[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon (2 page)

“Yes, master,” I say, doing an exaggerated bow.

Luckily, Tal’s sense of humor has returned and he laughs.

I grin back. “Look,” I say, straightening his necktie, “I told you I’d help you and I will. Besides, I’m off men at the moment.”

He catches my hand against his chest. His eyes narrow. “No women either. I know you, Tessa Savage. No cock and no pussy.”

I groan. “Well, that’s no fun.” Going up on tiptoes, I kiss his cheek. “I promise I’ll be good.” I glance over his shoulder at the half-open door. “Now, you’ve got a very hot dancer in there who has been waiting patiently for you. Go have some fun.” I hold up my clutch. “I’m going to see how long it takes me to lose this money of yours.”

“Take your time.”

“Might not be as long as you think. I’ve got a terrible poker face, or so I’m told.”

He squeezes my hand. “Thank you, Tessa.”

***

I
’m not sure what Talal thinks he owes me. I’m pretty sure fifty thousand euros is more than enough payment for the minor favor of pretending to be his girlfriend for a long weekend. But then, I don’t know what it’s like to come from a wealthy fundamentalist Muslim family and to be gay and trying desperately to hide it. So perhaps in Tal’s world, fifty thousand is nothing. Of course I can’t forget the oodles of dough he spent on my wardrobe, our meals, and the fact that last night I was whisked away for a full spa treatment that went until the wee hours—amazing what people will do when you drop a wad of cash—in order to give Tal and Alejandro some alone time in the suite after the ballet. Tonight our cover is that Tal has to work and I’m pretending to be the bored girlfriend spending money in the casino.

So that’s where I head, back down to the lobby and a short walk across the Avenue de Monte Carlo to the Casino de Monte Carlo. The small black clutch I’m holding vibrates and I realize I’ve got a call or a text. I sincerely doubt it’s from Tal and I almost don’t bother to check, except that I’m expecting a call from my good friend Wade, a hot cowboy from Canada, who’s expecting me to marry him in a few months.

Now, when I say
marry him
, I don’t mean I’m getting married
to
him, I mean I’m supposed to perform the wedding ceremony.

I pause before climbing the steps to the entrance to the casino and check my phone.

Shit!

Resting a hand against the stone façade of the building to steady myself, I press the phone to my chest. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and then hazard a glance at the display on my phone. The name Chase Walker—my one and only ex-husband—comes up on my messages. Chase is also my best friend and the man I’ve been avoiding for eight years, pretty much since the day I left him.

A weird fuzziness settles over me and my skin flushes hot then cold.

“Are you okay, miss?”

I don’t realize my eyes are closed until I open them to see a valet standing in front of me looking concerned.

“Fine, thanks.”

My legs, however, are not fine. They are all noodly as I make my way up the stairs and through the doors of the casino, trying my best to ignore the text from Chase.

Do I call him?

No.

Do I text him?

Oh no.

Do I still love the man?

Of course I do.

Is there a bunch of unsettled business between us?

Yes ma’am. 

Am I ever going to see him again?

Sometimes the answer is yes. I think so. And when the answer is yes, I think it might be nice—really nice—to see Chase again. Sort of like going home for the first time in a decade.

Other times the answer to the question about whether I am ever going to see Chase again is no.

A resounding, absolutely fucking NOT!

My heart is beating too hard and my breath is coming too fast. I’m sure when I present my money draft to the cashier, I must appear under stress—guilty—like I’m about to rob the place.

However, the man behind the cage doesn’t seem fazed by my flushed features as he scrutinizes my passport photo with a detached expression, not even batting an eye at the sum on the money draft Tal gave me, which is perhaps even more revealing than the actual sum. He doesn’t give me chips, but rather assigns me a private cashier, whose name is Olivier. While I wait for Olivier to arrive, I take in the opulent surroundings—yellow marble with massive pillars topped in gold leaf, a stained glass ceiling and frescoes painted by masters. Coming from America, where casinos are all lights, glitz and noise, this place is more like a museum or an art gallery. I feel like I need to speak in hushed tones and should be wearing one of those headsets for a self-guided tour of the place.

