Playing Dirty: A Second-Chance Sports Romance (Playing to Win)

by Alix Nichols

  How cool is that?

  Regardless, I’d half expected her to declare me persona non grata for crashing her latest reception and assaulting one of her guests. The guest in question—Sebastian Darcy—is her husband’s friend and political backer, which makes my smashing a cream cake in his face an even bigger affront. But Jeanne just laughed the incident off, saying the bash had been too stuffy and in serious need of an icebreaker.

  Which I kindly provided.

  The Manon-Jeanne combo makes me feel truly welcome at La Bohème. So much so that I forget I’m far away from home in a metropolis of eleven million people, suburbs included. The vast majority of them are crammed into tiny apartments and deeply convinced they’re the most evolved representatives of the human race. Here in Paris, if you say bonjour to a stranger on the street, they think you’re either a nutcase or a hooker.

  “How’s the quest coming along?” I ask Elorie.

  The quest is shorthand for Elorie’s newfound mission—locate an eligible billionaire and get him to marry her. Elorie defines “eligible” as currently available, reasonably young, and passably good-looking.

  She launched the project three months ago on her twenty-sixth birthday, and she’s been working hard on it ever since. Not very successfully, judging by the sound of it. But what’s three months when looking for a soul mate who meets such high standards and such specific… specifications?

  “I’ve made good progress,” Elorie says.

  I bug out my eyes. “I want a name!”

  “Not so fast, ma cocotte. My progress is theoretical at this point.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you oh me.” Elorie wags her index finger from side to side. “Would you launch a business without conducting a market study first?”

  “I guess not.” I narrow my eyes. “Do you approach all your dreams as a business?”

  She shrugs. “Not all—only the ones worth pursuing. Anyway, as the saying goes, if you practice without theory, you shall fall into the ditch.”

  “There’s no such saying.”

  “You sure?” She puts her chin up. “Well, there should be. Anyway, I stand on much firmer ground today than three months ago all because I’ve done enough research to write a thesis on the topic.”

  “Maybe you should write one,” I mutter.

  Elorie is the most entertaining person I’ve ever met and I love her, but her pragmatism does rattle me sometimes. Then again, I’m well aware I’m a country-fried prawn who still hasn’t wrapped her head around big-city attitudes.

  “Ha-ha, very funny!” Elorie pauses before adding, “Anyway, I’ve now read all the tutorials and how-to articles I could get my hands on, and I’ve analyzed several real-life case studies.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Me, too,” she says with a wink. “I’ve never taken anything so seriously in my whole life.”

  “Mesdames, messieurs,” the bus driver says into the speaker. “This bus will not continue beyond Opéra. You can wait for the next one or take an alternate route.”

  People gripe and boo and begin to move toward the doors.

  I spread my arms in apology.

  Elorie rolls her eyes.

  We get off and continue our journey using the most reliable means of transportation in Paris—our feet. The air is cold and humid, which is no surprise in February, but at least it isn’t raining.

  I look up at the leaden sky and tone down my gratitude—it isn’t raining yet.

  “Feel like sharing your theoretical findings?” I ask, tucking my scarf inside my coat in an attempt to shield myself from the cutting wind.

  Elorie considers my request. “OK. But only because you’re my friend and you always pay for the drinks.”

  “Aww.” I place my hand on my heart. “You put ‘friend’ before ‘drinks,’ you wonderful person.”

  “Listen up—because I won’t repeat this,” Elorie says, choosing to ignore my irony. “The single most important action you can take is to hang out where billionaires do.”

  “In Swiss banks?”

  “For example.” She nods, unfazed. “Don’t tell me you believe Kate would’ve snatched William if her clever mom hadn’t sent her to the University of St Andrews, where the cream of British nobility goes?”

  “I must confess I haven’t given the matter much thought.”

  “Then thank me for opening your eyes.”

  “Thank you,” I say dutifully. “But we have a problem—I’m too old for college, and it isn’t my thing, anyway.”

  “That’s OK,” she says. “It was just an example.”

  “Phew.” I’m doing my best to keep my expression earnest. “What a load off!”

  She glances at me sideways and shakes her head. “What I’m telling you isn’t funny, Diane. It’s precious. I’d be taking notes if I were you.”

  “Sorry, sweetie. Go on.”

  “I’ll give you a few pointers,” she says. “Go horseback riding, join a golf club, or book yourself into a high-end ski resort. If you’re targeting a specific man, go exactly where he goes.”

  “Some people would call it stalking.”

  “I call it lending fate a hand.”

  “OK,” I say. “What about the rich perverts who frequent BDSM clubs? Should I get a membership for one? And what about the polygamists who make their wives wear burkas? Where do you draw the line?”

  “Where he buys me Louboutin pumps, Prada sunglasses, and Chanel purses to wear with my burka.” She arches an eyebrow. “If I can travel the world in his private jet and have my own wing in his palace plus three or four maids at my beck and call, then sure, why not. Bring on the burka.”

