Cards of Love: Ace of Swords

by Flite, Nora

  ACE OF SWORDS

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  Nora Flite

  Copyright © 2018 Nora Flite

  Cover by Lori LovesBooks

  All rights reserved. ACE OF SWORDS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  ~ABOUT THE AUTHOR~

  Chapter One

  Smart men don't sleep with their boss's daughter.

  It's one of those easy, clean facts that you don't doubt. You don't question it. There are no late hours spent pouring over data or carefully gathered notes to decide if, for sure, you shouldn't bury your dick in that girl.

  And I hate to brag, but I'm a smart man.

  Which was why this problem was particularly infuriating.

  “Rolland?”

  I flicked my eyes back to Marcus. Had he caught me eyeballing Tatiana where she was sitting on the patio furniture across the yard, her perfect legs crossed so her knees could prop up the book she was reading? No—Marcus was too busy yawning into his half-empty Grande Frappuccino from Starbucks. He was an okay accountant, but a shit body guard. Lucky me.

  “I was saying,” I began again, flipping through the papers in my lap. “That you need to tell Sergio he’s wasting too much money on drivers. He’s got five on payroll, but he only uses three in the same day.”

  “Wasting money?” Marcus snorted. “Yeah, I’ll go tell the billionaire top-dog that he’s wasting cash.”

  “He is,” I insisted. I scanned the yard around us, noting the line of men in white, tucked-in shirts as they arranged tables under the avocado trees. “Speaking of, what’s he burning his bank accounts down for now?”

  Marcus followed my eyes. “Ah. Tatiana’s graduation party is tonight.”

  Graduation party. From her final year at college. I’m not proud of my attraction to the girl, but she’s not a damn kid. I know for a fact that she’s twenty-two, and while that’s still six years younger than me, it’s not so bad. The bad part is she’s the daughter of one of the most powerful men this side of the pacific, I reminded myself coldly.

  “How much is he spending on this?” I asked.

  “Couple thousand.” Marcus shrugged, then he looked directly at Tatiana. “She’s his precious little doll. Don’t bother trying to talk him out of spending a single dime on her pretty head.”

  Using the excuse to stare at her again, I nodded. “If he’s already spent the money, no point in forcing the issue.” Tatiana reached up to tuck a piece of her long, thick dark hair behind her ear. The motion was absent-minded—it made me swallow. Especially when she followed it up by licking her thumb and turning the page of her book. I couldn’t read the cover from here but desperately wanted to know what had her so engrossed. Maybe if it was something terrible, I could get myself to start disliking her. That would be much better for my livelihood.

  Tatiana adjusted herself on the lawn chair. Her reflective sunglasses and wide-brimmed straw hat reminded me of Old Hollywood. I had a soft spot for Silver Screen classics, and she was channeling Audrey Hepburn something fierce.

  As I watched, her chin moved. Did she notice me?

  The tip of her tongue traced her upper lip. It sent a tight, pleasurable rush through my belly. Then she crossed her ankles, allowing her long, bare legs to extend further from her draped-open shawl. Navy-blue shorts peeked beneath. If she stood, they’d cover most of her thighs, but right now they were tugging into her crevice and when she pointed her toes the material slid right into her—

  “She’s smoking-hot, huh?”

  I jumped, gaping at Marcus and his sharp grin. “What?”

  “Tatiana.” He motioned with his coffee cup. “It’s no wonder Sergio made her live at home all these years. He’s too paranoid to trust the boys in her class from trying something. He wouldn’t hesitate to knee-cap the bloke who dared to flirt with her.”

  I didn’t need that mental image. “Let’s get back to the numbers.”

  “Sure, sure.” He took a long drink from his cup, then sighed. “Guarantee she’s a virgin.”

  My whole body tensed. Jesus Christ. “Would Sergio break your knee-caps for that comment, or just your fingers?”

  The color faded from his face. “Alright, jeez. There’s better ways to keep me on track than making me feel sick, Rolland.” He ruffled through his notebook, scribbling something. “There, I put down Talk about drivers.”

  I bit back a satisfied smile. “Perfect.”

  “Makes sense why Sergio keeps you close. You’re like some kinda robot, nothing distracts you.”

  Weeks ago, I would have agreed. I cared about perfection and a job well done. Nothing entered my mind but work...

  Until Sergio invited me to his estate for a black-tie party.

  I’d known he had a daughter. I’d seen her childhood, multi-colored brace-wearing photos all over his office. Nothing about Tatiana caught my attention.

  I had no idea how much that would change.

  Chapter Two

  Two weeks earlier

  For a black-tie event, there were a lot of vibrant colors in the room. Not only on the walls, or along the over-packed tables of over-priced cheese and shrimp, but on the bodies of the guests. Gucci purses, Michael Kors, Chanel—I knew them all by sight.

  I had to. One of the first things I noticed when running Sergio’s expense reports was how much the man wasted on clothing. Not just for himself, but for his clients. He was obsessed with gifting luxury brands, like he was searching for an excuse to blow his hard-earned cash.

