off at the end of Devil’s Cove, and I stare down the length of its glitzy strip with everything I own slumped at my feet. The promenade curves gently to the left, hugging a white beach, and on the right, a row of hotels, bars, and casinos stretches out for as far as the eye can see.
Even under a blanket of Christmas decorations, I can tell it’s barely changed in the three years I’ve been gone. Palm trees. Marble sidewalks. Rich suckers practically begging me to lift their wallets from the back pockets of their tailored pants.
Gritting my teeth, I throw my head back and glare at the lights flashing against the starless sky. They remind me of the winning symbols on a slot machine: Ding, ding, ding! Jackpot!
It may have been three years since I stepped foot in this town, but it hasn’t lost its hold on me. I can feel its strong, icy hands reaching into my chest and curling around my soul, trying to bring out the grubby little thief that lives within. You’d think after such a long time, plus the scare I just had, its siren call would be easier to ignore. But the temptation makes my blood itch more than ever.
Alas, I finally learned what the word ‘consequence’ truly means, so as the skyline of Atlantic City, New Jersey, melted behind me in a smoky haze of my own doing, I made a vow to myself.
I, Penny Price, am finally going straight.
But that won’t be possible in Devil’s Cove.
I turn my back to the Pacific Northwest’s answer to Las Vegas, and squint at the timetable pasted to the back wall of the bus shelter. Despite there being a wad of gum covering the ‘Devil’ in ‘Devil’s Dip’, I can see enough to confirm there’s not a bus heading to my hometown for another hour.
Well, isn’t that just swell. I suppose rich people aren’t exactly reliant on regular public transport.
Slumping against the bench, a tired groan leaves my lips in a puff of condensation. Running from your sins is exhausting. My neck aches from both obsessively looking over my shoulder and spending over sixty hours curled up in the backs of buses. All I want to do is get to my apartment in Devil’s Dip, wash my hair, change my panties, and crawl into bed with Excel for Dummies.
I glare out to the inky Pacific, but to my right, the warm glow of Devil’s Cove draws me in. My gaze slides unwillingly to the groups drifting in and out of glossy establishments.
I strum my fingers against the plastic bench. Chew on the inside of my cheek.
Well, I do have a bit of a dilemma. I took three Greyhounds and hitched a ride with a trucker, who kept one eye on the road and the other on my thighs, to get here. The whole journey cost me $174.83, which was exactly, to the decimal point, all the money I’d managed to snatch from underneath the loose floorboard in my apartment before I fled Atlantic City.
A bitter laugh brews in my throat. Of course it was. I’m the luckiest girl in the world, right?
My fingers gingerly brush against the four-leaf clover pendant resting against my collarbone. I used to say that with such conviction, but now…
Now, I’m not so sure.
The wind gnaws on the shells of my ears, and I stuff my hands into my pockets. My frozen fingertips brush over the silky lining, reminding me they are empty. Empty pockets, empty bank account, empty stomach. I’m not broke; I’m destitute. Seriously, there aren’t even any forgotten coppers rattling around in the bottom of my purse among the library books I’ll never get to return.
It suddenly dawns on me: I’m waiting for a bus I can’t even afford to get on.
Well, then. I’m on my feet and sliding my suitcase across the road before I can stop myself. One last grift and then, seriously, I’ll go straight.
I wish I could say the thought of conning one more man out of his hard-earned cash felt like a chore. That the thought didn’t make my heart race a little faster or make my mouth salivate for a reason other than being hungry.
But I’d be lying, and, well, I’m trying not to do that anymore.
As I head along the promenade, bitter nostalgia nips at the heels of my boots. I peer into windows and gawp into the familiar-yet-foreign worlds on the other sides of them. Bespoke suits and thousand-dollar bottles of champagne propped up in ice buckets. Dining tables with more silverware than I know the use for. Christ, I’d forgotten. This town doesn’t just scream money; it bellows it from the rooftops.
