Aimee followed the crowd toward the entrance. A high-ceilinged foyer with marble floors and gleaming columns opened up before her. A long line of butlers, each carrying a tray of sparkling champagne, greeted the guests with somber eyes, and when her turn arrived, Aimee slipped her fingers around a glass’ stem. Her eyes closed briefly as she sipped, tipping her head back languidly. The champagne was some of the finest she’d tasted—probably upwards of $1000 a bottle.
Focus, she told herself, her eyes scanning the crowd. The ballroom proper was in the center of the building, beyond an archway that descended down broad stairs lined with the same red carpet. From the archway, Aimee heard the sounds of an orchestra playing a traditional French ballroom piece.
Moving closer, Aimee squeezed her toes in the bottom of her shoes, focusing her ears. As a teenager, her father had signed her up for ballroom dancing classes, assuring her, in his thick French accent, that her abilities would please a man someday. “Girls in Monaco do not live as they do in America,” he’d told her, his bushy eyebrows waggling on his forehead. “And you, my darling, are special.”
The moment Aimee appeared at the entrance of the ballroom, her breath caught in her throat. The red carpet stopped at the bottom of the steps, where a gleaming marble floor took over, stretching nearly a hundred feet to the furthest wall. Above the sea of people—women whirling in ball gowns, and potbellied men puffing on cigars—was the most remarkable ceiling mural Aimee had ever seen. Angels formed a great congregation, playing harps against a sky-blue background. A gold border circled the edge of the ceiling, shining in its centuries-old glory.
Aimee forced her head down a moment later, realizing she looked overly impressed, like a country girl unused to the extravagances of Monaco’s high-society. She sauntered down the steps, her hips moving left, right, her eyes scouring the crowd for any sign of Enrico Fonti—the man of the hour.
She inhaled sharply as she made eye contact with a man who’d checked into the hotel earlier that week. His jet-black hair was swept back with gel, without a strand out of place, and he looked sleazy, slimy, and dripping with money from less-than-legitimate sources.
He bowed his head in recognition, and Aimee gave him a sophisticated, closed-mouth smile before making her way to the bar, which took up almost one whole wall of the ballroom. She hoped to avoid conversation with middle-aged gamblers who viewed her body as meat; she was on a mission to find Enrico, and didn’t want anyone to get in her way.
As she drew closer to the bar, she finally spotted Enrico Fonti leaning coolly against the edge of the bar, looking casual, smooth, and wearing what was surely a several-thousand-dollar suit. His five o’clock shadow was more obvious than it had been before, the stubble highlighting the intense cut of his jawline and his deep, dark, penetrating eyes. His eyes scanned the room, clearly on the lookout for the date that Aimee knew would not arrive.
For the second time that evening, Aimee found herself unable to breathe. She swayed slightly, remembering what it had felt like to have his strong, muscled arms around her, his lips descending upon hers. She remembered the sizzling pleasure, halted only by her sudden fear that she was just another notch on his belt.
She assessed him carefully as she stood to the side, sipping the last of her champagne. Her brain buzzed with alcohol, since she’d eaten close to nothing all day. She clenched her fist, her nails digging into the skin of her palm. She had to act.
Enrico seemed to sense her approach. His eyes flitted toward her and, almost on cue, a smile crept across his face, revealing perfect white teeth. She lent him a big-eyed look of recognition, waving her fingers. He quickly straightened his posture from his leaning stance on the bar, pulling his fingers through his slicked back hair.
“Well, well,” he said, his Italian accent glazing over the words. “If it isn’t Aimee Delacroix herself.” His eyes glanced down her face, down her tight torso. Aimee did her best to seem sexy and playful instead of betraying her nervous anxiety, playing the only cards she had.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she cooed, her eyes dancing. Her heart rate elevated, and the air between them tightened.
“I come to almost all the high-society events,” Enrico said, lifting a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “But I daren’t say I’ve seen you at one before.”
“Are you telling me I shouldn’t be here?” Aimee asked coyly. She pouted slightly, setting her empty glass on the bar. “Because I’m only just getting started.”
Enrico eyed her empty glass, his expression darkening. “I see that.”
He paused for a moment, with a final glance toward the entrance. Aimee watched as he processed what was happening: his date wasn’t coming, but another door had opened in his favor.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to join me for another drink?” The words came casually, easily.
“Oh, my. I wouldn’t want to take the place of your date…”
Enrico shook his head, spinning toward the bar and lifting his index finger into the air. The bartender sauntered toward them, swiping a towel over his chapped hands. “Oui? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” he inquired, his voice deep. A dark, grey-flecked beard bristled over his chin.
Enrico ordered them each an Old Fashioned, his French lilting. The bartender jumped into action, cutting the orange and rubbing the rind along the rings of the glasses. Enrico turned back toward Aimee, who watched him expectantly, her long eyelashes brushing lightly against her cheeks with each blink.
“Unless, that is, you’ve been stood up?” Aimee finally spoke, halting the stillness between them.
But Enrico only shrugged, plastering on a confident smile. “I suppose it’s been a week for that kind of thing. First, I’m in the elevator with a gorgeous woman—absolutely drop-dead—and she goes cold on me.” He eyed her with a devilish gaze. “Runs out of my casino and leaves me alone. Can you imagine?”
Aimee stick her tongue out, giggling. She felt her body tingle with longing. “That sounds rough,” she said. She wrapped her fingers around her drink and clinked his in cheers, sipping the tart liquid. Her eyes widened at its strength. “Jesus. Are you trying to kill me?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” Enrico quipped. He lifted his elbow toward her, and she slipped her thin arm through his, inhaling his cologne, sensing his warmth. She felt like every cell within her was on fire, aching for pleasure.
Enrico led her to a corner table, where they fell into easy, flirtatious conversation, eyeing each other with intrigued, doe-like eyes.
“You can’t tell me that being rejected the other night ruined your week,” Aimee laughed, slipping her fingers over his forearm, feeling his muscles tense at her touch. “You, with all those women at the casino, lining up just for you.” She winked at him.