by Ava Miles
~ Dare Valley Meets Paris Mini-Series ~
Volume One
Margie & Evan
© 2015 Ava Miles
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Self-made billionaire inventor and infamous bad boy Evan Michaels has lost the biggest gamble of his life in a poker game. For one month, he must live and work like a "normal" person in the small town of Dare Valley and give up his playboy ways. When Evan meets Margie Lancaster, his landlord and new boss, he's not so sure he can make it a month.
To all the women who baked bread and handed down their recipes.
And to my divine helpers, who helped me remember the power of love in bread.
Author’s Note
When I started writing this mini-series, Paris' famous poker venue, Aviation Club de France, was still open. Unfortunately, a few months ago, it closed. Because of its lavish history, I decided not to change this venue to another one.
Chapter 1
Paris, France
Evan Michaels was considering the biggest gamble of his life in the famous Aviation Club de France poker room.
Rising poker star Jane Wilcox had just thrown out an enticing and unconventional side bet. He didn’t have enough poker chips to stay in the game, but if he accepted Jane’s terms, he’d have a chance to play his ridiculous hand of trip kings and win the day. Still, while side bets were often brutal, this one was in a category of its own. Her words still hung in the air—“You have to lose your billionaire ways for a month and live in our small town, Dare Valley, Colorado, like a normal person.”
Was this the sign he’d been waiting for? For two years, Evan had been unable to invent anything new. His company’s growth had stagnated, and his business partner was concerned, to say the least. On a recent yachting trip to Greece, Evan had watched the sun rise over the Mediterranean and shouted out across the water that he wanted to invent again, that he wanted his creative fire returned to him. He’d seen a statue of the Greek goddess Artemis on an excursion into town the day before, and it had sparked something inside him.
Evan recognized the problem—his hubris had drained him of the very things that had made him special. He would do anything to regain what he’d lost, but this side bet? While he’d never been a “normal” person, he knew what it was to be poor.
And it totally sucked.
Rhett Butler Blaylock, Jane’s former boss and the only other player still in the game, was trying not to smirk at her suggestion. Evan had played against the World Series of Poker champion in Paris before. And won a few times. Being a billionaire at twenty-nine meant he had brains and luck.
Neither of those characteristics had ever impressed these two when their paths had crossed in the past. Point of fact, Evan had hit on Jane years ago, back when she was posing as Rhett’s poker babe, the mysterious Raven. What could he say? She’d been smoking hot in a poker babe kind of way. So when she had blinked at him flirtatiously one day at a casino bar, it had seemed only natural to slide his hand around her waist and suggest they go somewhere quiet to play a game of strip poker. She’d turned him down flat after telling him in an all-too-embarrassing fashion that she hadn’t been batting her eyelashes at him at all. There was something in her eye.
“And you have to be celibate while you’re in our town,” Rhett added, confirming he knew about Evan’s misunderstanding with Jane. It probably didn’t hurt that Evan had a reputation as an international playboy—even if that reputation was an exaggeration. One incredible thing about being a young, handsome billionaire was how many gorgeous women liked to be seen with him. Still, most of what the tabloids reported about him was total codswallop.
“Celibate, huh?” he croaked, his poker face starting to slip. Just because he wasn’t a womanizer didn’t mean he didn’t like women. Even discussing a bet like this made him feel like he was giving away his man card.
He eyed the beautiful Parisian model who’d accompanied him to the tournament. She matched his height of six-three in her killer stilettos and was currently looking at him with a stunned expression on her face. Paris’ bad-boy billionaire, Evan Michaels, going celibate for a month? The lights might as well blink out systematically across Paris. She didn’t know his reputation was as fake as her blond hair.
Before amassing his fortune, he’d been a nerdy scientist with pimply skin, a lanky frame, and horrible curly hair. Celibacy had been par for the course. Of course, that secret would go to his grave. He’d been a recluse then, working for endless hours on school and the inventions that would make him his fortune.
