by Alix Nichols
“Wow. You’re the bluntest belle I’ve ever met.”
“And you’re the most gorgeous Gypsy I’ve ever met.”
Where did that come from? Must be the vodka.
The corners of his mouth twitched. “So refreshingly honest. Why, I’m flattered.”
She looked away.
Honest, my foot.
He wasn’t just the most handsome Gypsy she’d ever seen—he was the most spectacular man, all ethnicities included.
Now, that was honest.
She turned to him and cleared her throat. “Shall we go back? Target amounts and all.”
“Sure.”
The sleek-haired dealer was leaving when they returned to their seats. Both giggling Brits and Greasy Hair were gone. The elderly couple and the bimbo still played, but judging by their dismal faces and the measly number of chips in front of them, they weren’t doing well.
Kes had been right about the dealer.
“What does your gut tell you about this one?” Amanda eyed the middle-aged man who had taken over for his colleague.
“He’s the best.”
Her face fell.
Kes grinned. “Not for the house, ma belle, for us. Move closer so I can see your cards without twisting my neck.”
She moved as close to him as their chairs allowed.
“Now relax and do exactly as I say.”
Amanda glanced at Kes, but he had already turned his full attention to the cards.
* * *
For the next hour, they played in near silence. The few times Amanda tried to strike up a conversation, Kes shushed her with a smile and a whispered “counting for two here, remember?”
And count he did.
Amanda’s job was easy: she hit when he said hit, stood when he said stand, and split her cards when he said split. Their chip stacks kept growing until Kes laid his palms on the table and mouthed to her, Stop.
She gave him a puzzled look. “Now?”
He nodded and then tipped the dealer. “I’m going to call it a night.”
“But we’re winning. Please, you can’t stop now.”
“Oh yes, I can.” He leaned to whisper in her ear, “And so should you before they ask us to back off. Besides, this deck is becoming too hot.”
She hesitated. The seven hundred euros she’d won wasn’t the amount she’d been hoping for when she jumped on the train at Saint-Lazare. It would hardly solve her problems . . . but it would pay her mortgage next month. In spite of the alcohol in her system, Amanda knew she would’ve lost half her savings tonight had it not been for Kes. Continuing to play without him would be unwise.
“What about that drink you promised me?” he asked.
“Sure.” She stood and smoothed her dress. “Lead the way, maestro.”
He took her to the bar where they climbed onto tall barstools and ordered their drinks. The voucher cocktail was as bad as Kes had predicted it would be. Amanda winced at its candy taste and pushed the glass away.
“How about a mojito?” Kes asked. “It’s one of their more decent concoctions.”
She nodded.
As he passed her the glass, their fingertips brushed.
Amanda couldn’t help noting how pleasant that contact was. Actually, pleasant was an understatement. It was electrifying.
Easy, girl. No one-night stands, remember?
“So, what is it like, the life of a gambler?” she asked.
“I’m not a gambler. Well, not in the usual sense, anyway.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I’m a card counter. I’ve made a decent living from it for five years.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“So you see this as a job?”
He nodded. “That’s exactly how I see it. I have a job that I like and am good at.”
She felt a sharp pang at his words.
Aren’t you lucky?
“What’s wrong, Amelie?”
“Nothing.” She gave him one of her fake smiles. “And what about five years ago—what was your occupation then? Palm-reading or playing the accordion in the métro?”
He smirked. “So tactful and unprejudiced. Have you applied for sainthood yet?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“If you were trying to imply those are common Gypsy occupations, you’re wrong. At least, as far as the French Gitans are concerned.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Gitan men are typically itinerant vendors or metalworkers,” he said. “My dad, for example, deals in scrap metal. Some are lumbermen. The women are usually artisans or peddlers. In the fall, everyone is a grape picker. We don’t engage in the trades you mentioned.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize Gitans were the Gypsy elite. Please forgive my ignorance.”
He moved a little closer and flashed her a toothy smile. “I see you’re determined to insult me. But here’s the thing—I’m not easily insulted.”
“Is that so?”
“We Gypsies are a thick-skinned lot.” He shrugged. “Can’t afford to be touchy.”
She blushed, suddenly embarrassed. Had she been too rude? She had, but not out of prejudice. Well, not only out of prejudice. She was trying to drive him away so she wouldn’t have to make tough decisions when they finished their drinks.
Still, he didn’t deserve her spite—he had just saved her from aggravating her already precarious financial situation.
“I was impressed with your memory and your mental arithmetic,” she said, offering him the olive branch of a sincere compliment.
“At school, I was good at math.”
“Did you go to college?”
He shook his head. “I hadn’t even considered it.”
“Why not?”
“For one, a college education isn’t something my family believes in. And then . . . I stumbled on this book at a flea market when I was seventeen.”
“What book?”
“The Blackjack System. I read it in one day, reread it three more times, and then practiced with my cousin.”
“Couldn’t you practice online?”
“I did that, too. But the system works only with a finite number of decks on the table and a human dealer.”
“I see.”
