I’ve drawn her into my world...

And she’s mine to awaken!

Walking into my casino, Edie Spencer seemed like a spoiled heiress—until she agreed to clear her family’s debts by posing as my temporary mistress. My plan? To use her to expose my business rivals. Yet discovering Edie’s innocence has led to greater temptation than I could have imagined. Our chemistry is spectacular—now I’ll claim Edie for so much more than pleasure!

Step into this tale of innocence and desire...

USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE lives in London, England. She is married with two teenage sons—which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche—and also works as a film journalist. She adores her job, which involves getting swept up in a world of high emotion, sensual excitement, funny and feisty women, sexy and tortured men and glamorous locations where laundry doesn’t exist. Once she turns off her computer she often does chores—usually involving laundry!

Also by Heidi Rice

Vows They Can’t Escape

The Virgin’s Shock Baby

Captive at Her Enemy’s Command

Bound by Their Scandalous Baby

Carrying the Sheikh’s Baby

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Claiming My Untouched Mistress

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08761-2

CLAIMING MY UNTOUCHED MISTRESS

© 2019 Heidi Rice

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my gorgeous husband, Rob,

whose love of Texas Hold ’Em

finally became useful in my writing career!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

I STRUGGLED TO control the tidal wave of panic surging through me as I read the sign on Dante Allegri’s Monaco casino.

Welcome to The Inferno

The glitter of lights gave the building’s imposing eighteenth-century façade a fairy-tale glow in the Mediterranean night—making me feel like even more of a fraud in the second-hand designer gown and uncomfortable ice-pick heels my sister and I had sourced online. What I was about to do could make or break my family.

Please God, don’t let Dante Allegri be in the house tonight.

I’d seen photos of Allegri, and read myriad articles about him in the last month as I prepared for this night. He scared me as a competitor but terrified me as a woman.

Allegri was famous for his ruthlessness, having risen from the slums of Naples to create a billion-dollar empire of casinos in Europe and the US. If I had to play against him, and he figured out the system I had developed, he would show me no mercy.

A sea breeze from the marina below the casino lifted the tendrils of hair off my neck which had escaped the elaborate up-do my sister had spent hours constructing from my unruly curls. Shivers racked my body, but I knew it wasn’t the warm summer night that was making me feel so cold inside—it was fear.

Stop standing here like a dummy and move.

Lifting the hem of the gown, I walked up the marble stairs to the main entrance, making an effort to keep my back straight and my gaze forward. The million-dollar bank draft borrowed from my brother-in-law’s loan shark stashed in the jewelled clutch purse on my wrist felt as if it weighed several tons.

‘You want to throw good money after bad, that’s your choice, Ms Trouvé, but I’ll be here tomorrow to collect, whatever happens.’

The words of Brutus Severin, Carsoni’s muscle man, echoed in my head and the chill spread like a frost.

This was my last chance to free us from the threats and intimidation, the possibility of losing not just our family home, but also our dignity and self-respect. Something my sister Jude’s husband Jason had stolen from us twelve months ago—after losing a fortune at Allegri’s roulette tables.

Failure simply was not an option tonight.

I approached the security detail standing guard at the entrance and passed them my ID card. I prayed that Carsoni’s forger had done the job we had paid him for. The guard nodded and passed it back to me. But my panic refused to subside.

What if my system didn’t work? Or had more tells than I had anticipated. I wasn’t sure if I’d had enough time to test it properly—and I had never had the opportunity to test it against players of Allegri’s calibre. How did I know it would stand up to scrutiny? I was a maths prodigy, not a poker player, for goodness’ sake.

The buy-in for tonight’s game was a staggering one million euros. And it was one million euros I could not afford to lose.

If Allegri was here, and decided to play—as he occasionally did, according to my research—and he beat me, not only would Belle Rivière be lost for ever, but I would owe Carsoni an extra million euros I couldn’t repay. Because the sale of the property, now we’d already mortgaged it and sold all our other valuables and most of the furniture, would only cover the balance of Jason’s losses and the astronomical interest Carsoni had been charging us since the night Jason had disappeared.

Please, I’m begging you, God. Don’t let Allegri be here.

The door guard signalled to a tall, good-looking man standing at the entrance to the main floor. He joined us.

‘Welcome to The Inferno, Miss Spencer,’ the man said. ‘I’m Joseph Donnelly, the casino manager. We have you listed as one of tonight’s club buy-ins.’ He sent me a quizzical look, obviously not used to having someone of my age and gender join the casino’s exclusive weekly poker tournament. ‘Is that correct?’

I nodded, trying to channel my inner elite, entitled heiress—something I had never been, even though my mother had been the granddaughter of a French count.

‘I’ve heard The Inferno’s game is one of the most challenging,’ I said. ‘I was hoping Allegri would be here tonight,’ I lied smoothly—playing the pampered rich girl to the hilt. If life with my mother had taught me one thing, before she died, it was how to appear confident when I felt the opposite.

‘Appearances are everything, ma petite chou. If they think you are one of them, you cannot fail.’

The casino manager sent me an easy smile, and I waited for the words I hoped to hear—that my research had paid off and Dante was in Nice this evening, wining and dining the model he had been linked with for several weeks in the celebrity press.

‘Dante’s here tonight; I’m sure he’d relish the challenge.’ Donnelly’s words didn’t register at first, and then they slammed into me.

No. No. No.

I pasted a smile on my face, the same smile I had worn at my mother’s funeral to receive the condolences of journalists who had hounded her throughout her life, while coping with the body blow of fresh grief.

My movements were stiff though, as Donnelly led me to the teller’s booth to deposit the stake I had borrowed at two thousand per cent interest. The stake I couldn’t afford to lose.

I ran all the possibilities over in my mind. Could I back out now? Make up some fictitious excuse? Pretend I was sick? Because that wasn’t a lie—my stomach was churning like a storm at sea.

Allegri was one of the best poker players in the world. Not only could I lose all the money but if he figured out my system he could have me banned from every reputable casino. So I’d have no chance of ever recovering Jason’s losses.

Even as my frantic mind tried to grasp and dissect all the possibilities though, I knew I couldn’t back out. I’d taken a chance Allegri wouldn’t be here and I’d lost. But I had to go through with tonight’s game.

Before I had a chance to handle the visceral fear at the thought of facing Allegri with so much at stake, a deep voice reverberated down my spine.

‘Joe, Matteo tells me all the players have arrived.’

I swung round and came face to face with the man who had haunted my dreams—and most of my waking hours—for months, ever since I’d begun working on this scheme to free our family from debt. To my shock, Allegri was even taller, broader and more devastatingly handsome in the flesh than he had been in the numerous celebrity blogs and magazines I’d been monitoring.

