Married By Mistake (Billionaires of Europe Book 7)

by Holly Rayner

  “Hanging out at a poker table?”

  “You don’t know.”

  “Maybe one of them is into Dani!”

  “For God’s sake,” I say. “You’re as bad as my mom. Always rattling on about my biological clock. You’d think I was a pint of milk nearing my sell-by date with the way you all talk.”

  “Dani, come on,” Melanie says. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

  “Then can we please just drop it? We’re here for Sandy, remember? This weekend isn’t about me. If you guys want to schedule a ‘bemoan Dani’s love life’ weekend, we can do that, but I want that one to be in the Bahamas so I can get a tan while you do it.”

  “Okay, okay, we get it,” Rhonda says. “Consider it dropped.”

  “Thank you.”

  I sit down and drop a chip on number twenty-five, not really committing to the game, just trying to find a segue out of the unpleasantness. To my surprise, I win again.

  “You’re on a roll tonight,” the croupier declares as he hands over my winnings.

  “I guess I am,” I agree.

  Rhonda looks like she’s itching. She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet and wrings her hands together. I recognize this behavior.

  “What?” I demand.

  “You don’t want me to say it.”

  “Oh, just go on.”

  “Looks like someone’s getting lucky tonight!” she crows, and high-fives Melanie.

  I roll my eyes, but I laugh along with the others. “If only.”

  For a moment, I’m concerned that they’ll take my offhand remark as permission to reopen the subject of my lack of a boyfriend, but everyone lets it pass, and for that, I’m very grateful.

  The truth is that I’m very happy my friends are settling down. Ian really does seem like a very nice guy, and Sandy’s been daydreaming about her wedding day as long as I’ve known her, so I know this is a big deal for her. She deserves it; she really does.

  I’m also a big fan of Rhonda and Vic, who got together at a party in college that I also attended. Vic was a prominent figure in most of our college memories. He was the one who had a car, so he drove us to get groceries, to the movies, to the bookstore, and anywhere else we needed to go. He was a film buff and would bring over DVDs and popcorn on Friday nights for everyone to enjoy together. For those years, Vic was as close a friend to us as Rhonda was, and even though they’ve decided not to marry, I think they’ll probably be together forever.

  I haven’t met Melanie’s new husband—they eloped—but she seems happier than I’ve ever seen her. Liz has always been very positive about her marriage, even though she isn’t the emotional type. And Molly, who’s in a relatively new relationship—she’s been with her girlfriend for about three months—seems really happy. I’m pleased for all of them.

  I just wish…

  I don’t know what I wish. I don’t think I actually want a boyfriend, because I haven’t been looking for one, and in the age of the internet, if I wanted a date, it would be easy enough to find one. But that isn’t what I want.

  It’s just that there’s a part of me that wants to be in love.

  And I know that’s silly. I can’t jump straight to being in love. That’s what dating is for, after all—it’s a vehicle to help you get to know the person that you eventually hope to fall in love with. But I don’t want to do it. I want to skip the early steps, the anxiety and the stress, and go straight to the point where you already know you like each other and there’s that degree of comfort and trust.

  I want romance, yes, but I want more than that. I want love.

  Chapter 4

  Dani

  As the night goes on, we split off into smaller groups. Liz goes up to bed early, citing exhaustion, and we all give her hell about it. Secretly, though, a part of me is wishing I’d thought of it. By retiring early, Liz is going to get our shared hotel room all to herself, probably for several hours. I bet she’ll take a long, hot bath and then put whatever she wants on TV until the next person comes up. As much fun as I’m having here on the casino floor, that does sound kind of nice.

  God, I’m getting old.

  Sandy finds a slot machine themed after her favorite movie and, delighted, insists on stopping to play it. It’s penny slots, which means she could probably spend a long time here, and knowing Sandy, she won’t get bored of the repetitive nature of this game. The low stakes won’t bother her, either.