“I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen so I could go to a casino and put my skills to the test.”
“And it worked?”
“Not immediately, but with time I got better. You see, the beauty of blackjack is that luck isn’t the decisive factor. Luck determines the cards you’re dealt. But it’s your knowledge and skill that determine how you play them.”
“Are you really making money on this?” She narrowed her eyes. “Like, regularly?”
“I’ve made a good profit in almost every casino I’ve played in. Except the ones that figure out too quickly I’m counting cards.”
“So what happens once Deauville Casino figures you out?”
“They’ll ban me, and I’ll move on to play elsewhere.”
“And when every casino in France has banned you?”
“I’ll play in Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, Spain, Portugal . . . Or I’ll go to Vegas and then to Asia. The world is big.”
“So that’s your life plan?”
“You could say that.”
She drained her mojito.
He beckoned to the bartender and then turned to Amanda. “Any food allergies or diet restrictions?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ll have two cold cuts and cheese plates, please,” he said to the barman.
When they swallowed the last slices of spicy chorizo, Kes asked matter-of-factly, “My hotel or yours?”
Oh Lord. There it was—decision time. But wait a minute. Why was she even considering it? She didn’t do one-night stands. She wasn’t that kind of girl. What she needed to do was wish him good night in her poshest accent and leave.
It was the only reasonable move.
Except . . . she wasn’
t being reasonable tonight. Right now, she was curious and thrilled. Her heart fluttered with anticipation. She all but drooled over the juicy exotic fruit that was this man. Just this once she itched to be wanton. After all, her reputation in that department was so unnaturally pristine it was begging for a stain.
And just like that, Amanda made up her mind: she was going to bed with Kes, the gambler she’d met a few hours ago.
He bit into his last pickle. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No. Do you?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve never had a boyfriend.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I’m a virgin that way.”
She chuckled.
He broke into an infectious grin before adding in a more serious tone, “No girlfriend at the moment, either.”
“Do you have a condom?” she heard herself ask.
He blinked and then nodded. “Yep—in my room. My hotel then?”
“Only if it’s decent.”
“As decent as it gets in this town. I’m staying at Royal Barrière—it’s the building next door.”
Was his being at the same hotel as she was a sign, a green light of sorts? She could sneak out and go to her room as soon as the deed was done—a perfect setup for a hassle-free, controlled bit of fun. If she were ever going to have her first one-night stand, there wouldn’t be a better occasion.
He must have seen the outcome of her expeditious debate on her face because he took her hand and led her from the bar.
* * *
Chapter Two
What Happens in Deauville
~ ~ ~
A Woman’s Guide to Perfection
Guideline # 2
The Perfect Woman always wears silk lingerie.
Rationale: Silk is natural, classy, and high maintenance. Which is exactly the image you want to project.
Word of caution: If on a budget, purchase good-quality polyester that imitates silk. Some lace is acceptable, too.
Permissible exception: Wear cotton for workouts and hiking trips.
Damage control: If, during a hiking trip, sparks fly between you and your guy-friend, you’re in a tricky situation. If you’re wearing silk because you were planning on ending up in said friend’s sleeping bag, you may come across as calculating. Which the Perfect Woman obviously is, but no one needs to know. Your best option is probably to wear your sexiest Calvin Klein cottons.
Pitfalls to avoid: (a) too much lace, (b) poor quality polyester, (c) one-size-fits-all grandma briefs (make sure you don’t even own a pair of those, otherwise you’ll inevitably run out of clean underwear and find yourself wearing them the day you get a chance to seduce the man of your dreams).
~ ~ ~
Amanda looked around. Kes’s room was very similar to hers—recently refurbished and cozy though smallish. Her gaze fell on the bed. You couldn’t miss it if you tried, considering it occupied the lion’s share of the room. She grew a little panicky.
Calm and composed, Kes stood next to her, letting her find her bearings. He didn’t touch or kiss her. Was this normal behavior? Was this how men handled the preliminaries of casual sex, letting women take the initiative?
Her panic level went up a notch.
How did a woman tell a stranger she was about to have sex with that she was out of practice? Had Amanda been more drunk, she might have been able to go with the flow—or she might have barfed and passed out. Had she been less drunk, she wouldn’t have been here in the first place.
But as it was, she had drunk just the right amount to get herself into a delicate situation without thinking of an exit strategy. For all she knew, her gorgeous gambler would turn out to be a serial killer. Or a big-toe worshipper.
Hmm. Something told her he was neither. If the way he’d played blackjack and helped her earlier tonight was any indication, he’d be a good lover—skilled and generous.
Amanda lowered her gaze and silently thanked her Guide to Perfection for ensuring she wore silk lingerie.
Kes switched off the harsh ceiling fixture and lit the bedside lamp.
Good.
He stepped behind her and put his arms around her waist. The gesture was more friendly than passionate, and Amanda was glad for it. She wasn’t feeling very passionate right now. Her body was so tense it needed a good massage more than sex. Could Kes sense that?
He kissed the side of her neck. “I want you to enjoy yourself tonight.”
