The Bad Boys of Eden

by Avery Aster

  The ball pops around the wheel like it’s alive, teasing the players, looking like it will drop into one slot only to bounce out again. Finally, after playing hopscotch in and out of the slots, it makes a decision and falls in the number fourteen.

  For the first time there is some response from the players around the table. People clap politely and smile in Christophe’s direction.

  “We are both winners,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “We are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Monsieur Chevalier, the payout is one hundred and forty-four pieces with your bet down, sir.” The croupier repeats himself in French.

  If I’m not mistaken, that means the payout is over a million euros.

  Holy fucking shit.

  An official looking man comes to speak quietly to Christophe. I would be lying if I said I didn’t try to eavesdrop, but his voice is too low and he’s speaking in French.

  Once the man is finished, Christophe points to his chips and says, “Pour Le Foundation, s’il vous plait.” He turns his attention to me. “If you’ll excuse me, mademoiselle. I have business to attend to.” He takes my hand, kisses it and says, “It was a pleasure playing beside you.”

  With that, Christophe strides away and his chips are cleared by the table inspector. Leaning toward Olivier, I ask, “What just happened?”

  “Monsieur Chevalier is the director of Le Foundation Enfants. An organization that helps disabled and sick children. I believe he just donated his winnings.”

  I have to make a conscious effort to close my mouth as I swivel to watch Christophe disappear out the door of the salon. He donated a million dollars. Just like that.

  After giving my head a shake, I say, “Donate my chips as well, please.”

  “Mademoiselle is finished for the evening?”

  “Yes.” I am sooo finished. Christophe’s unexpected donation not only surprised me, it has endeared me to him, which is not a good thing. Not when I’m supposed to be unavailable.

  It is definitely time for a drink.

  Olivier speaks quietly into his headpiece for someone to collect the chips and then follows me as I head over to the bar.

  “I am yours for the evening,” he says. “If you should change your mind and wish to return to the tables, let the bartender know and I shall be at your service.” He executes a similar bow to the one Christophe gave me before disappearing into the back.

  Once Olivier’s gone, I order a scotch on the rocks and wait, my back to the room. Hoping to tell others—and by others, I mean, Christophe Chevalier, should he return—that I’m not interested. Though I must say there’s a teeny tiny part that’s intrigued. Not that I’m about to give in to it or anything.

  As I cool my cheek with the glass, I remind myself that a million dollars is pocket change when your net worth is in the billions. Seriously. Christophe is no more a philanthropist than anyone else in this room. Most of these people are board members of charitable foundations simply to go to parties and fundraisers. Everyone in this room puts on the philanthropist façade in order to network. Christophe is no different. It’s all an act. Surely.

  I’m not fooled. Not for a second.

  Yet my senses thrill when ten minutes later I feel a presence behind me. I know who’s there before I hear him speak. I recognize his expensive aftershave. Not because it’s too strong, but because it’s unique. Subtle. A spicy scent that’s both exotic and intoxicating.

  Shit.

  I am in big trouble.

  Without being invited, Christophe takes the stool next to mine and in French, orders a scotch—neat with a side of water. As it happens, ordering food and drinks is one thing I can do fairly well in more than a few languages because I travel so much for work.

  Christophe leans toward me and I move equally in the opposite direction.

  He chuckles low in his throat. Well, glad one of us finds this amusing. I would get up and leave except for the fact that I was here first and I feel like being obstinate and standing my ground. Besides, I suspect he’d follow me anyway.

  I know exactly how men like Christophe think. He’s only interested in me because I’m not showing any interest in him. The playing-hard-to-get-game is the most predictable, fucked up animalistic tendency that should have been naturally selected out of humanity eons ago. But it hasn’t. It’s made worse in wealthy, good looking males for some reason. You want to tempt a tycoon? Play hard to get. That’s it. Easy.

  I’ve seen plenty of women play on this, feigning indifference in order to reel in men like Christophe. Not me. I believe in the philosophy of actually showing true emotions—interest when I’m interested, no interest when I’m not.

  Okay, so I’m a teensy bit interested, I’ll admit it. But I made a promise to stay disinterested and I fully intend to stick to it.