The cathedral-like atmosphere of the casino soothes me and by the time Olivier appears and directs me to a private salon, I am feeling more in control of my emotions. Once we pass the security at the entrance, it’s like we’ve entered a different world. Quieter. Posher. Watchful. The private salon is all done in dark wood and gold. Relief carvings decorate the arched ceiling where massive chandeliers hang. Tal brought me here last night but we didn’t stay very long, just long enough for him to play a few rounds of roulette so he would be ‘seen with me’ before we headed up to our room to allegedly ‘get it on’.

“Where would you like to start?” Olivier uses his chin to sweep the room.

I glance around at the tables. The only games I recognize are roulette and blackjack. While I sort of played roulette last night—Tal played for me while I fawned over him—the last time I played blackjack was for body shots with a smokin’ hot cowboy and I lost nearly every round. Checking out the patrons in the salon, these folks don’t look like the body shot crowd. The women are all wearing the kind of gowns that make me realize the ten grand Tal dropped on my form-fitting Vera Wang was not excessive after all. There’s a gorgeous Italian heiress who’s wearing a gown that I’m pretty sure is studded with real diamonds. All the men are in tuxes or expensive versions of formal attire from their home countries. I’m surrounded by a veritable United Nations of Who’s Who and I recognize the CEO of Toyota sitting at a blackjack table across from an oil baron from Russia whose name escapes me at the moment

“What are these games?” I point to the tables I don’t recognize.

“Punto Banco and Chemin de Fer. Are you familiar with either? They are similar to Baccarat.”

“No, I’m not familiar with them.” I glance around the room again, feeling a little lost. “Maybe we can watch first.”

Tilting his head in that mannerism that is strictly French, he says, “In here there is no watching. You must play or sit at the bar.” He indicates the private bar with a nod.

There is only one man sitting at the bar and he is surrounded by a knot of girls. All young, slim, model-worthy girls. Our eyes meet and he lifts his glass in my direction like we know one another, which we definitely do not. We’ve never met, yet I know exactly who he is.

Christophe Chevalier, heir to the De Rossi fortune.

The word playboy comes to mind.

I shudder involuntarily.

He may be the world’s most eligible bachelor, according to the
Hello!
magazine I read on the airplane during my flight to Monaco, but that little detail has no effect on me.

None whatsoever.

Even if Talal’s voice wasn’t in my head reminding me of my promise to stay away from men, I would not be interested in Monsieur Chevalier. Not even if I was in the mood for a handsome French playboy, which I’m not.

As a business analyst who travels the world and is contracted by some of the largest corporations and wealthiest people—too often, men—I am very familiar with his type. Entitled. Arrogant. Demanding.

No thank you.

I avert my eyes and turn toward Olivier. “How about roulette?”

“As you wish.”

We make our way to one of two roulette tables and Olivier talks quietly as we go. “The minimum for outside bets is one hundred euros and five hundred for inside bets. One thousand maximum for outside, ten thousand for inside.”

I nod absently, I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“You do know how to play, don’t you, mademoiselle?”

“I think so. I was here last night.” Tal had given me some instruction and I remember him saying something about streets and corners and boxes and odds and evens. He may have mentioned inside and outside bets. Honestly, I don’t remember most of it. I was too busy pretending to be enamored of him.

“How much would you like converted to chips?”

“Twenty thousand?”

He nods, turns, and whispers in French. I suddenly notice the inconspicuous ear bud he’s wearing. Within minutes, a casino employee shows up with a tray of chips and gives it to Olivier. Once the croupier—the guy who spins the roulette wheel—finishes his latest payout, he looks up, nods and says, “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

“Bonsoir.”

I study the table and try to remember what Tal did last night. I think he put five hundred on red. I do the same and then glance at Olivier for confirmation that I’m not making some roulette faux pas. His nod is nearly imperceptible. When no one corrects me and the croupier spins, I figure I’m okay.

