Law #1: Never Bet on Love: A Sweet Billionaire Love Story (Laws of Love)

by Agnes Canestri

  “Come, we need to get you ready.” Daphne gives me a soft push. “Ever since people got wind that the Black Angel is back, we constantly have a full house.”

  The Black Angel. That would be me.

  “That’s right, love.” Judy winks. “You’re a legend. I think all the guests want to see tonight is you.”

  I suck in a breath and let the familiar excitement before a show brew. Instead of chasing it away, I welcome the feeling. I need it to take possession of me and carry me through this night once more.

  I quickly change my clothes and sit in front of the dressing table, where Judy and Daphne have already prepared a palette of various eye shadows, lipsticks, eyeliners, and foundation.

  I look at my bare face and suck in my breath. I might not wear lots of makeup in my private life, but the girls are right. I can’t step onto the stage without it. Not because of the paling effect of the light or because I want to look better. No, coloring my lips, enhancing my eyes, and applying blush to my cheeks is a way of getting ready.

  Physically, yes. But also emotionally. Just like my Aztec ancestors put on their armor and painted their faces before going into battle. The shades I use might be soft gold and dark charcoal instead of yellow ochre or bitumen, but the purpose is the same. Creating a separation between real life and the moments to come.

  This kind of segregation between my everyday-self and my dancer-self is key. I need to forget all about my worries and doubts. Also about my dreams and hopes. If I hang on to my feelings, then the music won’t be able to penetrate me and use me to manifest itself.

  Judy is combing my hair with a soft brush, while Daphne helps perfectly blend the bronze powder into my pores.

  I dip my brush into the thick black paint and draw the line just above my eyelashes, while I shut all the doors in my mind that might disturb me during my performance.

  Yes, soon Eva Flores will cease to exist so that the Black Angel can emerge.

  Chapter 3

  (Nathan)

  As I enter the Desert Rose’s sultry interior, I’m still wondering what Murphy had in mind when he decided to park and rush inside without even waiting for me?

  Did he get thirsty all of a sudden? He can’t seriously expect to find the woman for our bet in this shabby place, can he?

  Murphy has always had a fetish for the life of the poor. He loves to mingle with people who are less fortunate than him. As if he’s somehow embarrassed about having money. Probably because he never really had to work for it. Even if his psychologist gig brings in some bucks, it’s nothing compared to the monthly payouts Mother hands him.

  From the deals I make, despite my so clearly lacking people skills.

  I ignore the bitterness as I recall the injustice of the situation I’m in.

  Murphy has settled on a stool close to the bar, which must’ve been cushioned properly in its early days but now only looks like a rigid board. From his seat, he can look directly at the large stage that, except for the instruments of a band set up and ready to play, is completely empty.

  A waitress, wearing a hideous uniform that’s probably meant to look attractive but comes across as vulgar due to her large thighs and prominent bosom, cruises by carrying a large plate of hamburgers and grilled steaks.

  I cringe as the smell of deep fry tickles my nostrils.

  The woman’s thin brows round as she blinks at me, then her mouth twitches into a smile. Her cheeks blush and she thrusts her chest forward. “Hello, there!” she calls out in a husky voice before continuing toward the booths that constitute the dining area of the bar.

  I saunter to my brother, feeling less annoyed than when I entered. The waitress’s reaction gives me hope that I won’t have much trouble ticking off the task that stands between me and my promotion.

  I sink down on a stool beside Murphy, realizing with displeasure that my previous assessment of the chair’s condition was a tick too generous.

  “Making friends already?” Murphy beams approvingly.

  “Just getting warmed up for your challenge,” I answer with more cockiness than I feel. “What are we drinking?”

  Murphy snaps his fingers, then waves at the bartender, a man with a grey beard and jutting jaw. “Amigo!”

  At Murphy’s call, he glances up. Setting down the blender he’s cleaning, he steps over to us. His lips are set in a line which makes his hostile opinion of us rather obvious. “Can I get you something?”

  Having seen the hasty gestures with which he rinsed off that mixer, I quickly decide to order a beer. And probably drink it straight out of the bottle.