I knew he was only thirty, but the harsh angles of his face, and the unyielding strength of muscle and sinew barely contained by the expensive tuxedo, made it clear that the softness and inexperience of youth—if he had ever been young or soft—had left him long ago. Everything about him exuded power and confidence, and a frightening arrogance. No, not arrogance. Arrogance implied a sense of entitlement beyond one’s abilities. This man was fully aware of his abilities, and was ready to use them with complete ruthlessness.

His vivid blue gaze flickered over my face—and one dark eyebrow raised a fraction of a centimetre. The tiny tell vanished as soon as it had appeared. His intense gaze took a quick tour down my body. The provocative dress became instantly transparent while at the same time squeezing the air out of my lungs, as if the thin satin had turned to cast iron and was tightening around my ribs like a piece of medieval torture equipment.

Unlike the looks I had experienced from Carsoni and his men over the last year though, Dante Allegri’s perusal didn’t cause revulsion but something much more disturbing. A heavy weight sunk low into my abdomen and sensation prickled over my skin as if I were being stroked by an electric current. His attention was exhilarating and enervating, pleasurable and painful all at the same time. My reaction shocked me, because I couldn’t seem to control it. My thighs trembled, my breasts swelled against the bodice of my medieval torture equipment and it took an effort of titanic proportions to stop my breathing from speeding up.

‘That’s correct, Dante,’ Joseph Donnelly replied to his boss. ‘This is Edie Spencer,’ he added, wrenching me out of the trance Allegri’s presence had caused. ‘She’s just arrived and is hoping to play you tonight.’

I winced at the amusement in Donnelly’s tone, my panic increasing to go with the inexplicable aches all over my body. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I had tossed myself into the lion’s den tonight, I had decided to poke the lion with that foolish boast.

Allegri didn’t look particularly impressed as his intense gaze roamed over my face.

‘Exactly how old are you, Miss Spencer?’ he asked, addressing me directly for the first time. His English was perfect, the accent a mid-Atlantic hybrid of American and British with barely a hint of his native Italian. ‘Are you even legally allowed to be here?’ he added, and I bristled at the condescension. It was a long time since I’d felt like a child, let alone been treated like one.

‘Of course—I’m twenty-one,’ I said in a show of defiance that probably wasn’t wise, but something about the way he was looking at me—as if he actually saw me—and the disturbing conflagration of sensation that look was setting off all over my body made me bold.

He continued to stare at me, as if he were trying to see into my soul, and I forced myself not to break eye contact.

The noise from the main floor of the casino, as Europe’s billionaire elite tried their luck at roulette and vingt-et-un, faded to a distant hum under his intense scrutiny—until all I could hear was the thunder of my own heartbeat thumping my ribs.

‘How long have you been playing Texas Hold ’Em, Miss Spencer?’ he asked at last, mentioning the variety of poker all professional players favoured.

With five ‘community’ cards turned face up in the middle of the table, and two ‘hole’ cards dealt face down to each player, Texas Hold ’Em required the greatest amount of skill in calculating probabilities and assessing risk as you formed your hand from your two ‘hole’ cards and the five ‘community’ cards, and the least amount of dumb luck. And that’s where my system came in. I had developed a mathematical formula to assess the betting behaviour of the other players, which would give me an advantage as the game went on. But if I was spotted using the formula I would be in trouble, just like players who were caught counting cards when playing Black Jack.

Once the casinos figured out how to spot those players they were banned for life, their winnings forfeit—even though what they were doing wasn’t strictly speaking cheating. I couldn’t risk either of those scenarios.

‘Long enough,’ I answered, forcing myself to pretend a confidence I didn’t feel.

My mother had been right about one thing. Appearances were everything now. If I wanted to win, I couldn’t show this man a single weakness. Appearing confident and in control was as important as being confident and in control. In fact, letting him believe I was over-confident would also work to my advantage—the ultimate double bluff, because then he would underestimate me.

His devastating face remained impassive, but the glitter of heat in his irises and the tiny tensing of his jaw, which drew my eyes to a scar on his upper lip, suggested that my cocky statement had hit its mark. I would have felt more triumphant about his reaction if that quickly masked tell hadn’t increased the weight in the pit of my abdomen by several hundred pounds—and the prickle of awareness coasting over my skin by several thousand volts.

What was happening to me? I had never had a response like this to any man.

‘I guess we’ll see about that, Miss Spencer,’ he said, then turned to his casino manager. ‘Escort Miss Spencer up to the Salon, Joe. Introduce her to tonight’s other Millionaire Club players.’ He glanced at his watch, all business again, even though the vibes coming off him—of heat and animosity—were turning my legs to jelly.

‘I need to speak to Renfrew but I’ll be up in thirty minutes,’ he added. ‘We can kick off then.’

‘You’re joining the table tonight?’ Donnelly asked, sounding mildly surprised.

‘Yes,’ he said, that deep voice stroking the hot spot which had started to throb at my core. ‘I never back down from a challenge, especially one issued by a beautiful woman.’

It took me a moment to realise I was the beautiful woman, probably because the glare he sent me before he walked away suggested he didn’t consider it a compliment.

But as I was led away by the casino manager towards a bank of elevators, I couldn’t take my eyes off Allegri’s retreating back. His broad shoulders looked indomitable, and yet terrifyingly alluring in the expertly tailored designer evening suit. The crowd parted to allow his dark figure to stride through the room.

I had to win tonight, no matter what the cost—my family’s future depended on it. But as the inexplicable heat continued to throb at my core, my senses thrown into turmoil by that one brief encounter, I had the agonising suspicion I had already lost.

CHAPTER TWO

EDIE SPENCER WAS an enigma I couldn’t solve, and it was driving me nuts.

We’d been playing for over three hours now and I couldn’t figure out her system. I was even finding it hard to read her tells—those insignificant physical responses every player had which they were unaware of, but which made them an open book when it came to assessing their next move. And the reason why I couldn’t figure out her tells was as simple as it was surprising. I couldn’t concentrate on the game—because I was too busy concentrating on her.

While her winnings had been modest so far, they had been building steadily, unlike every other player at the table, who had the inevitable troughs that came with a game of chance. I’d managed to dispose of all but one of the other players, so there were only three of us left at the table. But while my friend Alexi Galanti, the Formula One owner who sat beside her, was down to his last million, Edie Spencer was sitting with a tidy pile of chips in front of her that matched my own.

I knew she had to be using a system which was even more ingenious than mine. But my desire to figure it out was a great deal less urgent than my desire to peel her out of the provocative dress she wore. The lace that covered her cleavage was doing nothing to distract me from the tempting display of soft female flesh beneath.

‘Raise, two hundred,’ Alexi said as he tossed a couple of hundred thousand euro chips on the table, raising the stake after the blind bids.

