by Heidi Rice
It had been torture, sitting in the chair and struggling to keep my head straight while my blood rushed straight back to my groin every time she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, or the soft mounds of her breasts rose and fell against the lace of her gown.
But I had forced myself to stay focused, or focused enough, to get the job done. Yes, we clearly had phenomenal chemistry, the sort of explosive sexual connection I’d never had with any other woman. And we were both going to have fun exploring it to its fullest potential. But I wasn’t going to throw a game to have her—especially as I was pretty sure that’s exactly why she had initiated the kiss in the first place.
But her little plan had backfired, because if I had been struggling to keep my head straight and out of my pants after that kiss, she’d been even more distracted.
If she’d ever had a system—something I’d begun to doubt after our conversation over dinner had revealed her to be as spoilt and capricious as every other bored little rich girl who played the casinos on their daddy’s dime—it had fallen apart when we’d got back to the game.
She obviously hadn’t expected that kiss to go off like a rocket the way it had—which had to be why she’d called a halt to her attempted seduction so abruptly.
But as I raked in the last of her chips, I relished the surge of heat that shot straight to my groin at the thought of what the rest of the night would hold.
She hadn’t said anything, and it was hard to tell how she was taking the defeat because she had her head down. But then I detected the tiny tremor running through her body. Impatience and irritation warred with my desire.
Even though I still hadn’t figured out why this woman had such a turbulent effect on my usually smart libido, I wanted to take that incredible kiss to its logical conclusion. But if she was going to start crying and try to wheedle a concession out of me because I had beaten her, she could forget it. I’d won the game fair and square and I didn’t trade sexual favours—however hot they promised to be—for money.
Sure, I’d had girlfriends in the past whom I’d supported. I liked to treat women I was sleeping with well. And if I was seeing someone on a regular basis I always offered them a generous allowance so they could devote their time to me and had everything they needed. I could be demanding—my lifestyle was expensive and I needed them to revolve their schedule around mine—so it seemed only fair to offer them compensation. I also always gave them a generous parting gift when the relationship reached its natural conclusion. I was a wealthy man, I considered these women friends and I didn’t want anyone calling me a cheapskate, so why wouldn’t I?
But I wasn’t about to be emotionally manipulated by some spoilt young woman because she’d taken a chance with her daddy’s money and lost. And I resented the implication that I should.
Despite all that, as Edie continued to sit there, her head bent and her shoulders starting to tremble alarmingly, a weird thing happened. I found myself wanting to take the tremor away. And not just because I had plans for the rest of the night that would become a lot less palatable if she started freaking out about the million euros of her daddy’s money she’d lost.
‘Bella, don’t get too upset. I’ll sub you a million so we can have a rematch some time.’ It was the best I could offer without feeling like a chump. And once I said it I warmed to the idea.
Up until we’d both got distracted by that kiss, I’d enjoyed the challenge of playing with her. Our sexual attraction had added an exciting level of eroticism to the game—like high-stakes foreplay. I would enjoy playing her again, and figuring out if she actually had a system and, if so, what it was, or whether her success in the earlier part of the evening had been down to plain old dumb luck.
Instead of taking me up on the offer though, she shook her head. Still not looking at me.
My impatience and frustration spiked, along with that weird feeling of empathy.
‘Look at me, bella.’ Leaning across the table, I tucked a knuckle under her chin and nudged her face up.
What I saw though—when her emerald eyes finally met mine—was so real it shocked me to my core.
Her eyes were dry, without the self-pitying tears I had been expecting, but also dazed and unfocused—she looked shattered. Devastated.
A stab of something ripped through my chest. And the trickle of unwanted sympathy turned into a flood.
‘Bella? What’s going on?’ I said, disorientated and concerned—not just by the haunted look in her eyes, but also by my desire to take her anguish away.
Why did she look so shattered? And why the hell did I care?
‘N... N... Nothing,’ she stuttered, shaking her head. She stood up. ‘I have to go.’
She walked past me, her back ramrod-straight, her face a deathly shade of white, her whole body consumed by tremors now.
I grasped her arm, felt the shudder of reaction. ‘Don’t...’
Go.
The word got trapped in my throat before I could utter it.
Grazie a Dio.
What was wrong with me? We’d kissed, once. And yeah, it had been spectacular, and unexpected. And I wanted more. But I wasn’t about to beg her to stay. So I took a different tack. ‘Where are you going in such a rush? Stay and have a drink,’ I said, attempting to sound relaxed and persuasive.
I tugged her round to face me, disturbed by the sparkle of moisture in her eyes. I’d been expecting tears. But the sheen of distress looked genuine, something she was making every effort to contain, not use to guilt-trip me about my win.
How could she seem so fragile and breakable now, when she’d been so strong and determined earlier in the evening? And why did I still want her so much? Because her vulnerability wasn’t doing a damn thing to stem the tidal wave of longing that had tortured me ever since our kiss.
Surely it was all an act? It had to be. But why couldn’t I convince myself of that?
‘Bella...’ I cupped her cheek, brushed my thumb across the soft skin, stupidly relieved when her pulse jumped against my palm. And her eyes darkened.
