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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 u
p 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.