Slowing to a halt, I take in a group of women sitting in a corner booth of a bar. I can practically smell the Chanel No.5 from this side of the glass, and for a few seconds, I watch with jealousy as they laugh and joke in a way that only people who’ve never had a red debt letter posted through their door can. My own shabby reflection comes into focus and another realization hits me.
I’m way too under-dressed to be in Cove.
My faux-fur jacket won’t fool anybody. Underneath, I’m wearing ripped mom jeans, a sweater, and Doc Martens. I’ve had the same pair of panties on for two days straight, and my hair is so knotty it no longer needs a hair tie to stay in its bun.
Looking like this, I won’t get past any of the sour-faced security guards keeping the peasants out of the bars, and begging for spare change on the sidewalk doesn’t really sound appealing, especially in the Early-December freeze.
Groaning into the collar of my coat, I know I’ll have to commit just a little more theft to look the part. The opportunity practically falls into my lap when I pass a glossy boutique a few doors down, and by a stroke of luck, the girl behind the register isn’t one I went to school with.
It’s the type of boutique that has four dresses on each rack and definitely doesn’t stock sizes in the double-digits, but maybe I’ll squeeze into something. If it’s elasticated.
As I step inside, the bored-looking girl behind the desk runs a judgmental gaze from my top-knot to my boots, and punctuates it with a plastic smile.
“If you need any help, just let me know,” she drawls, before going back to scrolling on her phone.
I brush my fingers over velvet and silk. Scowl at price tags. After a quick dip into the changing room, I head toward the door wearing a green satin dress under my coat, my jeans and sweater stuffed into my purse.
Somewhere between the doorway and the sidewalk, an alarm starts screaming.
“Hey!” comes a voice behind me.
Shit.
I tighten my grip on my suitcase and break into an awkward run. I’m used to running—from store security guards, from my problems, whatever—but it’s a hell of a lot harder when you’re wearing a dress two sizes too small and are weighed down by your worldly possessions.
I steal a glance over my shoulder. The sales girl is wobbling after me in impossibly high heels, her cell to her ear. As she pulls it away to glance at the screen, I seize the opportunity to shove my body against the nearest door and fall through it.
A few moments later, she gallops past on the other side of the glass, a furious expression cut into her face.
I slide a few inches down the wall and let out a huff of hot air. It melts into a laugh of disbelief.
Shit, that was close. Despite the twisted victory humming under my skin, I know that was stupid. I shouldn’t be stealing at the best of times, but right now, I need to keep a low profile more than ever.
“Are you coming in, or are you going to stand there all day?”
A gruff voice steels my spine. When I spin around to locate its owner, I’m met with cold eyes that fill with thinly veiled disgust as they roll over me. They belong to a man with a sharp suit and a face I’d happily put my fist through—you know, if I weren’t five-foot-two and trying to be a better person.
Coming in? I shift my gaze around the small, dark room, and realize it’s an entryway. He’s guarding the top of a staircase, and next to him, there’s a vacant desk with a neon blue sign behind it.
Blue’s Den.
Odd. I’m not saying I’m an expert on every bar in town, but I can say I know them all by name, at least.
It must be new. I straighten up and smooth down the front of my coat. “This is a bar?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
I stare at him for a few beats, letting my retort ripple through me like a silent wave. Only when it’s left my system do I grab my bags and squeeze past him.
“A yes would have sufficed, asshole,” I mutter.
Couldn’t resist.
I don’t take too kindly to men with attitude problems—never have. I guess it’s hereditary, because my mother was the same. I grew up underneath the poker tables of the Visconti Grand Casino, where both my parents worked. My mother as a dealer and my father as security. If a patron gave my mother even the tiniest dash of sass from across a velvet table, they were out on their ass, sans their chips, long before they could grab their jacket from the coat room.
Our hatred of men was the only thing my mother and I had in common. Even in the looks department, we only mildly looked related if you closed one eye, squinted the other, and tilted your head to the side. She and my father were tall and slender. I’m short and kind of dumpy. They were tan and dark-haired, but I’m on a different Pantone color chart entirely. In the winter months, I’m borderline translucent, and in the summer, I’m a constant shade of pale pink. My hair is copper, which, according to my mother’s stupid logic, is because she ate too many tomatoes while pregnant with me.
