Lindsay doesn’t reply. She knows what her friend is up to. She’s trying to play matchmaker again. Lindsay made the mistake of telling Dagmar about the loss of her sexual mojo, and she’s been determined to find her a man ever since.
“So, where have you been working in Africa?” Dagmar asks him.
“A few different places, mostly central Africa.” He names off a few countries.
“Those are not exactly tourist destinations.”
“No, they aren’t,” he agrees.
They’re standing in the middle of a crowded train, holding onto one of the center poles. Lindsay pulls her phone out and tries to ignore their conversation. However, she can’t stop herself from listening as Giovanni explains how he’s been working for an organization that brings doctors and other medical relief workers to some of the poorest and most dangerous places in the world.
“And you are a surgeon?”
“Yes, a plastic surgeon. I work mostly with children.”
“Mein Gott, you are so noble!” Dagmar gives him a dazzling smile then turns to Lindsay. “He is like a saint! Don’t you agree?”
Lindsay scoffs. ‘Saint’ isn’t exactly the word she’d use to describe Giovanni.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, quickly. “Though it can be rewarding work.”
“But it is amazing what you are doing. There is no reason to be modest!”
Lindsay tries not to laugh.
“How long will you be in Berlin?” Dagmar purrs, flipping her hair to one side. “I hope it is a nice long stay.”
“Not long. I’m flying to Rome after I leave here. I have an apartment there.”
“You do? This is wonderful news!” Her blue eyes widen with delight. “I love Rome. You should invite us there for a visit!” She looks over to Lindsay. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Dagmar starts telling him how Lindsay is a talented sculptor and would certainly enjoy all the amazing art in Rome.
His eyes go to her, but she stares down at her phone, pretending she didn’t hear. If this were any other guy, she would have already figured out a way to dump him, but unfortunately, he’s not just any other guy. Plus, despite everything, she feels bad about him hurting his hand in that fight.
“You must leave your number with us tonight,” Dagmar insists. “Lindsay and I would be very happy to show you around Berlin.”
The train suddenly veers into a tunnel and before she knows it, Dagmar has hurled herself to the side, pushing Lindsay right into Giovanni’s arms.
“Hey!” Lindsay yells.
“Oops!” Dagmar laughs. “I lost my balance!”
Lindsay is pressed firmly into Giovanni’s chest, his arm wrapped around her back. “Are you okay?” he asks with a smile as he looks down into her face.
The whole thing is so comically orchestrated, she knows he sees right through it. “I’m fine,” she insists, righting herself. He’s tall and well-muscled, and a part of her is reluctant to pull away.
“Oh, my goodness, excuse me!” Dagmar laughs again. “It is so nice to have a big strong man here.”
Lindsay can’t help laughing as she rolls her eyes. She knows Dagmar means well, but can be over enthusiastic when she gets an idea in her head. They met not long after she arrived in Berlin. Dagmar is a fellow artist, a painter who’s well-connected in the local arts community. She paints large, alien-looking flowers with oil on canvas. She also holds weekly dinner parties—her Künstlersalon, or artist’s salon, as she calls them—and has been an incredible resource in a foreign city.
Dagmar starts quizzing Giovanni about his favorite places in Rome, still trying to draw Lindsay into the conversation. She ignores them both as she scrolls through her phone, checking her e-mail. Their train is still rumbling underground when something catches her attention, and she glances up at her reflection in the dark window. With surprise, she sees it’s Giovanni.
He’s standing beside her talking to Dagmar, but his eyes are intent, watching her in the glass.
Lindsay doesn’t move or look away and for a long moment, they study each other, the two of them traveling into the Berlin night.
When their train arrives at the station where Giovanni should separate, he doesn’t leave. “I’ve decided to come out with you two,” he announces. His eyes linger on her again, but Lindsay looks away this time.
“That is wonderful!” Dagmar shrieks.
“Yeah, wonderful,” Lindsay mutters.