She still wanted me too. I hadn’t imagined that much, at least.
‘It’s only money,’ I said, certain the cause of her distress had to be her parents’ reaction. Perhaps her father would be angry. What man wouldn’t be at a million-euro loss, even an indulgent father?
‘You’re good. Just not good enough on this occasion. But I’ll give you a chance to win it back, if that’s what you want.’
‘Thank you. That’s very generous of you,’ she said.
‘Then you’ll stay, join me for a drink?’ I hated the element of doubt in my voice. We both knew I wasn’t just talking about her staying for a drink—the promise of that kiss was still snapping in the air around us.
‘Yes, okay,’ she said.
‘Good,’ I said, more relieved and excited than I should have been at her concession. I placed a light kiss on her forehead, pleased when her breathing stuttered. I forced myself not to take her lips again though, before we were both ready.
She drew away and I had to stop myself from dragging her back into my arms, the desire to stake my claim on her all but overwhelming.
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Can I go and freshen up first?’
‘Of course,’ I said, even though I wanted to demand she stay.
I wasn’t possessive with women. And I had no idea where the ludicrous desire not to let her out of my sight came from, so I ignored it.
But, as I watched her leave the room, the rush of blood to my groin became all but unbearable.
I poured myself a glass of expensive single malt Scotch while I waited for her, to calm my frustration and my impatience.
Walking to the window, I savoured the smoky liquor as it burned down my throat. Once she was in my bed, and I had begun to tap the heat we had ignited with that kiss, Edie Spencer would soon forget the mon
ey she’d lost. And the problem of explaining it to her father.
Hell, if we were as good together as I was anticipating, and that kiss had suggested, I could offer to support her until the fire between us burnt out. She clearly had expensive tastes, no income of her own and enjoyed the thrill of gambling with money she hadn’t earned. Perhaps I could employ her as a hostess for the week-long party I was throwing at my new estate in Nice at the end of the month? Edie would be perfect for such a role, smart, beautiful and classy—and well versed in how to charm elite businessmen after her privileged upbringing. Her skill at the table might also be useful.
Of course, I might have a job on my hands persuading her to work for a living. But after her reaction tonight to losing her father’s million euro stake, I didn’t think it would be that hard to persuade her to take the job. I was a generous employer. Plus taming that free spirit of hers could be enjoyable for both of us.
I bolted back the last of the Scotch, finally feeling more like myself. The burn in my throat matched the warm weight in my gut—a weight which I understood now and knew would be easily resolved once Edie returned.
I glanced at my watch, surprised she was taking so long.
My cell-phone buzzed. I lifted it out of my pocket and read Joe Donnelly’s text.
We’ve got a problem. Call me.
I sighed, tempted to ignore the request. It was four in the morning and Edie would be back soon.
But my innate professionalism took over. Joe wasn’t the hysterical type, so if there was a problem he couldn’t fix it must require my attention.
I clicked on the call button.
Joe picked up instantly. ‘How’s the game going?’ he asked without preamble.
‘I won ten minutes ago, why?’
Joe cursed, the Irish slang he never used unless he was rattled.
‘Is Edie Spencer still with you?’ he asked.
‘She’s freshening up,’ I said, but already the hairs on the back of my neck were going haywire.
‘So she’s not actually in the room with you?’
‘No... What’s going on, Joe?’ I asked, but I already knew something was very wrong, the twisting pain in my gut one I recognised from a very long time ago.
‘The bank draft she paid us with—it’s forged. And so is her ID. The accounting department figured it out ten minutes ago, when they noticed a shortfall in the night’s takings in the casino’s accounts.’
The pain sharpened, turning into the hollow ache that had crippled me as a kid. She wasn’t coming back.
‘The good news is we think we might have figured out who she really is.’ Joe was still talking but I could barely grasp the meaning of the words, the blood rushing in my ears, the tremble of reaction in my fingers a combination of fury and something far, far worse. Helplessness.
‘Who is she?’ I asked, fury burning in my gut now, obliterating the distant echo of an anguish I had once been unable to control.
‘Ever heard of Madeleine Trouvé?’ Joe asked.
‘No,’ I said, resisting the urge to shout at my friend as my head began to pound. ‘Is that her real name?’ I said, keeping my voice low and even, although it was the opposite of how I felt. Edie Spencer had tricked me, made a fool of me. Made me relive a moment in my life I had spent a lifetime overcoming. And she would pay for that. As well as the money she’d just swindled me out of. ‘We need to track her down,’ I said.
Something I intended to do personally. She owed me a million euros. But I knew it wasn’t just the money. My fingers clutched so hard on the whisky tumbler it shattered in my fingers.
‘Madeleine Trouvé was the French It girl of the nineties,’ Joe continued. ‘Famous for the high-profile affairs she had with a string of rich, powerful and mostly married men. Seriously, you’ve never heard of her?’ Joe asked, sounding incredulous.
‘I don’t have time for twenty questions,’ I shouted, losing the tenuous grip I had on my temper as I wrapped a napkin around my bleeding fingers. The sting of expensive liquor in the cuts grounded me, turning the emotion churning in my belly into a cold, hard knot of anger. ‘How the hell can Edie Spencer be her—the woman I just played can’t be more than early twenties...’