  I stop and put my hands on my hips.

  Elorie stops, too.

  “Aren’t you a little too cavalier about this?” My voice betrays my feelings—equal parts incredulity and concern. “Let me be more specific. We’re not talking a burkini here. We’re talking the works with gloves and an eye grid. And other wives.”

  Elorie tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Ten maids, my own palace, and my own jet.”

  I’m too dumbfounded to speak.

  “What?” she says. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone has a price, and so do you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Of course, you do. You’re just too ashamed to admit it, which is kind of sad.”

  Does she really think that?

  “Or maybe you’re fooling yourself that your affections can’t be bought,” she says, her expression pensive. “Which is even sadder.”

  “Please, believe me when I say I don’t care about money.” I stare her in the eye. “I don’t mind having some—just enough to get by—but I wouldn’t make the slightest sacrifice just so I can marry a rich man.”

  Elorie rolls her eyes, clearly not buying it.

  “If you want to know the truth,” I say, “I find rich men repulsive. They’re so full of themselves, so convinced of their superiority! They gross me out.”

  “What, all of them?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Without exception. They mistake their dumb luck for divine providence and their lack of scruples for business acumen.”

  Elorie narrows her eyes. “It sounds like you’re talking about one rich man in particular. And I think it’s Sebastian Darcy.”

  The moment she mentions his name, I realize I’ve spent the past few weeks doing exactly what Elorie just advised me to do—researching a rich man. But there’s a difference. I haven’t been investigating him for a chance to marry him. I’ve been probing into his life in the hopes of finding a weapon to destroy him.

  I didn’t find any.

  And then, three days ago, he showed up at my workplace and handed me one.

  Sure, what he’s offered is a stick rather than a hatchet. But it’s up to me to take that stick and sharpen it into a spear. Our ancestors killed mammoths with spears—I should be able to skewer a man.

  “He’s superhot, by the way,
” Elorie says. “I’d marry him even if he was a mere millionaire.”

  “He’s a jerk.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  I start walking again. “So you meet the billionaire of your dreams, then what?”

  “Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “Then I make him fall madly in love with me.”

  “Of course! How?”

  “By being gorgeous, self-confident, and classy.”

  I clear my throat audibly.

  “What was that supposed to mean?” she asks, turning to me.

  “We’re cashiers.” I give her a hard stare. “We may be called cute but gorgeous and classy are beyond our reach.”

  I expect her to object that you can be classy on a budget, but instead she puts her arm around my shoulders and gives a gentle squeeze.

  “Finally,” she says with an approving smile. “Diane Petit has demonstrated there’s a realist hiding in there, underneath her principles and other bullshit.”

  Her words sting a little.

  “My dear,” Elorie says as we turn onto rue Cadet. “I’ll reward your bout of honesty by giving you the single most precious piece of advice anyone has ever given you. Or ever will.”

  I halt again and fold my hands across my chest. “I’m all ears.”

  “I’m sharing this,” Elorie says, “because we’re besties and because I want you to owe me one.”

  I shake my head. “You can’t link those two reasons with an and. They’re mutually exclusive. It’s either because we’re besties or because you want me to owe you one.”

  She sucks on her teeth for a brief moment. “I want you to owe me one.”

  “OK, what’s your precious advice?”

  “It’s a shortcut that very few women are aware of.”

  “Yeees?”

  “You need to develop a real interest and a certain level of competence in what the billionaires you’re targeting are passionate about.”

  I pull a face. “Things like football?”

  “If that’s what floats his boat.”

  “I see.”

  “It can be all sorts of things.” Elorie begins to count on her fingers. “Sports cars. War movies. Guns. High tech gadgets. Video games.”

  “I think they’re a waste of time,” I say.

  “It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is what you say.” She moves on to her right hand. “Mixed martial arts. Wine. Politics. Porn. Art photography.”

  My eyebrows shoot up.

  She giggles. “That last one was a mole to check if you were paying attention. Nobody—except you, that is—cares about art photography.”

  “I know men who do.”

  “Are they filthy rich?”

  I shake my head.

  “Ha! Thought so.”

  We reach La Bohème, and I stop in front of the entrance, pulling Elorie by her sleeve to stop her from walking on.

  “OK,” I say. “Let’s finish this conversation before we go in. Let’s say you’ve become a wine connoisseur or a sports car buff. How does that guarantee your billionaire will fall to your feet like an electrocuted wasp?”

  “It’s science, dum-dum.” She cocks her head. “Say your man loves Star Wars and football. You give him a well-timed Yoda quote, and his mind goes, ‘Ooh, she’s special.’ Then you give him an analysis of the latest Paris Saint-Germain victory, and his body releases even more happiness hormones. And before he knows it, his brain learns to associate that euphoric state with you. This leads him to conclude you’re Mademoiselle Right, which, in turn, leads him to propose.”

  “Neat,” I say.