I stifled my frustration as I watched Edie’s slim fingers lift her hole cards on the table to study them again.

I wanted Alexi out of the game so I could play Miss Spencer alone. But Alexi was a good player. So I needed to concentrate on the play, and not the provocative display of cleavage across the table.

I stifled the visceral tug of anticipation, and the swift tug of arousal, at the prospect of having her all to myself. Mixing sex with poker was never a good strategy. But as I watched her I had to admit it wasn’t just her beauty that had been driving me nuts for hours.

I’d seen a spark of fire downstairs, when I’d questioned her about her age, and it had excited me. For the first time in a long time, I’d found myself relishing the challenge of playing a stimulating game with a stimulating woman. But ever since that moment downstairs, I hadn’t been able to tempt that spark out of hiding again.

Her skin had remained pale and unflushed, her hands folded demurely in her lap when she wasn’t betting or checking her cards, her breathing even. Her bright green gaze, which had captivated me downstairs, hadn’t connected with mine since.

And while that lack of eye contact was frustrating enough when it came to reading her play, what was a great deal more frustrating was that I was becoming even more turned on. Not less so. And even more desperate to see that flash of green fire again.

I didn’t like it. I never let physical desire distract me at the table, but what I liked even less was the fact I didn’t understand what it was about her I found so hot.

For starters, she was only twenty-one years old. And she looked even younger. When I had first seen her, I would have placed her as nineteen, twenty at the most, the revealing dress and heavy eye make-up making her wide emerald eyes and slim coltish figure look for a moment like a child playing dress up.

Young women were not to my taste. I preferred women older than me as a rule, women with lots of experience, who could match my appetites in bed, provide stimulating conversation out of it—and didn’t get over-invested in the relationship, or over-emotional when I gave them an expensive bauble to send them on their way.

I had also never had the desire before to pursue a woman who was not sending me clear signals she was interested in a little bed sport too. The truth was, when younger women bought into the high stakes game they were usually looking for a little of both—the chance to test their skill at the table and test their skills in my bed. A temptation I had found it very easy to resist up till now.

But not this time.

Of course it was more than possible Miss Spencer’s demure behaviour was all an act, intended to intrigue and entice me. If that were the case, I had to give her credit for trying a new tactic. But that still didn’t answer the question of why it was working so effectively.

Was it simply the enigma of her? Or that momentary spark of defiance? Or maybe it was the challenge she represented? How long had it been since I had found a woman this hard to read?

As I studied her debating her play, unable to detach my gaze from her, I forced myself to focus.

This girl was no different from the many other heiresses I had met over the years while I was setting up my business. The spoilt, entitled daughters of millionaire businessmen and aristocrats, European royalty and Arab sheikhs, who had never had to work a day in their lives and didn’t know the meaning of want. They played the tables to imbue their lives with the excitement their pointless existences lacked—without realising that if money had no value, the risk and the pay-off of gambling with it would have no value too.

But despite my determination to dismiss and rationalise her unprecedented effect on me, my gaze continued to roam over her, the embers of my fascination burning in my abdomen.

Her skin glowed with youth in the subtle lighting, the plunging V of her gown beneath the lace highlighting full firm breasts flushed with an alabaster softness. The ruched peaks of her nipples, outlined through the satin, were the only response she seemed unable to control.

I would have taken some satisfaction from that... But the increasingly relentless desire to ease the edge of her gown down, expose those peaks and feel them swell and elongate against my tongue wasn’t making me feel particularly impressed with my own control.

‘Fold,’ she said, passing her hole cards to Alexi, who was dealing—and eluding my attempts to force her to break cover, again.

I bit down on my tongue to stop the curse coming out of my mouth, like a damn rookie. But, as if she had sensed my frustration, her gaze flicked to mine.

It flicked away again almost immediately. But in that moment, as our gazes locked, I saw that flash of fire. A jolt of heat eddied through my system.

Her chest rose and fell and then stilled as she regained her composure. But the pebbled outline of her nipples became more prominent against the satin.

Desire flared in my abdomen like a meteor shower, as I finally solved at least some of the puzzle. The veneer of composure was just that—a veneer.

Whatever system Edie had devised, she had just exposed one major weakness.

Maybe she was still an enigma in some ways. But one thing I knew now with complete certainty—she was as hungry for me as I was for her. And for some reason she wanted to hide it. Which gave me the upper hand, because it was a weakness I could exploit.

Hot blood surged in my groin.

In fact, it was a weakness I was going to take great pleasure in exploiting.

Game on, bella.

CHAPTER THREE

HE KNOWS.

I had made a terrible mistake. I knew it as soon as my gaze met Allegri’s and held for a nanosecond too long.

I’d been avoiding eye contact all night, that penetrating blue gaze turning my stomach to molten lava and making my nipples tighten every time it caught mine.

I didn’t understand my reaction to him. The only thing I did know was that I couldn’t let him see it—or I would be completely at the mercy of it, and him. But the more I tried to control my physical responses, the harder they became to hide. And the more difficult I found it to keep my mind on the game.

I should have bet on that hand. I knew the probability he had a better one was fractionally greater than mine, given the way he had betted during the blinds, but if I never tested him, never lost, he would begin to suspect I had a system. The problem was, I had been avoiding going head to head with him all night, the fear of exposing the strange currents gripping my body too great to risk it.

But as soon as I’d folded again, and saw his jaw tense, the rush of exhilaration at frustrating him was like a drug, intoxicating me. As a result I had been incapable of stopping myself from lifting my head and staring directly at him.

He remained calm, the tensing of his jaw easing, and then his lips curved in a sensual smile that fed the rush of adrenaline.

I ripped my gaze away before he could see more. But I knew it was already too late. The giddy longing must have been written all over my face.

My breathing stopped. It just stopped. I had to fight for the next breath, but as I forced my lungs to function in an even rhythm again, my nipples became so hard they felt as if they were going to poke right through my dress.

I listened to the play continue around me, as Allegri finished off Galanti. The motor-racing entrepreneur subsided with good grace, throwing his pair of aces down with a hollow laugh when Allegri turned over his winning hand—a two to match the pair of twos already on the table.

‘Damn it, Dante, one of these days, I swear your luck will run out,’ Galanti said.

‘Keep dreaming, Alexi,’ Allegri said as he began methodically stacking the pile of chips he’d won.

Galanti cast a look my way as he knocked back the last of his whisky. ‘Maybe Miss Spencer has your number?’ Standing to leave the table, he offered me his hand. ‘You’ve been an impressive and beautiful opponent, Edie,’ he said with deliberate familiarity, the look in his eyes flirtatious.

‘Thank you, Mr Galanti,’ I said. As we shook hands, I tried to figure out why I had no reaction to this man and yet was finding it so hard to control the one I had to Allegri.