My father used to joke that I was the milkman’s daughter. That joke turned into a bitter belief once he and my mother graduated from wine coolers and craft beers to hard liquor. By the time they were killed, I was wishing I was anyone’s daughter but theirs.
Stepping off the bottom step feels like stepping into silk. Soft jazz and low lighting caress my cold skin, and the scents of tobacco and aftershave unlock nostalgic memories I didn’t know I had.
Unlike the street above, this bar doesn’t scream money; it whispers wealth.
I make a beeline for a seat in the corner that has a great view of the bar. As I slide between tables, my eyes shift from left to right, right to left, raking over the clientele.
My brain rattles through my well-worn checklist.
Wearing suits midweek? Check.
Drinking hard liquor instead of beer? Check.
Sitting alone? Check.
A zap of excitement shoots down my spine, and the scar on my hip burns. It always does when I’ve hit the jackpot. There are a dozen men in here, and all of them tick the boxes of a good mark.
Where to start? The bar, of course. After three years of fishing for marks in Atlantic City, I’ve noticed men who sit by the bar are more likely to take my bait. Maybe it’s because the short distance between them and the bartender means they’re more likely to get drunk and stupid.
My gaze slides to the bar and the lone figure leaning against it. The soft lighting evades him; everything but the broad planes of his shoulders and the sharp lines of his suit is concealed. But the moment I see a flash of amber in his glass and a glint of silver on his wrist, I know it doesn’t matter what he looks like.
I kick my suitcase under the table and stride toward the bar, attempting a sexy strut, which is pretty hard in Doc Martens.
Reaching the bar feels like stepping on stage. I’m an actress, and while the leading man is always different, this role is mine. Has been since I turned eighteen and realized that, as a high-school drop-out, the alternative to putting my swindling skills to use was flipping burgers while a man barked orders over my shoulder, all for the privilege of seven-twenty-five an hour.
Despite feeling that familiar buzz of excitement just before the curtain goes up, there’s a sadness biting at my edges, because I know this will be my last ever performance.
I’m going to make it my best.
Act One: Engage the mark in conversation.
I come to a stop two seats from where my freshly-appointed mark is leaning. Without so much as a glance in his direction, I slide off my coat and let it slip slowly down my shoulders to my hips, before draping it over the back of the stool. Before I started using the For Dummies books to aid my Grand Quest, my mission to find a career path outside of robbing stupid men, I worked at a strip joint for a while. It was all going well until a john poked at my belly and asked if I’d lied about my weight on my application form. I didn’t quit because of his remark—I got fired because I sank my teeth into the hand he prodded me with.
It was then I decided I probably didn’t have enough self-control to shake my ass for ungrateful men, but the whole experience wasn’t a complete waste of time. Not only did I have actual female friends for a while, but I also learned this coat trick.
Immediately, I know it worked, because it suddenly feels like I’m standing in front of an open flame.
His gaze is warm, just like the satisfaction pooling in my lower stomach. It heats my cheek before sliding down my side and stopping at the high slit in my dress. As always, I pretend I haven’t even noticed his presence, let alone felt his stare.
I slide my thighs across the butter-soft leather seat and smile at the bartender. Dark hair, soft features, and a grin made for customer service. It takes a few moments of rusty recognition until I realize it’s Dan. We were in the same school year at Devil’s Dip High, and I used to copy his science homework. It takes him a few seconds to recognize me too, and when his mouth drops open to strike up a conversation, I give a small shake of my head.
Thankfully, he closes his mouth, cuts a look to the man beside me, then plasters that polite smile back on. “Hey, there. What can I get you?”