“Celibate,” Jane drolled as if tasting the sweetness of the word on her tongue. “Rhett, I like where you’re going with this.”
“If boy wonder wants a side bet because he can’t pony up the half a million dollars to make the raise,” the not-so-gentlemanly Southerner said, “it’s going to have to be a humdinger.”
They both knew he could cut them a check for that kind of money in a flash without blinking. But that’s what Evan loved about poker. No one cared that he had a fortune in reserves in one of Paris’ finest banks, BNP Paribas. Everyone played the cards they were dealt with the chips they had in front of them. But the Aviation Club, which had been founded in 1907 by Europe’s daring aviators of the day, was a place where rules were meant to be bent.
The poker room Evan had secured for their private use dripped with antique crystal chandeliers, carried the scent of cigars smoked in times past, and conveyed the vulgar flash of old money. Even better, it kept the paparazzi and other bystanders away. Evan focused better without people staring at him. Right now, the only people watching were the four players who had already busted out of the poker game and all the players’ significant others for the night.
These onlookers seemed thrown for a loop. Jane’s fiancé was giving Evan a puzzled glance, and even Rhett’s sweet-as-honey wife was openly staring at him. He could tell they were trying to figure out the subtext behind the side bet. He gave them a toothy smile—the one his money had turned from average to spectacular—as a show of pure bravado.
“Define normal,” he said to Jane, buying time. “Because, no offense, but Rhett’s not exactly what I would call a normal person.” The Southerner was larger than life, topping out at six foot six, and there were enough down-home colloquialisms in his playbook to send even the most cunning linguist running for a dictionary.
Jane traced her lower lip thoughtfully. “I define normal as you living on the first salary you ever drew… Oh, and you can’t spend your time idly—you’ll have to get a job.”
His first salary? He cringed, which only made the corner of Jane’s mouth tip up. His first job had been as a research assistant at Massachusetts Institute of Technology for the grand total of two thousand and three hundred dollars per month. This was so going to suck if he lost. But what if this was the price he needed to pay to regain his genius?
“For me, it means you’ll need to dress like everyone else,” Rhett said, gesturing to his gunmetal gray tailored suit from Dolce & Gabbana. “And go without your expensive aftershave and all the crap you put in your hair. I caught a whiff of you earlier, Evan, and while you smell as nice as a widow angling for another husband at Sunday church, you smell like money.”
If any man other than Rhett had said that, it might have made him uncomfortable.
“That’s Tom Ford’s Private Blend ‘Noir de Noir,’ you aftershave sniffer, you. Now stop. All your compliments might go to my head.”
Evan could ditch the aftershave, sure, but his hair products? They’d changed everything. His hair would resemble a tangled ball of yarn in a heartbeat
if their small town had even an ounce of humidity, and while he could handle a lot of setbacks, this was one he’d rather avoid. Hubris, he heard echo distantly in his mind.
Right.
“Like your head isn’t already as big as a blimp,” Rhett bandied back. “Too bad your pockets aren’t as flush tonight. So what it’s going to be, Evan?”
“You don’t have to do it, cherie,” Chloe entreated, flicking her long blond hair over the shoulder of her strapless black gown. “Why would you want to be poor and celibate for a month? It’s so bourgeois. And where is this small town in Colorado anyway? It could not even begin to compare with Paris.”
No one needed to remind him of how priceless Paris was. He’d lost his virginity in the City of Lights at twenty-one. He’d decided to make it his home after that. If the gorgeous women weren’t enough of a selling point, there was the food and the art scene. Evan had traveled the world over on his private jet, and few cities could top Paris’ magic.
“Dare Valley has Paris beat hands-down in lots of categories, sugar,” Rhett said to Chloe with an exaggerated drawl. “But we don’t need to debate its merits. What we need to know is whether Evan has the chops to follow through on this little side bet. Personally, I don’t think he does. What do you think, Jane?”
