“You cannot come to the Casino de Monte-Carlo in Monaco and drink cheap blended whiskey mixed with sugar and chemicals,” he instructed.
“Pretty sure I can,” the man muttered, and Léo smothered a smile, sure it would not be appreciated.
“But you should not. You are far from home, and have the opportunity for a new experience in a glamorous”—he gestured to their surroundings, knowing that for many tourists the mosaic bar and terrace of the Salle Blanche, combined with the elaborate architecture and decor, were the height of sophistication—“place, a place of legend. The Casino de Monte-Carlo! Now is your chance to try something you never would in your ordinary life,” he finished, taking in the lower-quality off-the-rack clothing and laying things on a little thick. The shell-shocked look was fading, replaced by a faintly suspicious one.
“Are you a con man?”
Insult flared. “Why would you ask such a thing?” Léo demanded. What was wrong with the man?
“That’s not an answer.” Bunny started to get up. “I’ve heard all about men who prey on tourists, and I’m not—”
“Oh, sit down.” Léo nudged the man back onto the stool. “I’m not a con man. My name is Léo Artois, and anyone here can vouch for me.” He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. “Look, here’s my identification.” If anything, that made the bunny—he really needed to learn the man’s name—more suspicious.
“That’s not where your wallet was before.”
For the first time in a long while, Léo was speechless. Was Bunny stalking him? And what was he talking about? “Quelle?”
“I don’t speak French,” Bunny reminded him.
Léo recovered somewhat as the bartender delivered two chilled flutes and an ice bucket containing a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil. He was fairly certain it wasn’t his preferred 1998 vintage, but both the 2000 and 2003 were acceptable. In short order, the bartender opened the bottle and poured. As the man left them, Léo lifted the flutes and offered one to the bunny.
“I don’t really like champagne,” the man said, eying the glass dubiously. “But I guess you’re right. How often will I get the chance to drink champers in Monte Carlo?” He took the glass and sipped cautiously. His eyes went wide. “That is not champagne.”
Amused again, almost against his will, Léo took a sip himself. The 2000. “It most certainly is,” he said, allowing himself to smile as Bunny took another, longer swallow, then fumbled to remove the cloth from the bottle. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see the label. Maybe I can get this at home.” He uncovered the bottle and then drew his phone from his pocket. Léo stopped him before he could snap a picture.
“No photos are permitted in here,” he advised quietly. Rules did not normally apply to him, but he was in favor of anything that protected his privacy.
Bunny looked abashed. “Oh. I didn’t think. I’ll just make a note then.” He fiddled with the phone for a few moments, then gasped, his head snapping up. “Do you know how much this stuff costs?” He set his glass down carefully on the bar, as if merely holding it would incur a fee. Léo winced.
“One must pay for quality, but never speak of price.”
“Well, you should!” the man insisted hotly. “Most people have monthly mortgage payments that cost less than this bottle.”
Irritation took over as Léo’s last traces of amusement fled. “The bottle is open and thus paid for now. Will you waste it, or will you enjoy it as it is meant to be?”
Bunny’s face flooded with color. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to be rude.” He looked longingly at his flute, still sitting on the bar, then back at Léo. “Are you sure you’re not a con man?”
“Absolument.”
“That means yes, right?”
Léo couldn’t stop the smile. “Absolutely.”
The man took a deep breath and stuck out his hand. “Ben Adams.” Léo took the hand and shook it solemnly, then, on a whim, lifted it to his mouth and whispered a kiss across Ben’s knuckles. Ben squeaked, a sound Léo found utterly endearing, and yanked his hand away, grabbed his glass, and took a gulp.
“Er, it was Léo, wasn’t it?” he asked, mangling the pronunciation of Léo’s name with his accent.
“Yes. Léonard Artois.” Léo injected every ounce of pomposity he could into the words, channeling his father.
“That sounds like a very French name,” Ben said guilelessly, taking another sip of his champagne and then looking at the glass in wonder.
“I’m very French,” Léo replied, lifting his own glass to his lips. He knew the reason for Ben’s comment, of course—he took after his Saudi mother’s family in looks.