She said nothing, her muscles tensing up a little more.
He pushed her blonde strands to the side and pressed soft kisses to the back of her neck. It was pleasant, but she couldn’t relax enough to savor his ministrations. He pushed the right strap of her dress down and kissed her shoulder, sliding his hands up and down her arms. She enjoyed it, but her brain kept churning. What would he do next? He’d probably push her dress farther down to reveal her breasts.
She stiffened.
He released her from his embrace and stepped in front of her.
Still avoiding his gaze, she waited for his next move. When none came, she finally looked into his eyes.
He smiled. “How about I take everything off and you keep your clothes on for as long as you’d like?”
Really?
That sounded like a great idea. She looked him over—the delicious, tall, broad-shouldered whole of him—and licked her lips.
“Would you like that?” he asked with a crooked smile on his face.
“Now you’re talking,” she said, recovering her aplomb.
He shrugged off his fine linen jacket. One by one, he undid the buttons on the front of his shirt and removed the cufflinks. Then he pulled the shirt off. His torso was a work of art—a broad chest tapering to a six-pack stomach and narrow hips. Amanda held her breath as he unzipped his pants. With a tiny smile, he pushed them down together with his boxers, and then took off his shoes and socks in a quick, fluid movement.
And she watched.
He reminded her of Michelangelo’s David. His body was hard everywhere—yes, including there—and yet he was uncannily graceful and comfortable in his nudity.
“Like what you see?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Oh yes.”
Something feral flickered in his eyes, and a second later he was invading her space and pulling her into him. He fondled her in a delightfully indecent way. She let out a ragged sigh and gripped his strong neck. His mouth descended on hers: hungry, unapologetic.
Covering her lips with his, he ran his tongue over them. It felt wonderful. He pulled her lower lip between his teeth and bit it lightly. She gasped and closed her eyes to savor his sensual onslaught. When his tongue pushed inside her mouth, she welcomed it with a caress of her own. All her tension was gone, replaced by molten need. It coursed through her veins and made her weak and crazed with lust.
Suddenly, he wasn’t close enough. She wanted his stomach against hers and his chest crushing her breasts. She needed his hands on her bare backside.
Skin to feverish skin.
How shocking to feel that way. How crude . . . and invigorating.
She broke the kiss and drew away just enough to run her hands over his shoulders and press them against his chest. He tugged at the other strap of her gown, which was still resting on her shoulder. It fell down, limp. He pulled both straps farther down, and she slid her arms out to help him undress her.
When the top of her dress pooled around her hips, he cupped her breasts and fondled them gently. It was pure bliss. His fingers rolled and softly pinched her hardened nipples and then slid down to stroke her between her legs through the satiny fabric.
She moaned and threw back her head. Heaven knew she wasn’t in the habit of letting strangers touch her in the most intimate way, but this was too good to deny herself.
The dress had to go. Everything that stood between his fingers and her body had to go.
Amanda pushed the dress all the way down and was about to remove her panties when he kneeled before her and pressed his lips to her abdomen. As he kissed
it, he lowered her underwear a little, caressing the bared skin. His touch was soft and unhurried. When he rolled her panties down her thighs, she trembled in anticipation, her knees going so wobbly she had to grip his shoulders for support as she stepped out of them.
He put his hands on her waist and backed her to the bed. When she felt the duvet against the backs of her thighs, he nudged her and spread her knees. And then he kissed her—down there.
She moaned. No one had ever done this to her, not even the man she’d hoped to spend the rest of her life with. She knew herself to be slow on the uptake, needing at least half an hour of foreplay to reach the degree of arousal that removed the discomfort from penetration. More often than not, she failed to reach that coveted state and had to put up with the discomfort.
But now, after just a few minutes of Kes’s exquisite caresses, she was fully primed, her body burning with need. Craving him. How unusual and exhilarating to inhabit the present moment so fully, caring about nothing—absolutely nothing—except getting this man inside her.
The intensity of her desire boggled her mind.
She wanted everything he had to give.
“Now,” she said, half-conscious she was voicing her wish. “Please.”
He lifted his head to give her a scorching look. She held his gaze, feeling delightfully debauched. Without taking his eyes off hers, he crawled up and covered her body with his.
The next hour was a blurry tangle of muffled cries, writhing and thrusting, sweat, kisses, scratches and bites, unbearable tension, and body-jerking releases. When it was over, she couldn’t fathom getting dressed and taking the elevator to her room. Even crawling out of the bed seemed like a Herculean effort. Her body was completely and utterly relaxed. And it affected her mind. All she wanted now was to drift into a deep, dreamless slumber. Even with a sheet twisted around her leg and the large hand of a virtual stranger resting on her derriere.
All things considered, sleeping over wasn’t that big of a deal, was it?
Her Guide to Perfection might be her bible, but it was just a book by two Parisian style icons. It wasn’t an all-seeing god—it wouldn’t know she’d broken one of its rules.
Besides, there’d be no unpleasant complications because she’d be sure to sneak out at dawn.