by Sara Forbes
She was uncomfortable being put on the spot like that. Whatever chance I had of hearing what she really felt beyond that tough exterior and beyond the constraints of her job, I completely annihilated. I want a second chance.
On the other hand, if she’s really just playing me, sleeping with me to extract more information or even just to scratch the itch of a streak of lust then I’m not interested. It’s got to be all or nothing. She has got to stop holding onto herself so tightly and let me in.
7
CARA
“I’VE JUST GOT CONFIRMATION from the tournament organizers; yes, he’s attending Cannes,” I tell Goodman at our next meeting.
He nods. “Have you booked a flight?
“Yep. For the 14th. I land the 15th morning in Nice and get a taxi to Cannes.”
“Good, good. I hear the south of France is nice in April.”
“If you’re filthy rich.”
“Which he is. It doesn’t matter. You just have to make sure you’re with him all that time and that he’s out cold on the 17th.” Goodman fidgets with his phone. “That’s all I ask. That the price we have now stays as it is—above 14k. Anything more is just a bonus.”
“Leave it to me Mr. Goodman,” I say with a lot more confidence than I feel. “I’ll keep him occupied and make sure he’s out on the 17th.
“He’ll be so happy to see you, he won’t be thinking of his Bitcoin.” Goodman says with a wink.
I’m beginning to regret describing my last “date” with Felix in such detail to Goodman. I saw it as a professional courtesy but the old man seems to be taking a perverted interest in the nitty gritty of our non-starter relationship.
I didn’t come clean about why I walked out on Felix in the hotel because I still need to process the reason for myself. I lied to Goodman by saying that someone had called Felix on his phone and he needed privacy to deal with it. Goodman bought the story.
I honestly never expected it to be this complicated. In my previous relationships with men in my private life, it’s always been easy to manipulate them. They never cared whether my intentions had any depth or integrity. It was just about releasing steam after a hard day’s work—on both sides. My true feelings never came into the equation. And the men I slept with were perfectly happy with that. They preferred my feelings to be boxed up in a tidy package.
I guess I got conditioned to not give much of myself because men never demanded it. Even when relationships lasted a few weeks or months those men never worried that I was only half in. I was hoping Felix and I would just…do it and that he’d relax afterwards and maybe even agree to my wishes.
But Felix isn’t that simple. It’s like he wants to crack me open and spill out my deepest desires before he’ll get involved. He’s asking for emotional engagement.
“Just pace yourself so you can attack on the 17th,” Goodman’s voice interrupts my thoughts. His face is screwed up in anxiety. “Make him believe it’s going to be the night when you finally get together.”
“Yes.” I really don’t appreciate being told how to seduce a man—by a man who’s the same age as my father. But still, I know he’s worried for his clients, those old women and men potentially about to lose their life savings. I’ll cut him some slack.
Goodman leaves soon after, ambling out of the office as he’s been doing for years. I’m glad to see the back of him. Again, the fantasy rears up of eliminating all of Dad’s old clients from my list.
But if I were to drop Goodman he’d take all his connections with him, and in this business that relies so crucially on trust, the network of connections is deep and wide and all important. You can’t get anywhere without it. Without that network it will be difficult or impossible to find clients in the financial-cybercrime space. It’ll be back to the seedy stuff, chasing cheating wives and husbands. Great.
I don’t get fulfillment from that. In most cases, those marriages are doomed anyway and the victimized spouses are just looking for evidence to support their divorce settlements. I’d much rather be helping people like Goodman’s clients, standing up for the little guys against the greedy bigshots, bringing some justice back into an unfair world.
But even while I’m steeling my resolve, I can’t deny the thrill swirling low in my belly at the thought of being in Felix’s company again. He’s the first man who has ever made me feel truly excited. I can’t deny the spark that’s between us.
Throughout my working day, I find myself sighing aloud for no reason and then I stop and realize it’s because I’ve been thinking of him—his sparkling eyes, his golden skin, his infectious smile and adorable laugh. the things he says, his irreverent but often wise throwaway remarks, how he always makes me laugh.
And then his dexterous fingers, his hard, perfectly honed body, the heated, intense look in his eyes before I walked out on him, unable to deal with his demands. The words that made my world tilt on its axis as I realized he was actually serious about what he wanted from me. I tingle inside as I contemplate how I could have answered, if I were someone who could just let go.
I’ve kept the winning chips from the Vegas casino. Sometimes I open my top drawer and play with them just to remind myself of what might have been if I wasn’t in this situation and doing this job, and if he wasn’t a greedy Bitcoin investor pushing people out of the market. Such daydreaming is pathetic but I find it strangely soothing.
There’s a small chance that when he wakes up sometime after the deadline of 9 a.m. on April 17th that he’ll see my side of things. I mean, he’ll have lost out on an opportunity to generate more money for himself, but his loss will have tremendous value for me, my client, and the poor investors at the end of the line who just want to be able to retire and pay off debts. Surely, he’s not so selfish that he won’t appreciate how my drastic move of knocking him out was made in good faith? If he gets angry about it then he’s definitely not the guy I want to be involved with anyway.