  My eyes darted from guest to guest, keeping a running tally in my head. Two-thousand... fifteen-thousand... I made it to forty-grand before I finished walking through the entry-way of the mansion. Sergio’s hand clamped down on me, halting me in my tracks. “You made it!” he laughed, glancing me over quickly. “You look good enough. This the nicest thing you own? I know a guy downtown that works with custom fabric from Italy, remind me to buy you a new suit at our next meeting.”

  I brushed the knot of my coal-black tie. “Please don’t.”

  His laugh was strong; it drew polite smiles from everyone in earshot. “Come on, Rolland. Let me show you around. This is the first time you’ve been in here, huh?”

  Not quite. But I wasn’t keen to correct him. “I’d love a tour.”

  “Sure, sure.” His finger jabbed my broad chest. “Don’t use this as a chance to scold me later for where my money ends up. You’re not here to work tonight, you’re here to have fun, so turn that brain of yours off.”

  Instantly I remembered another time someone wanted me to turn my brain off.

  It was my fifth birthday party and I’d been obsessed with magic. No matter how hard my parents tried to sign me up for soccer or take me out to the playground, my weekends were spent with my magic set, practicing the same card tricks and hidden coin illusions again and again. So naturally for my pa
rty, my parents hired a magician, assuming I’d be delighted by an up-close and private show. And I was amused as I watched the magician work, because I recognized every trick he did and could replicate it myself. I was studying the fluidity of his act and taking mental notes so I could improve my own. I was having a great time, laughing and watching with my schoolmates, until his final act.

  No matter how much I’d begged my parents, they’d refused to buy me a dove. My five-year-old brain knew that to be a real magician, I needed a bunny or a dove to step up my act. Bunnies seemed like they required too much care, so I had my heart set on a dove. And here it was, right in front of me for the first time, a magician about to do the dove pan trick.

  He showed the audience his shiny brass pan, demonstrating that it was empty inside. The pan looked like a typical dish I’d find in my mother’s kitchen. He filled the pan with a clear liquid and then dramatically cracked an egg inside it. With a flourish, he lit the pan on fire and quickly slammed the lid on top to extinguish the flame. My friends were squealing, but I was laser focused, watching for the slightest sleight of hand or movement from within his jacket.

  He commanded the audience of five-year-olds to repeat the magic words, “Happy Birthday, Rolland,” (a weak connotation in my opinion), and then he lifted the lid to reveal a single gray dove inside. The other children erupted in applause as he took his bow, and my mother’s voice rang out “Cake time!”

  But I couldn’t move, I couldn’t join the other children who were hovering over my birthday cake and waiting to belt out Happy Birthday to me. My mother begged me to just believe, to stop thinking so much and come enjoy my party. But my mind was in chaos. I had a buzzy feeling in my head that wouldn’t go away.

  Where had that dove come from? It didn’t add up for me.

  I went over every step of that trick, tried to find some explanation for how that dove appeared. I didn’t believe in magic. I believed in processes and logic, and I wanted to understand. I ignored my parents’ pleas and examined that brass pan until the magician finally promised to teach me the trick after I blew out my candles. And he did teach me the trick—the secret is in the lid.

  I've never been able to turn my brain off. Not once.

  My lips tightened. “I can’t.”

  Sergio squinted at me. We were nearly eye to eye—I was only an inch taller than the massive man. I wondered if I’d look like him when I was in my fifties, too. Like a guy who’d body-built his whole life while never cutting back on an extra slice of pizza at each meal. “Rolland, listen to me closely. I like you. I like your mind even better. I’m not keeping you on the clock, so if you want to juggle numbers, I can’t stop you. But I don’t want to hear any of it this evening.”

  The subtle rumble of his threat made my heart jump. It was easy to forget the rumors about Sergio Montalla. His company was legit as legit could be, but men like him—with a long history and longer friendships—were dangerous.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Good.”

  We continued walking with the tension hanging between us. It remained like cloying smoke through the foyer, the massive game room, the chaotic kitchen, and finally, the grand ballroom. I counted up the ice sculptures—fifty, really?—then the towers of macarons shaped like rainbow colored Christmas trees. He really expected me to ignore how much this party cost?

  “Sergio!” a gritty voice shouted. I turned to spot a smooth-headed man waving across the room.

  “That’s Wes,” my boss explained in my ear. He swung his arm back in a polite gesture. “I need to talk to him. Keep up appearances and all that.” He gave me a quick jab in the ribs. “You have fun, that’s an order.”

  I managed a tight smile. “I don’t remember anything in my contract that says you can order me around.”

  Sergio’s lips curled higher, but there was no humor lightening his hard tone. “Not everything has to be written down. Some things are just assumed by wise men, Rolland.”

  Standing straighter, I watched him head towards Wes and the others. He really wants me to relax. Fine. There was enough alcohol and food at this party to lose an hour in. It wasn’t like I hated parties—I just preferred quieter settings. Noise messed with my head, and I loathed anytime my wits weren’t razor-sharp.

