An Autumn in Paris

by Alix Nichols

  By the time she finished her second glass, Amanda’s diabolical plan had begun to lose its appeal. Julien Barre deserved to die, for sure, but murder was a messy business.

  And suicide—even more so.

  She pictured herself on the floor, blood gushing from her punctured stomach and trickling from her mouth.

  Ugh.

  Besides, what if she failed to finish Julien off? Or herself? After all, the biggest creature she’d ever assassinated had been a cockroach. The act had been so disgusting it gave her nightmares for weeks.

  Fine. No killing.

  But then what? She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing—she was a fighter. Amanda clenched her fists and willed her vodka-soaked gray matter to hatch up a plan B. As soon as her brain obliged, she stomped to the bedroom and dug her crimson femme fatale lipstick from her makeup case. She shoved her most elegant evening gown, a tee, and a pair of panties into an overnight bag and rushed out of her apartment.

  Plan B was insane, but it was carnage-free.

  A few meters down the street, Amanda withdrew as much cash as the ATM would give her, and hailed a cab.

  “Where to, madame?” the driver asked as she slumped into the backseat.

  “Gare Saint-Lazare, please.” She pulled out her phone and added on an impulse, “I’m going to Deauville.”

  “A beach weekend?” He smiled into the mirror.

  “Nope. A night of gambling at the casino,” she said, flashing him her brightest smile.

  The driver’s eyebrows shot up before he returned his gaze to the road. He didn’t offer a comment.

  Amanda sat back and tapped “blackjack rules” into the search engine on her phone.

  She had three hours to master the game.

  By the time Amanda stepped into her hotel room, it was getting dark. She switched on the lights and surveyed her room.

  Nice.

  It had better be, considering the price she was paying for it. Royal Barrière was one of the town’s best hotels, as grand and expensive as its name suggested. Was this reasonable? Certainly not. But tonight wasn’t about reasonable. It was about winning big.

  Besides, the thought of staying in a seedy hotel gave her goose bumps. She was no longer a discount-eligible, backpack-carrying student. She was twenty-eight—too old for seedy hotels. And, thankfully, not yet broke enough. Mind you, if everything went according to plan tonight, she wouldn’t be broke at all.

  The plan was simple, as all genius ideas were: exploit her beginner’s luck.

  Amanda was a gambling virgin, so new she still had her price tags. She’d never set foot in a casino or tried a slot machine. She’d never even played cards with friends.

  Seeing as she had no friends.

  She shook her head, brushing that thought away.

  I do have friends. A whole bunch of them—because four counted as a bunch, right? And it was four more than she’d had ten years ago in her fat-padded, acne-decorated teens. Thank God, those days were gone. Now she was as slim, peach-skinned, and honey-blonde as the next self-respecting Parisian it girl. And, most importantly, she’d become the picture-perfect young lady her mother could parade in front of her friends.

  As for Amanda’s own friends, there was Karine, the PA from work who qualified thanks to the number of bitching sessions they’d shared over the years. Then there was Jeanne, a bartender, and Jeanne’s fiancé, Mat, both of whom happened to be best friends with Amanda’s ex. And finally, Patrick, business partner of said ex.

  Amanda frowned at the annoying realization that three of her four friends were the legacy of her ex-boyfriend Rob.

  Note to self: diversify my social circle.

  She donned her strappy gown and refreshed her makeup. Then she grabbed her Chanel purse with her ID, cash, and the cocktail voucher the concierge had given her and headed to the famed Deauville Casino that adjoined her hotel.

  Ten minutes into the game, Amanda began to suspect that her two-hour crash course on the train might have been insufficient. But it didn’t matter because her beginner’s luck should kick in any moment now.

  She surveyed the players at her table to divert her mind from worrying.

  What a motley crew!

  Across from her sat an elderly Spanish couple. They wore matching T-shirts and smiled simultaneously, flashing their dentures. Next to them, two forty-something British women spoke to each other in an incomprehensible English dialect. A middle-aged Frenchman with greasy hair and darting eyes sat beside them. Amanda’s neighbor to the left was a surgically enhanced bimbo of unknown provenance doused with a nauseating perfume and clad in a dress that was three sizes too small.

  But the most remarkable person at the table was Amanda’s neighbor to the right, whom she’d nicknamed Obsidian Eyes. In his late twenties, tall, swarthy, well built, and well dressed, the man was easy on the eyes. He wore a faux casual linen suit and played with the easy confidence of someone who knew what he was doing.

  Amanda began to fidget with the strap of her watch, annoyed that the table blocked her view of his footwear. So many things could go wrong with the shoes! They could be synthetic or patent leather, have rubber soles, be coated in dirt or dust, sport pointy toes or toes that were too rounded . . . The list of potential offenses was long, and every one of them was unforgivable even with mitigating circumstances.

  She was a bit of shoe fetishist.

  Well, maybe a lot.

  Overtaken by curiosity, Amanda discreetly pushed a card to the edge of the table until it fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up and checked out the hunk’s shoes so she could add him to her huge “discard” pile. But, to her surprise, Obsidian Eyes wore fine leather loafers that were flawless.

  Probably Italian.

  Handmade, without a doubt.

  She sat up and studied his face again, perplexed. He had such fine eyes—intelligent and framed with extra thick lashes. The man was undeniably handsome, but not in a classic European way. Come to think of it, handsome wasn’t the adjective she’d use to describe him. It didn’t do him justice. It was too common, too weak. . . while he was kind of stunning.