Phew. I glance down to my left, at the large, suited forearm resting against the bar. Something stirs inside of me and it is too far south to feel appropriate. I want to believe it’s because of the very expensive Breitling on his wrist, one with a clasp I could unbuckle in my sleep, and not because his olive-skinned hand is so large it makes the whiskey glass he’s holding look like a fucking thimble.
Christ. I almost forget my next line.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
Silence. The type so dense that if you heard it on the other end of a phone call, you’d glance at your cell, frown, and say, “Hello?”
It feels like forever until Dan stops staring at me. He clears his throat and turns to the wall of liquor to fix my drink.
Glass clinks. Louis Armstrong seeps through the speakers, and unease drips into my bloodstream. This is the moment the mark is meant to speak up. The moment he says something chauvinistic, like, Oh, I thought girls didn’t drink whiskey? To which I’d toss my hair over my shoulder, bat my lashes and reply with something equally as cliché. Well, I’m not like other girls.
But…nothing. My little fish hasn’t even shown interest in my bait, let alone taken a bite. I hold my nerve for as long as it takes for Dan to slide over a low-ball glass and a napkin, and then I turn to face my mark.
Holy shit.
You’re not meant to look like that.
Our gazes clash, and immediately, I know I’m not the first woman to lock eyes with this man and lose their heartbeat.
He’s not just handsome; he’s beautiful, and in a way that isn’t up for debate, regardless of personal preference.
Tanned skin, black hair faded to perfection, and cheekbones you could chip ice off of.
His stare is just as likely to give me frostbite, too.
“I’m not interested.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“Apology accepted.”
He turns his attention back to his cell, picking it up off the bar and unlocking it with a quick swipe of his thumb.
Wait, what?
For a few awkward beats, my eyes dart between the email he’s tapping out on his phone and the indifferent set of his strong jaw. Realizing this man was younger, taller, and hotter than my average mark sent my thoughts scattering like marbles, and now, I’m clambering to pick them up and put them back in the right order.
I open my mouth and close it again. Confusion soon gives way to warm embarrassment, which then hardens into annoyance.
How fucking rude.
I mean, I’m not a fan of men at the best of times, let alone when they’re being arrogant assholes. Growing up in a casino, and then spending my teens learning how to con the men who frequent them, I realized way younger than I should have that men have two settings: dismissive or predatory.
As much as I’d have preferred a man to dismiss me than prey on me, as my boobs grew and my swindling skills sharpened, I realized I could use their predatory behavior to hit their pockets.
And when I’m trying to hit their pockets, I don’t like being dismissed.
Especially not in Act One.
I set my palms on either side of my glass and glare at the mirrored wall behind the bar.
“I’m not hitting on you.”
“Sure.”
The word trickles from his mouth, easy and final.
“Seriously,” I mutter, cheeks growing hot. “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.”
The typing stops. Slowly, he lifts his head and meets my gaze in the mirror. Deep-green and intense. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and it feels like self-preservation to look away. But as always, stubbornness has me in a choke hold, and I grip the edge of the bar to force myself to maintain eye contact.
“I’m sorry?”
“Apology accepted,” I bite back.
Triumph. It crackles and sparks in the pit of my stomach. But the moment my mark’s phone goes dark and he places it on the table, his heavy gaze extinguishes my smugness like water on a flame.
He slides his forearm off the bar and slips his hand in his pocket. “Say that again.”
For some reason, his tone makes the words oh and shit flash behind my eyelids. It’s buttery and nonchalant. Almost polite. So why do I feel the need to steel my spine when I turn to face him?
Now, I have all of his attention and I don’t like the way it feels against my skin. His green eyes glitter as they roll lazily over my features, and when they meet mine again, a small smile settles on the curve of his lips.
He waits.
“I said, I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than hit on you.”
“Is that right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I see.”
And with that, he takes a sip of whiskey and turns back to his email. As his fingers fly over the on-screen keyboard, it’s as if we never had the exchange at all.
From the corner of the bar, Dan clears his throat. Blood thumps in my temples.
Now what?
Act One has gone up in flames. I forgot my lines and my mark is a bad actor. I need to start the show from the top but with a different cast. Oh, and definitely a different script, because I don’t think the toilet talk works.
