Devil's Gamble

by Michele Arris

  Praise for Michele Arris

  Devil’s Deal

  “Arris brings a fun voice to romance. Her men are wildly successful, but they are also nice guys. The sparks that fly whenever the couple is together create a story that is fast-paced and full of humor and real emotion. Lucas and Bailey form a strong and believable bond that bodes well for the promised stories about their friends. The women are accomplished and talented and are equal partners in the relationships that develop—the Tarnished Billionaires series opener will put a smile in readers’ hearts!”—RT Book Reviews

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  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Michele Arris

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Guide

  Cover

  Contents

  Start of content

  Devil’s Gamble

  Tarnished Billionaires #2

  Michele Arris

  Avon, Massachusetts

  To my family. You all continue to be my inspiration.

  Chapter One

  This is frickin’ fantastic!

  Sienna Keller stood just outside the door of the small office she’d been assigned by the director of the L.A. Municipal Art Gallery, marveling over the many art enthusiasts in attendance. Within the well-lit exhibition space, several stood before her pieces with heads angled, a few with brows pinched in deep concentration, and those with cheeks palmed, all studying, admiring, and looking to purchase her work.

  Numerous orders had been placed at her New York exhibit last week. Now in L.A., so many orders had come in, estimated delivery on her pieces was pushing into the beginning of next summer. At this rate, she’d be elbow deep in watercolors, oils, acrylics, clay molds, and hammered metals virtually around the clock.

  Following tonight’s event, the staff hired for the art tour—thanks to her sponsor, Marx Venture Capital—would skillfully pack up the displays and ship them off to Vegas for the final three-day exhibit. She had one day to prep and another to rest before the doors opened in two days.

  Sienna was happily exhausted. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined winning the D.C. National Art Gallery’s Artist of the Year contest. The prize had been a viewing room at the gallery designated to display her artwork for one year along with an art showcase tour in New York, Los Angeles, and Vegas.

  She’d hoped, wished, and prayed aplenty for a chance like this, and on occasion, had to pinch herself that winning the art contest hadn’t been another one of her many fanciful daydreams.

  The ring of her cell phone in the office gave her a start. She came out of her relaxed lounge against the wall and poked her head inside the room to read the display. Her heart fluttered like that of an eager child as she scooped it up. “Hi, Mom.” She paused for a moment, waiting with anxious hope, but only received a low, distinctive exhale from undoubtedly a Marlboro Light Menthol. “Glad you called. I was hoping to see you last week at my art show in New York. I had a great turnout. It—”

  “You had a great turnout, huh?” Another stretched exhale. “I would’ve been there, but you know it costs an arm and a leg to get into the city. I can’t be throwing money away on cab rides. And sometimes life happens, Sienna. It doesn’t just revolve around your little art show schedule.”

  Sienna bit her lip and swallowed hard to stifle the familiar ache crawling into her throat. “Yes, mom, I know a cab ride into Manhattan from the Bronx can get pricey. I told you I would’ve taken care of the fare. I understand that life happens. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant,” she huffed.

  “Mom, I only meant that you’d promised to come out that Wednesday because—”

  “I tried to use my card yesterday at Micky’s, but it was declined. That cheap bastard wouldn’t even give me an I.O.U. for one measly pack.”

  “Sorry, I forgot to make the deposit to your account yesterday. I’ve been super busy. I took care of it this morning. The money should be there. I added a little extra for you this month. My art shows have been going better than I could’ve imagined. My goodness, mom, it has been fantastic. I’ve had so many—”

  “It’s late. You can tell me about it another time. I’m up well past my bedtime. I better take my medicine and get to bed.”

  “Uh, okay, sure, we’ll catch up another time.”

  The line disconnected. Sienna set the phone on the desk, then resumed her pose outside the office against the wall. Weariness suddenly weighed heavier upon her shoulders.

  Even at twenty-five, it would have been nice to hear the woman say the words, happy birthday. Just once. Whoever said you don’t miss what you’ve never had was a liar.

  People like us aren’t granted wishes, child. You have to give up something to get something in this world. From the looks of you, you won’t ever have much worth giving. You can blame that on your sorry excuse of a father.

  Her mother’s verbal assault was usually followed by a hard, bruising pinch on the shoulder just to be certain her words had sunk in. Oh, it had sunk in . . . crater deep.

  Sienna supposed looking into the face of the child that reminded you of the person you despised most would cause disdain, even though she’d tried her hardest to be a good girl—kept her grades up, cleaned the apartment, stayed out of trouble, stayed in the shadows. Nothing had ever been good enough.

  Her father had always been a trigger button Sienna knew not to push, even on her mother’s good days, which were few and far between. It wasn’t her fault that her genealogy compass spun a wide circle. She only knew that the man may have been Asian American. That was a big maybe.

