by Alix Nichols
As if on cue, Melissa pulls out her phone and makes a phone call.
“Everything OK, Mom? Is Ben on his best behavior?” she inquires.
Her mom seems to answer both in the affirmative. I can tell from Melissa’s follow-up questions that she’s trying to find a reason to skip the second part of today’s program, and go home. Except, it sounds like her mom is telling her to relax and enjoy herself.
Enjoying herself is something Melissa has yet to learn to do.
When she hangs up, I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t even think of bailing this time!”
“I wasn’t…” She gives me a pleading look. “It’s just… I don’t know anyone except you and Julien.”
I put my hands on my hips in mock reprimand. “And why is that? Huh?”
“Because I always find an excuse to stay home,” she admits with a sigh.
I peer into her eyes. “You said the other day that you missed dating, and sex.”
“I do.”
“There will be seven or eight single hunks at the party tonight.”
She studies her feet. “They’re younger than me.”
“Only by a few years. It’s nothing!”
She looks up. “OK.”
“That’s my girl!”
“Where’s the place again?”
“In the 9th. It’s a bistro suggested by the team’s main sponsor, so obviously, no one dared come up with an alternative venue.” I check my watch again. “We better get going.”
Melissa tugs off her gray scarf, shoves it into her tote bag, and wraps her new pashmina around her neck. “I’m ready. Let’s do this!”
When we enter the charming little bistro, Julien and the team are already there. To my great relief, Jean-Michel—my third least favorite person after Hitler and Bertrand—is absent.
Fingers crossed he doesn’t show tonight.
I introduce Melissa to the guys and their plus-ones, and then to Nageurs’ main sponsor, Sebastian Darcy, and his wife Diane.
“You’re the goalie’s oldest brother, right?” I ask him after we exchange cheek kisses.
He nods.
“Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what’s your connection with this bistro?”
“The owner, Jeanne, is a good friend.” Diane answers for him. “Come on, you’ve got to meet her!”
She marches to the bar area.
Melissa and I follow her with Julien and Sebastian in tow.
Behind the counter, a perky young woman is chatting with Lucas, Valentin—the smiley Nageurs singleton I particularly wanted Melissa to meet tonight—and with another guy who turns out to be Jeanne’s hubby.
When I hear what Lucas is saying, my heart sings with joy.
Jean-Michel called him this morning to announce he’ll be joining another club starting January.
I glance at Julien who looks as if Lucas just announced he had irrefutable proof of Santa’s existence.
This Christmas season just got even better.
A short time later, the group around the counter has swelled to over a dozen people.
We’re talking about the club, and about the new changes Lucas will have to make.
Like recruiting someone to replace Jean-Michel, for starters.
He also needs to find a new hole-set who’s as capable as Zach. The club’s captain recently announced his plan to retire at the end of the season so that he can focus on his business and spend more time with his family.
In addition, Lucas must find a new publicist to fill Isabelle’s shoes. The mother of his adorable twins went to work for a media company after her maternity leave, despite Lucas’s and the team’s pleas to stay with the club.
With a Kir Royale sparkler in her hand, Isabelle points out, for the umpteenth time, that she was ready for a new challenge.
Except no one’s buying it.
“You just don’t want to call your husband ‘boss’,” I say, voicing the general consensus.
The tiniest of smiles curves her mouth before she lifts her Kir to her lips and takes a slo-mo sip.
While we’re discussing all of that, I catch Valentin staring at Melissa. In fact, he’s doing more than just stare. Having discreetly edged to stand by her side, he bends his head toward her every now and then to whisper a funny comment in her ear. She giggles and whispers back.
Her cheeks are flushed, and so are his.
I can’t vouch for their future together, but Melissa’s prolonged dating hiatus might come to an end before New Year’s Eve.
“So, you guys specialize in providing legal aid to those who can’t afford a lawyer, right?” Valentin looks at Melissa, then at me, and then at Melissa again, admiration in his eyes.
“Yes.” She flashes him a proud smile. “But we do more than that, seeing as Noemi is a brilliant defense attorney!”
I wave her complement off, but I can’t help blushing a little.
“We represented three whistle-blowers this year,” Melissa said excitedly. “Their companies had fired them in retaliation.”
Valentin offers her a stuffed olive on a toothpick. “And?”
“Noemi won all three cases,” Melissa says, taking it from his hand.
He turns to me and drops his head to his chest. “Respect.”
“And, since September,” Melissa plows on, “our office joined the Paris Bar Solidarity Scheme, and Noemi has been doing pro bono work at the legal clinics they run.”
Jeanne taps Julien’s shoulder. “Sounds like you married a saint. The Mother Teresa of Paris.”
I choke on my drink and go into a coughing fit.
Julien rubs my back before turning to Jeanne. “Nah. She’s no saint.”