Trying to act natural, I turn away from the bar and prop my elbows up on its surface behind me. I subtly glance around the room, sizing up all the other men I could have chosen over this asshole. Absent-mindedly, my fingertips brush over the four-leaf clover hanging around my neck.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m still lucky, I just need a reset. I haven’t grifted in Devil’s Cove in years. Maybe the unspoken rules are different around here, and it’s actually the men sitting in the shadows that make better marks. Looking right, I lock eyes with an older, less athletic, man in the corner.
He reaches up to scratch his nose and his wedding ring glints.
That’s more like it.
I flash him a smile and arch my back to reach behind me for my whiskey glass. As I bring my drink to my lips, the typing beside me stops.
“That whiskey is a hundred bucks.”
My eyes slide to my discarded mark. He’s still staring at his cell, and if it wasn’t for the way his deep drawl drizzled down my spine, I’d have sworn I imagined him talking.
“A hundred bucks?”
“Not including VAT.”
“I—wait, a bottle?”
His gaze finally comes to me, irritation and amusement fighting for space in its shadows.
“A glass.”
I stare at the amber liquid in disbelief. In response, it calls me poor in four different languages. Perhaps it was a little…forthcoming of me to assume my first mark would play ball, and that he’d pay for my drink. It usually works. But then again, I’m not in Atlantic City anymore.
The worst part is; I hate whiskey with a passion. I glance at Dan, who’s busying himself with wiping down the other side of the bar, but by the tight line of his shoulders, it’s obvious he’s listening. I wonder if he’ll tip it back into the bottle for me and give me something more in my budget?
Like water.
From the tap.
I can feel hard, green eyes taunting me, and the quiet enjoyment that simmers behind them grates against my pride. I’m impulsive to a fault, stubborn like it’s a disease, and before I can latch onto any common sense, I plaster on a sweet smile and clink my glass against his.
“Cheers to not being interested.”
His smirk is the last thing I see before I toss my head back and slam the whiskey in one.
Fuck. My nostrils burn, my eyes water, and, as the empty tumbler clatters against the bar, I suddenly remember why I hate whiskey so much.
It was the last thing my parents ever drank. Not because they finally got sober, but because they got their heads blown off with a revolver before they could pour out another glass.
The hundred-dollar acid fizzes in my pipes and claws at my box of memories, trying to pry open the lock and bring me back to that day. When I squeeze my eyes shut to stop them from watering, I can hear my father’s gargled pleas and feel my mother’s warm, wet blood on the backs of my thighs from where I slipped in a puddle of it.
You know how lucky you are, kid? You’re one in a million.
“Don’t choke.”
Gasping for air that doesn’t taste like bleach, I pop an eyelid and glare at the man. His expression is as impassive as his tone, and it’s clear he couldn’t care less if I turned blue and keeled over beside him. If I did, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about how I’m going to afford the poison that killed me.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Why do you care? Thought you weren’t interested.”
He lazily checks the time on his expensive wristwatch. “I’m not. It’s just what you say to someone who’s choking.”
He lifts his own glass to his lips and sinks the remaining liquid in one, without so much as a flinch. I hate how my eyes are drawn to the thick trunk of his throat as it bobs. He slides the empty tumbler across the bar with a sharp flick of his wrist, and a few moments later, Dan comes over with another whiskey and a glass of water. He places the water in front of me, and I gratefully gulp from it.
I hope to God it’s free.
For a few minutes, we sit in blistering silence, but there’s no doubt I’m the only one to feel its heat. From my sporadic glances at his reflection in the mirrored wall, I can tell he has already forgotten I’m here. He answers texts and emails on his cell, stopping only to sip whiskey and rub his jaw with the palm of his large hand, as if it helps him think.
My heart drops lethargically to my stomach, like a balloon leaking helium. If I wasn’t such a stubborn idiot, I’d have left a long time ago, but now it’s too late. I’m chained to this joint by a hundred-dollar tab—not including VAT—and trying my luck with one of the other patrons in here would just be embarrassing. They’ve all just witnessed me choke on two ounces of liquid, for God’s sake.