  It also hadn’t been her fault her genes had spit out a long, narrow, toffee-brown frame and pencil stick arms and legs. Unlucky for her, that didn’t stop her mother’s lecher
ous asshole companions’ unprovoked advances. A tightness coiled in her belly as old memories she didn’t like to confront flooded into her happy space.

  Shaking herself loose from that haunting period in her life, she looked around at her artwork showcased on crisp white walls and her sculptures perched atop white marble plinths. Her mother’s words held no truth anymore. She didn’t have to sell her soul to achieve her dream. And, as it turned out, she’d only had to wait another twelve years to sprout enough breasts and ass to balance out her five-ten, model-angle stature. So there.

  “You keep scowling at the patrons like that, you’re going to scare them off from handing over their credit card info.”

  Sienna’s head turned to her sponsoring rep, Gavin Crane, Mr. tall, blond, blue-eyed, handsome, and massively irritating at the moment.

  “Why are you back here holding up the wall instead of out mingling? You’re not still salty over that order I placed for you earlier, are you? How hard could it be for you to paint the woman’s dead cockatoo?”

  Salty? Seriously, he didn’t just go there. Damn right, she was annoyed about the cockatoo, but the current grooves in her forehead had nothing to do with his overbearing ass.

  “Gavin, you fired my curator this morning without my permission. Then you placed that order without my consent.”

  “I didn’t like how he arranged things. As for painting the woman’s dead bird, judging by what I now know of your work, you could probably complete the project in your sleep.”

  Sienna took a quiet breath for restraint. It was either that or choke him. “I’ll say again, it’s not about the order being difficult to fulfill. I don’t want you making promises to clients without checking with me first. As for why I’m back here, I’m resting . . . was resting my voice. I’ve been talking for six hours straight.”

  “You should be working the room, flashing that beautiful smile that I rarely get the pleasure to bask in.”

  He smiled, a slight baring of gleaming white, just enough to be cocky. The side compliment only made her bristle. She’d watched him most of the damn night flirt with every pretty face he came upon, cockatoo lady included.

  “I think you’ve been working the room tonight enough for the both of us. That redhead with the Bichon Frise nestled in her Chanel handbag managed to hold your limited attention.” A small jab. She’d also been taking a reprieve from him. His overt flirtatious behavior with the female patrons had become irritating to watch. She wasn’t sure why tonight’s performance pricked at a nerve; his antics had been no different back in New York. “When the two of you exited together, I’d assumed I wouldn’t see you until we departed for Vegas tomorrow afternoon.”

  He reared back with a soft flutter of blond lashes, then his expression returned to a wealth of white-teeth charm once more. “You assumed wrong. I saw the lady to her car after she gave me this.” He slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his perfectly tailored, charcoal gray suit coat, pulled out an order receipt, and snapped the paper in front of her face. “Madam, this is how it’s done.”

  Sienna’s eyes widened. She snatched the slip from his hand and studied it like one would a counterfeit bill. “Oh my god, these pieces combined are priced at about twelve grand.”

  “Twenty-five.” He winked on a corner-lip whisper. “I marked up the price on each item. The woman didn’t bat a lash.”

  She gasped. “Gavin, you can’t do that.”

  “Why not? These people came here tonight to spend money. You’re a new name with superb talent. They want to be the first to have you, but they don’t want to pay what you’re worth.”

  She flinched with a chilling streak of déjà vu. He was unaware how heavy those words were, having come so soon after the memory of her past had invaded and consumed her quiet, happy, Zen corner of the room.

  “You’re sporting that frown again. What’s wrong?” he asked, concern in his blue gaze.

  He took a broad step, impeding in her personal space, something she didn’t allow people to do, even if she had to express physical force to get her point across. Her mom would have told her to take advantage of the opportunity. Sienna had vowed a long time ago to make damn certain that the apple would fall far from the tree. To that end, most only needed to be told once, but over the course of her tour, Gavin Crane had never respected her boundaries. He’d been the only man she could recall that she’d let cross the line without popping off to her back-the-fuck-up aggressive attack. And she was not sure why. Maybe it was his boyish, dimpled smile that always washed over his face when he looked at her. Who knows.

  “What’s on your mind, Sienna? You can talk to me.”

  His hand came up, and she was sure he’d offer up a comforting touch on her arm, her shoulder, her cheek, something, but that hand veered to his hair, fingers combing back the thick waves. He may intrude into her personal space, but he’d never touched her, not even a bump on the arm in passing or an accidental brush of fingers when handing over a pen. On occasion, she wondered what his touch would feel like. Rough and aggressive or soothing and caressing? Then she’d snap back to her senses. He was a problem she didn’t need.

