yes, I can.” He leaned to whisper in her ear, “And so should you before they ask us to back off. Besides, this deck is becoming too hot.”
She hesitated. The seven hundred euros she’d won wasn’t the amount she’d been hoping for when she jumped on the train at Saint-Lazare. It would hardly solve her problems . . . but it would pay her mortgage next month. In spite of the alcohol in her system, Amanda knew she would’ve lost half her savings tonight had it not been for Kes. Continuing to play without him would be unwise.
“What about that drink you promised me?” he asked.
“Sure.” She stood and smoothed her dress. “Lead the way, maestro.”
He took her to the bar where they climbed onto tall barstools and ordered their drinks. The voucher cocktail was as bad as Kes had predicted it would be. Amanda winced at its candy taste and pushed the glass away.
“How about a mojito?” Kes asked. “It’s one of their more decent concoctions.”
She nodded.
As he passed her the glass, their fingertips brushed.
Amanda couldn’t help noting how pleasant that contact was. Actually, pleasant was an understatement. It was electrifying.
Easy, girl. No one-night stands, remember?
“So, what is it like, the life of a gambler?” she asked.
“I’m not a gambler. Well, not in the usual sense, anyway.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I’m a card counter. I’ve made a decent living from it for five years.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“So you see this as a job?”
He nodded. “That’s exactly how I see it. I have a job that I like and am good at.”
She felt a sharp pang at his words.
Aren’t you lucky?
“What’s wrong, Amelie?”
“Nothing.” She gave him one of her fake smiles. “And what about five years ago—what was your occupation then? Palm-reading or playing the accordion in the métro?”
He smirked. “So tactful and unprejudiced. Have you applied for sainthood yet?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“If you were trying to imply those are common Gypsy occupations, you’re wrong. At least, as far as the French Gitans are concerned.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Gitan men are typically itinerant vendors or metalworkers,” he said. “My dad, for example, deals in scrap metal. Some are lumbermen. The women are usually artisans or peddlers. In the fall, everyone is a grape picker. We don’t engage in the trades you mentioned.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize Gitans were the Gypsy elite. Please forgive my ignorance.”
He moved a little closer and flashed her a toothy smile. “I see you’re determined to insult me. But here’s the thing—I’m not easily insulted.”
“Is that so?”
“We Gypsies are a thick-skinned lot.” He shrugged. “Can’t afford to be touchy.”
She blushed, suddenly embarrassed. Had she been too rude? She had, but not out of prejudice. Well, not only out of prejudice. She was trying to drive him away so she wouldn’t have to make tough decisions when they finished their drinks.
Still, he didn’t deserve her spite—he had just saved her from aggravating her already precarious financial situation.
“I was impressed with your memory and your mental arithmetic,” she said, offering him the olive branch of a sincere compliment.
“At school, I was good at math.”
“Did you go to college?”
He shook his head. “I hadn’t even considered it.”
“Why not?”
“For one, a college education isn’t something my family believes in. And then . . . I stumbled on this book at a flea market when I was seventeen.”
“What book?”
“The Blackjack System. I read it in one day, reread it three more times, and then practiced with my cousin.”
“Couldn’t you practice online?”
“I did that, too. But the system works only with a finite number of decks on the table and a human dealer.”
“I see.”
“I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen so I could go to a casino and put my skills to the test.”
“And it worked?”
“Not immediately, but with time I got better. You see, the beauty of blackjack is that luck isn’t the decisive factor. Luck determines the cards you’re dealt. But it’s your knowledge and skill that determine how you play them.”
“Are you really making money on this?” She narrowed her eyes. “Like, regularly?”
“I’ve made a good profit in almost every casino I’ve played in. Except the ones that figure out too quickly I’m counting cards.”
“So what happens once Deauville Casino figures you out?”
“They’ll ban me, and I’ll move on to play elsewhere.”
“And when every casino in France has banned you?”
“I’ll play in Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, Spain, Portugal . . . Or I’ll go to Vegas and then to Asia. The world is big.”
“So that’s your life plan?”
“You could say that.”
She drained her mojito.
He beckoned to the bartender and then turned to Amanda. “Any food allergies or diet restrictions?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ll have two cold cuts and cheese plates, please,” he said to the barman.
When they swallowed the last slices of spicy chorizo, Kes asked matter-of-factly, “My hotel or yours?”
Oh Lord. There it was—decision time. But wait a minute. Why was she even considering it? She didn’t do one-night stands. She wasn’t that kind of girl. What she needed to do was wish him good night in her poshest accent and leave.
It was the only reasonable move.
Except . . . she wasn’t being reasonable tonight. Right now, she was curious and thrilled. Her heart fluttered with anticipation. She all but drooled over the juicy exotic fruit that was this man. Just this once she itched to be wanton. After all, her reputation in that department was so unnaturally pristine it was begging for a stain.
And just like that, Amand
a made up her mind: she was going to bed with Kes, the gambler she’d met a few hours ago.
He bit into his last pickle. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No. Do you?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve never had a boyfriend.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I’m a virgin that way.”
She chuckled.
He broke into an infectious grin before adding in a more serious tone, “No girlfriend at the moment, either.”
“Do you have a condom?” she heard herself ask.
He blinked and then nodded. “Yep—in my room. My hotel then?”
“Only if it’s decent.”
“As decent as it gets in this town. I’m staying at Royal Barrière—it’s the building next door.”
Was his being at the same hotel as she was a sign, a green light of sorts? She could sneak out and go to her room as soon as the deed was done—a perfect setup for a hassle-free, controlled bit of fun. If she were ever going to have her first one-night stand, there wouldn’t be a better occasion.
He must have seen the outcome of her expeditious debate on her face because he took her hand and led her from the bar.
End of Excerpt
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