‘Good luck,’ Galanti said. ‘Maybe we could meet afterwards for a drink?’ he added. ‘I’m going to try my luck at the roulette table next, so I’ll be around to celebrate with you when you beat this bastard.’

The vote of confidence surprised me, but the invitation surprised me more—I made an effort to make myself invisible whenever I was around men. Both Jude and I had learned instinctively to shy away from male attention, thanks to the endless stream of lovers my mother had brought into our lives as teenagers.

The decision to decline Galanti’s invitation was instant and unequivocal. But as I opened my mouth to cry off, Allegri spoke.

‘Get lost, Alexi. Miss Spencer is out of bounds—she’s all mine now.’

Galanti laughed and left, apparently unaware of the subtle edge in Allegri’s voice. But I’d heard it, along with the hint of possessiveness.

She’s all mine now.

What was that supposed to mean?

I made the mistake of looking at him again, and my blood pressure spiked on cue. He was watching me, the way he had been all night. But, instead of frustration, all I saw now was satisfaction, and challenge, daring me to react to his outrageous remark.

He finished shuffling the cards, his strong wrists and capable fingers flexing in practised motion, never taking his gaze off me.

The tension in the room increased as the door closed behind Galanti, leaving us alone in the plush salon. The huge mullioned window gave us a spectacular view of the bay, the boats moored in the marina adding a sprinkle of lights to the dark sea, but the overwhelmingly masculine space, luxuriously furnished in leather and mahogany in accents of green and brown, suddenly seemed dangerous... And exciting.

Allegri had dismissed the serving staff over an hour ago. At the time it had seemed a generous gesture—it had been past midnight. But now we were alone together I was wondering if he had planned it.

For the first time, the strange melting sensation at my core and the panic it caused was joined by a spark of anger at his proprietary comment to Galanti.

I’d spent the last year of my life being bullied and belittled by Carsoni and his hired muscle—I didn’t like it.

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t make decisions for me, Mr Allegri,’ I said, in as placid a voice as I could muster while I was burning up with indignation.

‘And what decision would that be?’ he asked, cutting the pack one-handed.

‘The decision to have a drink with Mr Galanti,’ I huffed, indignation getting the better of me.

‘As you had already decided to give him the brush-off,’ he said, ‘I hardly think I took the decision away from you.’

He cut the cards again, and smiled that sensual smile—which did diabolical things to my heart rate. The arrogant comment rattled me, but it infuriated me more, loosening my tongue.

‘Actually, I hadn’t decided to give him the brush-off,’ I lied.

‘Yes, you had,’ he said with complete confidence. The slight curve of his lip unsettled and confused me—was he amused by my futile attempt to misdirect him?

And how the heck did he know I had been planning to give Galanti the brush-off?

‘How could you possibly know that?’ I blurted out.

His blue gaze darkened and, to my horror, an answering heat hit my chest and spread across my collarbone like a rash.

‘Because he’s not your type, bella,’ he said. The gruff tone, and his easy use of the endearment, made the rash spread up my neck and hit my cheeks. ‘I am.’

CHAPTER FOUR

THE DESIRE I had been trying and failing to control for hours shot through my system like a fine wine, but I was through caring about it as Edie Spencer’s gaze finally flashed the green fire I had witnessed downstairs.

Welcome back, bella.

Satisfaction joined with the intoxicating jolt of power and passion as I saw indignation flush her pale skin. The challenging light heated her eyes to a sparkling emerald. She really was exquisite. Provocative, fearless and, from the system I had yet to fully fathom, also wildly intelligent. Whatever game she was playing, she was proving to be a worthy opponent. Not something I was used to when it came to the spoilt children of the rich.

I was going to have a great deal of fun winning this game—and then mining the sexual chemistry we so clearly shared. If she was anywhere near as hot in bed as she was at the table, this was liable to be a very entertaining night.

‘You’re extremely arrogant, Mr Allegri,’ she said, but I caught the catch of breath in her throat as she said it. ‘Perhaps you should concentrate on the game, instead of my fictitious attraction to your charms.’

‘I happen to be very good at multi-tasking,’ I replied as I placed the pack on the table, suddenly less interested in dealing the cards than I was in dealing with her. ‘I can play and read your responses at the same time—which is how I know it’s me you want, not Alexi.’

‘What responses?’ she said, her chest rising and falling again in an erratic rhythm. ‘I don’t have any response to you, whatever your ego might be telling you.’

I decided not to argue the point. I simply let my gaze drift down to her nipples and watched them swell against the satin. I could only imagine how desperate she must be now for relief. The peaks begging for the sharp strong tug of my lips. Some women were extremely sensitive there; I would hazard a guess she was one of them from the way the flush she’d kept at bay for three hours spread across her collarbone under my examination.

‘How about we test that theory,’ I said, ‘and take a recreational break?’

She stiffened, but the blush was out of control now. And all the more arresting for it.

She didn’t respond so I added, ‘We’ve been playing for three hours—and I’m starving.’ I let the implication hang in the air that it wasn’t just food I was hungry for—while enjoying her attempts to stifle the now livid blush rioting across those pale cheeks.

I saw her debate my request, unsure whether to take the bait or not. If she knew anything about me at all—and I would hazard a guess she had done more than her fair share of research on my habits from her play so far—she would know I frequently played for twenty-four hours straight without the need for sustenance. I didn’t get hungry during a match, all my focus on the turn of the cards. But right now I was distracted, so why not run with it? After all, that delectable flash of temper and heat in her eyes was even more challenging than her play.

I wondered exactly how bold she really was.

Would she play it safe and decline my offer? Keep her cards close to her chest and continue to deny the chemistry making both our bloods boil? Or would she take the risk of exposing her own hunger, to get the upper hand in the game of cat and mouse we were now playing?

I was hoping it would be the latter, but had I overestimated her daring?

I thought I probably had when she looked away and I saw her throat move as she swallowed.

But then, to my surprise, she turned back to me and those mesmerising emerald eyes sparked with defiance—and a steely determination.

‘I’d love a supper break,’ she said, the tiny quiver in her voice contradicted by the thrust of her nipples and the flagrant colour still flaring on her cheeks. ‘But only because I’m hungry and I need all my energy to concentrate on beating you.’

‘Touché, bella.’ I chuckled, enjoying her audacious threat, and the sparkle of green fire. I picked up my cell-phone and texted Joe to get a meal up here pronto. She hadn’t just taken the bait; she’d swallowed it whole then spat it back out again.

Why that should make me relish bedding her even more than beating her was probably a little perverse—as a rule I never slept with an opponent, however tempted—mixing poker with sexual pleasure could get complicated fast... But, right now, my goal was a simple one. Stoke the hunger between us until she gave up all her secrets.

Then I could make quick work of defeating her at the table—and we could both reap the rewards.

