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She didn’t frown at him—she had learnt her lesson.
Jason left her in the bar, with strict instructions to stick to fruit juices and not to move an inch until he returned. He went to arrange for the gambling chips to be ready for them once they had dined.
***
Gemma struggled to take in the casino experience. The opulent building with its painted frescos adorning the walls and very high ceilings, overarching the gaming room, projected a scale similar to an opera house.
“Try not to gape,” said Jason, tapping her chin. “You look like you’re at the dentist.”
He steered her towards the Blackjack table. No one else was there besides the croupier—a smart man in a decorative waistcoat with an expressionless face, who could outdo Jason’s own impassive features. Their chips already lay on the table, and Gemma settled down into a chair facing the dealer. She picked up one of the chips.
“These are hundred euro chips. The minimum bet is ten euros,” she hissed over her shoulder at him.
“It’s what you win that matters. Enjoy yourself, babe.”
He stood back with his arms folded across his chest. Remy was discreetly placed a few paces behind her husband, eyeballing the room. Once people knew she was laying big bets, there would be a crowd.
“Madame.”
The croupier offered her a cutting card, and Gemma cut the deck. He waited, glancing at the chips on the table.
“Gemma, you need to place bet before you can start, remember?” Jason leant forward to whisper in her ear.
“Whoops.” She laid a hundred euro chip, and the game began.
She lost several games in a row. The excitement at being in a grand exotic location had distracted her. She kept glancing around the room, at the other gaming tables and the clientele of the casino. The constant background babble of conversation, the occasion shriek of delight or collective groan of disappointment from the roulette table robbed her of concentration.
Focus. That would be Jason’s command in her ear. Taking a deep breath, she blocked out her surroundings and gave the table her complete attention. The croupier dealt her a fresh hand. An ace. She tried to remember how many aces had passed out of the shoe already.
Count them. Count the cards.
Gemma started to win. Her mind went into her analytical mode. She saw cards imprinted on her mind, and a mental counter ticked over. She didn’t expect accuracy; she simply wanted to increase the odds of her winning. The chips were returning to her side of the table, and she stacked them into neat piles. Nervously, she sneaked a peak over her shoulder to the stationary Jason. His features remained impassive. He and the croupier could hold a competition for poker faces, she thought sardonically.
A small crowd had gathered about them, staring at her painted hands and decorative nails. She absentmindedly twirled the chips through her tattooed fingers. While sipping on her glass of water, she tapped another chip on the table, mimicking her own rapid pulse. Jason had sent back the free alcoholic drinks offered to her.
She had a good memory. A memory for holding reams of poetry in her head and for viewing spreadsheets of numbers and figures with their calculations swirling around her head. She used her artistic brain to help her remember things, including numbers. She visualised decorative, colourful playing cards and linked them with the numbers. The specific images remained implanted in her head and, through them, the numbers came back to her.
A full bladder distracted Gemma. She told the croupier she was taking a comfort break and would return. With stiff legs, she rose, Jason supporting her arm.
“I’ll wait here for you.”
Returning, she resumed her seat. The croupier dealt a new hand.
“Card.”
“Vingt-deux.”
Bust, and the house won.
That hand marked the beginning of her slippery decline in fortune. The bathroom break had disrupted her concentration and thrown her memory out of kilter.
Gemma watched all her hard earnings slip away, like water through her fingers. Despite the rapidly vanishing chips, she couldn’t stop playing. She was convinced concentration and luck would return to her side of the table.
She became reckless with her bets. Placing bigger ones on high-risk hands. She could hear the gasps about her, and she lost her composure further. Her hands trembled and feet shuffled under the table.
When she had been on a roll—the chips piling up—she had heard the mutters and whispers about the room. “Go watch the painted girl on the Blackjack table.”
The idea of her beauty capturing the men and bringing them to her side didn’t help her concentration. She sensed them about her, admiring the man who stood behind her, probably thinking he was extremely lucky to have such a woman. Jason, however, hadn’t said a word and barely acknowledged her winnings. He waited, content to leave her to the game, until the chips slipped out of her hands.
