The Bad Boys of Eden (96 page)

“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, thinking about my reaction to the man at the bar. Despite the weird sense of familiarity at the sight of him, 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.

I’m sure the reason I felt some kind of awareness of him is because I just read about him on the plane during the flight to Monaco. According to
Hello!
Magazine, he’s Europe’s most eligible bachelor, but that little detail has no effect on me.

None whatsoever.

Honest.

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, I am very familiar with his type. Entitled. Arrogant. Demanding.

No thank you.

“How much would you like converted to chips?” Olivier asks once we’re situated at a roulette table.

“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.

Chapter Two

Groaning inwardly because I’m not sure I’m up to the challenge of facing the instant connection I seem to have with this man, I cast a glance over my shoulder.

Not only is Christophe Chevalier wealthy, he is—unfortunately—extremely handsome. This bothers me on an unnamed level, somewhere between frustration and acute longing.

Bastard.

His tux fits him so fucking perfectly, showing off broad shoulders and a narrow waist, it makes me want to slap him. Or possibly kiss 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.

Not helping, 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 aggravates 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.

Jesus.

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
. Not even when his voice speaks to a secret part of me that seems to recognize him.

Neither am I impressed by the amount of 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.

I totally don’t care whether the man wins big or not.

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.

Dammit!

“It is every inside bet that involves the number seventeen. Straight-up, four splits, a street, four corners two six-lines. I placed the maximum number of chips for each.”

The ball continues to bounce and my curiosity is stronger than ever. Almost as strong as Christophe’s aftershave—which I wish was overpowering but isn’t.

It’s enticing.

Ugh!

“What’s the payout?” I ask, breathing in deeply as I lean toward him.

“If the ball lands on seventeen, the payout is three million nine hundred and twenty thousand euros.”

I turn slowly. My gaze tracks from the bowtie on his tux up his chiseled jaw to his eyes. They sparkle with amusement.

Sinful.

Sexy.

Too damn sexy for his own good.

Or for mine.

“That’s big,” I say a little out of breath.

He tilts his head, a small smile playing about his full lips.

My mouth returns the smile without my permission and I spin around to watch the table in order to stop looking and smiling at Christophe.

The ball pops around the wheel like it’s alive, teasing the players, looking like it will drop into one slot only to bounce out again. Finally, after playing hopscotch in and out of the slots, it makes a decision and falls in the number fourteen.

For the first time there is some response from the players around the table. People clap politely and smile in Christophe’s direction.

“We are both winners,” he says matter-of-factly.

“We are?”

“Yes.”

“Monsieur Chevalier, the payout is one hundred and forty-four pieces with your bet down, sir.” The croupier repeats himself in French.

If I’m not mistaken, that means the payout is over a million euros.

Holy fucking shit.

An official looking man comes to speak quietly to Christophe. I would be lying if I said I didn’t try to eavesdrop, but his voice is too low and he’s speaking in French.

Once the man is finished, Christophe points to his chips and says, “Pour Le Foundation, s’il vous plait.” He turns his attention to me. “If you’ll excuse me, mademoiselle. I have business to attend to.” He takes my hand, kisses it and says, “It was a pleasure playing beside you.”

With that, Christophe strides away and his chips are cleared by the table inspector. Leaning toward Olivier, I ask, “What just happened?”

“Monsieur Chevalier is the director of Le Foundation Enfants. An organization that helps disabled and sick children. I believe he just donated his winnings.”

I have to make a conscious effort to close my mouth as I swivel to watch Christophe disappear out the door of the salon. He donated a million dollars. Just like that.

After giving my head a shake, I say, “Donate my chips as well, please.”

“Mademoiselle is finished for the evening?”

“Yes.” I am sooo finished. Christophe’s unexpected donation not only surprised me, it has endeared me to him, which is
not
a good thing. Not when I’m supposed to be unavailable.

It is definitely time for a drink.

Olivier speaks quietly into his headpiece for someone to collect the chips and then follows me as I head over to the bar.

“I am yours for the evening,” he says. “If you should change your mind and wish to return to the tables, let the bartender know and I shall be at your service.” He executes a similar bow to the one Christophe gave me before disappearing into the back.

Once Olivier’s gone, I order a scotch on the rocks and wait, my back to the room. Hoping to tell others—and by others, I mean, Christophe Chevalier, should he return—that I’m not interested. Though I must say there’s a teeny tiny part that’s intrigued. Not that I’m about to give in to it or anything.