CHAPTER FIVE

HAD I COMPLETELY lost my ever-loving mind?

Why had I agreed to stop play and share a meal with Dante Allegri? It was stupid and reckless to the point of being extremely dangerous—especially if you factored in the pheromones rioting through my body every time he so much as glanced at me.

But I didn’t realise how dangerous my situation was until I was sitting opposite him at a table in the adjoining salon, set with sparkling crystal, fine china and antique silverware. His devilishly handsome face—illuminated by the flicker of candlelight—looked more savage than suave as the prickles of sensation all over my skin refused to subside.

It was as if my body had a death wish.

He lifted my plate to serve me from the banquet displayed on a sideboard which had been brought up from the casino kitchens by a troop of waiters who, to my dismay, had disappeared again almost immediately.

‘What’s your pleasure, Miss Spencer?’ The formal address sounded ridiculous, given the way I could feel his voice caressing my skin as he spoke my name in that husky, amused tone.

Wake up, Edie. This isn’t real...he’s not interested in you... He’s a practised seducer trying to use his industrial-strength sex appeal to weaken all your defences.

I shouted the mantra in my head as I fought the strange sensation—a mesmerising mix of lethargy and fizzing urgency—which had taken over my body and drawn me into this perilous position.

I should have resisted the urge to challenge him, to provoke him and to accept the gauntlet he’d thrown down, but I was here now and I couldn’t back down so I’d just have to play out this hand to the best of my abilities. Maybe I’d had some vague notion of playing him at his own game but, as the intimacy drew in around me and my ribs contracted around my thundering heartbeat, I realised the recklessness of that knee-jerk decision. I had no experience at all of men, especially not rich, powerful, sexually magnetic men who exuded the kind of confidence and charisma Dante Allegri did without even trying. I might as well have been a mouse, trying to impress a lion.

I breathed in the delicious aroma of the food as I concentrated on choosing a selection but, as my mouth watered and my stomach grumbled, I’d never felt less like eating.

I picked a few dishes from the lavish array of French cuisine—which I noted was plentiful enough to have fed me and my sister for a week—only to find myself entranced by the play of his strong capable hands as he ladled the fragrant samples of delicately spiced fish and lightly steamed vegetables, the rich gratin and colourful salads onto a gold-rimmed fine china plate.

He had wide callused palms and long fingers and blunt, carefully clipped nails. His skin looked darkly tanned against the pristine white cotton of his shirt. He’d lost the tuxedo jacket several hours ago but before serving me he had rolled up his shirt sleeves, giving me a disturbing view of the corded muscles in his forearms, the sprinkle of dark hair, as he placed my plate on the table.

He proceeded to serve himself a large helping, then sat down opposite me. He lifted a bottle of wine out of the ice bucket set next to the table and uncorked it in a few efficient strokes, then tipped the bottle towards my glass.

‘Some wine? I assure you this white goes well with Argento’s skate au beurre noir.’

Drinking probably wasn’t a good idea, but with my heart battering my chest at approximately five hundred beats per second I had to do something to slow it down, so I nodded.

He poured me a shallow glass, not enough to get me drunk, I realised with relief, but as he served himself I noticed the bottle’s label. A Mouton Rothschild Blanc from the turn of the new century. I took a generous gulp to hide my surprise, letting the fresh, delightfully fruity taste moisten my dry mouth.

I wondered why he hadn’t boasted about the wine, which I knew sold for thousands of euros a bottle, because one of the many things we had been forced to do after my mother died, to pay off her debts, was auction everything in her wine cellar.

‘Buon appetito,’ he said, nodding to my plate before picking up his own cutlery.

I scooped up a mouthful of buttery fish and creamy potatoes, but I could barely taste it as I swallowed. He was still watching me. Assessing my weaknesses, I was sure, with that focused, intensely blue gaze as he devoured his own food.

‘Where are you from, Miss Spencer?’ he asked finally. He leaned back in his chair and lifted his wine glass to those sensual lips.

I watched him swallow and took another sip from my own glass as I gave up trying to eat the food and attempted to come up with a convincing answer.

Unfortunately I hadn’t prepared for this eventuality, having convinced myself Allegri wouldn’t even be in the house tonight.

‘A small town north of Chantilly. Lamorlaye,’ I said, mentioning a town close enough to Belle Rivière that I would know the details, just in case he knew the area too.

‘You’re French?’ His eyes narrowed as his brows rose up his forehead. ‘And yet you speak English without an accent.’

‘I’m half-French, half-British,’ I clarified, my heartbeat stuttering under that inquisitive gaze. I knew it was always best to keep as close to the truth as possible, because then it was harder to get caught out in a lie, but I didn’t want to give him information that might make it possible to track me down after I won tonight’s game... If I won tonight’s game.

The jolt of panic had me taking another sip of my wine to calm the nerves that were jiggling around in my stomach with Argento’s skate.

‘I live most of the year in Knightsbridge,’ I said, plucking the most expensive area of London I could think of out of thin air. ‘But the city is so stifling at this time of year,’ I continued, lying through my teeth now to put him off the scent. I needed to sound urbane and cosmopolitan and a little bored to keep up the pretence that I was a rich heiress amusing herself for the summer. ‘So I prefer to stay at my parents’ estate in Lamorlaye from May to September... The social scene in Chantilly is so much more exclusive and refined than Paris, and our chateau has a pool and a tennis court and a cinema so I can keep in shape and entertain myself when I’m not socialising or making flying visits to Monaco, or Cannes, or Biarritz.’

‘You don’t work?’ He sounded both suspicious and unimpressed.

I slipped my hands off the table and rested them in my lap, rubbing the calluses on my palms I’d been hiding all evening. The last thing I wanted him to know about was the night-time cleaning jobs I’d taken on in the last year—along with the accountancy work I’d been doing for local businesses ever since my mother died four years ago. If he knew how desperate I was to win this game, it would only make me easier prey.

‘Work’s so overrated, don’t you think?’ I said. ‘And anyway, I’d hate to be tied down like that. I’m a free spirit, Mr Allegri. I much prefer the danger of riding my luck at the roulette table or the excitement of calculating my odds during a game of Texas Hold ’Em than shackling myself to a boring nine-to-five job,’ I continued, the lies floating out of my mouth like confetti at a high society wedding—the sort I’d only ever seen in magazines or on the Internet.

His frown lowered and for a split second I thought I’d overdone the rich airhead act. He had to know I wasn’t an idiot from the way I’d played so far. But then the crease in his brow eased and a cynical, knowing smile curved those wide sensual lips. But while my panic at being caught in a lie downgraded, what I saw flicker across his face for a split second had my heart bouncing back into my throat.

Disappointment.