  “A beer para mi, too, por favor.” Murphy smiles at the man.

  The guy mumbles something under his breath that sounds like gringos, then pops open two bottles and hands them to us. “Here you go.”

  “Cerveza,” I tell Murphy when the bartender is gone.

  He raises his brows at me as if I’m an alien. “What?”

  “I said, cerveza. It’s beer in Spanish. If you want to order something in another language, you should do it right. Otherwise, just stick to English.”

  “Good point. I love to feel like a local when I visit these places. But maybe my effort to adapt is more offensive than flattering.” He chuckles, then points at the stage. “So what do you think about this place? Is it a gem or what?”

  “I don’t know if I’d stretch it so far as to call it a gem. But they have decent beer.” I take another sip from my bottle. “Even if the bartender could be more cheerful.”

  Murphy waves. “He’s just used to a rougher crowd than us, that’s all.”

  “Ah, my good Murphy, always putting yourself in other people’s shoes.” I pat his back.

  Though I can’t argue the validity of his point as I fix my attention on the large group at the other end of the counter. Those guys clearly belong to a motorcycle club. Their unity is highlighted by their shaved heads, countless tattoos, and black leather jackets, all adorned with the same symbol. Perhaps a gang identification, though it looks more like a five-year-old’s scribble to me.

  I turn back to my brother. “So let’s talk business. Have you chosen my victim yet?”

  My word choice is meant as a joke. But a secret part of me hopes it will play on Murphy’s conscience and he’ll reconsider this whole thing. After all, he is asking me to plan a deception on an innocent woman just to prove I’m good enough to lead our company…

  Who is the one with blind spot again?

  Murphy gives me a slanted glance while his lower lip curls up. “Yes, I did. She isn’t here yet. But you’ll see her soon enough.”

  Great. So he is going through with it. Fine, so am I.

  Murphy said he’s already chosen the girl and that she’s coming. Who could she be? Did Murphy choose someone ugly just to discourage me from winning? If so, he’ll be disappointed. I’d pursue Godzilla if I needed to in order to become CEO.

  I know the drill of a good courtship. I’m not a playboy, nor have I ever been, but I’ve had my share of women. I’m not sure whether any of them has loved me though. Some have been after my wealth, for sure. Not entirely their fault, as I’ve never given them the chance to stick around long enough to get to know me. As soon as they became too needy of my time, we split.

  Okay, now that I’m thinking about it, Murphy might be right about me never having been in love or knowing what real love feels like. But it can’t be as difficult to ignite such an emotion in someone as my brother said, can it?

  “Ladies and gentleman!” A voice from the microphone jars me out of my thoughts.

  It belongs to a man with a prominent belly, too many gold necklaces around his short neck, and a bright blue shirt, which he wears without a tie beneath his white jersey jacket. He waves toward the stage. “Here is the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Our Black Angel. Please enjoy!”

  The room erupts in loud cheers and claps.

  Even the motorcycle club guys stop their loud chatter and turn to stare at the stage. Appare
ntly the crowd knows who the announcer with the questionable taste in clothes is talking about.

  I pivot to my brother, who is leaning forward wide-eyed. “Who is the Black Angel, Murphy?”

  “The reason I picked this place.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Soft tones fill the bar as the band finally tunes in.

  Without granting me a glance, Murphy hushes me with a movement of his hand. “Be quiet and watch.”

  The bartender, whom I didn’t see approach, taps the counter beside me. “The Black Angel is the best salsa dancer you’ve ever seen. Just wait. You’ll become a regular here.” He points at his chest. “I know what I’m talking about.”

  While his outburst doesn’t convince me, this, together with my brother’s tense attention, makes me curious. My eyes dart to the stage, and I search for this famous Black Angel.

  As far as I can see, there’s nobody there. Then a spotlight switches on, and I realize my mistake.

  A woman is standing beside a column in the middle of the stage, entirely motionless. Her long black tresses reach to her hips. She is wearing a red skirt that accentuates her curves but flows freely around her ankles. A simple black top covers her upper body, creating a blinding contrast with the white color of the walls under the strong beam of light.