8
FELIX
I’M SITTING ON A BENCH overlooking the Cannes beaches, waiting for the tournament to start. The sun beats down like it’s mid-summer, not mid-spring, but the gentle breeze from the east keeps things at a perfect low-seventies temperature, or mid-twenties as the locals would say.
A blonde in a navy two-piece business suit and heels walks by, carrying a briefcase. She goes down to the beach, kicks off her heels, opens her briefcase and produces a beach towel and spreads it out. Then she takes off the suit, a piece at a time. She puts on a bikini bottom and lays down to sun. This woman just got naked in front of everyone. We are definitely not in America anymore.
There are hundreds like her around. It’s like a scene from a French movie that Jack could name. Beautiful bodies everywhere, but I’m scanning the beach for one in particular. I’m guessing what Cara would wear on the off chance that she were here—a one-piece, sporty sexy swimsuit that looks demure from far away but which closeup would emphasize her tidy curves, skirting enticingly along her hidden parts. Her dark hair would be pulled in an elegant topknot and she’d probably have some big dark sunglasses on. She’d out-chic the French. But I see no such woman.
There are couples galore, hand in hand, laughing, enjoying the sunny side of life. They’re of all ages: awkward, limber-limbed teens constantly laughing, right up to the old fogies in their nineties, ambling along the streets in quiet contentment, seeking shade, pointing at curiosities in the boutiques.
Normally I like to people-watch especially when I travel to different continents. It reminds me that there’s life out there, beyond the dim poker halls. It reminds me that not everything revolves around money, strategy, and poker bracelets. But today, observing these people with lives makes me restless. It reminds me that I’m a drifter, a rolling stone.
In the weeks since I met Cara, this feeling has grown stronger. When I was with her, she made me feel I could take on the world. But in our three weeks of separation with zero contact, I was painfully reminded of how detached I am from everyday life as m
ost people know it, and of how I’m basically living a selfish lifestyle.
Egan was not happy that I didn’t extract more information from Cara in Vegas, so my job is extended, and so is the budget. He even organized shipping of my lambo here to France because that’s the kind of crazy-ass thing a crypto billionaire would do. He’s very serious about keeping up appearances.
I told Egan that Cara was simply a detective doing her job and that she wasn’t likely to try seducing me again. I also expressed doubts that she would bother coming to Cannes.
But Egan, being Egan, was absolutely sure she would show up, based on her pattern of behavior when she was tailing Jack last year—that is, she never gave up. I couldn’t persuade him otherwise. I think he wasn’t even listening to me. He kept saying “Get me some dates; find out which way they’re betting, get me some facts. Try harder.”
I toed the line to shut him up, but I have my own agenda. I’m here to win. Cannes is usually my lucky place. With my bank balance hovering around zero, I need to have an income of my own that doesn’t rely on Egan’s magic credit card because if I fail in getting them their precious information, they will drop me like a hot iron. Yes, I need the Cannes pot of a million Euros to tide me over. Maybe even to tide Jack over too in case this Bitcoin Billionaires business goes pear-shaped because I can really see that happening with someone as dictatorial as Egan at the helm.
It’s time to go into the casino and snap into the mood for playing. It’s Ultimate Poker—a variation where participants aren’t playing against each other but instead try to beat the bank. The atmosphere in the casino is relaxed. The Ultimate Poker bank is in the person of the croupier—a youthful guy with a terrible haircut. I never worry about who recognizes me here as the French people don’t care. I mean, they’re French.
I have a flush in my hands so I go all in.
The croupier turns over his hand. Two pair. I’ve won.
Just as I’m taking my winnings, a flash of blue-black registers in my peripheral vision—a woman advancing to the table. I glance at her.
Cara.
A tidal wave of happiness washes over me. The cards I’m dealt become meaningless a jumble of numbers and pictures. It takes all my concentration to snap back to the game.
“Hey,” she says, coming right up to me, standing close enough to rub against my right upper arm—a decent rub, not that fleeting, faux- mistaken kind of thing she did before in Vegas. Now she means business. A volcano of desire erupts within me, leaving me lightheaded, desperate to leave the game. “Quit while you’re ahead?” she whispers into my ear. Then just as fast, she shimmies away.
I get whiplash trying to follow her with my gaze.
I nod at the other participants to signal my leaving. No way I could concentrate now anyway. I’ve just enough control over my fingers to pour the chips into my Ray-Ban case, my lucky container.
“Fancy bumping into you here,” I say, jogging across the carpet to catching up with her. “You look fantastique.”
“Small world,” she counters.
She looks even better than in my imagination, if that’s possible. The scoop neck of her dress trails the same line as her imaginary swimsuit—much lower than anything she wore in Vegas. My gaze slides lower and lower until I reach her feet in dainty black peep toes. She’s perfect.
I raise my eyes to meet hers again, those brown orbs with that sparkle of intelligence and curiosity. There’s something different about her—a new energy, a new determination. I don’t like the idea of her walking around here on her own with all these debonair Frenchmen looking bored while at the same time totally checking her out with their shifty eyes. It makes me want to punch them in the face.
