[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon (3 page)

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’s endeared me to him. Good lord, that is
not
a good thing. 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.

Not that I want Christophe-fucking-Chevalier to know I speak French.

He 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 peasy.

I suppose the reason it works is because wealthy men, like Christophe, are so seldom presented with a challenge and are overly accustomed to being worshipped, basically getting everything they want, when they want it, that when they are denied something—even if it’s something they don’t particularly want—they can’t help but take the bait.

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. 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 playing a game.”

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. “Tell me, how do you explain our win, mathematically?”

After a deep drink, I say, “I don’t think it’s math. I think we won because of universal principals.”

“Yes?”

“The universe doesn’t like desperation. It is often those who need a win the least who win the most. And vice versa.”

“An interesting conjecture.” He brings the glass to just beneath his nose and breathes in deeply. He doesn’t drink.

Damn. The gesture is completely and unexpectedly sexy.

When he lifts his gaze, his eyes show the smile his mouth hasn’t given in to yet. “Do you suppose that also explains your allure?”

“Excuse me?”

“You are perhaps the
least
desperate woman I’ve ever met.” He glances about the salon. “Therefore every man in this room wants you.”

I laugh. His comment is so over the top I don’t know how to respond. Instead, I push my unfinished drink away and stand. “I should go.”

“I’ve offended you.” Christophe’s already irreverent gaze becomes even more sinful. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it if I find you fascinating.”

“So does my boyfriend. He’s upstairs.” I point to the ceiling. “I mean. At the hotel. Le Hotel de Paris. Penthouse.” I wave toward the door hoping I don’t sound as lame to him as I do to myself. “Conference call.”

“I see.”

“You’re not alone, either.” I finger wave at the two girls sitting at the other end of the bar. They are pretending to talk to one another, all the while keeping tabs on Christophe. They frown at me. One waves back, hesitantly. “You’ve got two friends waiting for you. I’m sure you’ve heard the expression, three’s a crowd.”

“Non.” He shakes his head, adopting a mock serious expression. “Though perhaps you are familiar with the French term, ménage a trois?”

Seriously?

The guy might have lips begging to be kissed, but that doesn’t make him any less arrogant. Or presumptuous. “You’ve already got your ménage participants in order. I’m good.” Except that I don’t feel good, I feel flustered for some reason—could be the flash of ménage imagery that invades my dirty mind—I reach for my drink and finish it. “I’m going to find my boyfriend.”

He puts a hand on my arm.

His hand is warm. Well formed. Strong. It sends tingles up my shoulder and around my neck.

Dammit!

I hate his hand.

“Tell me, who is this boyfriend of yours? Maybe I know him.”

“You may,” I tilt my head, still working on that French mannerism thing. “But it’s none of your business.”

“Oh but it is.”

“Why?”

“I simply must know from whom I steal.”

“Excuse me?”

“You. I plan on stealing you.”

Is this guy for real? He should write a book on bad pickup lines. The problem is, he sounds so damn sexy when he speaks and his eyes and lips and hair and tux and pretty much everything about him are so damn sexy too, it doesn’t matter how cheesy his lines are.

Good thing for me I made a promise to Tal and I’m pretty damn good at keeping promises.

“You are persistent. I’ll give you that.” I move away from him, from his gaze, from his much too decadent scent. “But, I’m going to return to my room now.”

“May I walk you there?”

“No.” I dip my head with as much civility as I can muster. “Good evening.”

“A bientôt,” he says and then after a pause, adds, “Mademoiselle Savage.”

I
do not tell Tal about the interaction with Christophe Chevalier. He’s got enough to worry about with trying to hide his affair with Alejandro from his family and anyone who might take note and decide to blackmail him. Besides, I can handle a man like Christophe. I can.

Except tonight, Tal is up in the room with Alejandro. Again. And I’m back in the casino, hoping to avoid Monsieur Chevalier.

Speaking of...how the fuck does he know who I am?

It's as if the mere thought of Christophe conjures him. Tonight I’m in a different salon, playing Texas Hold ‘Em. It’s a game Chase and I used to play with friends—a lifetime ago—a game I haven’t played since I was married. Which either means I’m finally healing from my marriage, or this is how desperate I am to avoid Christophe, thinking the game is too gauche for his French sensibilities.

Apparently I am wrong about his French sensibilities because not only does he appear out of thin air, he quietly speaks to the Swiss ambassador sitting beside me, asking him to switch seats to the empty one across the table. The fact that Christophe’s mother’s family, the De Rossis—the oldest banking family in Italy—own a third share of the Monte Carlo SBM resort, including the four original hotels and casinos that make up the heart of Monte Carlo, may be the reason the diplomat is willing to give up his seat to Christophe so willingly.

Okay. I admit it. I did a little research on Monsieur Chevalier last night. So what? Don’t give me a hard time. It’s important I know who I’m dealing with here.

"I'm starting to think this boyfriend of yours is a myth."