“So you’re not a member of the Albanian mafia?” Ben asked, and then looked mortified when Léo choked on his champagne. “I’m so sorry. This is why I don’t drink much.”
“Why—why would you even think such a thing?” Léo asked when he’d gotten his breath back. He was caught between being mortally insulted, or utterly charmed by the crimson flush on Ben’s cheeks.
“No reason, really. I was just being silly.” Bunny was chewing on his lower lip now, eyes downcast, and Léo reached out, caught hold of his chin, and tipped up his face. A slight shiver ran through Ben’s jaw under his hand, and sexual awareness surged in Léo’s gut.
“It seems an odd thing to be silly about,” he commented, and Ben cringed. “But something must have made you think it. You’d better tell me, so I can make certain no one else has the same impression.”
Ben pulled his chin free. “It’s really nothing. No one with an ounce of sense would think it, I swear. I just…. Look, since I’ve already made a total arse of myself, can you tell me why you don’t carry your own wallet? And then I’ll go away and you’ll never have to see me again.”
“That would be a shame,” Léo said automatically, then realized with a great deal of surprise that he actually meant it. “But why do you keep talking about my wallet? And who else would carry it if not me? I showed you my identification—you know I have my wallet.”
Bunny—Léo could not stop thinking of him thus—squared his shoulders and took another gulp of champagne, draining the glass. The bartender was there immediately to top him up, and his faint protest faded when Léo raised an eyebrow.
“I saw you outside,” Ben said after yet another fortifying sip. “This stuff is so good. I think I just want to drink this for the rest of my life. It would be a short life, because paying for champagne like this would leave no money for food, clothes, or shelter, but it would be a good short life.”
Amusement mixed with alarm as Léo realized his bunny was well and truly on the path to being sloshed—after less than two glasses of champagne. Although he normally had no time for men who couldn’t hold their liquor—nothing was so crass as a drunk, after all—he found Ben’s guileless innocence rather charming.
Perhaps Karim’s company had warped his mind.
“You saw me outside,” he prompted, determined to know why this naïve little tourist thought he could be part of the Albanian mafia.
“Yeah! You were outside. With your friends. And you were all like, we’re so much better. And taller. Except you’re not the tallest. And if a truck had been parked in your way, you would have kept walking and the truck would have just disintegrated. Or tried to have your babies.”
For the first time in a dozen years, Léo doubted his grasp of the English language. The disjointed rambling was oddly… endearing, but what, exactly, was Ben saying? He decided to ignore most of it and focus on the goal.
“What does that have to do with my wallet?” he asked, and then winced as Ben sipped from his glass again.
“You didn’t have it. The other guy did. Satchel man. He gave it to you, and you put it in your pocket—but then it was in the other pocket! Like magic.” His eyes widened, and he leaned forward, almost falling off the stool. “Are you a magician?”
“No,” Léo said, catching him and propping him against the bar so he
wouldn’t slip again. “I think I understand now. Do you see those men?” He turned and gestured across the room to Karim and Malik. Ben squinted in that direction and nodded. “Those are my cousins, Malik and Karim. Karim is visiting from Saudi Arabia. His father—my uncle—has always spoiled him, and he is not very sensible when it comes to money, so my uncle designated his—” Léo hesitated. People often reacted oddly to the word bodyguard. “—his traveling companion as the keeper of funds. That was the man who gave me the wallet. He didn’t want to come to the casino, and so Karim’s money was entrusted to me for the evening.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” Ben said, nodding enthusiastically. “That makes so much sense. And it’s so much better than if you were a mafioso.” He squinted across the room again. “Although it’s kind of not fair that you have his money and he’s over there without it.”
Léo smiled. “I gave the wallet to Malik before I came to introduce myself. He’ll make sure Karim doesn’t spend too much money.”
“Is Malik visiting from Saudi Arabia too?” Ben tipped his head to the side, and his whole body leaned precariously as he continued to watch Léo’s cousins.
“No, Malik and I live here, in Monaco.”