As the three of them board the final crowded train to Potsdamer Platz, Lindsay grabs Dagmar’s arm and pulls her back. “I know what you’re doing, but I’m not interested in him.”
“Are you crazy? He is a handsome doctor and I can tell he likes you!”
Lindsay doesn’t have a chance to reply as the train doors close. Dagmar’s eyes light up when she sees someone she knows, saying she’ll be right back. Meanwhile, Lindsay is pushed right next to Giovanni again.
Neither of them speaks. She notices him holding the center grip with his right hand and feels a twinge of guilt. She glances down at his left, but it’s hidden from view. He’s wearing a gray button-down shirt with a white T-shirt beneath it. His pants aren’t jeans, but some kind of dark corduroy material. He’s turned slightly away from her and, in profile, his features are serious, intense even. Between his gold coloring and the determined set of his jaw, Giovanni looks like a Viking warrior ready to battle his way into Valhalla.
“I can’t believe you’re Italian,” she says.
“Yes, I know. I get that a lot.”
His lips are nice, she decides, when he turns back toward her. Full and even, with a sensual dip at the corners. She tries to remember if she ever licked that little dip. “Your mother should have named you Olaf. It would have made your life a lot easier.”
A smile pulls on his mouth. “I’ll tell her you said so.”
“Please do. I’m sure Francesca would enjoy that.”
He shifts position, studying her with interest. “That’s right, I forgot. You’ve met my mom, haven’t you?”
Lindsay nods. She met her at Natalie and Anthony’s wedding. His mother was rich, beautiful, and expected all of her commands followed to the letter. She worried Anthony’s family would disapprove of her sister, but that turned out to be wrong.
She glances down. “How’s your hand?”
“It’s good.”
Lindsay arranges her face into one of concern. “Maybe you should go back to your hotel and ice it some more.”
“I’ll do it on one condition—if you come with me.”
“Back to your hotel?”
“That’s right.”
She stares at him. “And be like, what? Your nurse?”
“No, be yourself. I just want to talk to you.”
“What do we have to talk about?”
He licks his lips and seems slightly uncomfortable. “I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Not here.”
Lindsay gives him a look. “If this is your strategy to get me into bed again, it’s seriously pathetic. I’m surprised you can’t do better.”
“I’m not trying to get you into bed. I just want to have a conversation.”
She’s almost tempted to go with him. Not because she wants to sleep with Giovanni again, but because it would be the perfect way to get rid of him. She could drop him off and leave.
“I believe this is territory we’ve already covered, and like I said I’m not interested in any ‘conversation.’” She makes air quotes with her fingers.
Giovanni doesn’t say anything, only studies her. Finally, he speaks, lowering his voice. “Do you remember the ice cream?”
“The what?” Her pulse jumps.
“The vanilla ice cream.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
Lindsay turns away and does her best to ignore the pleasure rolling through her. The tingling between her thighs as she imagines him l
icking it off her again. She remembers how he brought just the right amount of patience to the task.
But then she also remembers how he treated her afterward and the tingling stops.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no more vanilla ice cream for you. Not now. Not ever.” She turns back to him. “I hope it wasn’t a favorite flavor.”
He shrugs. “Luckily, there are so many flavors to choose from that I don’t have to settle for only one.”
Lindsay snorts softly. “My philosophy exactly.”
The casino is housed in a large building with a two-story glass front. The words ‘Spielbank Europa’ are displayed in big blue letters. Lindsay is pleased to discover a crowd of tourists standing out front and hopes there are more inside. At the door, they show their passports and pay the entrance fee.
“I am going to find Werner,” Dagmar tells her over the noise. “I’ll see you at the tables later.”
Lindsay heads directly for the cage. Unfortunately, Giovanni is still at her side. “Why don’t you go play slots or something,” she tells him. “There’s roulette and blackjack upstairs.”
