[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon

by Daire StDenis

  “Let’s start with gambling.”

  I shrug. “I guess I take risks with money, but they are always calculated risks—stocks, bonds, investments—letting my money earn money for me. But, I’m not much for casinos. The math puts the odds always in the House’s favor.”

  “True, yet there are anomalies. Things that cannot be accounted for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You. You were on a streak, winning much more than losing. Yes, your bets were safe, but you still should have lost more than you won, based on mathematics. Yet you didn’t.” He swirls the amber liquid in the crystal glass. “It was because of your streak that I placed my maximum bet where I did.” His gaze meets mine. “Tell me, how do you explain our win, mathematically?”

  After a deep drink, I say, “I don’t think it’s math. I think we won because of universal principals.”

  “Yes?”

  “The universe doesn’t like desperation. It is often those who need a win the least who win the most. And vice versa.”

  “An interesting conjecture.” He brings the glass to just beneath his nose and breathes in deeply. He doesn’t drink.

  Damn. The gesture is completely and unexpectedly sexy.

  When he lifts his gaze, his eyes show the smile his mouth hasn’t given in to yet. “Do you suppose that also explains your allure?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are perhaps the least desperate woman I’ve ever met.” He glances about the salon. “Therefore every man in this room wants you.”

  I laugh. His comment is so over the top I don’t know how to respond. Instead, I push my unfinished drink away and stand. “I should go.”

  “I’ve offended you.” Christophe’s already irreverent gaze becomes even more sinful. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it if I find you fascinating.”

  “So does my boyfriend. He’s upstairs.” I point to the ceiling. “I mean. At the hotel. Le Hotel de Paris. Penthouse.” I wave toward the door hoping I don’t sound as lame to him as I do to myself. “Conference call.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re not alone, either.” I finger wave at the two girls sitting at the other end of the bar. They are pretending to talk to one another, all the while keeping tabs on Christophe. They frown at me. One waves back, hesitantly. “You’ve got two friends waiting for you. I’m sure you’ve heard the expression, three’s a crowd.”

  “Non.” He shakes his head, adopting a mock serious expression. “Though perhaps you are familiar with the French term, ménage a trois?”

  Seriously?

  The guy might have lips begging to be kissed, but that doesn’t make him any less arrogant. Or presumptuous. “You’ve already got your ménage participants in order. I’m good.” Except that I don’t feel good, I feel flustered for some reason—could be the flash of ménage imagery that invades my dirty mind—I reach for my drink and finish it. “I’m going to find my boyfriend.”

  He puts a hand on my arm.

  His hand is warm. Well formed. Strong. It sends tingles up my shoulder and around my neck.

  Dammit!

  I hate his hand.

  “Tell me, who is this boyfriend of yours? Maybe I know him.”

  “You may,” I tilt my head, still working on that French mannerism thing. “But it’s none of your business.”

  “Oh but it is.”

  “Why?”

  “I simply must know from whom I steal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You. I plan on stealing you.”

  Is this guy for real? He should write a book on bad pickup lines. The problem is, he sounds so damn sexy when he speaks and his eyes and lips and hair and tux and pretty much everything about him are so damn sexy too, it doesn’t matter how cheesy his lines are.

  Good thing for me I made a promise to Tal and I’m pretty damn good at keeping promises.

  “You are persistent. I’ll give you that.” I move away from him, from his gaze, from his much too decadent scent. “But, I’m going to return to my room now.”

  “May I walk you there?”

  “No.” I dip my head with as much civility as I can muster. “Good evening.”

  “A bientôt,” he says and then after a pause, adds, “Mademoiselle Savage.”

  Chapter Three

  I do not tell Tal about the interaction with Christophe Chevalier. He’s got enough to worry about with trying to hide his affair with Alejandro from his family and anyone who might take note and decide to blackmail him. Besides, I can handle a man like Christophe. I can.