Ben’s big brown eyes blinked. “But you said you were French.” He sounded utterly confused. “Doesn’t that mean you live in France?”
Léo chuckled. “Sometimes I do,” he admitted. “I was born in France, raised there, and consider myself French. But for most of the year, I live here. I find the weather and lifestyle to my liking.”
Ben sighed. “Okay. Is Malik French too? Only his name doesn’t sound French like yours.”
Léo raised an eyebrow. “You’re very curious, aren’t you?”
“I like to know things,” Ben said, nodding. When his head continued to bob, Léo decided it would be performing a public service to feed the bunny and soak up some of the alcohol in his system.
“Have you dined this evening?” he asked. Ben stopped nodding and moved his head in an odd manner that Léo interpreted as a cross between a shake and a nod.
“I had the best ice cream!” Ben declared. “That’s when I saw you—when I was finishing my ice cream. Have you had ice cream at the Café de Paris? You should. It’s really amazing.” His gaze unfocused as he seemed to remember the ice cream, and Léo’s dick hardened at the sight of the dreamy expression, combined with the memory of his bunny’s pink tongue licking a spoon.
“I have,” he said hoarsely and then cleared his throat. “You had nothing more than ice cream?”
“I had a sandwich this afternoon,” he offered helpfully.
“Well,”—Léo stood and gestured for the bartender—“will you do me the honor of your company at dinner? They have a fair restaurant here.” He told the bartender to send the remaining champagne to the restaurant—he did not need to specify which one—and helped Ben off the stool.
“Dinner?” Ben asked. He looked at his watch, swaying slightly. “It’s kind of late.”
“If you say so,” Léo murmured. “Supper, then?”
Ben shrugged and smiled widely, and again Léo found himself captivated by his utter openness. “Sure. Let’s have supper. I’ve never had supper before,” he confided just a little too loudly as Léo guided him toward the door. The sound of Malik’s laughter reached him, and a quick glance proved that his cousin’s amusement was indeed at his expense. Karim looked a little startled, and Léo remembered that he hadn’t told the boy he was gay. Oh well, Malik could handle it.
Ben chattered without artifice about his ice cream as they made their way through the casino to Le Train Bleu. A young couple, obviously tourists, was just turning away from the entrance as they approached.
“Don’t bother unless you have a reservation,” the man told them in a broad American accent as they passed.
Ben stumbled to a halt. “Oh, what a shame,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“Why?” Léo asked, taking his hand and tugging him forward. The maître d’hôtel smiled at him.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Artois,” he greeted, then led them to a table. Ben muttered something that Léo didn’t bother trying to hear.
Once they were settled and the remainder of their champagne had been delivered and poured, Ben set his menu down and focused on Léo.
“Did you have a reservation?”
Léo picked up his menu. “No.”
Bunny frowned, a line appearing between his eyebrows. “So how did we just walk in and get a table?”
He scanned the fish options and decided against them. “I don’t need a reservation.” As the silence stretched a little too long, he looked up. Ben was staring at him with an expression Léo did not like, a mix of repulsion and shock. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”
“You don’t need a reservation?”
Léo frowned in confusion. “No. Are you okay?”
“So you can just walk into any restaurant and demand a table, and you get it? What happens if all the tables are taken? Do they make someone leave halfway through their meal?”
“I have no idea,” Léo said, taken aback. He’d never thought about it. When he wanted to eat out, he went to a restaurant and they gave him a table. But Ben was glaring at him now, obviously considering this to be of some importance, and Léo decided to placate him. “Next time I go to a restaurant, I will ensure nobody is discommoded on my behalf.”
Ben snickered. “Discommoded.” Then he went back to his glare. “Somehow I don’t think they’d turn you away.” Finally, his gaze dropped to the menu. “Oh good, it’s in English. Holy cow, this place ain’t cheap. I really don’t want to spend this much on supper. I don’t even know what supper really is.”
Bemused, Léo shook his head. “I issued the invitation, Ben. You are my guest for this meal.”
Bunny chewed on his lower lip again, and Léo shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He really wanted to lick that lip.