Behind us, soft lighting floods the stairway. Shiny shoes appear, and seconds later, the suited man they belong to comes into view. He has a stack of files tucked under his arm and makes a beeline for the arrogant asshole beside me. I watch in the bar mirror as he mutters something in his ear, slides the folders in front of him, and waits. A curt nod from my former mark seems to be his permission to leave.
So, he’s a businessman. An important one at that, judging by the amount of paperwork piled up in front of him on a Thursday evening, and the fact that he’s spent at least two-hundred dollars on liquor. He opens the first file, scans the document, and draws a pen from his breast pocket.
For some reason, the way he drags his thumb over the tip of his tongue before turning the page makes my blood half a degree hotter.
Christ. My heart may be stone cold, but I’m still a woman, I guess. I clear my throat in an attempt to regain semblance and notice his shoulders tighten.
He meets my eyes in the mirrored wall, as if he knew exactly where to find them.
“How much?”
“I—what?”
“How much?” he repeats calmly. My blank stare makes a muscle clench in his jawline. “For you to go away. How much do I have to pay you?”
There’s that annoyance again, gnawing at my chest. This time, I’m not just pissed at his dismissal, but at myself, too. Grifting is the only thing I’m good at.
I’m a little bit of talent and a whole lot of luck. Hell, I used to say I could swindle a man blindfolded. Probably handcuffed, too. And yet…
And yet, since the moment I stepped up to this bar, I’ve been out-of-sorts. Maybe I’m still shook-up from what happened in Atlantic City. Or maybe it’s because my mark is good-looking and reeks of indifference.
But so what? I’ve dealt with worse. This is my last ever grift, and I’ll be damned if I go out with a choke and a whimper.
With a quiet sigh, the man tugs out a money clip, snaps off a few bills, and tosses them between us on the bar.
“That’ll cover the drink you choked on.” He goes back to his document. I watch his pen scrawl a long, complicated signature with perfect precision.
“Plus VAT?”
He pauses, fighting the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Maybe it’s the shadows and lack of sleep playing tricks on me, but I swear I see a pair of dimples. Without looking up, he tugs out another hundred and tosses it onto the pile.
I stare down at Franklin’s judgmental gaze and swallow. “Plus tip?”
This time, the man’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing. Instead, he pulls out another bill and slams it against the bar. The dull thud is louder than I was expecting, and it echoes behind my rib cage.
Silence. It’s peppered with sultry jazz and the sound of a pen scratching paper.
“You’re still here,” he eventually muses. “Why is that?” He casts one folder aside and opens another. There’s that thumb lick again, and I have no idea why it makes my vision jolt like that.
I swallow the lump wedged in my windpipe, slide off the stool, and close the distance between us, coming to a stop in the tiny gap between him and the bar. The cold surface kisses my bare back as I press against it, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off his body.
He stills. Nostrils flaring, he reluctantly matches my stare with one of his own. Any trace of humor is long gone. Now, it’s a calm green sea, and I can’t shake the uneasy feeling there’s a strong, dangerous current running underneath its surface.
I wonder how many women he’s tricked into diving in.
“I don’t want your money,” I say, trying—and failing—to match his indifference. His narrowed gaze drops to my hand, following it as I slide it across the bar’s surface toward his wrist. “I want your watch.”
My fingertip brushes over the leather strap, and a spark of excitement ignites in my lower stomach.
Against all odds, we’ve reached Act Two: The Proposition.
“You want my watch,” he repeats sardonically, as if saying my own words back to me will make me realize how stupid they sound. But I don’t relent. Sure, I could take the few hundred-dollar bills on the bar, pay off my tab and run, but where is the fun in that? I set my eyes on that Breitling before I saw who it belonged to, and I’m not leaving without it.
Time to double down.