  Except tonight, Tal is up in the room with Alejandro. Again. And I’m back in the casino, hoping to avoid Monsieur Chevalier.

  Speaking of...how the fuck does he know who I am?

  It's as if the mere thought of Christophe conjures him. Tonight I’m in a different salon, playing Texas Hold ‘Em. It’s a game Chase and I used to play with friends—a lifetime ago—a game I haven’t played since I was married. Which either means I’m finally healing from my marriage, or this is how desperate I am to avoid Christophe, thinking the game is too gauche for his French sensibilities.

  Apparently I am wrong about his French sensibilities because not only does he appear out of thin air, he quietly speaks to the Swiss ambassador sitting beside me, asking him to switch seats to the empty one across the table. The fact that Christophe’s mother’s family, the De Rossis—the oldest banking family in Italy—own a third share of the Monte Carlo SBM resort, including the four original hotels and casinos that make up the heart of Monte Carlo, may be the reason the diplomat is willing to give up his seat to Christophe so willingly.

  Okay. I admit it. I did a little research on Monsieur Chevalier last night. So what? Don’t give me a hard time. It’s important I know who I’m dealing with here.

  "I'm starting to think this boyfriend of yours is a myth."

  “He's a very busy man."

  "Curious."

  "What is curious?" I ask as I toss my chips for the small blind into the pot—a measly hundred euros.

  "His behavior. If you were my girlfriend, I wouldn't let you out of my sight." Christophe tosses in the big blind—two hundred euros—before turning to me and smiling.

  Why the hell does his statement make my tummy tingle?

  "My boyfriend is not the jealous type."

  "Then Monsieur Bin Ahmed does not mind if you spend the evening with me." A statement, not a question.

  "It is not up to Tal who I spend my time with. It's my decision." I adopt the bored voice of a high stakes dealer, giving Christophe no indication that he’s rattled me by revealing he knows who I’m here with.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one doing research last night.

  The fact that he has been checking up on me does not have the desired effect it should have—making me feel stalked and violated. No, unfortunately I’m left feeling tragically pleased by his interest.

  And slightly (okay, very) turned on.

  Fuck. Sometimes I drive myself crazy.

  Continuing in my fake bored voice, I say, "Perhaps I wasn’t clear yesterday. Let me be clear now.” I give him a bland glance, totally ignoring the weird little butterflies messing about in my tummy. “I don’t like you."

  He chuckles. I’ve amused him.

  Damn!

  I pretend to snub him as I peek at the pocket cards the dealer just dealt. An ace and king. Nice.

  When it’s my turn to bet, I call the hundred euros of the big blind and raise another five hundred. Christophe calls and the man beside him folds.

  After burning a card, the dealer turns the flop; a jack, queen and ace. Things are looking pretty good for me and I raise another five hundred, which everyone at the table calls.

  We play out the hand and I win, the river card being a ten, thus giving me a straight.

  After a couple more hands, where I win, Christophe whispers, “You’re confusing your opponents.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They’re not
used to honesty.” He smiles. “Your face expresses exactly the hand you have. That doesn’t make sense in poker, particularly high stakes.”

  I was about to fold because all I have is a four and a nine, neither of which are helped by the community cards on the table, but I decide to test Christophe’s theory. I check my cards again, sigh, because—hell—my hand is so bad, there’s no way I can win, and then shove all my chips into the middle of the table. “I’m all in.” Turning to everyone at the table, I meet their gazes, making an, I’m-totally-bluffing-face. Two players still fold.

  Not Christophe.

  Of course I lose. He’s got three queens. I have nothing.

  Now that I’ve lost all my chips, I excuse myself from the table hoping to escape, but seconds later I hear Christophe do the same. Following right behind me.

  Sheesh!

  Exasperated—sort of, but not really—I spin around. “Look, what’s it going to take to get through to you that I’m not interested?”

  “The truth.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “No, Tessa Savage, you’re lying.”