  “Go on,” Molly says to the rest of us, pulling up a chair from a neighboring machine. “I’ll hang out here. You all go play.”

  “Are you sure?” Melanie hesitates.

  “Come back in half an hour and we’ll switch,” Molly says, grinning a little as Sandy wins a small sum and cheers at the machine’s bells and whistles.

  “You got it,” Melanie agrees, and bolts.

  “Where do you suppose she ran off to in such a hurry?” I ask Rhonda.

  “Craps, probably. I’ve seen her eyeing it all night.”

  “Really?”

  “Come on, it’s Melanie. You know she’s gotta be where the action is.”

  “Well, I hope she does well.”

  Personally, I’m afraid of craps. It’s always seemed a little too intense a game for me. Maybe that’s just because it’s always where you see the hardcore gamblers hanging out in movies, winning and losing big bucks on the turn of a dime. Whatever the reason, I know I won’t be following Melanie into that particular fray.

  “Want to get some food?” Rhonda asks. “The buffet’s open.”

  “Maybe later.” I’ve had the exact wrong amount to drink—enough that it’s making me feel wobbly and weird, but not enough to push me over the edge into that crazy euphoric state that takes a regular night and transforms it into an epic one. I know I’m too old to be drinking like that, but this is a special occasion, isn’t it? I flag down a server and order another vodka cranberry.

  “You should really come eat something if you’re going to keep drinking,” Rhonda advises.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “You go ahead.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I don’t know. Around. Look, I’ll meet you back at Sandy’s machine in half an hour. That’s when Melanie will be going back, too. And then we can all regroup and talk about what’s next.”

  Rhonda looks doubtful. “Are you going to be able to find it again?”

  “I’ll ask directions if I can’t.”

  She makes a worried face, but turns and heads toward the buffet, leaving me alone on the casino floor.

  It’s exhilarating. All the bright lights and loud noise, and the timelessness of the place. I know that it looks exactly the same on the floor of this casino whether it’s nine in the morning or the middle of the night. This place doesn’t close down. It’s all action, all the time.

  I make my way back to the roulette table. I was doing well here, after all, so I might as well try to keep my luck going. The croupier smiles when he sees me. I grab a stool between an older man and what looks like a group of middle-aged women reliving their youth and drop a couple of chips on number nineteen.

  “Excuse me, may I squeeze in?”

  I look up and almost lose my breath. It’s the man I saw in the lobby—the hot one, looking impossibly handsome in his suit, towering over me. The women next to me shuffle over uncomplainingly, apparently assuming that he and I know each other, and he takes the seat next to mine. I’m expecting a greeting, but instead, he carefully places his bets and folds his hands, waiting.

  The croupier calls for more bets. When none are forthcoming, he spins the wheel. Twelve. I lose. The man next to me wins a tidy stack of chips, which he accepts, then offers one to me.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “I distracted you,” he says in a slightly accented voice. “It’s my fault you lost.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I say. “I lost because I bet on the wrong number, not because I was distracted.”

  “Consider it
a gift, then,” he insists.

  “A gift of money?”

  He frowns. “I’ve offended you.”

  “Why are you giving me money? I don’t need your money.”

  “I apologize,” he says. “May I begin again? My name is Luciano Oliveira.”

  “Dani Bell. You seem like you might not be from around here.”

  “I’m Portuguese by birth, but I’ve been living in the States for twenty years.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  I’m wondering how old that makes him. He probably moved out of his parents’ place when he was around twenty, which probably—although not definitely—means I was right in my initial estimate. He’s somewhere around forty. But he’s an extremely good-looking forty with that thick hair—black threaded through with gray—muscular body, and chiseled face.

  It makes me wonder what he looked like when he was younger. Was he simply too unbearably attractive for this earth in his prime? Or perhaps he’s one of those men, like certain movie stars, who look better and better with age. Rhonda calls such men fine wines.

