The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (12 page)

Would
anyone feel sorry for her? She furrowed her brow. Karine would. And maybe Paul
from accounting. Perhaps even Sylvie from marketing, unless she was on meds
again and not feeling anything at all.

But
none of it really mattered.

What
did matter was that the end of the world was upon her. Her personal, localized
Armageddon had arrived in an innocent-looking envelope with the Energie NordSud
logo on it.

Amanda
grabbed her handbag and marched out the door. Keeping her back as straight as
she could, she strode through the hallway, down the marble staircase, and out
the main entrance.

Eyes
on the gate, one foot in front of the other.

She
nodded to the security guard and passed through the turnstile.

“Mademoiselle
Roussel?” the guard asked, looking at his computer screen and then at her.

“Yes?”

“I
must collect your access card.”

“I’ll
come back next week to gather my things,” she said as flatly as she could,
handing him her card.

He
nodded. “We’ll let you in. Just make sure your visit is supervised by Monsieur
Barre.”

“Of
course.”

Amanda
turned on her heel and marched away, hoping the guard hadn’t seen her grimace.
Truth was she’d rather donate her fine glass paperweight and Bodum French press
to the company than ask Julien Barre—the bastard who’d fired her—to
allow her to clean out her desk.

And
have him breathe down her neck while she was doing it.

In
the
métro
car, Amanda’s eyebrows rose at the number of vacant seats
before she remembered it was only three in the afternoon—the earliest
she’d left the office in four years. As the train stations passed before her
eyes, a plan formed in her mind. She’d get home and locate her father’s Swiss
Army knife. Then she’d down a few shots of vodka, return to the office, kill
Julien, and kill herself.

It
sounded like an excellent plan.

Twenty
minutes later, she pushed open the door to her apartment and went straight to
the minibar, praying she hadn’t imagined the bottle of vodka hiding behind her
expensive wines.

Bingo!

There
it was—cold to the touch and as real as the sharp pain in her heart.

She
filled a glass with the transparent liquid and drained it. The beverage burned
her tongue. Amanda yelled out a battle cry, jumped up and down a few times
while punching the air, and poured herself another glass. She set it on the
coffee table and retrieved a tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. With
her glass in one hand and the ice cream in the other, she kicked off her shoes
and settled into her creamy leather sofa—the one she’d bought on credit,
like almost everything else in her stylish little apartment.

By
the time she finished her second glass, Amanda’s diabolical plan had begun to
lose its appeal. Julien Barre deserved to die, for sure, but murder was a messy
business.

And
suicide—even more so.

She
pictured herself on the floor, blood gushing from her punctured stomach and
trickling from her mouth.

Ugh.

Besides,
what if she failed to finish Julien off? Or herself? After all, the biggest
creature she’d ever assassinated had been a cockroach. The act had been so
disgusting it gave her nightmares for weeks.

Fine.
No killing.

But
then what? She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing—she was a fighter.
Amanda clenched her fists and willed her vodka-soaked gray matter to hatch up a
plan B. As soon as her brain obliged, she stomped to the bedroom and dug her
crimson femme fatale lipstick from her makeup case. She shoved her most elegant
evening gown, a tee, and a pair of panties into an overnight bag and rushed out
of her apartment.

Plan
B was insane, but it was carnage-free.

A
few meters down the street, Amanda withdrew as much cash as the ATM would give
her, and hailed a cab.

“Where
to,
madame
?” the driver asked as she slumped into the backseat.

“Gare
Saint-Lazare, please.” She pulled out her phone and added on an impulse, “I’m
going to Deauville.”

“A
beach weekend?” He smiled into the mirror.

“Nope.
A night of gambling at the casino,” she said, flashing him her brightest smile.

The
driver’s eyebrows shot up before he returned his gaze to the road. He didn’t
offer a comment.

Amanda
sat back and tapped “blackjack
rules” into the search engine on her phone.

She
had three hours to master the game.

* *
*

By
the time Amanda stepped into her hotel room, it was getting dark. She switched
on the lights and surveyed her room.

Nice
.

It
had better be, considering the price she was paying for it. Royal Barrière was
one of the town’s best hotels, as grand and expensive as its name suggested.
Was this reasonable? Certainly not. But tonight wasn’t about reasonable. It was
about winning big.

Besides,
the thought of staying in a seedy hotel gave her goose bumps. She was no longer
a discount-eligible, backpack-carrying student. She was twenty-eight—too
old for seedy hotels. And, thankfully, not yet broke enough. Mind you, if
everything went according to plan tonight, she wouldn’t be broke at all.

The
plan was simple, as all genius ideas were: exploit her beginner’s luck.

Amanda
was a gambling virgin, so new she still had her price tags. She’d never set
foot in a casino or tried a slot machine. She’d never even played cards with
friends.

Seeing
as she had no friends.

She
shook her head, brushing that thought away.