“I don’t know…,” Ben murmured, and Léo seized control of the situation.
“I insist. New experiences, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” Ben looked back at his menu. “In that case, I should probably choose something really different to eat, right? But I don’t want anything like brains or tripe. I tried snails when I was in France, and they weren’t bad, mostly just garlicky, but not really something I’d want to eat regularly. But they don’t have them here anyway,” he said, frowning.
“Would you like me to order for you?” Léo offered. He’d swung between being annoyed, amused, and charmed by Ben so many times that he felt faintly dizzy.
“Please.” Ben put down his menu and smiled, and Léo decided “charmed” was going to win.
He ordered for them both and tried not to cringe when Ben reached for his champagne. “Perhaps wait to drink that with the meal,” he suggested as tactfully as he could manage. “Unless you’d like wine with your food?”
Ben set the glass down hastily. “Um, no. No wine. This is perfect. Um. Thank you.” He flushed again. “Wow, I sound like a moron, don’t I? Don’t worry, I’m fully aware that this champagne has made me a real dork, and tomorrow I’m going to die of embarrassment. Thank you for being so nice.” He paused. “Um… why are you being so nice?”
Léo chuckled. “Maybe I’m a nice person.”
Ben nodded hastily. “Sure, sure, nice person. Definitely. I mean, you’re being nice to me, so you must be, right? But even nice people don’t usually spend a small fortune on strangers who have feet permanently stuck in their mouths.”
Léo’s gaze dropped to that lower lip, a little puffy from Ben’s mistreatment. “I like your mouth.” His voice was just a tiny bit deeper than usual. Ben’s eyes widened. The moment drew out.
“So. Um. You were going to tell me why Malik doesn’t have a French name.”
With a chuckle, Léo let him redirect the conversation. “Was I?”
“Yes,” Ben said firmly, meeting Léo’s gaze but twiddling his thumbs.
“Ve
ry well. It’s quite simple, really. Malik doesn’t have a French name because he’s not French.”
Ben laughed. “That is simple, and answers my question, but tells me nothing.”
“Malik’s mother and mine are sisters—twins, actually. My aunt married a local man in Saudi Arabia, but my mother met my father, who is a Frenchman, when she was shopping in Paris, and after many family histrionics on both sides, married him. Hence Malik being Malik, and me being Léo.”
“That’s so cool, your parents falling in love like that and overcoming parental disapproval,” Ben enthused.
Léo huffed. “Love? Hardly. They are fond of each other, but their decision to marry was based more on the ability to meet mutual wants than anything else.”
Ben’s mouth turned down. “You just see it that way because they’re your parents. Most kids don’t see their parents as romantic.”
“No. I see it that way because that’s how they explained it to me when I was twenty-one and refusing to fall in with their plans for me.”
“Oh.” Ben fiddled with his cutlery, and Léo decided a change of subject was in order. He disliked talking about his family situation at the best of times, and while his goal here was not to make Ben his confidant, he also didn’t want him feeling uncomfortable.
No, he wanted him nice and relaxed.
“Where are you from, Ben?”
Bunny looked up with a smile. “Australia. Melbourne, actually.”
“A very nice city,” Léo offered. “I was there for the Grand Prix three or four years ago. What brings you to Europe? Just a holiday?”
“Sort of. I’m visiting all the places Mrs. K. loved.”
The waiter served their food then, and Léo waited for him to leave before asking, “Mrs. K.?”
“Oh, she was my last client. I’m a nurse, see. Mrs. K.’s family hired me to look after her after her stroke. She was really great, and we had a few years together. I really miss her. When she was younger, she loved to travel, and she told me all about the places she’d been and things she’d done—and she’d done a lot. She’d tell me to take advantage of my youth and do everything I wanted to do while I still could. And then she died and left me some money, so I decided to go on a trip in tribute to her.” Ben blinked fiercely. “She really loved Monaco, so even though it’s not somewhere I’d ever planned to come, I had to add it to my list.”
The Bunny and the Billionaire Page 2