When he spoke again, his voice rich with condescension, I was convinced I must have imagined it. Surely, like all the rich men I’d ever met, he preferred his women pretty and vacuous—the way my mother had always taken great pains to appear when trying to attract a new ‘protector’.

‘From the way you play poker,’ he said, faint praise evident in every syllable, ‘I’d say your time has been very well spent.’

Picking up my glass, I toasted him with unsteady hands. ‘Touché,’ I whispered, repeating the provocative phrase he’d uttered earlier, in an attempt to sound more confident and provocative.

He toasted me too and knocked back the last of his wine. But when his gaze fixed on my face again, while it still prickled over my skin, ablaze with an intense, focused desire that still disturbed me on so many levels, something crucial had been lost—his regard for me as a worthy opponent and an intelligent woman. He was looking at me now as an object of desire and contempt, not as an equal. The way all my mother’s ‘protectors’ had always looked at her.

Anxiety and inadequacy twisted in my stomach, wrestling with the confusion and longing that was already there. I tried to dismiss the feeling of regret that he despised me now.

It was stupid to care what he thought. I wasn’t here to impress him. I was here to win this game by whatever means necessary. And who was he to judge me anyway? A man who had made his fortune by ruthlessly exploiting the addictions of poor, deluded fools like my brother-in-law until they forgot about everything that mattered. And betrayed everyone who loved them.

I pushed the contempt I felt for myself and this necessary charade onto him. If I looked at it that way, Dante Allegri was as much to blame for my family’s disastrous circumstances as Jason was. Maybe more so, because Jason had always been weak and easily led, unlike Allegri, who must have come out of his mother’s womb with a well-developed sense of entitlement and a complete lack of compassion and empathy or how would he ever have been able to achieve what he had?

Unfortunately my growing sense of grievance against Allegri did nothing to temper the huge surge of adrenaline when he wiped his mouth with his napkin, threw it on the table and then stood and held out his hand.

‘Come with me, Miss Spencer. I have something you might enjoy seeing before we resume our play.’

He towered over me. He was a tall man, at least six foot three, and I was only a sliver over five foot four but, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and standing over me, it wasn’t just his height that was intimidating. This close, I could see how toned and powerful his body was beneath the tailored shirt and trousers. All lean muscles and coiled strength, he looked like a bareknuckle fighter who would be completely merciless in his pursuit of the win.

The enormity of what I was trying to achieve—beating Allegri at his own game in his own casino—hit me with staggering force but, instead of my flight instinct kicking in, as it probably should have done, the surge of adrenaline, and the rising tide of anger, at all my family had suffered as a result of this man’s cold-blooded business practices, had my fight instinct kicking in instead.

Whatever happened now, I would do everything and anything to beat this man.

I took the hand he offered and forced what I hoped was a seductive, confident smile onto my lips. ‘That sounds intriguing,’ I said, pleased when my voice barely quivered.

But when he folded my arm under his, tugging me close to his side—until all I could feel was the bunch and flex of his strong body next to mine and all I could smell was the clean scent of cedar soap and the devastating scent of him—my fight instinct blurred into something volatile and dangerous.

He escorted me to the mullioned window which looked out over the bay and let go of my arm, to step behind me.

‘Over there,’ he said as he pointed into the inky blackness over my shoulder.

‘What am I looking at?’ Was he about to show me his yacht? I wondered. I wanted to believe he was vain and conceited, even though all I’d seen so far was passion and purpose—and an arrogance that he had clearly earned.

But just as I became far too aware of the masculine scent surrounding me, and the warmth of his body against the bare skin of my back, a red glow burst over the edge of the horizon, grabbing all my attention.

I gasped, shocked by the flagrant beauty of the natural light show as it spread and shimmered across the night sky, turning from red to pink to orange and myriad shades in between.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I whispered.

I’d never seen the Northern Lights before. I didn’t even know you could see them in Monaco, believing them to be a phenomenon of the Arctic Circle. My heart leapt into my throat. How had he known they would occur at this very moment? It was almost as if he’d conjured them especially for me.

I struggled to dismiss the foolish romantic thought, recognising it for what it was, a notion borne out of an overpowering physical response that I had not prepared for. But then he rested a hand on my hip and the gentle brush of his palm spread the fire in my belly through my body with the same intensity as the conflagration on the horizon.

I stood all but cocooned in his arms. I knew I should step away from him, the deep drawing sensation in my abdomen far too compelling. But the huff of breath against my ear, the intoxicating scent of soap and man, the strength of his restraint as he tensed behind me had the last of my caution flying out of the window.

We stood there together for several minutes, watching the show—and the drawing sensation in my stomach heated and spread. The mass of contradictions he stirred within me became harder and harder to explain. Why did he excite me so much? How could I enjoy standing so close to him when I knew how dangerous he was?

I shifted and turned as the lights began to fade.

His face was lit by the dying embers of the Aurora Borealis and a passion so fierce and all-consuming it terrified me. But it exhilarated me more.

It wasn’t terror I felt when he brought his hand up to cup my cheek then drew his thumb down my neck in a slow glide, to settle against the rampaging pulse on my collarbone. It was longing.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Edie,’ he murmured, using my Christian name—and the only real name I’d given him—for the first time. ‘Unless you want to share my bed once the game is over.’

It was supposed to be a warning, but to my dazed mind and the pheromones hurtling through my body it sounded more like a promise.

A promise I didn’t want to refuse.

I lifted shaking palms to his stubble-roughened cheeks. He clenched his jaw and tried to pull back, but I refused to let go.

Just this once, I wanted to go with my instincts and to hell with the consequences.

‘Damn it,’ he swore softly, but then he dragged me into his arms.

Joy burst through me—so inappropriate and yet so intoxicating—at the realisation I had snapped his cast-iron control.

He captured my lips with his. The kiss was firm and forceful, and demanding. Heat swooped into my sex and swelled in my breasts, shimmering through my body like the lights in the fiery night sky. My nipples tightened into hard aching points against the unyielding wall of his chest. My thighs trembled as his hands grasped my buttocks and drew me tight against him so I could feel the full measure of what I’d done to him. The thick outline of his erection ground against my belly.

The size and hardness shocked me, but it thrilled me more.

He wanted me as much as I wanted him. This seduction was real. We were equals.

His tongue thrust deep into my mouth in a relentless rhythm, devouring me. I opened my mouth wider, met his tongue thrust for thrust, the hunger consuming me.

But as the kiss continued, the sensations bombarding me became too strong, too overwhelming. What was happening to me? He was destroying my resistance and every ounce of my will. Why did I yearn to surrender to him?

I stopped massaging his scalp and gripped the silky waves of his hair in shaking fingers to tug his head back.

He grunted but let me go so abruptly I stumbled.