  All eyes are on her. The room, loud with tipsy babble and whoops only a minute ago, is completely silent now. If there were even a single mosquito at the entrance, I’m pretty sure I could hear it.

  Thumps of the conga start.

  Bum - bum - bum.

  A slow cadence at first, the beats of the song start to pick up speed.

  I stare at the dancer, but she doesn’t stir.

  Well, so far I’m not very impressed.

  All of a sudden, there is a slight quiver on her bosom. Then her chest begins to lift up and down in perfect harmony with the song. I can’t say that she is dancing. She’s barely even moving, but somehow, it’s like the music is entering her pores and filling her ribcage. It’s an almost imperceptible movement, but it’s enough to give me a foretaste of what’s coming.

  I lean forward.

  The flute’s melody becomes louder, and her entire body comes to life. First she tilts her neck, raising her chin to level with the audience. Then she opens her eyes.

  At this point, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her slender figure, even if I wanted to. And I definitely don’t want to.

  Her fingers began to oscillate in the air, creating tantalizing patterns that paralyze me. She starts to sway her hips to the music and then twirl in heavenly synchrony with the song. Her hair is flying behind her like the mane of a savage horse. Not that she has anything in common with that animal, except the sheer pulsation of life she emanates….no…she propels around herself.

  The bartender spoke the truth. Anybody who sees this woman dance once will never forget her. Not because of the symmetry of her features. No, she isn’t a conventional beauty. But there is a subtle femininity steaming off her. It washes over me and anyone watching her.

  I feel the temperature in the room rising as she keeps moving.

  I think I hear Murphy gasp beside me, but I’m not entirely sure, as my own breathing is slightly hitched.

  The Black Angel.

  Murphy grabs my arm. “Isn’t she something? What do you think, Nathan? Want to try your luck with her?”

  The bartender, who is now a self-invited third party in our conversation, intervenes. “Eva is a lost cause. Take it from me.”

  Eva. So that’s her name.

  I watch her make one last whirl before she comes to a standstill. She takes a bow just when the music comes to a stop.

  She lifts her head, and our eyes meet. She has dark irises, almost the color of charcoal. She withdraws her glance again and disappears behind the curtains.

  After she’s gone, the spell on the entire audience breaks, and the previous noisiness of the bar resumes.

  Murphy looks at the bartender and raises his voice. “Hey, man. What did you say before? About the Black Angel. That she doesn’t date?”

  The bartender shrugs. “She doesn’t. Hasn’t for a long time now. She is a tough cookie even for a guy with money, take it from me.”

  Murphy nods approvingly, as if the man’s words are in line with his hopes. “Yes, yes. But perhaps someone…with a great talent at convincing people…might just get her to change her mind, right?”

  The bartender opens his arms. “No idea. Maybe, maybe not.” His eyes flick to the group of bikers. Some of them are raising their empty glasses toward him. “Excuse me,” he says and leaves us alone.

  Murphy blinks back at me. “I think this girl is perfect.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask, my voice shriller than usual. I can’t believe my luck. Murphy wants me to go after this gorgeous woman? “And to think that I was preparing to dazzle someone who looks like Cruella de Vil.”

  But somehow it makes sense. Murphy spoke about making amends after the bet. If we pick Eva, I can certainly help her financially and compensate for any trouble I might cause. That would be considerably harder to do if Murphy chose some girl from our wealthy circles.

  Murphy tilts his head. “Huh. I wouldn’t do that to you, brother. But you recall that you’re to keep your own emotions out of this, right? Only Eva is supposed to fall under your spell. Not the other way around.”

  “Yes, I know. And I wasn’t thinking of that, at all. I just find this challenge much nicer if my target is someone I actually find attractive.” I wink at my brother.

  Murphy smiles, but his eyes remain serious, as if to point out that the bet isn’t a game.

  No reminder needed. I know very well what’s at stake.