The former poker babe played with the fringe on her red flapper-style dress. Dressed like that, she looked like she’d been plucked out of the 1920s, when the Aviation Club had risen to prominence. She fit in perfectly with the old-world décor of wood paneling, brass, and warm lighting.
“Personally I think he’s bored.” She fingered her chip protector, an old Roman coin with Diana, goddess of the hunt, stamped on the ancient metal.
Goosebumps rose along his skin. Wasn’t Diana Artemis in Greek mythology? Was that another sign?
“I think he’s learning one of life’s greatest truths,” Jane continued. “Money can’t buy happiness.”
Evan felt his poker face slip yet again. Money hadn’t been able to restore his inspiration. And truth be told, he was bored, not to mention tired of people using him for his money. Of course, he wasn’t one to talk. In the beginning, he’d used his money to get what he’d never had: possessions, women, respect.
He’d grown up as an impoverished genius surrounded by people who didn’t understand him—an odd duck. His father had left when he was seven, and after that, his mother cleaned houses to make ends meet. They moved into a one-bedroom apartment in a bad neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. At school, he was so far ahead of the rest of the students that he kept getting bumped into classes with kids who were years older than him. But MIT scouted him, and he entered the elite school at the tender age of fifteen to pursue a degree in quantum mechanics. By twenty, he graduated with a doctorate and had three patents to his name. In all that time, he’d never had a girlfriend.
Suffice it to say, he’d made up for lost time after losing his virginity in Paris while on a much-needed vacation. But even the beautiful women who offered themselves to him didn’t excite him any more.
“I thought everyone knew money didn’t buy happiness,” Rhett drawled, kicking back in his chair. “Even people without a pot to piss in know that.”
Evan stared them down. To bow out of the side bet now would be like reverting to the weakling he’d been. There was no way he was going to do that. And if this was the answer he’d asked for, well, even in Greek mythology, the twists and turns were what made the quest interesting, right?
What was he thinking? He was acting like he was going to lose. Focusing his mind on the positive for a moment, he returned to a state of calm. He’d asked for the side bet because he knew his odds of being beaten were almost zilch. He didn’t need to take a second glance at the cards in his hands or the ones laid out in the Texas Hold‘em spread to tell him that.
The dealer was waiting, his bushy eyebrow raised in eagerness. Evan was sure the man had heard some interesting side bets in his time.
“I accept your conditions for the side bet,” he said and threw out his hand to signal the dealer to lay down the next card on the board: the much-feared River card. The ace of spades that surfaced on the River changed his fate in an instant; there were a couple of hands that could beat him now.
He cast a glance to see Jane and Rhett’s reactions, but their poker faces gave nothing away. Not that he was surprised. This was why they played professionally, and he only dabbled.
When it came time for everyone to lay down their cards, Evan felt a spurt of something hot and juicy in his belly. It wasn’t lust, and it took him a moment to identify the sensation. It was excitement—something he hadn’t felt in way too long.
Jane laid her cards down first, the engraved visage of Artemis winking at him from her chip protector.
She’d beaten him with trip aces. He barely glanced at Rhett’s hand. There was no way the man could beat Jane’s hand. No one could.
Not even him.
Evan laid his cards down, his fingers trembling slightly. There it was again, that unexpected excitement. This was the answer he’d asked for on that lonely morning on the Med. He knew it down to his bones.
“Guess I’m going to Dare Valley.”
Chapter 2
Small towns had never held much of a pull on Evan, not since visiting his grandparents’ farm outside of Champagne, Illinois, when he was three. A goat had bitten him in the behind, and he’d cried the whole way back to Chicago. That was the breadth of his experience with the rural life.
Dare Valley wasn’t a farming community, but it might as well have been. The population topped out at twenty thousand people. Sure, it wasn’t totally dead—there was a highly ranked liberal arts university and Mac Maven’s sleek boutique poker hotel called The Grand Mountain. Not that he was going to be playing poker there on his measly twenty-three hundred dollars a month. He was back to living on a budget.