  Distractions never helped anyone.

  “Excuse me,” a warm, flowing voice said at my elbow. “I don’t think you belong here.”

  Blinking, I stared down at the woman, making sure she was speaking to me. Her almond-eyes glistened under a heavy roof of lashes. There was no question that those gorgeous eyes were focused on me. “I was invited,” I said, “Of course I belong.”

  “Oh no.” She clicked her tongue—I caught myself staring at how pink it was against her plum lipstick. “I can spot an outcast a mile away. The guys who come to these events have one thing in common.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Her smile lit up my heart. “They drink. A lot. And your hand is empty, so...”

  Caught off guard—and loving it—I cupped the back of my neck. “Fair enough.”

  “Did no one come around and offer you something?” she asked, scanning the room with her hands on her luscious hips. “I’ll wave someone down.”

  “No, no. I just—” Don’t drink much, I almost said. Should have said. Why didn’t I? “Don’t go to any trouble. The staff here are working themselves to the bone.”

  She lifted her eyebrows dubiously. “You think Sergio doesn’t pay them enough for that?”

  “He pays everyone too much,” I corrected her with a chuckle.

  Something flashed in her eyes, so slippery I couldn’t make sense of it. “That’s a good thing,” she said.

  “Good for them. Not good for Sergio.”

  Her mouth went tight. “Who are you?”

  Shit. I was being too loose with my tongue. This girl could be someone who’d run to Sergio and claim I was bad-talking him. “Rolland. I work for him, I’m in charge of keeping him from bleeding his coffers dry. And you’re...”

  Five slim, pink-glossy tipped fingers extended my way. “Nobody you should care about.”

  I shook her hand. Her soft as hell fucking hand. “But you do have a name.”

  “Of course. A very nice one.”

  “Which is?”

  Her smile grew so wide I could count her porcelain-white teeth. “Call me your excuse for getting a drink and avoiding more boring conversations. Let’s get some air out back.”

  The abrupt way she avoided my question while also snatching my wrist, tugging me across the reflective floor, should have bothered me. But there was something in the air. Some strange part of me that found her chaos... attractive.

  Letting her take me through the crowd, I watched how her long hair flowed over her naked back. The dress she had on hugged every inch of her body. It kept me quiet so that I didn’t speak again until we were stepping out into the beautifully lit garden under a sea of stars. “Tell me your name. I told you mine.”

  She glanced back at me. “No one forced you.”

  “I have to call you something.”

  “Fine. Call me ‘That Fun Girl.’” She spun, releasing me. We’d wandered deeper into the back garden—a quiet spot, the murmur of the party far away. “That’s all I want to be right now. It’s enough.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. If she didn’t want me to push this, fine. Maybe being the Fun Girl was enough for both of us.

  Her attention strayed to my face. Then she ran her eyes down to my feet and back again, lingering on my shoulders where they pushed into my suit-jacket. “You said you work with Sergio and his money, but you look like a body guard.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Fun Girl—or FG, as I began to think of her—laid her palm flat on my chest. As she stroked my tie, I inhaled sharply. “The muscles, mostly.”

  Jesus. My heart was thudding, she could definitely feel it. “I work out in my condo every morning.”

  Her cute nose crinkl
ed from laughter. “Every single morning?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you use an almond face scrub, too?”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, sorry, it was a dumb American Psycho reference.” Her nails raced over my tie, leaving my skin beneath tingling. “I admire your dedication to exercise. I wish I had a drive like that.”

  “If you’re saying you don’t have to work out to stay so gorgeous, I’ll admit that makes me jealous.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

  “You must hear that all the time.”

  “Hardly.” She backed away, glancing out at the garden around us. “People don’t have the balls to tell me what they really think.”

  I adored the crass way she spoke. It was nothing like the saccharine women I was surrounded by day in and day out at the office. But if you’d asked me if I liked that sort of rude language, I’d have denied it.

  Maybe it was different because it was coming from a pair of shiny plump lips.

  “Well,” I said, reaching out to take her hands. Her fingers twitched like a caught bird. “I’ll be brutally honest. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever spoken to, and it’s killing me that you won’t tell me your real name.”

  Twisting towards me, she glanced at our hands, then squeezed them. “If the mystery went away, you’d stop being so open with me.”

  She smelled like plums and cloves. Like a midnight moment when you’re straddling the past and the future, and you aren’t sure if you should have regrets or hope.

  Her lips grazed mine, forcing me to stay in the present. To feel nothing but bliss. All of my coiled up tension from entering Sergio’s home and seeing his wasteful spending evaporated in the touch of this strange woman.

  He told me to have fun, I reminded myself as I buried my hands in her hair. That was enough to justify forgetting that this was so unlike me. I was a planner, a plotter, a fan of precision. This garden affair was the opposite of my whole world.

  “You kiss so good,” she whispered against my mouth. Curling my arms around her body, I kissed her harder, pressing my tongue on her soft warmth. She gripped my wrist and guided my palm to her left breast, forcing me to fondle her.