by JC Harroway
But if roulette guy wants to impress women with his affluence, he’s in the wrong joint. No one crosses the threshold of an M Club establishment without a string of zeroes at the end of their bank balance.
He drapes his suit jacket over the back of the stool next to mine and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves to expose strong, tanned forearms in a move that hints he’s dying to get out of his suit.
‘No, I’m not a doctor.’ The look he delivers seems to bathe me in the beam of a thousand floodlights. ‘But I’m no good at sitting back and watching things unfold either. I’m used to...getting my hands dirty, shall we say?’
He looks at my mouth while he says the word dirty. I press my lips together, already imagining the taste of his kiss. Bold, firm, all-consuming.
What is wrong with me?
He thanks the barman for his glass of brandy with a jerk of his angular chin and tosses back the liquor in a single swallow. ‘And I have some first-aid training—he’ll be fine, I’m sure. He just panicked because the angina attack was worse than usual. I’m sure most people here would have helped—I just got there first.’
‘I guess, although, as M Club members, we’re used to everything, medical emergencies included, being dealt with efficiently and discreetly.’
His eyes swoop over the length of my body from head to toe, and I feel his scrutiny again, as if he too has made a snap judgement on our differences.
We’re interrupted at that moment by a petite brunette in her twenties with a winning smile.
‘Excuse me, sir, I’m Ellie Little.’ At his nod, she holds up an M Club key fob. ‘The key to your new supercar, sir.’
I smile at Ellie and then look back to my smug companion, my eyebrows raised in question. I passed the display of sleek sports cars in the ballroom on my way to the casino, but I paid them little attention, short of wondering who would succumb despite their hefty price tags. I guess now I know.
‘Thanks.’ He takes the key and pockets it, his smile for Ellie wide and engaging.
Ellie leaves us, and I spy her joining Ash Evans, the club owner, at the casino entrance. When I turn back to face my companion my expression must speak for me.
‘What?’ he asks, all innocence.
I shrug. ‘You’re having a great night, if you exclude your losses at the roulette table. Which car did you buy?’ I may not know anything about cars, but I do know you can’t walk into a regular showroom and drive away with a supercar. They’re made-to-order, top of the range, one of a kind.
He looks away, appearing bored. ‘I’m not sure...the yellow one, I think.’
‘You’re not sure,’ I deadpan. Is he for real? Despite my growing attraction to him, I can’t decide if I feel appalled or delighted.
‘I bought the winning car—were you in town for the race earlier?’ he asks, and I shake my head.
‘No—I’m here on business.’ I don’t elaborate. The last thing I want to talk about is the deal that brought me to Monaco. The deal I’m trying to forget for one night.
He scoffs. ‘That figures.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You have that look about you—impatiently tapping your glass, frequently checking your phone. You look like a woman waiting for either a date or a business deal. Since no one in their right mind would stand you up, I’m guessing it’s work that has you distracted.’
‘Oh, nice recovery,’ I say.
He flashes another disarming smile. ‘So—’ he glances down at my still half-full drink ‘—is this a party for one, or would you like some company?’
I flush that he’s noticed my lacklustre attempts to let loose. Then I bristle that he’s judging me. ‘Are you suggesting I don’t know how to have a good time simply because I’m not blowing a small fortune on a single spin of roulette or buying the latest thing on four wheels?’
I mash my mouth closed, irritated with myself for admitting I hadn’t been able to stop myself watching his little show.
He lifts one eyebrow in a look that says if the shoe fits, but then his eyes darken, the heat behind them kissing my skin wherever his stare trails. ‘Do you know how to have a good time?’
Why does it feel as if we’re talking about something more intimate than gambling or drinking? ‘I... Of course I do.’
He rests one elbow on the bar. ‘I assume you’re here to let your hair down in a safe, luxurious space—isn’t that why you’re an M Club member?’ He leans in. ‘Or is it all about the networking? All work and no play?’
