She turned her gaze toward Enrico’s card. The jolting appearance of his, an ace, caused the crowd to gasp, aching with the sense that they were small fry in the shadow of this great, illustrious man.
“How do you do it?” Aimee whispered, a flirty smile flickering across her face. Her eyes danced as she searched his, but Enrico’s concentration never shifted from his cards, from the dealer. He lifted his hand and then smacked his palm on the table, which elicited another gasp from the crowd.
“Another, sir?”
“Hit me,” Enrico said cockily.
The dealer flipped the card over, then, revealing an eight. He turned toward Aimee, who frowned, weighing her options. She flung her fingers through the air, hopeful that the man beside her had gone over 21, and told the dealer she was finished. Kaput. At least, that’s what it seemed she should do.
“Let’s see what I have,” she said, grinning. She bit her lip, her eyes wavering downward, away from the crowd that burned holes in her confidence with their intent, anxious gaze.
The dealer shrugged slightly, his thick shoulders creeping toward his earlobes. He flipped her facedown card upward, revealing a Jack.
Aimee exhaled comically, giving Enrico a saucy expression. “What do you think of that?” she said, tossing her head back. “Eighteen. Not so bad, for a novice, eh?” She fluttered her eyelashes, secretly glad the game was finished.
Enrico bowed his head. “Your abilities are not to be messed with, Miss Delacroix,” he said warmly.
“Let’s see what Enrico has!” someone from the crowd yelled, causing the others to cheer. “Let’s see her beat!”
Aimee gestured toward the ace, the eight, and the facedown card, tossing her hair. “I can’t imagine you didn’t go over,” she teased. “I’ve been around the tables enough to know.”
“Oh, have you, Aimee?” Enrico countered. Was he mocking her?
He rapped a knuckle on the table, and a rush of excited chatter swept through the crowd. The towering dealer pushed his hand forward and flipped over the facedown card, revealing an incredible, unrealistic three of hearts, bringing the total to 21.
The crowd gasped, their cries echoing around them. The dealer turned toward Aimee, his pupils twinkling as if to say: “That’s how it’s done.”
But Enrico just shrugged his shoulders and tipped his whiskey back, gulping it down in one. He wrapped his left arm around Aimee’s waist, tipping his fingers into her skin slightly. She felt a jolt of electricity and turned her nose toward him, inhaling the musky scent of him, feeling passion course through her veins. She swallowed and closed her eyes, feeling Enrico’s nose inch closer toward her, their lips an inch away from colliding. But, in a split second, he yanked back, jolting from her.
Aimee’s eyes flew open. She sensed she was being played with, toyed with. She stuck her finger up, catching the eye of the bartender, who pushed another whiskey toward her. She was edging toward drunk, bleeding with the pleasure of forgetting her name, of forgetting that she was a humble receptionist on the brink of being jobless, and not the Enrico-clinger she was currently playing. As Enrico turned his lips toward her ears, she shivered, hearing his words:
“What do you say we find a more private table? I’m tired of playing.”
“You are?” she whispered, her eyes dancing, taking in every feature of his perfect face.
“Just of blackjack. Not with you,” he said, smiling at her like she was the only person in the world.
He led her toward the back corner of Le Joueur, grasping her fingers with his large hand. Aimee righted her posture, sauntering confidently on her heels, as she sensed the whispers following them. Enrico had just won over 10,000 euros in a single round at his own blackjack table, and yet he allowed for no pomp and circumstance. This was just another roll of the dice, another hour, another moment in the chaotic, sun-drenched life of a billionaire. And, for some reason, Aimee found herself wanting to go along for the ride.
TWO
As they sat in the back of the casino, Enrico snapped his fingers for one round of whiskeys after another, turning his eyes toward Aimee’s face and leaning inward, as if they were exchanging secrets beneath the loud pulse of the DJ’s beat.
“I think you’re extremely beautiful,” he whispered to her, lifting his finger to her cheek and swiping it downward along her jaw, appreciating the tender, angelic quality of her skin. “I’ve never seen an American with such beauty.”
“American and French,” Aimee corrected, easing into a light smile. She felt her words slurring, the whiskey drying her tongue. She sensed the night could get messy, yet she didn’t care.
“And me?” Enrico said, his eyes like a cat’s. “Do you like sitting here with me? One of the Monte Carlo billionaires that I’m sure you spend your life hating?”
Aimee huffed, rolling her eyes. She couldn’t help but grin at his insight. “Am I so transparent?”
“Perhaps slightly,” Enrico said, arrogance clearly expressed on his face. “I can’t help but observe that you didn’t plan on meeting me. You didn’t count on sitting with a billionaire tonight, like so many other beautiful women—your peers—make it a mission to do.”
“Not quite my peers,” Aimee giggled. “The women I check into the hotel every day. The women I watch saunter back to the hotel with their men at night. I don’t consider myself a part of their pack.”
“And maybe that’s what I like about you,” Enrico replied. He leaned toward her, tipping his nose toward hers once more.
Aimee forced her mind to clear, willing thoughts of her father’s ruin, of a new life in America, to fall away, leaving her with the overzealous, irresistible personality of this billionaire Italian. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, catching his in a deep kiss that made her stomach clench, her muscles tense with lust, with need.
They held the kiss for only a moment, allowing their tongues to tangle, to slip over each other. Aimee felt a small groan emit from her throat. And then, they broke the kiss, their eyes locking in a moment of unconscious understanding.
They rose from their seats, and Aimee grasped his fingers, leaving her half-full glass of whiskey abandoned on the table.
Enrico took sure steps toward the rear of the casino, where a private elevator sat waiting. He inserted a small silver key into the lock, and the doors opened slowly to reveal a large elevator car, the interior completely covered in mirrors. Aimee caught a glimpse of her long, tanned legs, her flushed red cheeks—highlighting her drunkenness. She swayed alongside the billionaire, trying not to stumble on her heels.
“Is this where you live?” she whispered, leaning against one of the mirrored walls as the doors closed.