“Permanently disqualified,” I manage between two coughs.
Julien’s eyes crinkle with mirth as he adds, “My wife is way more badass than Mother Teresa. She’s Superwoman slash Daredevil.”
Tickled pink, I grin.
Julien’s teammates nod in approval and smile, interpreting his comment as praise for my vigilante legal eagle skills.
I have no doubt he was also referring to those skills.
In addition to the other ones, which earned me the Superwoman title.
He takes my hand and gives it a little squeeze, before lacing his fingers through mine.
I return the squeeze.
Without needing to look at each other, we both know exactly what our nonverbal exchange signifies:
A brilliant defense attorney will be going Superwoman again tonight.
And the guy with the rose tattoo can’t wait.
< <<>> >
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BONUS NOVELLA
My dear readers,
To thank you for your continued support, this edition of the PLAYING TO WIN box set includes a novella, Winter’s Gift (a standalone romance, Book 1 in the La Boheme series).
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Winter’s Gift
La Boheme Series
He's a steely tycoon.
She's an elite call girl.
Both have sworn off love...
When Anton and Anna cross paths over the winter holidays, neither can deny that what they share in bed — and out of it — i
s truly special.
But it threatens the principle they've been living by for years:
Don't trust anyone.
Part I
Anton
Chapter 1
Rhapsody in Blue
The blonde waves at me again with a coquettish smile on her lips. I turn away and feign interest in the huge painting in front of me. But I can’t help wondering if I’ve met her before—she does look vaguely familiar. Someone must have introduced us at a function or a Bolshoi premiere. If I concentrate, I might even remember her name… Daria. No, Dina. No, definitely, Daria.
Gary prods me with his elbow. “Did you notice the young nymph standing by that enormous landscape?”
“I’m trying not to look at it. The color combination hurts my eyes.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d make an effort. Her legs are endless, and I bet you she’s naked under that skimpy dress.”
“Seriously, Gary?” I shake my head. “What am I, sixteen?”
“No, but you’re Moscow’s best catch, and she seems desperate for your attention.” He winks and singsongs, “A juicy, yummy, low-hanging peach…”
I continue to stare at the canvas. I believe what I’m looking at is a face. It’s green and contorted, and the sign under it says Number 2: Sadness. Flanked by two other spasmodic mugs, it forms a triptych titled Ephemeral Emotions.
It should have been called A Group of Constipated Trolls.
Coming to this vernissage was a mistake. I let the title of the exhibit—Rhapsody in Blue—and the reviews lure me here, forgetting that Moscow’s art critics would praise anyone who pays them. They’d even call these god-awful daubs “masterpieces of modern art,” and their author “Russia’s next Kandinsky.”
Kandinsky, my foot.
Gary furrows his brow in an effort to concentrate. “I’m sure I’ve met her before… What was her name, dammit?”
“Daria, wannabe art dealer,” I say.
“Of course!” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “She’s coming over.”
I brace myself for a bout of small talk and a sales pitch. As soon as she’s done, I’m out of here.
“Gentlemen,” Daria says from behind my back. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again!”
“The pleasure is all ours,” Gary says.
I turn around, stretch my lips into a semblance of a smile, and nod.
Daria points at the triptych. “What do you think? The artist is a personal friend.” She pauses for effect before whispering in my ear, “I could get you a deal on any of these pieces. It’s a great investment.”
“I’ll pass,” I say and step back.
“Ah, Anton Malakhov’s legendary tough talk!” Daria hooks her arm through mine. “I’m sure I can make you change your mind if you give me ten minutes of your time.”
I shake my head and unhook our arms.
She bats her eyelashes. “Forget about these paintings. Why don’t we sneak out, find someplace private, and discuss our love of art… and other passions?”
“I have a previous engagement.”
She trails her fingers up and down my arm. “Forget about the passions. They’re so last century. We could compare our perversions instead. What say you?”
Stupid, misguided child, that’s what I say. Go home, sober up, and reflect on your behavior.
I sigh and shake her hand off me. “I’m not interested.”
“I am.” Gary’s eyes light up.
I open my mouth to say No, you’re not. You’re married with children, but I shut it again before I utter a sound. Gary is one of the handful of people I call friends. All others have eventually used their connection to me for personal gain. Some have done it out of greed, others from jealousy. But not Gary. He may not be faithful to his wife—which, given my history with Stacia I strongly disapprove of—but he’s loyal to me. He has been so for almost three decades now, since our nerdy high school days.
And that trumps everything else.
Daria looks him over. “I don’t do sidekicks.”
I press my lips together to stifle a smile. The “peach” isn’t so low-hanging after all.
She turns to me and jabs my chest with her index finger. “As for you, let me tell you something, Mr. Snooty Tycoon. You may be in great shape, but not for much longer. I know your age.”
