Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“Tell me about the categories you put gamblers in.” Stefano shifts his gaze from the passersby to me.
I curse the flush that hits my cheeks. Why did I ever tell him so much?
“Come on, don’t be shy.” He pours more wine in my glass. “I want to hear what you’ve learned. It could be useful for me working security.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Yeah, it probably could. It’s how I knew something was off with you that first night.”
His sensual lips spread into a slow grin. He leans forward, eyes glittering with intensity. “Tell me.”
I’d like to say I’m immune to having my every word hung onto by a sexy, powerful man, but it does something crazy to my insides. My nipples harden, but it’s beyond sexual. It’s more like energy swirling around me, whispering dangerous things in my ear. Things I want to believe.
I take a sip of wine. His attention remains riveted on me. “There’s three kinds of big gamblers,” I tell him. “The cerebral, the wild and crazy and the energetic, for lack of a better term.” I go on to explain each one and he hangs onto my every word.
“And so if someone’s spending big and he or she isn’t one of these three, you know something’s off.”
I nod. “Right. And I should’ve known last night because Donahue didn’t fit, either. I had a lot of signs things were off with him, but I didn’t put it together fast enough.”
Stefano covers my hand with his. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I really am.”
I don’t want to contemplate what it means that he didn’t say he was sorry it happened, or sorry a guy’s dead or any of that. I mean, I would’ve done the same thing in his shoes. The guy was going to kill him. But he’s taken it all pretty coolly.
His comms unit buzzes and he listens and speaks into it. Then he looks at our empty plates. “I need to get out on the floor. You want to come with me? Be my shadow for the night?”
It’s a Stockholm Syndrome sign that I get excited by his offer, as if he’s taking me out on the town for a fancy date, rather than letting me out of his room. Still, I nod eagerly, because it’s what I want.
“Let me see you in one of those dresses they brought up to my room, then.” He stands up and leads me to the elevator.
I ignore the fact that there’s a little thrill at the idea of dressing for him, providing the visual stimulation he was looking for when he asked me to work the private games.
“So are you going to let me back on the floor, or am I still your private game dealer?” I ask in the elevator. What I’m really asking is—will my imprisonment ever end? Will I still have a job? When can we get back on familiar ground so I can recover from this insane ride?
He considers me. “I’m not sure, amore. What’s your preference?”
“Back on the floor,” I say without hesitation.
He nods. “Where you can observe the masses?”
“Exactly.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I think you’re meant for more, bella. Your skill set goes way beyond flipping cards and counting chips, although you’re damn good at it.”
And just like that he upsets my cart—the stroke of my ego making me almost miss the fact that he’s refusing my choice again.
His cell phone rings and something akin to relief flickers over his face. “Nico,” he answers, “What the fuck?”
I hear Nico say something about his phone being dead.
“How’d it go?” Stefano asks in a low, serious tone.
We’re in the suite now, but I don’t move, wanting to hear. Stefano slaps my ass and lifts a chin at the rack of clothing. I scowl at him, but move away. For all I know, they’re discussing something illegal. Lord knows I don’t need to be implicated in any more crimes.
The clothes Stefano had sent up must cost a fortune. They’re from one of the casino’s luxury shops—a place for high-rollers to spend their winnings. It’s all high-fashion couture, brand names and they make me look like a million bucks. Too bad I don’t get to keep them.
As I change into one of the red dresses—a close-fitting dress with a strip of fabric around the neck, but a cutout across my chest to show off my cleavage—I hear Stefano curse in Italian. “And Sondra? She okay?”
I stand in the doorway to listen and Stefano doesn’t shoo me away.
“Thank fuck,” he says, which I take to mean that Sondra’s okay. Does Stefano’s relief indicate she almost wasn’t? He listens for another minute, then says, “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow. Looking forward to meeting my future sister-in-law.” He winks at me, but the line between his brows make his expression appear serious. He ends the call and walks over to me, touching my waist. “It fits. Christ, you’re beautiful.” He brushes my hair back from my shoulder and bites my neck.