Dewy soft skin, artless kisses, wide guileless eyes filled with passion and then devastation. How could all of that have been a lie too?
You didn’t play her—she played you...
I sucked in a shattered breath, disgusted by the wave of lust that still accompanied the memory of her. The anger spiked.
‘She would barely have been born in the nineties,’ I finished, my voice rising as my fevered mind tried to get a grip on the sense of betrayal, the shot of confusion, tangling with the whirlwind of anger and lust still burning in my gut.
‘Yeah, I know. She’s not Madeleine Trouvé. Madeleine died in a helicopter crash four years ago with one of her lovers. Some Spanish nobleman. We think she may be the younger of Madeleine’s two daughters. Edie Trouvé.’
‘How sure are you?’ I asked, the tangle of lust and anger and loss muted by the fierce jolt of determination. I would find Edie and teach her a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget about trying to play the wrong guy.
I wasn’t some spoilt, pampered, inbred aristocrat like the men her mother had obviously favoured. I had dragged myself up—literally—from the back streets of Naples. I’d run away from a series of foster families and group homes, lived on the streets as a teenager, worked like a dog in a series of dead end jobs to earn my stake, even been left beaten and bloody in an alleyway in Paris at the age of seventeen when I’d made a miscalculation on my rise to the top. No one got the better of me. And certainly not a slip of a girl with big green eyes and a sprinkle of freckles across her pert nose...
‘Pretty sure,’ Joe replied, thankfully interrupting the renewed wave of longing.
Which made no sense at all.
I didn’t want Edie Spencer... No, Edie Trouvé. Not any more. The heat I couldn’t seem to control was just the residual effect of temper and too many hours of sexual frustration. Frustration which I could see clearly now Edie had started and then stoked every chance she got. Culminating in that blasted kiss.
Basta.
What was it they said about the apple not falling far from the tree? The girl had learned how to tempt and tantalise men from a woman who had spent a lifetime using sex, and the promise of sex, like a weapon. Her own mother.
A woman who, for all intents and purposes, was no better than my own mother.
I cut off the crippling thought, the dangerous memories.
Don’t go there. These two situations are not related. Edie Trouvé means nothing to you.
‘Do you know where to find her?’ I gritted out the words.
‘Not yet, but we’re working on it,’ Joe replied.
‘Good,’ I said as a strange kind of calm settled over me and the roaring fury in the pit of my stomach. ‘Work faster. I want her found.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, the bank draft I gave Allegri’s cashier was fake?’ I stared at Carsoni’s henchman, the aptly named Brutus, my terror mixing with a bitter sense of outrage. They’d tricked me into defrauding Allegri’s casino. Already I had a debt I couldn’t pay, but that had been my brother-in-law’s debt. This felt worse. So much worse, because this debt was on me.
I’d sat down at that poker table in good faith. I’d played and I’d lost, through my own weaknesses, my own failings. I had very little else left now but my good name. And okay, the name I’d given Allegri had been a false one, but I had never intended to cheat him.
Maybe it was foolish to care about what he thought of me. But somehow it mattered.
‘You should thank me, ma petite,’ Brutus said, the husky tone, the sleazy use of the endearment and the way his beady eyes skimmed over my figure, as they had done a million times befor
e—every time he paid us a visit to collect payment of Carsoni’s interest—made me want to vomit. ‘You’re already into the boss for five million euro—why add another million to the pot?’
‘But Allegri will figure it out. He could have me arrested. Fraud is a crime. And then how will I pay back Carsoni?’ Weirdly, the thought of being arrested and imprisoned didn’t seem as bad as having Allegri despise me.
I locked the thought away because it made no sense. I was never going to see Allegri again. What he thought of me didn’t matter; it was what I thought of myself.
Up till now I’d done everything I could to honour the debts Jason had created. Maybe the path I’d chosen had been reckless and foolishly ambitious, and stemmed from a pride in my own abilities that was misplaced, to say the least; I could see that now. But I’d never meant to do something, however inadvertently, that made me a criminal.
‘Allegri’s not going to figure it out,’ Brutus murmured. ‘You used a fake ID, remember. I arranged it myself.’
They had suggested the fake ID, in case Allegri figured out my system and had me banned. And I’d gone along with it. Because I’d been naïve and desperate. Desperate enough to believe a loan shark’s bullyboy.
‘And Carsoni has other ideas about how you can pay him back now.’
‘What?’ I scrambled back as he lifted his hand to my face. The sick weight in my stomach—which had been growing ever since I had fled The Inferno early that morning or, rather, ever since Allegri had turned over his winning hand and I’d finally woken up to the terrible mistakes I had made—twisted into something mangled and ugly.
Brutus grabbed a handful of my hair and tugged me back towards him. His breath—stale with tobacco smoke—brushed my lips. I gagged and bit down on my tongue to stop myself from throwing up, my disgust now almost as huge as my terror.
He laughed. ‘Stop acting surprised. Carsoni likes you. You’re a pretty little thing. And he’s bored, waiting for you to pay up.’