I widen my eyes in fake shock. “You do?”
“You’re forty-five.”
She gives me a triumphant look, as if she’s just revealed a horrible truth I’ve been hiding from everyone.
Somehow, I manage to maintain a serious face. “Seeing as you’re so well informed, you should know I have a twenty-two-year-old daughter.” I pretend to appraise her looks. “About your age, I’d say.”
Daria rolls her eyes, turns on her heel, and storms away.
I glance at Gary’s sour countenance. “I’m done here. What about you?”
“I’ll stay a little longer.”
I begin to make my way toward the exit. As I pass the centerpiece titled Night on the River Volga, I can’t help wincing.
That’s when a clear, exceedingly pleasant female voice says, “The artist should’ve called this painting Black Stripe I Drew with My Ruler. Then, at least, I could give him a point for honesty.”
I stop in my tracks, turn in the direction of the voice, and stare. I can’t stop staring. My kindred spirit is in her early to mid-thirties, slim, dressed in elegant black pants and a cream cashmere turtleneck. Her brown hair is gathered at her nape into a soft, loose bun. Her makeup is subdued except for the crimson-red lipstick that brings out her flawless skin. The way she’s dressed, the way she holds herself and smiles at her giggling friend—everything about her speaks easy elegance and confident wit.
I backtrack to her. “My idea was Dark and Darker, but your version is much better.”
She nods, and the tiniest smile wrinkles the corners of her gray eyes.
My breath catches. I need to find something to say quickly, before she turns to her friend. “I wonder how you would dub the entire exhibit.”
“Bullshit in Blue,” she says without batting an eye.
I burst out laughing.
She laughs too, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in a long, long time.
“It’s the title that brought me here in the first place,” I say. “I love—”
“Gershwin. Me too. Especially Rhapsody in Blue.”
I grin like an idiot. Not only is she funny and classy, but she also has great taste in music. Anyone who loves jazz does.
“I expected something jazzy from this artist, but what I see here is just…” I pause as I search for a good qualifier.
“Pride, pomp, and circumstance.” She winks, and I nearly jump for joy at her apt quote.
My eyes dart to her graceful hands. No wedding band or engagement ring in sight. Excellent. I’ll get her one soon.
Whoa. Where did that come from? I’ll be doing no such thing. I don’t even know the woman’s name, for heaven’s sake. Yet, the image of me slipping a huge rock on her delicate finger refuses to leave my mind.
I don’t think I’ve felt this way about anyone before. Not even Stacia. When I fell in love with her over twenty years ago, I knew she wasn’t like me. Our interests were worlds apart, and we could never agree on anything, big or small. I wish I’d known at the time we didn’t share the same values, either. But I was naive and overly optimistic, and I convinced myself we’d work it out.
God knows I tried—for a whole decade.
And now as I look at this woman, I don’t doubt for a second we’ll get along famously. She looks right, sounds right, even smells right. And from what I’ve heard so far, I’m sure I’ll enjoy her mind as much as I’ll enjoy her body.
I hold out my hand. “Anton Malakhov. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Anna.” She grants me a brief, but intense, joy of her touch. “The pleasure is mine.”
I go on to shake hands with her friend w
ithout taking my eyes off Anna for a second. There’s no point in hiding how much she’s impressed me.
Anna. It’s a beautiful name… even if a touch too formal.
“Does anyone call you Annushka?” I find myself asking.
“Only my mom.”
She smiles, and I debate whether I should invite her for a drink right now or ask for her number. One thing is certain. I must see her again. In fact, I need to see her as soon as possible, and as often as possible. Preferably, every day.
And every night.
She resolves my quagmire by ripping a page out of her notebook and scribbling something on it. Why am I not surprised she carries a notebook and a pen in her purse? I bet she also has a book or an e-reader somewhere in there. Although I just met her, I feel like I know her. I can see her inner core, her fundamental essence. It shines through.
She hands me the sheet, and I glance at what she’s written. There’s a phone number, her name, and a meaningless figure under it. I look up at her, about to ask if it’s an extension.
“This,” she says, pointing her slender index finger at the top line, “is my agent’s number. And below is my hourly rate.”
My jaw slacks.
The woman of my dreams is a hooker.
Chapter 2
The Ritz
I hand the car keys to the parking valet, nod to the porter who opens the door for me, and walk into the spacious lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. I can’t believe I’m doing this—me who’s only ever felt pity and revulsion for the pea-brained Barbie dolls who fancy themselves glamorous seductresses.
When Russia plunged into a crisis that followed the collapse of the communist regime, the majority of the population fell on very hard times. I was in my freshman year. Three of my classmates were selling their bodies so they could buy stylish clothes. They were the “it” girls. They sported Walkmans and Levi’s jeans when the rest of us mended our socks over and over again, until they disintegrated beyond repair.