  “How has your night been going?” Luciano asks now, glancing at my pile of chips.

  “I’m up,” I tell him. “Roulette has been good to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I saw that you were here with a bride-to-be, earlier.”

  I admire his frankness in referring to our heated eye contact earlier. I think I would have been too embarrassed to bring it up.

  “That was my friend Sandy. She’s getting married next month.”

  “And you’re here for her bachelorette party,” he finishes, and I nod. “What do you have planned for it?”

  “You know, the usual. Drinks, gambling. Maybe we’ll try and see a show, if we can get tickets.”

  “That can be hard,” Luciano says pensively. “I might be able to help you, though.”

  “Oh really? See, now that’s the kind of gift you should offer a lady when you first meet her.”

  Luciano laughs. “Point taken. And I am truly sorry for having offended you. I live in Las Vegas, you see, and here in the casino, people often give away chips as favors and tokens of affection. I meant nothing untoward by it, I assure you.”

  “Don’t worry.” I smile. “How about those show tickets? What would I have to do?” I’m already picturing returning to the hotel room tonight with six tickets to something awesome, surprising everybody.

  “There are games through that door,” Luciano says, pointing. “Not everybody knows about that part of the casino, but there are carnival games where they give away extra tickets to events.”

  “And anyone can just walk in there?”

  “Not anyone. You need a platinum membership.”

  “Well, I haven’t got that.”

  “Well I do,” Luciano says with a smile. “And I’m thinking you could come along as my plus-one. What do you say, Dani Bell?”

  I swallow the rest of my drink quickly and pocket my chips. “Let’s go.”

  Behind the door, the maze-like casino floor gives way to regular aisles lined with games of skill and chance. It’s like a conference center featuring carnival games. I look from one to the next, awed. Most are a few dollars to play, and I feel the weight of my roulette winnings and know this is the way I want to spend them.

  “Pick a game,” Luciano says. “I’ll win you a prize.”

  “You’re good at these?”

  “I’ve dabbled,” he says with a grin. “It’s a great way to get last-minute tickets, so long as you don’t mind where you sit.”

  “What about this one?” I say, stopping at a basketball game. “How about I win you a prize?” I ask teasingly.

  Luciano frowns. “You sure about that? You have to make ten shots before the time runs out.”

  “I’m a pretty good shot,” I say. “I played basketball on my high school team, and I played on the intramural squad in college. We played against the official school team all the time to help them practice. We were pretty good.”

  Luciano shrugs. “Have at it, then.”

  I insert a few chips, take the ball, and ready myself. As the timer starts, I begin shooting. I’m pleased to find that I haven’t lost my touch—ball after ball finds the net, and when the time finally runs out, Luciano is laughing with delight behind me.

  “You made fifteen!” he crows. “You only had to make ten! Well done!”

  “Thanks!” I’m surprised at myself, blushing a little. “What did I win?”

  The machine prints out two tickets and I grab them excitedly. “Passes to the annual car expo?”

  Luciano’s eyes are wide. “That’s an amazing prize. Those tickets sell out so fast!” He hesitates. “You know, I’d be happy to buy them from you. I sell cars for a living, as it happens. I’d give you a fair price.”

  “What?” I clutch my tickets. “What makes you think I’m selling?”

  “Well, I only figured, you know, a car show…it seemed like it might not be your kind of event. It’s not going to have entertainment. It’s just…cars.”

  “I understand what a car show is, thanks,” I snap. “I happen to be an auto mechanic, and I go to dozens of them every year. I’m keeping my tickets.”

  “You’re an auto mechanic?” He raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “I just said I was, didn’t I? I own my own body shop in Riverside, California. Why the tone of surprise, anyway? What did you mean when you said it seemed like the car show might not be my kind of event?”

  He looks awkward. “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it; it was just a mistake.”