His spot-on assumption leaves me squaring my shoulders with indignation, a move that in no way combats my attraction to his particular brand of insolent swagger. ‘Why are you a member? And why Monaco? Why so far from home?’
He shrugs, feigning boredom with my question, but I see a flash of hesitation in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability, rapidly blinked away and replaced with that roguish smile. ‘Can’t you tell?’ He tilts his head in the direction of the roulette table. ‘I’m on a bender, a pleasure spree, free and easy and hoping to broaden my horizons with luxury travel, fast cars and—’
‘Let me guess,’ I interrupt, ‘beautiful women?’ I try to laugh but I’m too attracted to him for the sound to emerge.
But he laughs, a deep rumble in his broad chest, and I flush hot at the power he seems to hold over my out-of-practice libido. His tongue swipes his bottom lip as he watches me more intently. ‘Well, what’s not to love about that combination? You’re a stunning woman, intriguing, alone—what are you doing here if not seeking your own kind of hedonistic escape?’
‘Arrogant much?’ I try to look away, but it’s as if we’re pinballs, bouncing and sparking off each other. I search his eyes, if only to show I’m not intimidated. But now he’s brought up pleasure it’s all I can think about... How can he tell I’d been sitting here contemplating exactly the kind of distraction he’s talking about? Would he be open to sex with an older woman looking to blow off some steam for the night? Isn’t that what the look of intrigue in those smoky eyes is saying?
He shrugs, a mocking twist to his generous mouth. ‘I saw you looking at me—you want something, and it’s not to drink or gamble like everyone else in this room.’
‘No, I don’t make a habit of risking my hard-earned money.’ I shrug. ‘Perhaps the occasional tame flutter.’
He inches closer, drops his voice to a conspiratorial level. ‘I’d bet the stack of chips I have in my pocket—’ he shakes his jacket, the telltale rattle indicating his point ‘—that you don’t even know what it is you want.’ His teeth scrape his bottom lip and, despite myself, my body leans a fraction closer to his imposing masculinity.
‘But I’m guessing I do,’ he stage-whispers, his breath gusting over my exposed shoulder and sending delicious tingles down to my fingertips, which itch to reach out, to tangle in that slightly too-long hair and tug him down to my kiss...
‘Is that so?’ I hold my breath, trying to avoid his delicious scent, but my body has other ideas, my thighs clenching and my underwear growing damp at the mere thought of what he’d be like as a lover. Can he really see me so clearly? See what I want when I’ve spent the past thirty minutes sitting here trying to figure it out for myself? And do I care who’s right? Wasn’t I, only moments ago, contemplating what his deep voice might promise?
An anonymous night. A delicious distraction?
My heart leaps against my ribs. I wanted to unleash my sexy, playful side for the night. My ex gloried in telling me how uptight I was, that I didn’t know how to be a wife, how to switch off from work. Well, I came to this casino to do just that. But with a man like him? Arrogant. Reckless. Some sort of fly-by-night success intent on brashly disposing of large chunks of his wealth...
He nods, his fingers drumming out a beat on the bar only he can hear. ‘You want to let down that gorgeous but tightly leashed hair. You
want to slip out of yourself for a while, loosen up a little.’
I do, not that I can admit it to the perceptive man who thinks he has me all pegged. My throat tightens, hot and achy. It’s as if he can see straight through me, as if he can see that, for just one night, I want to break free of it all. But why shouldn’t I have my sexy diversion with a stranger I’ll never meet again?
‘Why don’t you sit down before you fall down?’ I say, defensive. No matter how hot, how confident, how intuitive he is, I’m not rushing into something I’ll only regret in the morning, for all his persuasive skills.
He grins, but his eyes harden a fraction, telling me he’s fully in command of all his faculties and won’t be slighted. ‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re implying. And I prefer to stand.’
‘So women have to look up to you?’ I might be currently captive to the unexpected revival of my hormones, but I’m not in the market for a cocky young buck, all talk but lacking in substance.
He smiles as though he knows the effect he’s having on my erogenous zones, as though he can read how I’m drawn to his brand of lazy confidence simply by looking into my eyes.