“What were you playing with those commoners for?” she asks as we gravitate towards the main entrance.
“Brushing up on my French.”
“You speak it?”
“So far it’s limited to words like fantastique, formidable,” I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of the path of a waiter with a tray of drinks barreling his way through the crowds. I lean down to whisper close to her ear. “femme fatale.”
She laughs “You’ve nailed the accent anyway.”
“Parlez vous?”
“Nope.” She lets my hand linger on her back for a few moments but then pulls it away. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I’m just following you.” She started this, so I want to see where it leads us.
“Don’t you have a yacht on the marina you can take me to or something?” she says, leading the way out of the casino, heading toward the seaside promenade.
“I have to disappoint you there. But if you really want a boat, we could take a water taxi to the Lérins Archipelago. My treat.”
“Oh, la la. Fancy.”
“Or maybe you wanted somewhere more private with me?” I tease, but I’m also tormenting myself. “That can also be arranged.”
A faint flush appears on her cheeks which makes me think that our abrupt ending in Vegas was just a blip and we may have a chance after all. She may have feelings for me that go beyond her desire to manipulate me. I’m not dumb—she’s still trying to persuade me in a professional capacity, otherwise she wouldn’t be here, but her body language suggests a genuine potential interest in me, as a man. And that’s enough for me.
“Water taxi’s a lovely idea,” she says, slowing down her pace considerably. We’ve now officially joined the ranks of happy couples strolling along the promenade. It’s a nice fantasy anyway.
“We could pick up a little bottle of bubbly on the way from my mini bar, you know, seeing as we are in the land of Champagne.”
She chuckles. “Felix, it’s not even midday.”
“It’s late in LA.” I don’t want Champagne. I just want to see if she’d take the bait of going to my room. A boat trip is all too public and we don’t have much time to faff about until the tournament’s over and she probably has to return. I want some quality alone time with her, alone, to let her express what she really wants with me.
And then to give it to her.
We’ve come to the edge of the water. The options are to go left along the pier or right, heading back along the café-strewn promenade. With all the Mimosa out in bloom, perfuming the air with their heady scent, it’s impossibly beautiful but right now, she’s all the beauty I care about.
Jack’s words echo in my brain. She’s going to trick you, Felix don’t be stupid.
But sometimes I’m in the mood for being stupid. Because if Cara’s a mistake then I will go down in flames a happy man.
She leads the way left. We resume a comfortable walking speed, butterflies dancing in the floral scented breeze before us, seagulls swooping overhead.
Why is the natural world looking so beautiful right now, so fresh, so fertile, like it’s urging me to go for it? I can’t stand it. I’m going to have to kiss her, to bring her back to that place we were in that room in Vegas. It’s getting harder to hold a civil conversation.
I stall just as we’re passing the entrance to a hotel, roses tumbling over the walls.
She looks up at me questioningly, a few strands of her hair dancing in the breeze.
“What is it?”
“I just remembered something.”
“What?”
“That I wanted to do this.” In a single step, I close the gap between us, and slide my hands to the small of her back. I interlace my fingers against the sun-warmed silk of her top and watch her reaction. Her body stiffens, but her pupils dilate, making the brown appear even darker, and when I dip my head to seek her lips, her chin rises to meet me, her mouth welcoming, displaying an enticing pink tongue tip through her pearly teeth.
She really, really wants me.
And I really, really want her.
So why make it complicated?
Our lips touch, first with a light grazing, then with force, and it’s glorious, even-sided, and fierce. Her hands grip my shirt, s
queezing hard into my sides. I feel her hunger as my own rises like a monster within me.
I press her back against a nearby fence and probe deeper into her mouth, entangling my fingers in her sun-heated hair, steering her jaw to give me access and control. She’s lashing back hard with her tongue, panting between presses, like she can’t get enough of me either. My grip on her waist tightens and I move my hands up her back. Her hips press against my erection. I’m losing all control. I need to get her to a private place. It’s a full out emergency.
“Mon dieu!” I hear a rasping voice beside me.
I break off the kiss. A group of old French folks beside us have chosen that moment to be ultra-obnoxious, of course. Like they weren’t the sex-pioneers of the world back in the sixties. I glower at them. They stare back with the famous French insouciance.
Cara gasps and draws herself away from me, shooting our interrupters a venomous dagger look. Then she tilts her chin higher, drapes her arm through my elbow and we continue walking, silently, regally, past the old fogies that I want to murder, past the hotel and onwards towards the water taxi.
As we traipse on in an awkward silence, I think, OK, it’s just the beginning. Next time I kiss her, I’m going to make sure we’re all alone. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.
“Are you ok?” I ask.
“Yes,” comes her ragged answer. “God, I hate them.”
I laugh and clasp her hand in mine. “Me too, me too.”
And when she looks up into my face, all guile and wariness vanished, leaving her open and receptive…and downright happy, I know it’s going to work. It’s just a matter of time before I get my chance.
9
CARA
OKAY, I MAY HAVE BEEN a little in denial about my feelings for Felix Palmer since Vegas but after that kiss, we can’t fool each other any longer. I can’t even think straight.