  When Christophe leans in again, instead of turning away, I swivel toward him and face him, staring directly into those completely corrupt eyes of his. “Do you know what your problem is?”

  “Non.” The word is distinctly French and he says it with an amused curve to his too-fucking-sensual lips.

  “You think I’m playing a game. I’m not.”

  He tilts his head. So frustratingly French and sexy. Ugh!

  “Oh, but you are.”

  See? Arrogant.

  I move closer, leaning all the way in so that his aftershave engulfs me, not in an unpleasant way. “I am not interested,” I whisper slowly and clearly.

  My gaze falls to his lips. There’s a tiny droplet of scotch just at the corner of his mouth and his tongue reaches for it, leisurely licking. In that one little gesture, I swear his tongue is bragging about its accomplishments—past, present and future.

  Damn his tongue!

  I draw in a quick breath and pull back because my body’s response is way too mutinous for words. High treason, that’s what my body has committed, and it’s working hard on my brain to join the coup.

  The fact Christophe smiles—not smirks, but smiles wide—tells me he knows exactly the reaction his mouth and tongue have had on me. And now I look like some game-playing liar, which I totally am not.

  You are not tempted, Tessa Savage. Not in the least. You’re off men, remember?

  Plus…Tal will kill you.

  Christophe acts as if he didn’t hear my comment about not being interested. “May I order you another drink?”

  Tal’s warning plays over in my head and I weigh it against what is happening here with Christophe. I know I told Tal I wouldn’t flirt and I’m not. But my thinking is, maybe if I let Christophe buy me a drink, maybe if I stop being—I don’t know—mysterious and coy he’ll lose interest and leave me alone. So, after a moment’s hesitation, I nod, figuring a quick drink is better than the man feeling some stupid primal urge to pursue me.

  I order another scotch on the rocks and ignore the way Christophe narrows his eyes at the glass set before me.

  “Tell me,” he says, watching me carefully. “Do you always play it safe?”

  Sometimes I like speaking in double entendre, but I think tonight it’s best if I’m blunt. “Are you referring to gambling or lovers?”

  I have to admit, I like the way his eyes brighten with amusement at my question.

  “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. “How do you explain our win, mathematically?”<
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  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 respond by changing the subject. “How would you explain my lucky streak?”

  He considers his answer before speaking. “Perhaps it is as you say, there are forces more powerful than what we can see, forces that are unexplainable yet also make sense on some level.”

  This is not the answer I expect. I don’t know what I expected, maybe for him to try another cheesy pick up line, to attempt to flatter me. Not this. His response baffles me because I suddenly want nothing more than to ask him what he means, to listen to his rumbling, accented voice and then…

  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. “Forgive me.”

  “You haven’t offended me.”

  “Then what is it?”

  How do I explain? It’s not just the situation I’m in, being here with Tal and pretending to be his girlfriend. It’s something else. Something about Christophe. I felt it from the moment our eyes met across the room.

  Oh brother. Now I’m thinking in overused clichés. It must be time to go.

  “I need to go. My boyfriend’s waiting for me. 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 flustered to him as I do to myself. “Conference call.”

  “I see.”

  I’m suddenly captivated by Christophe’s eyes. He holds my gaze and I feel…something. Something stirs in the pit of my belly. It reaches up and tickles the back of my throat and then triggers a rapid succession of images in my brain. Me and Christophe. Together.

  Naked.

  Without thinking, I reach for my drink and finish it. “I’m going to go find him,” I inform him without moving.

  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.

  Not really.

  “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.”

  Normally I’d make some snarky comment about his bad pickup line but I don’t. I can’t. I don’t know why but it might have something to do with the serious tone of his voice and the confusing intensity of his gaze.

  It’s like he means it.

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

  “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 my ex-husband 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 must say, I do enjoy you playing hard to get.” He catches my gaze. “But not for the reasons you think.”

  “I’m not playing hard to get.”

  His mouth curls up on one side “If you insist.”

  The man is infuriating. And what the hell does he mean by his statement, but not for the reasons you think? I pretend to snub him by peeking 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. It takes all my effort not to look at Christophe as I sweep the chips from the pot in front of me.

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