‘Who am I to spoil anyone’s fun when I could be the source of it?’ he says.
I swallow. Hard.
I’m so tempted. I promised myself a little fun. Who better to let loose with than a man who looks built for sin and seems to see what I need tonight as some sort of personal challenge? I’d bet my anticipated deal with Jensen’s that his confidence is justified and he could deliver a night of hedonistic sex designed to make me forget everything but my own name.
Don’t I deserve an unforgettable, anonymous night? A way to recharge the batteries? A reminder that all work and no play does not a happy Orla make?
But first I need to suss out his intentions. Make him work a little harder. ‘So you have a cougar fantasy, is that it?’
I expected an arrogant shrug at best, but he leans closer, stares more intently, as if seeing deep inside me to my darkest desires. ‘I’m twenty-eight, but don’t get hung up on the numbers when we could already be heading upstairs.’
I scoff at his arrogance, even as my nipples turn to hard peaks beneath the silk of my dress. Do I really care that he’s eight years younger than me? ‘I’ve met your type before—’
He interrupts. ‘I very much doubt that. And if by type you mean the kind of man who can give you the anonymous night of your life, then you’re right. Admit it—you knew we’d be good together the minute you looked at me and you’re even more certain now, which perhaps tells me the reason you’re fighting it so hard—fear.’
‘Fear?’ I laugh, although the sound lacks conviction, just like my shaky resolve. He’s spot-on, but really, what do I have to lose? I wanted a distraction and he’s irresistible. The urge to step off the hamster wheel for a moment and become lost in the pleasure I’m certain would follow is tantalising. His challenge is irresistible, because it aligns so perfectly with the one I set myself tonight: to let go.
‘There’s not much I’m afraid of,’ I say. My heart, banging against my ribs, proves me wrong and him right.
He nods—slow, confident, almost luring me to kiss the smooth smile from his lips. ‘It’s fear all right. Fear of letting go of your tightly leashed control. Fear that you might actually have a good time. Fear I’ll ruin you.’
His eyes slide to one of my earrings. ‘You and your four-carat-diamond, one-glass-of-single-malt life.’
Instead of the outrage I should feel at being so neatly dissected and accurately pigeonholed, even insulted, every nerve in my body fires alive with electricity.
Fight, flight or fuck? I should definitely take option one or two...
I roll back my shoulders and stare into his cool grey eyes, seeing the hint of challenge. ‘Are you suggesting I’m uptight? I’m amazed you, with your devil-may-care attitude, even know what the concept means.’ I should walk away, go back upstairs and check on Jensen’s—but oh, the temptation to prove him wrong is overwhelming...
‘Hey, princess, if the shoe fits...’
We face off, sparks flying and heat building.
I can let go. I can have fun. He’s right, I do want him. I want to be ruined for one night.
And I always get what I want.
‘The earrings are two-carat,’ I say. ‘And, okay. I have a suite upstairs—let’s go.’
CHAPTER TWO
Cam
HER WORDS—WORDS that shatter my certainty that she’d toss her Scotch in my face—bounce around inside my head to the beat of my pounding heart as she slides her drink away, unfinished. Yes, she’s my type looks-wise—tall and willowy, naturally rich red hair, and a body whose every inch I want to acquaint with my tongue. But, by the earrings, the immaculate hairdo and the general air of class around her, I assumed she was way too buttoned-up to take our flirtation to the next level.
She reaches for her clutch and prepares to slide from her stool.
Eager, now she’s stopped fighting herself. Another fucking awesome surprise.
‘Wait.’ I stall, my dick throbbing in revenge. ‘I think we should at least introduce ourselves so you know whose name to scream later.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Cam.’
She purses her delicious-looking full lips and strokes her hand over her sleek chignon as if mildly annoyed by the interruption of formal introduction. She takes my hand in hers, her greeting as firm as I’d expected.
‘Orla.’