  His complexion and features held a touch of something exotic, faintly alien—something that kept her stealing glances at him whenever he turned his attention to his cards. Was it his wavy, jet-black hair, mesmerizing eyes, or chiseled jawline? Or maybe his exquisite eyebrows that made her think of a raven’s wings? Whatever that je ne sais quoi was, it made him look more than ordinary. And hot.

  The man was a blazing wildfire on legs.

  As if his looks weren’t enough, Obsidian Eyes played exceptionally well. Forty minutes into the game, his stacks of colorful chips had doubled while everyone else’s—including Amanda’s—had melted away.

  That thought snapped her back into reality. Panicked, Amanda raised her eyes to the high ceiling of the casino.

  Please, I can’t lose.

  She was gambling with her meager savings—half of it, to be exact. If the Supreme Being above intended to activate her beginner’s luck, now was the time.

  “Newbie?” Obsidian Eyes asked, his gaze never shifting from the deck in the dealer’s hands.

  He spoke French like a native. A slight Midi accent, maybe? A bit like Jeanne’s, but less pronounced.

  Amanda looked around, unsure whom he was talking to.

  Obsidian Eyes finally lifted his gaze from the cards and gave her a panty-dropping smile.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Does it show?”

  “Mhmm.”

  Ooh, that smile again.

  The dealer held up a card for her, and she started reaching for it when she noticed Obsidian Eyes give a quick shake of his head. She pulled back.

  And won the hand.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed to her unexpected mentor.

  He gave her a small nod.

  She followed his discreet instructions for two more hands and won both. The evening was beginning to look up.

  The dealer bowed an
d ceded his place to a good-looking young woman with sleek auburn hair smoothed back into the world’s tightest bun.

  She greeted the players and began to shuffle the cards.

  Obsidian Eyes turned to Amanda. “Why blackjack? Beginners usually prefer the slots or roulette.”

  “I don’t know . . .Too passive for me, I guess.”

  He nodded. “I avoid them, too.”

  “So you know what I mean.”

  “Yes. But that’s not my only reason.”

  She cocked her head. “No?”

  “The slots are twice as costly to players than the table games, and with roulette, too much depends on chance.”

  Amanda smirked. “Isn’t that the case with all the games?”

  “Not blackjack, if played right.”

  “Let me guess—you play it right.”

  He glanced at the dealer, who was engrossed in shuffling cards. “I know a trick or two.”

  One of the Brits stage-whispered to the other, “I hope he’ll show me some of his tricks tonight.” She paused before adding even louder, “In my room.”

  Both women burst out laughing.

  Obsidian Eyes shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his hands, pretending he hadn’t heard the saucy remark.

  The man with greasy hair whispered something to the plastic bimbo.

  She didn’t acknowledge him. The woman was too busy multitasking. With her chest heaving, she stared at Obsidian Eyes and stroked her neck. Every five seconds she licked her lips and then pouted.

  But the black-eyed hunk was oblivious to her onslaught. He turned to Amanda again. “I’m taking a break to stretch my legs.”

  “Er . . . OK.”

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have a bad feeling about this dealer.”

  “Oh.” She pushed her chips closer together like he had done and stood. “I’ll do the same, then.”

  “What brings you to Deauville Casino tonight?” he asked as they strolled between the tables and observed the goings-on.

  After a second’s hesitation, she said, “I’m writing a book about gamblers.”

  “Participant observation, huh?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “What do you know about participant observation?”

  “Yeah, well, I need something to help me sleep when I get to my room at three in the morning.” He shrugged. “Reading a few pages of Tristes Tropiques works better than any sleeping pill I’ve tried.”

  She giggled. “I’m passionate about cultural anthropology, but I could never finish that book.”

  “I like psychology books better,” he said. “They’re fun to read, and the info in them is useful in my trade.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “Especially books like Cialdini’s Influence and the ones on how to read body language.”

  “I see.”

  “Hey, how about a glass of champagne on the terrace after I’ve won my target amount?” He gave her an innocent smile. A little too innocent.

  “I have a cocktail voucher,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

  Did I just accept his invitation?

  Oh, well. What harm could a drink do?

  His face contorted in exaggerated disgust. “Trust me, you don’t want their free cocktail unless you’re a gustative masochist.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I was given a free voucher, and I intend to use it.”

  “OK, OK. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “You said ‘my target amount’ earlier. Are you that good?”

  “In all modesty . . . yes. But my target amount is also reasonable. And I have a spending threshold, too. When I reach it before I’ve won my target amount, I always stop.”

  “How very rational for a gambler!”

  “I’m full of surprises, in case you haven’t noticed.” He gave her an appreciative look. “And I suspect that so are you, ma belle.”

  “When did I become your belle?”

  “Oh, it’s just a placeholder until you tell me your name.”

  Should I?

  “So, what’s your name, ma belle?”

  “Am . . . elie. And yours?”

  “Kes.”

  “What kind of name is Kes?”

  “A Gypsy name.”

  “Like, a real Traveler Gypsy?”

  “As authentic as they come.”

  “Ah.” She raised her chin. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what, Amelie?”

  “That you make me think of Tarzan.”

  “Really?”

  “Not that you aren’t dashing in your suit, but you look like someone who was born to ride horses bare-chested.”

  “Wow. You’re the bluntest belle I’ve ever met.”

  “And you’re the most gorgeous Gypsy I’ve ever met.”

  Where did that come from? Must be the vodka.

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “So refreshingly honest. Why, I’m flattered.”

  She looked away.

  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, g
irl. 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.