As I cool my cheek with the glass, I remind myself that a million dollars is pocket change when your net worth is in the billions. Seriously. Christophe is no more a philanthropist than anyone else in this room. Most of these people are board members of charitable foundations simply to go to parties and fundraisers. Everyone in this room puts on the philanthropist façade in order to network. Christophe is no different. It’s all an act. Surely.

I’m not fooled. Not for a second.

Yet my senses thrill when ten minutes later I feel a presence behind me. I know who’s there before I hear him speak. I recognize his expensive aftershave. Not because it’s too strong, but because it’s unique. Subtle. A spicy scent that’s both exotic and intoxicating.

Shit.

I am in big trouble.

Without being invited, Christophe takes the stool next to mine and in French, orders a scotch—neat with a side of water. As it happens, ordering food and drinks is one thing I can do fairly well in more than a few languages because I travel so much for work.

Christophe leans toward me and I move equally in the opposite direction.

He chuckles low in his throat. Well, glad one of us finds this amusing. I would get up and leave except for the fact that I was here first and I feel like being obstinate and standing my ground. Besides, I suspect he’d follow me anyway.

I know exactly how men like Christophe think. He’s only interested in me because I’m not showing any interest in him. The playing-hard-to-get-game is the most predictable, fucked up animalistic tendency that should have been naturally selected out of humanity eons ago. But it hasn’t. It’s made worse in wealthy, good looking males for some reason. You want to tempt a tycoon? Play hard to get. That’s it. Easy.

I’ve seen plenty of women play on this, feigning indifference in order to reel in men like Christophe. Not me. I believe in the philosophy of actually showing true emotions—interest when I’m interested, no interest when I’m not.

Okay, so I’m a teensy bit interested, I’ll admit it. But I made a promise to stay
disinterested
and I fully intend to stick to it.

When Christophe leans in again, instead of turning away, I swivel toward him and face him, staring directly into those completely corrupt eyes of his. “Do you know what your problem is?”

“Non.” The word is distinctly French and he says it with an amused curve to his too-fucking-sensual lips.

“You think I’m playing a game. I’m not.”

He tilts his head. So frustratingly French and sexy. Ugh!

“Oh, but you are.”

See? Arrogant.

I move closer, leaning all the way in so that his aftershave engulfs me, not in an unpleasant way. “I am not interested,” I whisper slowly and clearly.

My gaze falls to his lips. There’s a tiny droplet of scotch just at the corner of his mouth and his tongue reaches for it, leisurely licking. In that one little gesture, I swear his tongue is bragging about its accomplishments—past, present and future.

Damn his tongue!

I draw in a quick breath and pull back because my body’s response is way too mutinous for words. High treason, that’s what my body has committed, and it’s working hard on my brain to join the coup.

The fact Christophe smiles—not smirks, but smiles wide—tells me he knows exactly the reaction his mouth and tongue have had on me. And now I look like some game-playing liar, which I totally am not.

You are not tempted, Tessa Savage. Not in the least. You’re off men, remember?

Plus…Tal will kill you.

Christophe acts as if he didn’t hear my comment about not being interested. “May I order you another drink?”

Tal’s warning plays over in my head and I weigh it against what is happening here with Christophe. I know I told Tal I wouldn’t flirt and I’m not. But my thinking is, maybe if I let Christophe buy me a drink, maybe if I stop being—I don’t know—mysterious and coy he’ll lose interest and leave me alone. So, after a moment’s hesitation, I nod, figuring a quick drink is better than the man feeling some stupid primal urge to pursue me.

I order another scotch on the rocks and ignore the way Christophe narrows his eyes at the glass set before me.

“Tell me,” he says, watching me carefully. “Do you always play it safe?”

Sometimes I like speaking in double entendre, but I think tonight it’s best if I’m blunt. “Are you referring to gambling or lovers?”

I have to admit, I like the way his eyes brighten with amusement at my question.

“Let’s start with gambling.”

I shrug. “I guess I take risks with money, but they are always calculated risks—stocks, bonds, investments—letting my money earn money for me. But, I’m not much for casinos. The math puts the odds always in the House’s favor.”

“True, yet there are anomalies. Things that cannot be accounted for.”

“What do you mean?”

“You. You were on a streak, winning much more than losing. Yes, your bets were safe, but you still should have lost more than you won, based on mathematics. Yet you didn’t.” He swirls the amber liquid in the crystal glass. “It was because of your streak that I placed my maximum bet where I did.” His gaze meets mine. “How do you explain our win, mathematically?”