‘Irish Australian?’ I say, prolonging the handshake, deliberately sliding my roughened thumb over the back of her hand to gauge her reaction to my touch, because I’m certain that under normal circumstances, in our everyday lives, she wouldn’t give a man like me the time of day. She’s too polished, too precise and undoubtedly super-high maintenance. There’s not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight, but I have the driving urge to see her all dishevelled and undone. She’d look twice as sexy rumpled and satisfied, those sea-green eyes pleasure-drunk...
‘Yes. I’m from Sydney.’ She looks down to where my thumb swipes across the delicate skin of her inner wrist, her small smile masking a look bordering on aversion while her free hand toys with the diamond stud in her ear.
In spite of my work-roughened skin, there’s excitement drawn all over her ethereal face, but her eyes say she’s all too aware I’m not her usual type. No doubt she’s used to the type of man who belongs in this club. The type who’s certain of everything in his life, especially where he comes from and where he’s going.
‘I grew up in Sydney, too.’ If only she knew that we came from opposite sides of the tracks before I inherited enough money to be thrust into her sphere. I look down at our joined hands, the sick slug of satisfaction at my rough and calloused hand swallowing hers, which is by comparison as delicate as a bird’s wing and impeccably manicured, adding to the thick desire humming through my veins.
Prior to my current fucked-up predicament—the very reason I’m here in this club for the elite and obscenely wealthy, having earlier this evening bought a supercar I’ll likely never drive and gambling as if I’m spending Monopoly money—I worked in construction.
And now?
Now I’m frittering through as much of the unwanted inheritance my no-good asshole of a father left me as I can. Oh, how he’d hate to see me now, wasting the money he sacrificed his family for, travelling the world in a private jet, gambling, bedding beautiful women in the most exclusive club in Monaco.
The familiar nausea I get whenever I think about my father takes hold, a part of me repulsed at becoming his puppet. I focus on the exquisite woman in front of me, a strong urge flaring up to push her out of her buttoned-up comfort zone until I know exactly how far she’ll go for her night with a stranger.
She glides from the stool, her hand still in mine. Instead of pulling away, she sidles up close until I see the golden stre
aks in her green irises, streaks that perfectly match those in her silky auburn hair, and I’m overwhelmed by how fantastic she smells. Classy and expensive.
She presses a fingertip to my mouth. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Anonymous, remember.’
I nod, dislodging her soft fingertip from my mouth while I wrangle the thick thud of my desire under control. She may as well have kissed me for the effect that simple touch from a solitary fingertip has on my body.
Yes, she’s way too rich, too straitlaced for my blood, but damn is she sexy. I want to haul her slender frame up in my arms, press every inch of her against my body until those eyes glow with the desire I see lurking in the shadows.
But could she let go enough to embrace this fierce chemistry?
‘Give me your phone.’ My voice is low but firm enough to encourage a frown of defiance from her stunning face. She likes being challenged, but wants to be in control. She’s clearly used to giving the orders.
I can handle that.
‘Why?’ She purses perfect lips. Lips I’m dying to taste.
‘Because I’m a stranger you’re about to invite into your hotel room. I’ll take a photo of myself, and you can send it to someone you trust, giving them your suite number and mine, too, if you like—two-seven-six-six.’
She nods, hands me her phone and I snap a quick selfie before handing the device back. I watch as she fires off a text, fascinated with the way her lips press together when she’s concentrating and how, despite the safety-conscious turn of the conversation, her nipples are hard peaks beneath the tight-fitting, backless black dress that hugs her toned frame and caresses the gentle flare of her hips.
‘So, shall we?’ She looks up, her chin tilted and face relaxed, but there’s vulnerability in her eyes, and I wonder what her real story is. Not the sanitised version she probably tells herself every day as she peruses her markers of success. But the version deep inside, hidden vulnerabilities which, if probed, wobble the confidence she wears like a tiara balanced on her regal head and perhaps the reason she’s alone in a bar in Monaco, far from home, toying with a drink she barely touches in the first place.