I
do have friends.
A
whole bunch of them—because four counted as a bunch, right? And it was
four more than she’d had ten years ago in her fat-padded, acne-decorated teens.
Thank God, those days were gone. Now she was as slim, peach-skinned, and
honey-blonde as the next self-respecting Parisian
it girl
. And, most
importantly, she’d become the picture-perfect young lady her mother could
parade in front of her friends.

As
for Amanda’s own friends, there was Karine, the PA from work who qualified
thanks to the number of bitching sessions they’d shared over the years. Then
there was Jeanne, a bartender, and Jeanne’s fiancé, Mat, both of whom happened
to be best friends with Amanda’s ex. And finally, Patrick, business partner of
said ex.

Amanda
frowned at the annoying realization that three of her four friends were the
legacy of her ex-boyfriend Rob.

Note
to self: diversify my social circle.

She
donned her strappy gown and refreshed her makeup. Then she grabbed her Chanel
purse with her ID, cash, and the cocktail voucher the concierge had given her
and headed to the famed Deauville Casino that adjoined her hotel.

Ten
minutes into the game, Amanda began to suspect that her two-hour crash course
on the train might have been insufficient. But it didn’t matter because her
beginner’s luck should kick in any moment now.

She
surveyed the players at her table to divert her mind from worrying.

What
a motley crew!

Across
from her sat an elderly Spanish couple. They wore matching T-shirts and smiled
simultaneously, flashing their dentures. Next to them, two forty-something
British women spoke to each other in an incomprehensible English dialect. A
middle-aged Frenchman with greasy hair and darting eyes sat beside them.
Amanda’s neighbor to the left was a surgically enhanced bimbo of unknown provenance
doused with a nauseating perfume and clad in a dress that was three sizes too
small.

But
the most remarkable person at the table was Amanda’s neighbor to the right,
whom she’d nicknamed Obsidian Eyes. In his late twenties, tall, swarthy, well
built, and well dressed, the man was easy on the eyes. He wore a faux casual
linen suit and played with the easy confidence of someone who knew what he was
doing.

Amanda
began to fidget with the strap of her watch, annoyed that the table blocked her
view of his footwear. So many things could go wrong with the shoes! They could
be synthetic or patent leather, have rubber soles, be coated in dirt or dust,
sport pointy toes or toes that were too rounded . . . The list
of potential offenses was long, and every one of them was unforgivable even
with mitigating circumstances.

She
was a bit of shoe fetishist.

Well,
maybe a lot.

Overtaken
by curiosity, Amanda discreetly pushed a card to the edge of the table until it
fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up and checked out the hunk’s shoes
so she could add him to her huge “discard” pile. But, to her surprise, Obsidian
Eyes wore fine leather loafers that were flawless.

Probably
Italian.

Handmade,
without a doubt.

She
sat up and studied his face again, perplexed. He had such fine
eyes—intelligent and framed with extra thick lashes. The man was
undeniably handsome, but not in a classic European way. Come to think of it,
handsome wasn’t the adjective she’d use to describe him. It didn’t do him
justice. It was too common, too weak. . . while he was kind of
stunning.

His
complexion and features held a touch of something exotic, faintly
alien—something that kept her stealing glances at him whenever he turned
his attention to his cards. Was it his wavy, jet-black hair, mesmerizing eyes,
or chiseled jawline? Or maybe his exquisite eyebrows that made her think of a
raven’s wings? Whatever that
je ne sais quoi
was, it made him look more
than ordinary. And hot.

The
man was a blazing wildfire on legs.

As
if his looks weren’t enough, Obsidian Eyes played exceptionally well. Forty
minutes into the game, his stacks of colorful chips had doubled while everyone
else’s—including Amanda’s—had melted away.

That
thought snapped her back into reality. Panicked, Amanda raised her eyes to the
high ceiling of the casino.

Please,
I can’t lose.

She
was gambling with her meager savings—half of it, to be exact. If the
Supreme Being above intended to activate her beginner’s luck, now was the time.

“Newbie?”
Obsidian Eyes asked, his gaze never shifting from the deck in the dealer’s
hands.

He
spoke French like a native. A slight Midi accent, maybe? A bit like Jeanne’s,
but less pronounced.

Amanda
looked around, unsure whom he was talking to.

Obsidian
Eyes finally lifted his gaze from the cards and gave her a panty-dropping
smile.

She
arched an eyebrow. “Does it show?”

“Mhmm.”

Ooh,
that smile again.

The
dealer held up a card for her, and she started reaching for it when she noticed
Obsidian Eyes give a quick shake of his head. She pulled back.

And
won the hand.

“Thank
you,” she mouthed to her unexpected mentor.

He
gave her a small nod.

She
followed his discreet instructions for two more hands and won both. The evening
was beginning to look up.

The
dealer bowed and ceded his place to a good-looking young woman with sleek
auburn hair smoothed back into the world’s tightest bun.