  “It’s nothing.”

  He cut a side-eye at her, studying. “I’m a scholar at reading people, and those lovely brown eyes of yours are telling. I’m only going to keep asking until you spill it.”

  My birthday was last Wednesday, and once again, my mother didn’t bother to acknowledge my existence in the world because I’m a stark reminder of the man she hates, who I have never met. Her only concern is that I fund her account each month. And it all frickin’ hurts.

  She schooled her expression to put an end to his scrutiny. Discussing her nightmarish past with him wasn’t going to happen. She’d suck up the disappointment like she’d done her entire twenty-five years.

  “Just tired . . . and my feet hurt.”

  “I understand. It’s been a long week. Another hour to go, then we’ll grab dinner. Afterward, you’ll kick back and relax. Maybe have a glass of wine. I could rub your feet and massage your calves. How does that sound?” Wearing a broad grin that lit up his blatant good looks, he brought his hands up and wiggled his fingers. “These can work miracles. I haven’t had any complaints so far.”

  He’d have to touch her to do that. Why did her heart suddenly punch against her breastbone over the thought of his big, strong hands on her, a vivid picture of him stroking and caressing? What followed was a slideshow of his flirtatious conduct with many of the women the entire damn night. Not that she had been left out. He’d been dropping subtle I’d like to screw you hints from the day after her contest win where they’d shared a cup of coffee and he’d told her that he would be accompanying her on the tour.

  “Thanks, but I’m good.” Her reply was intentionally frigid. She didn’t need the headache.

  He inclined his head and eased back a step with cautious understanding. “As I said earlier, you’re extremely talented. Quite honestly, I’ve been astounded by your catalog of work, and I’ve told you before that you’ve underpriced most of it. As your sponsor rep, I’m here to help you with the business aspect of all of this. Yet you insist on battling with me at every turn, when all I’m trying to do here is see that you get the best deal for your hard work.”

  Sienna didn’t like being undermined, even if it had been in her favor. They’d been butting heads because of it from day one. Just the night before, he’d taken it upon himself to have the staff move her black and white paintings to the rear of the gallery because he felt the colorful artwork would draw more attention up front. They’d locked horns tight over that. It was well-known among artists that the opposite was in fact true.

  He’d also rearranged the floor sculptures from smallest to largest merely for esthetics, he’d said, as though he was the foremost authority on the matter. Granted, she was new to this whole art exhibit tour thing, but she’d worked as a docent and knew how to set up a gallery, for damn sake. He could be infuriatingly officious, yet exc
eptionally attentive within the same breath. That irked her the most about him.

  Too tired to argue, she let him have this round . . . somewhat. “Next time ask me before you go making changes and placing orders. This is my work, and this is my exhibit,” she told him with calm authority. “Lucas Marx will get his money’s worth of advertising for Marx Venture Capital, if that’s your concern here. I’ve made sure his logo plaque is staged right at the door. It’s the first thing people see when they enter. Heck, they almost trip over the damn thing.”

  He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Lucas’s company is shelling out the bucks for this tour, yes, but he only cares that his wife is happy. You’re Bailey’s best friend, so he wants to ensure that you’re looked after. Mostly, he wants to see a profit. As MVC’s GM, I’m here to make certain that happens. Striking deals is what I do. I won’t allow these moochers to take advantage of your talent. Now go praise your great work. That should be easy to do.” Slipping his hands into the front pockets of his slacks, he strolled off, but turned, and walked backward. “That redhead with the dog . . . not my type.” His gaze did a slow roll from the top of her cropped, spiky dark hair to the pointy toe of her black patent leather stilettos. A wicked smile split his mouth before he slipped in among the fray of bodies.

  Sienna smoothed both hands down the hip-hugging, sleeveless black sheath dress that hit just above the knee. She couldn’t help soaking up his not so subtle flirtation. Even so, the redhead, not his type, my ass.

  Chapter Two

  Sienna gave a glance over at Gavin beside her as they ambled down the brightly lit corridor and came to a stop before her suite’s double doors. They’d been given top-notch accommodations at the Grant Royal Hotel and Resort; another perk of the tour. Both Gavin and Lucas Marx were BFFs with Sean Grant, the hotel mogul himself.

  Each night after the exhibit, they’d have a glass of wine after dinner to relax, and he’d make her laugh by cracking jokes about some of the patrons that attended her showings. He actually had a great sense of humor. They’d talk politics—he took a progressive stance. Surprisingly, he’d appeared rapt when she’d talk endlessly about her love of art, and he even asked questions, which showed he hadn’t been pretending to listen to her. When they weren’t arguing, their conversations came easy, comfortable. She’d even go so far as to say, enjoyable. Go figure.