There was no better proof of that than the Rent-A-Wreck 1988 tan Dodge Aries he was driving. He’d picked it up at a car dealer in Denver after a wickedly uncomfortable ride in coach class—his attempt to get back into the spirit of being normal. The plane ride had reminded him why he preferred first class. He hadn’t slept a wink with his long legs folded uncomfortably into the cramped space. But it would all be worth it if this crazy gamble worked.
He pulled into the driveway of the massive Victorian home that had a room for rent. The local newspaper had a wealth of real estate ads, but this place was his top choice. The owner, Margie Lancaster, had sent a prompt and welcoming reply to his query. He was about to be interviewed for the room, and since he liked the look of the pictures and it fit nicely into his budget at five hundred dollars a month—utilities included—he hoped it would work out.
The door to his car creaked audibly when he opened it, and he had to slam it shut to get it to close properly. The tan beauty was a stick shift with one hundred and eleven thousand miles on it. In Paris, he had four cars at his disposal: a Rolls-Royce Phantom, a Lamborghini Veneno Roadster, a Koenigsegg Agera S, and a Ferrari F12berlinetta. Sometimes he drove, but he wasn’t above letting his chauffeur ferry him around. Parking in Paris could be a nightmare—notwithstanding the insane traffic.
The two-story Victorian had a circular eating nook off the front porch and a fabulous tower atop it. As he rang the bell to the house, he felt a spurt of adrenaline surge through his blood again, the kind he usually experienced when pushing one of his race cars to one hundred and twenty miles per hour. He’d gambled away a month of his life in a poker game, which most people would regard as a bad thing. But even though he was wearing off-the-rack clothes and his business partner thought he’d gone cuckoo, he was on an adventure. He hoped to reclaim his creative fire and make something new—an invention surpassing everything he’d done before.
No one in Dare Valley, save Jane and Rhett and their better halves, knew who he was, and he planned to keep it that way. As poker players said, he was all in. He’d made Jane and Rhett and their partners swe
ar not to give him away. The cover story was that Evan was an artist they’d met in Paris. He was between jobs, so they’d talked him into visiting Dare Valley for a month.
People in small towns were notoriously curious about newcomers and would undoubtedly ask for his story. It would make his life easier to say he knew people in town, so the decision to include Jane and Rhett in his cover story made sense. Still, Evan was a little wary about trusting Rhett not to spill the beans. While he didn’t know the man well, he knew him enough not to consider him sleuth material.
The door of the Victorian opened then, and shock held Evan in place for a moment. He’d expected a sweet elderly lady—after all, weren’t they normally the sort to own sprawling old homes?—but the woman who stood in front of him could have been the inspiration for Alexandros of Antioch’s rendition of the Venus de Milo, one of Evan’s favorite sculptures in the Louvre.
Her sable-colored hair was cut to the chin, and her emerald eyes matched her dress. The tango music that was playing softly in the background suited her. He could easily see her in a red dress doing a simple salida step with a man worthy of leading her. His nostrils filled with cinnamon, and for a fleeting moment, before he realized she was baking something, he thought the scent was hers. Surely this woman was all spice and sex.
When his gaze scanned the rest of her, he couldn’t help but appreciate her curves. His mouth dried up instantly, thinking about what it would feel like to run his hands down the perfect figure-eight shape of her body.
Then he remembered he was supposed to be celibate for a month, and his Ferris wheel of excitement screeched to a halt.
“Hi,” he said, extending his hand, trying to be more professional now that he was done gawking. “I’m Evan Murray. Thanks for agreeing to show me the room.”
His tongue didn’t trip over the alias, which he’d practiced saying in the rearview mirror all the way from Denver. Since everyone was Googleable these days, he’d decided to use an alias in Dare Valley.