  “You meant that you thought women couldn’t be mechanics or interested in cars.” This is far from the first time I’ve encountered sexist attitudes toward my profession, and I admit that I’m perhaps a bit predisposed to being annoyed. Even in this day and age there are men—and plenty of them—who won’t allow me to personally work on their cars, who insist on one of my less-experienced employees doing all the actual wrench turning, just because I’m a woman. It’s frustrating and demeaning, and definitely not the kind of attitude I want to be around right now.

  “No,” Luciano protests. “It’s not that. I know women can be mechanics—of course I do.”

  “Then, what?” I’m not sure I believe him.

  “I just…I don’t expect mechanics to be so pretty,” he says, staring at the ground. “I apologize.”

  “That’s pretty sexist, too,” I tell him, although it doesn’t feel quite as bad to me as a flat-out belief that women can’t handle a wrench. “Like I’m just supposed to sit on pillows all day because I’m…”

  I can’t finish the sentence. I’m suddenly blushing so hard I can barely think. I don’t know why. I don’t care that he thinks I’m pretty.

  “Of course you’re a used-car salesman,” I say instead, trying to summon my anger back to displace the awkwardness and embarrassment I feel. “You’re just like all the others, always coming into my shop with their sleazy attitudes and trying to explain to me what a battery alternator is, like I don’t know. I suppose that manner comes in handy when you’re trying to unload junkers on women who actually don’t know any better.”

  “Hey.” Luciano frowns. “I’m not like that. I don’t sell used cars, and I certainly don’t manipulate my customers. I don’t think you should be making assumptions.”

  “I should be getting back to my friends,” I say, suddenly realizing that I’ve been gone for over an hour. If I wanted to be talked down to by men who didn’t think I understood my profession, I could have just stayed home. And Luciano is so infuriatingly attractive that I know—I just know—if I stay here and listen to him make excuses for his archaic, sexist behavior, I’ll get suckered right back in to liking him.

  “Thanks for using your platinum pass to get me back here,” I say. “I enjoyed the opportunity.”

  “You’re just going to leave?”

  “I think that’s for the best.”

  Frowning, he escorts me over to the d
oor that leads out to the main casino.

  “You know, you really are making a lot of assumptions about me, and I don’t think you’re being fair. I work with plenty of women in the automotive industry—”

  “Yeah? Who? Models who lie around on the hoods of cars?”

  “That’s not…we don’t do that in my showroom.”

  “I bet you release a calendar with hot chicks on it,” I say as we pass through the door. “I bet you employ a hot receptionist with a short skirt to greet your customers when they come in the door. Right?”

  “Why are you doing this?” His voice is slightly raised. “I was just trying to tell you I thought you were pretty!”

  “By assuming I was incapable of being good at my job?”

  “I never even said that!”

  “Dani!” cries a voice behind me. It’s Melanie, suddenly, gripping my elbow. “Where the hell have you been? We were supposed to meet up half an hour ago!”

  “I lost track of time,” I say, my eyes still locked on Luciano, who is staring intensely at me. God, this feels weirdly intimate. It feels awkward that we’re doing it in front of Melanie.

  “Everyone’s up in the hotel room,” she says. “We’re getting room service and watching a rom-com.”

  “Okay.” I let her lead me away, looking back over my shoulder.

  Luciano openly stares after me, his gaze following me until Melanie pulls me around a corner and out of sight.

  Chapter 5

  Luciano

  Dani’s words stay with me as I make my way across the floor toward the bar. A used-car salesman.

  I know exactly what she meant when she said that. I’m familiar with the stereotype. She’s talking about sleazy men in cheap suits, men who sucker people into buying cars that are worth far less than their sticker price—or worse, lemons—by buttering the customers up and making them feel special. How could she think I was such a person? Just because I said I sold cars?

  The other accusations she made now run through my mind, making me cringe. She called me a sexist, and suggested that I would hire a receptionist strictly for her looks… My mind hits a snag here. Becky, the receptionist at my Los Angeles showroom, is a model. Does that make Dani right?