As I turn to face his left hand resting on the bar, the fabric of his jacket grazes against my bare shoulder, making my skin crackle like static. I force myself to ignore it, honing in on his watch.
Jesus. Heat creeps up my neck and floods my face. His hand looks even bigger up close. Wide wrist, smooth, tan skin, and a sprinkle of dark hair poking out from underneath the watch strap. Thick fingers grip his pen so tightly that, briefly, I wonder if his cool, unbothered demeanor is an act, and he’s actually planning on sticking that Mont Blanc in my neck.
I curl my fingers into a fist and inch it away.
“The Mulliner. Part of Breitling’s collaboration with Bentley, I believe. It has an automatic flying tourbillon which beats more than twenty-eight thousand times an hour.”
His lips twitch. They are plump and pink, with a deep cupid’s bow that, annoyingly, makes my mouth water. “Impressive. Maybe you could get a job at Breitling, then you’ll be able to pay for your own drinks.”
I lean back against the bar, partly because I suddenly got a waft of his scent—a cocktail of expensive cologne and mint, and it’s making me far drunker than I am—but also partly because I’m hoping his gaze will drop to my cleavage.
It doesn’t.
“I don’t want a job. I want your watch.”
He cocks a brow. “Well since you asked so nicely.” He turns back to his paperwork.
I slam my hand against his file, sending his pen mark flying across the page. Dark annoyance threads through his features, but only for half a second, before that bored expression is back.
“You’re incredibly annoying,” he says quietly.
“So I’ve been told.”
“And at this point, I’d give you the shirt off my back to get you to leave.”
I glance down at his shirt. Like every other part of him, it looks expensive. Crisp, white, molded to his body like second skin. He’s forgone a tie in favor of a collar pin with two gold dice punctuating each collar point. A thin chain connects them. Begrudgingly, I like it.
“Your shirt, but not your watch.”
“Not my watch.”
“What if I win it?”
I look up at his face just in time to witness it shift. A spark of something, intrigue perhaps, dances within the walls of his irises. Now, the full weight of his attention presses heavily against my body.
His pen slips from his hand and lands on the files with a dull thud. “Win it? You want to make a bet?”
Out of the corner of my eye, Dan stills. I should take it as a warning sign, I know. But before I can process it, my mark smiles.
Holy shit. It’s like looking at the sun. Not because his perfect teeth are blinding, but because it feels dangerous. Like if I stare too long, the handful of morals I have left will go up in a puff of smoke. Faint lines frame his eyes, making me realize despite his annoyance with me, he probably smiles quite often.
And he does have dimples.
“What bet?” He pins me with a sudden velvet charm that steals my breath from my lungs. I bet it secures multi-million-dollar deals and makes women drop their panties without a second thought. Hell, if I didn’t have a hundred problems, I could see myself being one of them.
“A game of my choosing.”
“Hmm.” He runs a palm over his jaw, and a diamond dice cufflink winks at me. “What are the odds of winning?”
“Ten-to-one.”
“You just made that up.”
I hitch a shoulder and bat my lashes. “Maybe.”
His gaze crackles and glimmers with amusement, lingering on mine a beat too long. I’m almost thankful when a buzzing sound slices through the air. His attention shifts to his cell next to me. I glance down and see the name Angelo flash on the screen.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he says softly. He brings his cell to his ear, slides his other hand in his pocket, and saunters into the shadows.
With distance between us, I realize how fast my heartbeat is. It’s fueled by adrenaline and something a little more…fuzzy around the edges. I turn to grab my glass of water and come face-to-face with Dan.
That customer-service smile is nowhere to be seen. He says something, but I don’t catch it, because his mouth barely moves.
“What?”
His eyes sweep the room behind me, wary and wild. When he speaks again, it’s only a fraction louder.
“I said, have you been in a mental institution for the last three years?”
I blink. “Er, no? Why?”
He glances in the direction my mark went. “Because only a crazy person would have the nerve to pull a con on Raphael Visconti.”
Visconti.
Raphael Visconti.
Well, shit.