  “I’m not...and how do you know who I am?”

  He pauses for a second before answering. “You have quite a reputation. In certain circles.”

  I narrow my gaze. What the hell does that mean?

  “Trust me. It is all high praise. Savage Solutions has saved many companies. Many fortunes.” He tilts his head as if examining me from a different angle and by his smile, he likes this new angle.

  So does a tiny spot between my legs.

  “Tessa Savage, the woman, has performed other...more intimate miracles.”

  That spot between my legs throbs with a ferocity that makes me gasp.

  “And here you are in Monte Carlo on the arm of Prince Ahmed from the United Arab Emirates. Things such as this do not go unnoticed.”

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Then you should know to leave me alone.”

  “Except that he has abandoned you. So, it is my duty to keep you entertained.”

  “It’s not your duty.”

  “Oh, but it is. I have been remiss in introducing myself. I am—”

  “There’s no need,” I interrupt. “I know who you are.”

  One eyebrow reaches for his hairline. “Oh?”

  “You are the heir to the De Rossi fortune.” I just about mention the fact that he’s also the most eligible bachelor in Europe—at least according to Hello!—but I don’t feel like feeding his ego. “Of course I’ve heard of you.”

  “Then you know that as part owner of this casino and of Le Hotel de Paris, it is my duty to keep valued guests happy.”

  “I am happy. Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  I go to leave the salon but he steps in front of me.

  “May I ask why you are determined to dislike me?”

  “It could be your general inability to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  My comment does not make him step out of the way. Oh no. He moves closer. Much closer. Like brushing-my-leg-with-his closer. His nearness forces me to look up at him. Fuck, he’s tall.

  And he smells sooo good.

  “Is that all?”

  “You’re arrogant.”

  He touches my cheek with the back of his finger. Lightly. Softly. Barely.

  Breath shudders in and out of my lungs.

  “Anything else?” His voice is low and rumbling and my heart skitters around behind my ribs like Bambi on the ice. Trying to stay balanced. Failing miserably.

  Placing trembling hands on my hips, I ask, “What do you want?’

  “I think you know.”

  I shake my head. He captures my jaw and holds me still. His other hand finds its way to my waist, resting there lightly...possessively.

  “My wants are simple.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I want you.”

  “I’m not available.”

  His hand slides around to my lower back. The other grazes the length of my neck. “You have the worst poker face I’ve ever encountered.”

  “I’m not lying,” I insist.

  “Mademoiselle Savage, let’s cut the bullshit. We both know you are not Talal’s...type.”

  Shit fuck-a-shit!

  Christophe must read the shock—the truth—in my reaction, for he ducks down and whispers softly in my ear, “I understand discretion.”

  Pulling away—good God, I need some space from this man!—I wet my suddenly dry lips. “Regardless of what my relationship is with Tal. I’m not available....to you.”

  “Make yourself available.”

  “No.” I take another step back, breathing easier with each inch of separation between us.

  “Don’t make the wrong decision for the wrong reason.”

  Putting my hand on his sleeve—to hold him in place, not so that I can touch him, honest!—I step around him. “Who says it’s the wrong decision?”

  I make it out of the salon—barely—and back into the Atrium. Surprisingly, Christophe does not follow. I know this because I check over my shoulder...twice.

  I’m not disappointed. At all.

  After checking one more time, just to make sure I’m not being stalked by the French billionaire, I start making my way down the length of the casino heading toward the famed Buddha Bar. It’s aptly named for the giant Buddha presiding over the exotic space all decorated in red velvet and gilded ceilings. Unfortunately, there’s a line up to get in and I’m just about to turn back—to go where? I don’t know. It’s not like I can go back to my room—when the host sees me and hurries over.

  “Mademoiselle Savage?”

  “Yes.”

  “This way please.”