My survival instinct finally kicked in—several minutes too late—and I scrambled back, scared that I would throw myself back into that maelstrom of needs and desires if he made any attempt to kiss me again.

But he made no move towards me, his ragged breathing as tortured as my own. He swore, a guttural murmur of Italian street slang that I didn’t understand, then swung away and stalked towards the window. The horizon was dark again, the dance of iridescent colours gone.

He thrust his fingers through his hair, then shoved his hands into his pockets. His broad shoulders rose and fell as he heaved out a breath, his big body silhouetted by the sprinkle of lights from the bay.

At last he turned back to me but, with his hair mussed and his movements far from smooth, he was nothing like the man who had faced me across the poker table and then the dinner table. No longer confident and controlled, and indomitable—instead he seemed wild, or barely tame, like a trapped tiger prowling the bars of its cage.

I touched trembling fingers to my lips, the soreness both devastating and invigorating. This new side to him should have scared me more but as he walked back towards me, still struggling to get a grip on the desire which continued to reverberate through my own body, I felt a giddy sense of kinship.

Was he as disturbed by the ferocity of that kiss, and how quickly it had raged out of control, as I was?

‘Forgive me,’ he growled when he reached me. ‘That got out of hand a lot faster than I intended.’

The apology sounded gruff but sincere. And gave me an answer I didn’t know how to handle. Dante Allegri, the ruthless unprincipled womaniser, was a lot easier to hate than the man before me, who seemed almost as troubled by that kiss as I was.

‘Can we... Can we get back to the game?’ I managed at last, surprised by my ability to string a coherent sentence together.

One eyebrow rose a fraction, but then he nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Lifting one hand out of his pocket, he directed me to precede him into the poker salon. He made a point of not touching me again but, once we were seated at the table and he began to deal the cards, I could see he had regained his composure, and that cast-iron control.

I lifted my hole cards and examined them, but the probabilities I should be calculating as he dealt the first of the community cards and the blind betting began refused to come. My mind and every one of my senses had turned to mush.

My heart shrank in my chest as the play continued and he won the hand.

I tried to get my mind into gear during the next hand, but my judgement was off and my concentration shot. My mind and body were still reeling from the driving needs and inexplicable emotions he had ignited with a simple kiss. A kiss I had encouraged. No, a kiss I had initiated.

I wanted to weep, my panic increasing as he won the next hand. The unrequited need smouldered in the pit of my belly—the memory of his lips on mine, his hands kneading my buttocks, his tongue exploring in deep strokes—a distraction I couldn’t seem to conquer...

Long before the final hand was dealt, I knew I had lost and that I had only myself to blame. Because in those giddy moments when I had yearned for Dante Allegri’s kiss, then revelled in the stunning way it made me feel and then kidded myself it had devastated him too, I had become the one thing I’d always sworn I would never be... As weak and needy and gullible as my mother.

CHAPTER SIX

‘TWO FIVES...’ I threw my hole cards on the table next to Edie Spencer’s pair of eights. Unfortunately for her, the community cards included another five. ‘You lose, bella,’ I said, grateful that the poker game was finally over.

It had taken an epic force of will and all of my expertise to keep my mind on the cards in the last hour. Ever since that damn kiss. It was a miracle I’d managed to win. After she’d broken off the embrace, I had considered throwing the game to get this part of the evening over with so I could get my hands on her again.

It had been torture, sitting in the chair and struggling to keep my head straight while my blood rushed straight back to my groin every time she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, or the soft mounds of her breasts rose and fell against the lace of her gown.

But I had forced myself to stay focused, or focused enough, to get the job done. Yes, we clearly had phenomenal chemistry, the sort of explosive sexual connection I’d never had with any other woman. And we were both going to have fun exploring it to its fullest potential. But I wasn’t going to throw a game to have her—especially as I was pretty sure that’s exactly why she had initiated the kiss in the first place.

But her little plan had backfired, because if I had been struggling to keep my head straight and out of my pants after that kiss, she’d been even more distracted.

If she’d ever had a system—something I’d begun to doubt after our conversation over dinner had revealed her to be as spoilt and capricious as every other bored little rich girl who played the casinos on their daddy’s dime—it had fallen apart when we’d got back to the game.

She obviously hadn’t expected that kiss to go off like a rocket the way it had—which had to be why she’d called a halt to her attempted seduction so abruptly.

But as I raked in the last of her chips, I relished the surge of heat that shot straight to my groin at the thought of what the rest of the night would hold.

She hadn’t said anything, and it was hard to tell how she was taking the defeat because she had her head down. But then I detected the tiny tremor running through her body. Impatience and irritation warred with my desire.

Even though I still hadn’t figured out why this woman had such a turbulent effect on my usually smart libido, I wanted to take that incredible kiss to its logical conclusion. But if she was going to start crying and try to wheedle a concession out of me because I had beaten her, she could forget it. I’d won the game fair and square and I didn’t trade sexual favours—however hot they promised to be—for money.

Sure, I’d had girlfriends in the past whom I’d supported. I liked to treat women I was sleeping with well. And if I was seeing someone on a regular basis I always offered them a generous allowance so they could devote their time to me and had everything they needed. I could be demanding—my lifestyle was expensive and I needed them to revolve their schedule around mine—so it seemed only fair to offer them compensation. I also always gave them a generous parting gift when the relationship reached its natural conclusion. I was a wealthy man, I considered these women friends and I didn’t want anyone calling me a cheapskate, so why wouldn’t I?

But I wasn’t about to be emotionally manipulated by some spoilt young woman because she’d taken a chance with her daddy’s money and lost. And I resented the implication that I should.

Despite all that, as Edie continued to sit there, her head bent and her shoulders starting to tremble alarmingly, a weird thing happened. I found myself wanting to take the tremor away. And not just because I had plans for the rest of the night that would become a lot less palatable if she started freaking out about the million euros of her daddy’s money she’d lost.

‘Bella, don’t get too upset. I’ll sub you a million so we can have a rematch some time.’ It was the best I could offer without feeling like a chump. And once I said it I warmed to the idea.

Up until we’d both got distracted by that kiss, I’d enjoyed the challenge of playing with her. Our sexual attraction had added an exciting level of eroticism to the game—like high-stakes foreplay. I would enjoy playing her again, and figuring out if she actually had a system and, if so, what it was, or whether her success in the earlier part of the evening had been down to plain old dumb luck.

Instead of taking me up on the offer though, she shook her head. Still not looking at me.

My impatience and frustration spiked, along with that weird feeling of empathy.

‘Look at me, bella.’ Leaning across the table, I tucked a knuckle under her chin and nudged her face up.

What I saw though—when her emerald eyes finally met mine—was so real it shocked me to my core.

Her eyes were dry, without the self-pitying tears I had been expecting, but also dazed and unfocused—she looked shattered. Devastated.