  And what about the billionaire who proposes not because he gives a shit if you’re Mademoiselle Right or Mademoiselle One Night, but because he wants to use you in some shady scheme?

  I push open the door to the bistro and decide to keep that last observation to myself.

  Get Find You in Paris now

  or grab the Darcy Brothers box set, and save 50%!

  Books by Alix Nichols

  PLAYING TO WIN (3-book series)

  Playing with Fire

  He was supposed to look out for her, not kiss her senseless.

  Au pair Uma is all kinds of wrong for single dad Zach. She is his son’s nanny, a twenty-three-year-old Hindu virgin, and a guileless ingenue to boot. Zach knows all of that.

  Then why can’t he rein in his lust for her?

  If there is one man Uma should not be attracted to, it’s the father of the adorable five-year-old in her charge. Once burned twice shy, Zach is the captain of a Paris water polo team and a wealthy entrepreneur who can have any woman he wants. No strings attached.

  Small wonder he goes all out to shun Uma!

  But when, with the help of a bottle of fine wine, Zach confesses all the dirty things he’d like to do to her, Uma astounds him by saying she wants that, too.

  What’s a man to do but oblige?

  Besides, it’s not like it’s the end of the world. They’re both sensible, level-headed adults. They’ll just have a bit of fun and then go back to normal, as if nothing happened.

  As if feelings weren’t already getting in the way.

  Playing for Keeps

  He remembers everything… except the first thirty years of his life.

  Sports star-turned-coach Lucas Delaunay has no recollection of his past, despite his parents' and friends' efforts to help him.

  Enter Isabelle Ferrand, a young publicist hired to land sponsors and fundraise for Lucas’s club. He is told she was a friend. Just a friend. Everyone, Isabelle included, insists he regarded her as a sister.

  Not anymore, he doesn't.

  Every night, he dreams of her naked and panting beneath him. Her taste, her smell, the way her breasts fill his palms... Every morning he wakes up rock hard, groping for her in his empty bed.

  With desire spinning out of control, Lucas wonders if amnesia has changed his taste in women, or if there’s something Isabelle isn’t telling him.

  And if she might be the key to unlocking his past.

  Playing Dirty

  What happens when revenge collides with love?

  In his pimply teens, Julien was led on, played and publicly humiliated by Noemi.

  But time has been kind to him.

  Now a heartthrob and formidable water polo defender, Julien has no trouble with the ladies.

  That means, he can finally get back at Noemi.

  Only… he hadn’t expected her to have grown from a shallow girl to a caring woman.

  A woman with feelings.

  Nor had he anticipated the bitter aftertaste of his revenge, or how empty his bed—and his life—would be without her.

  Might she still have his heart?

  While Julien ponders the question, Noemi sets out on her own quest for payback…

  THE DARCY BROTHERS (3-book series)

  Find You in Paris

  True spite. Fake marriage. Real romance.

  If there's one man that store clerk and amateur photographer Diane Petit really, really, actively hates, it's fragrance mogul Sebastian Darcy who stole her father's company--and wrecked the man's health in the process.

  But the arrogant SOB had better brace himself because Diane has vowed revenge.

  And revenge she will have.

  WARNING: Just like in Pride and Prejudice that inspired this book, expect to find one rich, brooding and handsome Mr. Darcy and one feisty small-town girl who can't stand him. Unlike Pride and Prejudice, this book also contains artful nude photos of said Mr. Darcy and nights of wild passion in Paris.

  Raphael’s Fling

  A secretive nerdette gets a bad boy for Christmas…

  I'm Mia, a grad student and part-time assistant at D'Arcy Consulting and Audit.

  My company's CEO, Raphael d'Arcy, is young, funny, smart, and uber-rich.

  He's also smoking hot.

  That alone should have scared me away, were I not such a fool, my academic achievements notwithstanding.

  But there's mo
re.

  Raphael is France's most notorious playboy who doesn't do relationships. He does one-night stands. If sufficiently intrigued, he might do a fling, which is the most we could ever have together -- a short-lived fling.

  So what, right?

  Worse things happen at sea...

  They do, indeed.

  As a matter of fact, getting my heart broken by Raphael d'Arcy is the least of my worries.

  Some very serious merde has been piling up in my life lately.

  And it's about to hit the fan.

  The Perfect Catch

  He blocked the penalty shot, but he left his heart unguarded.

  French goalkeeper Noah Masson wants to prove his worth to Coach and help his team win the gold. With an unruly mutt for company, a part-time gig to pay rent, and the national Water Polo Championships fast approaching, Noah is one hundred percent focused on his goal.

  That is, until he catches a beautiful intruder poking around his kitchen...

  American realtor-in-training Sophie Bander wants to convince her overbearing father she can be a first-class agent. Now she's in Paris, learning the ropes at a large agency. When she's done, she'll return to Key West, join her father's business, and marry the man of his dreams. It's not like she expects to be attracted to that man. Sophie has never felt sexual attraction, anyway.