  He ushers me past the line up at the door, through the main bar area and up the stairs to a private room, reminiscent of an opium den, with incense, hypnotic music, intimate lighting and furnished in couches that look more appropriate to smoking opium or...umm...orgies than sitting and chatting.

  Christophe is already inside, leaning casually against the wall.

  How the hell?!

  After asking the host to leave us, I stay firmly planted just outside the door. “Look Monsieur Chevalier. Let me be clear. I am not playing hard to get. I’m about as easy and straightforward as they come. In another time or place, I might be interested in whatever it is you think we’re going to do here.” I gesture to the comfortable sex-inspired seating. “But I’m in Monte Carlo as a favor to my friend. I’ve promised him that I will not get involved in any trysts.” I narrow my gaze. “With anyone.” Wagging my finger at him I say, “Particularly someone like you.”

  “Ah. Honesty. Finally.” He moves away from the wall, approaching with slow, measured steps. “What if I were to promise to behave myself? What if I said I only wanted to get to know you better? In private. Without noise and distraction?”

  “I’d say I don’t believe you.”

  “You have very little faith in me, don’t you?” He tilts his head to one side. Fucking hot French gesture. “Why do you judge me before you know me? Aren’t you curious, even a little?”

  Of course I’m curious, I want to shout, clenching my hands by my side because I’m overcome with the desire to undo that bowtie of his and divest him of his tux. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. I glance back at the hall behind us. There is no one there. No one watching. No one spying. Thank God.

  Taking a step into the room, I shut the door but keep my hand on the knob. “I made a promise to Prince Ahmed that I would not be seen with anyone else,” I hiss. “You are making it virtually impossible for me to keep that promise. You’re driving me crazy.”

  “Did anyone see you come up here with me?”

  “No.”

  Walking around the table to the back of the room, Christophe unlatches a panel in the wall and slides it to one side, revealing a hidden door. “This will take you down to the lobby of the Sun Casino. It’s very private. I shall exit by the other door, leaving throu
gh the bar. As long as we are here, no one will see us together.”

  I stay put for a few more minutes, considering what he’s saying.

  “All I want to do is talk. Is that really too much to ask?”

  “Well...”

  Yep. I’m about to cave. The truth is I have no interest in going back to the casino and losing a bunch more of Tal’s money. It’s not exactly my idea of fun. What are my other options? I can’t go back to the room, not until I get a text from Tal.

  Or...

  I could spend the evening in a cool hidden room at the legendary Buddha Bar, getting to know a handsome French playboy a wee bit better...in private, without anyone seeing us together, thus keeping my promise to Tal.

  Dammit!

  Is there really a decision to be made?

  “Fine.” I exhale deeply, stride further into the room and plop myself down on the couch. Yep. It’s fucking comfortable. A girl could lose herself—and her virtue—in a couch like this. Before Christophe can join me, I raise my finger in warning. “But...hands to yourself.”

  “Of course,” he says, taking a seat across from me. “Regardless of the opinion you have of me, I am a gentleman.”

  He ignores my snort and presses an inconspicuous button beneath the table. I wouldn’t have even known he’d done it except a voice comes from a hidden speaker, asking in French what we need.

  “Le Macallan cinquante-cinq dans Lalique. Et deux verres de l’eau.”

  He’s ordered scotch with water. This much I know. “Ice too, please.”

  A small smile appears at the corners of Christophe’s mouth. “Et des glaçons.”

  Within minutes there’s a knock on the door and a man enters, followed by three others carrying silver trays. One has a tray with tulip-shaped crystal glasses that he sets on the table in front of us, two empty, two with water and two glasses with ice. He carefully places utensils on the table, lining them up just so. Another server places a board of charcuterie—meat, cheeses and fresh fruit—on the table before joining his colleague by the door. It’s like a procession of mimes, all this careful, silent, exaggerated movement. The third server approaches Christophe with a box of Cuban cigars on his platter. He opens the box in front of Christophe who waves him away.