A stab of something ripped through my chest. And the trickle of unwanted sympathy turned into a flood.

‘Bella? What’s going on?’ I said, disorientated and concerned—not just by the haunted look in her eyes, but also by my desire to take her anguish away.

Why did she look so shattered? And why the hell did I care?

‘N... N... Nothing,’ she stuttered, shaking her head. She stood up. ‘I have to go.’

She walked past me, her back ramrod-straight, her face a deathly shade of white, her whole body consumed by tremors now.

I grasped her arm, felt the shudder of reaction. ‘Don’t...’

Go.

The word got trapped in my throat before I could utter it.

Grazie a Dio.

What was wrong with me? We’d kissed, once. And yeah, it had been spectacular, and unexpected. And I wanted more. But I wasn’t about to beg her to stay. So I took a different tack. ‘Where are you going in such a rush? Stay and have a drink,’ I said, attempting to sound relaxed and persuasive.

I tugged her round to face me, disturbed by the sparkle of moisture in her eyes. I’d been expecting tears. But the sheen of distress looked genuine, something she was making every effort to contain, not use to guilt-trip me about my win.

How could she seem so fragile and breakable now, when she’d been so strong and determined earlier in the evening? And why did I still want her so much? Because her vulnerability wasn’t doing a damn thing to stem the tidal wave of longing that had tortured me ever since our kiss.

Surely it was all an act? It had to be. But why couldn’t I convince myself of that?

‘Bella...’ I cupped her cheek, brushed my thumb across the soft skin, stupidly relieved when her pulse jumped against my palm. And her eyes darkened.

She still wanted me too. I hadn’t imagined that much, at least.

‘It’s only money,’ I said, certain the cause of her distress had to be her parents’ reaction. Perhaps her father would be angry. What man wouldn’t be at a million-euro loss, even an indulgent father?

‘You’re good. Just not good enough on this occasion. But I’ll give you a chance to win it back, if that’s what you want.’

‘Thank you. That’s very generous of you,’ she said.

‘Then you’ll stay, join me for a drink?’ I hated the element of doubt in my voice. We both knew I wasn’t just talking about her staying for a drink—the promise of that kiss was still snapping in the air around us.

‘Yes, okay,’ she said.

‘Good,’ I said, more relieved and excited than I should have been at her concession. I placed a light kiss on her forehead, pleased when her breathing stuttered. I forced myself not to take her lips again though, before we were both ready.

She drew away and I had to stop myself from dragging her back into my arms, the desire to stake my claim on her all but overwhelming.

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Can I go and freshen up first?’

‘Of course,’ I said, even though I wanted to demand she stay.

I wasn’t possessive with women. And I had no idea where the ludicrous desire not to let her out of my sight came from, so I ignored it.

But, as I watched her leave the room, the rush of blood to my groin became all but unbearable.

I poured myself a glass of expensive single malt Scotch while I waited for her, to calm my frustration and my impatience.

Walking to the window, I savoured the smoky liquor as it burned down my throat. Once she was in my bed, and I had begun to tap the heat we had ignited with that kiss, Edie Spencer would soon forget the money she’d lost. And the problem of explaining it to her father.

Hell, if we were as good together as I was anticipating, and that kiss had suggested, I could offer to support her until the fire between us burnt out. She clearly had expensive tastes, no income of her own and enjoyed the thrill of gambling with money she hadn’t earned. Perhaps I could employ her as a hostess for the week-long party I was throwing at my new estate in Nice at the end of the month? Edie would be perfect for such a role, smart, beautiful and classy—and well versed in how to charm elite businessmen after her privileged upbringing. Her skill at the table might also be useful.

Of course, I might have a job on my hands persuading her to work for a living. But after her reaction tonight to losing her father’s million euro stake, I didn’t think it would be that hard to persuade her to take the job. I was a generous employer. Plus taming that free spirit of hers could be enjoyable for both of us.

I bolted back the last of the Scotch, finally feeling more like myself. The burn in my throat matched the warm weight in my gut—a weight which I understood now and knew would be easily resolved once Edie returned.

I glanced at my watch, surprised she was taking so long.

My cell-phone buzzed. I lifted it out of my pocket and read Joe Donnelly’s text.

We’ve got a problem. Call me.

I sighed, tempted to ignore the request. It was four in the morning and Edie would be back soon.

But my innate professionalism took over. Joe wasn’t the hysterical type, so if there was a problem he couldn’t fix it must require my attention.

I clicked on the call button.

Joe picked up instantly. ‘How’s the game going?’ he asked without preamble.

‘I won ten minutes ago, why?’

Joe cursed, the Irish slang he never used unless he was rattled.

‘Is Edie Spencer still with you?’ he asked.

‘She’s freshening up,’ I said, but already the hairs on the back of my neck were going haywire.

‘So she’s not actually in the room with you?’

‘No... What’s going on, Joe?’ I asked, but I already knew something was very wrong, the twisting pain in my gut one I recognised from a very long time ago.

‘The bank draft she paid us with—it’s forged. And so is her ID. The accounting department figured it out ten minutes ago, when they noticed a shortfall in the night’s takings in the casino’s accounts.’

The pain sharpened, turning into the hollow ache that had crippled me as a kid. She wasn’t coming back.

‘The good news is we think we might have figured out who she really is.’ Joe was still talking but I could barely grasp the meaning of the words, the blood rushing in my ears, the tremble of reaction in my fingers a combination of fury and something far, far worse. Helplessness.

‘Who is she?’ I asked, fury burning in my gut now, obliterating the distant echo of an anguish I had once been unable to control.

‘Ever heard of Madeleine Trouvé?’ Joe asked.

‘No,’ I said, resisting the urge to shout at my friend as my head began to pound. ‘Is that her real name?’ I said, keeping my voice low and even, although it was the opposite of how I felt. Edie Spencer had tricked me, made a fool of me. Made me relive a moment in my life I had spent a lifetime overcoming. And she would pay for that. As well as the money she’d just swindled me out of. ‘We need to track her down,’ I said.

Something I intended to do personally. She owed me a million euros. But I knew it wasn’t just the money. My fingers clutched so hard on the whisky tumbler it shattered in my fingers.

‘Madeleine Trouvé was the French It girl of the nineties,’ Joe continued. ‘Famous for the high-profile affairs she had with a string of rich, powerful and mostly married men. Seriously, you’ve never heard of her?’ Joe asked, sounding incredulous.

‘I don’t have time for twenty questions,’ I shouted, losing the tenuous grip I had on my temper as I wrapped a napkin around my bleeding fingers. The sting of expensive liquor in the cuts grounded me, turning the emotion churning in my belly into a cold, hard knot of anger. ‘How the hell can Edie Spencer be her—the woman I just played can’t be more than early twenties...’

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