  “I’m glad you’re starting out in the right spirit.” Something in Murphy’s tone makes me think this isn’t all fun for my brother either, despite his earlier boasts. “Okay, let’s recap—you have one week with Eva. You’ll invite her to Mother’s fundraiser ball as your girlfriend. If you do that and she comes, I’ll tell Mother that we misjudged your talent with people and that she should go ahead with your promotion. Deal?”

  I clink my bottle with Murphy’s. “Deal.”

  Murphy takes a sip, puts down his bottle, and rubs his hands. “Very well, Nate. How are you going to start?”

  I shrug. “I think I’ll go and find the manager. I’d love to congratulate Eva on her dance performance. Personally.”

  Chapter 4

  (Eva)

  Arghh. Didn’t I say I hated this sticky foundation?

  I’m rubbing my cheeks like a madwoman as our boss, Alfonso, enters the changing room. Most of my makeup is gone already, and my familiar features, stripped of the bold colors, greet me in the mirror once more.

  I don’t even look up to check what Alfonso wants. He’s probably here to speak with Daphne about her upcoming performance.

  But instead of stopping at her table, Alfonso walks behind me and grabs my hand, which brings my movement to a halt. “Eva Bevah,” he murmurs, his tone as fake as it gets. “Did you know that we have some exceptional guests tonight? And one of them wants to meet you.”

  Alfonso doesn’t do sweet well, and he never addresses me with a diminutive unless he wants something. Something he knows I won’t like. And I definitely don’t like being invited to talk privately with our guests.

  I study Alfonso’s speculating glance.

  He must be referring to one of the rich guys. The owners of the fancy rides outside. Nobody else would have my boss so eager for me to agree. He’s almost hyperventilating as he waits for my reaction. Alfonso knows he can’t force me to accept the invitation. No matter how much money the guest has.

  “Which one?” I ask, not even bothering to check first whether my assumption is correct.

  “The dark one,” Alfonso says.

  A pair of piercingly grey eyes pops into my mind.

  Oh, him. I’d bet anything that he drives the dark Bentley. With his
broody looks, he can’t possibly have the flashy orange car.

  Alfonso interprets my silence as hesitation and decides to persuade me some more. “Eva, this is a rich-rich guy we’re talking about. Perhaps even a billionaire.”

  I roll my eyes. “And what would a billionaire do in the Desert Rose, huh?”

  Alfonso shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how much money the man has, but judging from his Armani suit, Bell & Ross watch, and shiny Brogues, I’d guess a lot more than you and I have ever seen.”

  I bite back a smile.

  Alfonso loves to speculate about people’s worth, based on their clothes and accessories. His aspiration to belong to the crème de la crème is so strong that he’s memorized every luxury fashion brand in existence. Does he quiz himself at nights? How else could he tell an Armani apart from a Gucci just by glimpsing at it?

  Whatever Alfonso’s secret is, he totally ignores the fact that insisting on a guest’s wealth would only make me less eager to spend time with him. My mother and her constant warnings about rich guys have made sure of that.

  Alfonso launches into full-throttle conviction mode. “I want this man and his friend to become regulars. If the Desert Rose wants to up its game, we need customers with their kind of cash. I’m tired of catering only to bikers. So, Eva Bevah, will you go outside and chat with that guy a bit, please? Pretty please, Eva Bevah, pretty please.”

  His brows are set in his don’t-let-me-down glance that he has honed to perfection throughout the years. But it’s not his beaten puppy look with the hint of bossiness that makes me agree. No, at this point I’ll do just about anything if he’ll stop distorting my name into that sleazy gurgle of a nickname.

  I sigh and put down the cloth. I’m done cleaning my face anyway. “Okay, why not? But just a short chat, okay?”

  Alfonso claps his hands. “I don’t ask anything more. Gracias, Eva Beeevaaaahh!”

  I stand up and hurry to the corridor before he can say another word.

  As I enter the bar, Pablo’s bulky figure is standing across from the man I was sent to meet. They’re having an animated conversation of some sort, because our bartender’s arms fling left to right as he explains his point.