She
greeted the players and began to shuffle the cards.

Obsidian
Eyes turned to Amanda. “Why blackjack? Beginners usually prefer the slots or
roulette.”

“I
don’t know . . .Too passive for me, I guess.”

He
nodded. “I avoid them, too.”

“So
you know what I mean.”

“Yes.
But that’s not my only reason.”

She
cocked her head. “No?”

“The
slots are twice as costly to players than the table games, and with roulette,
too much depends on chance.”

Amanda
smirked. “Isn’t that the case with all the games?”

“Not
blackjack, if played right.”

“Let
me guess—
you
play it right.”

He
glanced at the dealer, who was engrossed in shuffling cards. “I know a trick or
two.”

One
of the Brits stage-whispered to the other, “I hope he’ll show me some of his
tricks tonight.” She paused before adding even louder, “In my room.”

Both
women burst out laughing.

Obsidian
Eyes shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his hands, pretending he hadn’t
heard the saucy remark.

The
man with greasy hair whispered something to the plastic bimbo.

She
didn’t acknowledge him. The woman was too busy multitasking. With her chest
heaving, she stared at Obsidian Eyes and stroked her neck. Every five seconds
she licked her lips and then pouted.

But
the black-eyed hunk was oblivious to her onslaught. He turned to Amanda again.
“I’m taking a break to stretch my legs.”

“Er . . .
OK.”

He
lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have a bad feeling about this dealer.”

“Oh.”
She pushed her chips closer together like he had done and stood. “I’ll do the
same, then.”

“What
brings you to Deauville Casino tonight?” he asked as they strolled between the
tables and observed the goings-on.

After
a second’s hesitation, she said, “I’m writing a book about gamblers.”

“Participant
observation, huh?”

Her
eyebrows rose. “What do
you
know about participant observation?”

“Yeah,
well, I need something to help me sleep when I get to my room at three in the
morning.” He shrugged. “Reading a few pages of
Tristes Tropiques
works
better than any sleeping pill I’ve tried.”

She
giggled. “I’m passionate about cultural anthropology, but I could never finish
that book.”

“I
like psychology books better,” he said. “They’re fun to read, and the info in
them is useful in my trade.”

“Oh?”

He
nodded. “Especially books like Cialdini’s
Influence
and the ones on how
to read body language.”

“I
see.”

“Hey,
how about a glass of champagne on the terrace after I’ve won my target amount?”
He gave her an innocent smile. A little too innocent.

“I
have a cocktail voucher,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

Did
I just accept his invitation?

Oh,
well. What harm could a drink do?

His
face contorted in exaggerated disgust. “Trust me, you don’t want their free
cocktail unless you’re a gustative masochist.”

She
put her hands on her hips. “I was given a free voucher, and I intend to use
it.”

“OK,
OK. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She
tilted her head to the side. “You said ‘my target amount’ earlier. Are you
that
good?”

“In
all modesty . . . yes. But my target amount is also reasonable.
And I have a spending threshold, too. When I reach it before I’ve won my target
amount, I
always
stop.”

“How
very rational for a gambler!”

“I’m
full of surprises, in case you haven’t noticed.” He gave her an appreciative
look. “And I suspect that so are you,
ma belle
.”

“When
did I become your
belle
?”

“Oh,
it’s just a placeholder until you tell me your name.”

Should
I?

“So,
what’s your name, ma belle?”

“Am . . .
elie. And yours?”

“Kes.”

“What
kind of name is Kes?”

“A
Gypsy name.”

“Like,
a
real
Traveler Gypsy?”

“As
authentic as they come.”

“Ah.”
She raised her chin. “That explains it.”

“Explains
what, Amelie?”

“That
you make me think of Tarzan.”

“Really?”

“Not
that you aren’t dashing in your suit, but you look like someone who was born to
ride horses bare-chested.”

“Wow.
You’re the bluntest belle I’ve ever met.”

“And
you’re the most gorgeous Gypsy I’ve ever met.”

Where
did that come from? Must be the vodka.

The
corners of his mouth twitched. “So refreshingly honest. Why, I’m flattered.”

She
looked away.

Honest,
my foot.

He
wasn’t just the most handsome Gypsy she’d ever seen—he was the most
spectacular
man, all ethnicities included.

Now,
that
was honest.

She
turned to him and cleared her throat. “Shall we go back? Target amounts and
all.”

“Sure.”

The
sleek-haired dealer was leaving when they returned to their seats. Both
giggling Brits and Greasy Hair were gone. The elderly couple and the bimbo still
played, but judging by their dismal faces and the measly number of chips in
front of them, they weren’t doing well.

Kes
had been right about the dealer.

“What
does your gut tell you about this one?” Amanda eyed the middle-aged man who had
taken over for his colleague.

“He’s
the best.”

Her
face fell.

Kes
grinned. “Not for the house, ma belle
,
for us. Move closer so I can see
your cards without twisting my neck.”