“Forget it. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
She does her best to try and ignore him when she sees Varik, the pit boss, and heads directly over. He’s a handsome Turkish guy in his mid-thirties who’s balding a little on top. He hugs her and she’s immediately enveloped in his spicy cologne. Varik knows everything and everybody.
“How are you tonight, sexy lady?”
“I’m great.” Lindsay puts her mouth to his ear. “I saw a group of tourists out front. Please tell me there are more.”
He smiles knowingly. “Part of their group is still here, but I think you’ll have better luck at table five.”
“Hmm, thanks. I’ll check it out.”
He eyes Giovanni lurking behind her. Lindsay doesn’t introduce him, and Varik doesn’t ask any questions.
She goes to the cage and chats with Petra, the woman who’s working behind the glass tonight, as she buys a couple thousand euros’ worth of chips.
Giovanni studies her hefty stack. “You’re here to play poker?”
“It looks that way.”
“So you’re not here to meet men after all.”
She shrugs. “Who says I’m not here for both? There’s some hot guys who play cards.”
He doesn’t say anything, but much to her irritation follows her over to the poker floor.
“Look, despite what Dagmar said, I don’t actually need or want a bodyguard. I’m just here to have some fun. Why don’t you go do the same?”
“I don’t gamble.”
Lindsay bites her tongue before she tells him she doesn’t either. Skill is foremost in poker, though a bit of luck certainly doesn’t hurt. “You’re going to be very bored then. Why did you bother coming with us at all?”
He glances around. “I wanted to see what kind of trouble you were up to.”
“What are you, my keeper now?”
“No, but I suspect you need one.”
She moves to one of the empty cocktail tables in back which gives her a nice view of the floor. It’s crowded, but not overly so, and she sees plenty of tourists mixed in with a few of the regulars.
Her eyes go to table five and she immediately sees what Varik was talking about. There’s some heavyset guy with glasses playing on tilt. He’s drinking too much and talking too loudly. There’s a large stack of chips in front of him—by her estimate, a few thousand euros—and she suspects those aren’t his winnings.
As she watches the floor, Giovanni is watching her again. He might only be trying to get her in bed again, but her spidey senses are tingling.
There’s some kind of classical music coming from his pocket, and he digs his phone out. His tense expression becomes worse.
“Something wrong?”
He doesn’t answer her but goes quiet, listening to a message from someone.
Lindsay continues her careful analysis of the floor, trying to decide what her best play is here. The guy on tilt is at a table with no openings, and she’s not sure if she should wait.
When Sabine, one of the waitresses, walks past, Giovanni flags her over and orders a beer. Lindsay orders her usual mineral water.
After a short while, he puts his phone away. “How often do you come here?” he asks.
“Only occasionally.”
“You seem to know everybody.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugs. “I like to be friendly.”
When their drinks arrive, she picks up her glass, still keeping her eye on table five. She’s decided she’s going to wait it out.
“Wasn’t your dad some kind of famous poker player?”
She sips her water. “Famous is a strong word, but yes, he played cards.” In truth, her dad—who’s no longer alive—was once a world-class player. He won a few bracelets at the World Series of Poker and even won the Main Event one year. Unfortunately, he also had an addiction to both gambling and women.
“What was his name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to Google him.”
Lindsay frowns to herself. She doesn’t want Giovanni nosing around in her business.
Suddenly, she sees someone getting up to leave table five. There’s finally an opening, and it’s not just any opening—it’s the Jesus seat right next to the guy on tilt.
“My table just opened. I have to go!” She quickly grabs her tray of chips along with her mineral water and heads over as one of the regulars tries to swoop in like a vulture. She gets there just in time too.
“Excuse me,” she says breathlessly, as she slides into the chair. “I’d love to join the game.”
The table is all men, which is typical for Berlin. Most women here seem to prefer tournaments over cash games. What she’s found is that male players usually eye her with desire, annoyance, or indifference. The indifferent men being the ones to watch out for, as they’re typically the real card players.