The ball bounces up and down in and out of slots until finally the wheel slows. Unlike places like Vegas and Atlantic City, the people surrounding the table do not cheer wildly or groan and pull their hair, they simply nod their heads and continue whatever conversation they were having as the croupier places the marker on the winning number and clears the table of chips. I’m so perplexed by the lack of emotion, I don’t notice that my pile of chips isn’t cleared but is added to.

I won...I guess.

The croupier calls for bets and I point to the part on the table that says
Passe
. Olivier places my bet and the ball starts rolling. People are still placing bets—which I’d forgotten you can do in roulette—until the croupier says, “Rien ne va plus.” Repeating himself in English—in that emotionless bored voice of high stakes dealers—he says, “No more bets.”

I go on like this, making outside bets, winning more often than losing until my pile of chips almost doubles. I pull my smart phone from my clutch and check the time. Only an hour and a half has passed. Suppressing a yawn, I make my next bet.

It’s going to be a long night.

“You’ll never win big unless you bet big,” a deep, accented voice says from slightly behind me.

I know who it is before I turn around, dammit.

Christophe Chevalier.

G
roaning inwardly, I cast a glance over my shoulder.

Not only is Christophe Chevalier wealthy, he is—unfortunately—extremely handsome.

Bastard.

His suit fits him so fucking perfectly, showing off broad shoulders and a narrow waist, it makes me want to slap him. His dark, wavy hair is on the long side yet he’s managed to style it in a way that looks well-coiffed while still appearing as if you could run your fingers through it, and it’d be soft.

Stupid hair.

His jaw is strong and closely shaven, yet there’s a shadow that tells me by morning he’d have that lovely stubble that I find so deliciously masculine.

This frustrates the hell out of me.

Then there are his lips. Full. Sexy. Made for kissing—for fuck’s sake—and turned up in a way that says he knows it. Oh hell, he knows it very well.

Finally, there are his eyes. Cobalt blue surrounded by dark lashes. Heavy lidded. Sinful. Teasing. Bedroom-fucking-eyes.

Asshole.

I tilt my head in the off-hand mannerism of the French that I have
just
adopted this very second. “Who says I want to win big?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, turning my attention back to the table. “I make a point not to speak for everyone.”

My attempt to snub the man fails. He moves closer to my side and whispers, “Then it is as I suspected.”

“What’s that?”

“You are unlike anyone I have met.”

I don’t reply because there is no point. A pickup line is a pickup line and I am oh-so-not-fooled by them, it doesn’t matter how fancy the suit, how kissable the lips and how much one’s eyes say,
come fuck me
. Neither am I impressed by how much cash a person drops on the table in front of me.

Which is exactly what Christophe does.

Seconds before the croupier calls, “no more bets,” Christophe sets a pile of chips on the line between number twenty-two and twenty-three. The ball bounces a few more times before landing in the twenty-two slot. I don’t need to know much about the game to know he’s just won big. I try to do my best to emulate those around me and to look bored about the fact that he’s now got a zillion times more chips than he had before.

The bastard.

Okay, I may be gritting my teeth...a teeny bit.

But, I’m no sissy when it comes to men like Christophe Chevalier. The fact I am uber aware of his presence makes me want to prove how much his presence does not affect me. So we continue to play—side-by-side, but in silence at least, thank God—me always making safe bets, for some reason winning more often than losing while Christophe continues to make risky bets, losing more often than winning.

However, when he wins, he wins big.

Jerk.

“Interesting choice,” he says, after I’ve placed my chips on the M12 position, hoping for the ball to drop in the middle dozen numbers.

“Thank-you,” I say. Not exactly sure why.

He waits for the croupier to spin the ball before calling, “Dix-sept complet.” Then he pushes an enormous pile of chips onto the table.

The croupier repeats Christophe’s wager and then places a special marker on number seventeen on the table. He gives that French nod to the table inspector who counts the chips—forty blue chips, I know this because I count along with him.

Blue chips are ten thousand euros. Forty chips means four hundred thousand euros.

Holy shit.

My curiosity gets the better of me. “What does dix-sept complet mean?”

Christophe steps closer so he can speak softly in my ear. It tickles—in a nice way.