The men who are annoyed by her are often chauvinistic assholes, but she’s learned to use that to her advantage. Men who try to show her up or teach her a lesson typically don’t play well and will often find they’ve lost all their money to her.
At this table, she sees the men are mostly looking at her with desire, though one of the regulars is displeased. Lindsay nods a greeting at him, and he grudgingly nods in return. She’s played him a few times. He’s one of the chauvinistic assholes who used to make snide remarks about how she should go play the slots, how poker isn’t a game for women. That is, until she cleaned his clock a few times.
He doesn’t say that anymore.
The guy on her right, the one drinking too much and playing badly on tilt, is giving her a lascivious grin.
“Guten Abend,” he leers.
Lindsay smiles. “Guten Abend.”
“Oh, you are American?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I like Americans.” He leans closer and lowers his voice. His breath is strong enough to kill a cockroach. “Especially beautiful American women.”
She resists the impulse to gag. “Thank you.”
Her usual poker calm comes over her as she sets up her stack of chips and mineral water. They’re playing Texas Hold’em—her favorite game. The same game she played with her dad at the kitchen table as a little girl. She adored him when she was growing up. He’d swoop in like a handsome prince, and everything was wonderful. Her sister was smart enough to stop trusting him early on, but it took Lindsay a long time to get to that point. Just like their mom, she always believed his lies.
The cards are dealt and she spends the next two hours in concentration, playing her best game. Cockroach Breath bemoans every lousy hand, losing one large pot after another. He makes a ‘tsk tsk’ noise toward her every time she raises and tries to offer unsolicited advice.
“Big mistake,” he tells her when she raises after the turn, which brings a king. Happily, her hole cards are pocket cowboys. “
You are going to lose a lot of money playing that way.”
Lindsay only nods politely. She’s pretty sure he has a pair of sevens, which he’s dumb enough to think is the best hand at the table.
Somewhere after she wins her third large pot, Cockroach Breath starts to eye her with suspicion.
“What is this? Beginner’s luck?”
She shrugs innocently. “I guess so.”
The other new players, the ones who figured out it wasn’t beginner’s luck, have already left. A couple of the regulars drift over and take their place. One of them tries to outplay her with kings over nines, but her instincts tell her he’s bluffing, and she’s right.
So far she’s up fifteen hundred and is really in the zone. Her best night ever.
A waitress, one she doesn’t know, brings her a fresh mineral water. Lindsay sips it as she glances around, wondering where Giovanni went. She saw him wandering through a little while ago, but doesn’t see him anymore. It’s possible he finally went back to his hotel.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t mention any of this to Anthony.
The problem is she doesn’t believe much in luck.
Eventually, Dagmar comes over and stands beside her for a short while, smiling. She leans closer and whispers in Lindsay’s ear, “You are having an amazing night! And this guy next to you is almost giving you his money.”
Lindsay doesn’t reply. In truth, she’s starting to feel a little sorry for Cockroach Breath, despite the way he keeps grabbing her leg under the table and pinching her thigh. She’s been shoving his hand away for the last hour and finally had to kick him hard enough to make him yelp. Unfortunately, he’s been telling her his whole sad-sack story, how his wife left him for another man recently.
“I saw it coming,” he bemoans. “I begged her on my knees to stay, but she still left me.”
“Love isn’t worth the heartache,” Lindsay informs him. “Trust me, you’re better off alone.”
“You are wrong. Love is everything.” He picks up his drink, bleary-eyed, and takes another large swallow.
Lindsay shakes her head, surprised to hear such a romantic sentiment coming from him. Apparently, he’s been on a two-week bender with no end in sight.
Not that this stops her from cleaning him out. Or almost cleaning him out. When he’s down to his last few hundred, Lindsay folds her cards intentionally and tells him maybe he should just go home and sleep it off.
Some Like It Hotter (Sweet Life in Seattle #3) Page 3