Sure as Hell Page 3

  There was a question in her voice, but he couldn’t quite interpret the query. She had to know, though, that he wasn’t interested in anything more than the one night. That was, after all, only fair. “I’d offer you breakfast as well,” he said, “but I have a plane to catch in the morning.”

  Relief flashed in her eyes, and he congratulated himself for saying the right thing. This woman wanted the same thing he did, and that was perfectly fine with Dante.

  “All right,” she said. “Dinner if you win. But if you lose?”

  “I lose and you can tell me to go jump off a cliff.”

  She lifted a brow. “You realize that we’re in Monte Carlo. There are a lot of cliffs in the vicinity to choose from.”

  “Believe me,” he said, after letting his hot gaze sweep all the way from her toes to her eyes, “I know exactly what’s at stake.”

  His luscious mouth twitched at the corner, and as it did, she shifted in her seat, the warm tingle between her legs evidence of the way she wanted this wager to go. She didn’t normally mix business with pleasure, but in this case she’d decided to make an exception the moment she’d first seen him.

  After all, her quarry had yet to arrive, and she did have some time to kill . . . .

  Dante waited, his breath caught in his chest, as he watched the woman’s face. He was certain he was reading her right, certain that their banter was a casual flirting with a not-so-casual intent raging just beneath the surface.

  Still, though, that tiny glimmer of doubt remained. The fear that everything he saw in her was fueled by his own desire. A lust-induced fantasy, complete with a willing woman and a few hours to kill before his plane took off in the morning.

  The situation truly teetered on the precipice of unbelievability, and he wasn’t sure what kept it from tumbling over. The interest in her eyes, perhaps. Or the way her body leaned toward his with a purposeful casualness, as if she was as attuned to him as he was to her.

  He didn’t know. All he knew was that he hoped his certainty that their attraction was mutual wasn’t imaginary. Because if this woman didn’t accompany him to the gaming floor—and, ultimately, to his bed—he was going to be one very unhappy man come morning.

  He managed a slow smile, and hoped that no edge of apprehension crept into his voice. “Is it that hard to make a decision?”

  “I’m just contemplating whether you play fair.”

  “Never,” he said, and saw immediately that he’d said the right thing.

  She slipped off the stool, her silk skirt clinging to her thighs, then hooked her arm through his. “Then by all means,” she said. “Let’s wager.”

  He signaled to Marcel to put her bill on his tab, and was relieved when she didn’t protest. So many women refused to let a man buy them a drink. The fact that this woman did not only pleased him, it seemed to hone some primitive urge within him.

  Nothing about her indicated a need to be protected, and yet he couldn’t help but feel that there was a vulnerability in her. And coupled with the smoldering sensuality that had set his senses on fire . . . well, the woman needed only to smile if she wanted to wrap him around her little finger. Or around anywhere else, for that matter.

  Stepping from the oak-walled quiet of the bar into the gold leaf and bright lights of the casino was like stepping into a different world. The noise level rose, though not to an obnoxious level. This was, after all, a Moreau casino. And if Jacques Moreau understood anything, it was class and sophistication. The lights were bright—a typical casino trick—and the decibel level increased, but nothing about the room was overwhelming or off-putting. Just the opposite, actually.

  The ornate furnishings clustered in corners provided relaxing seating areas where well-trained waiters and waitresses would provide for every whim, from vodka to cigars to a late-night snack of oysters on the half shell. Every need satisfied. Every want fulfilled.

  Dante had grown up living half-in and half-out of this world. His youth spent just outside of London with his mother. Rare weekends and summer months spent here, the beloved “young master” to the staff. At the time, he’d been embarrassed by the attention. Uncomfortable with the power and wealth that went along with being Jacques Moreau’s son.

  Over time, the monetary part had gotten easier. Even now, though, he wasn’t comfortable being his father’s son.

  The melancholy thought seemed to come from nowhere, and he pushed it away, reaching across himself to close his free hand over hers still hooked to his elbow. They’d been walking in companionable silence, him lost in his thoughts and his companion apparently lost in awe of her surroundings. When he touched her, she started, and her gaze pulled away from an examination of the ceiling and the camouflaged catwalk above to land on him with studious intent.

  “Hey,” she whispered.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “Do you know the way to the roulette tables?”

  “I think I can manage to get us there,” he said, fighting a grin. He had no intention of telling her who he was. Not yet, anyway. Too many women had fallen into his bed once they’d learned his family name. This woman he wanted to see only him. Not his paternity.

  He stepped back, unhooking their arms, then offered her his palm. She pressed her fingertips against his hand without even hesitating. The familiarity delighted him more than he cared to admit, and he covered his discomfiture with absurd small talk. “Have you been here before?”

  A quick shake of her head. “No. You?”

  “A few times.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling. “Well, then. I guess you’ve just earned your spot as my guide.”

  “Gainful employment. Not bad. But what are the terms of the offer?”

  “Terms?”

  He stopped, then tugged her hand, pulling her close, the delighted surprise he saw in her eyes thrilling him. “For example, are there any perks with the job?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Well, now, I think that’s entirely negotiable.”

  “Is it?”

  “Absolutely.” Her voice was like honey, and she capped the word with a seductive grin. “Of course, there’s still one thing.”

  “One thing?”

  “You still have to win that wager.” She took one step away from him, then flipped her hair and looked back at him over her shoulder, as he looked on in awe, his mouth hanging open like a teenager’s in lust. “So are you coming?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m coming.”

  And that, he thought, was the understatement of the century.

  They finished crossing the main floor, then turned into the west salon, where the roulette tables were set up under ornate gold and jeweled chandeliers. As they approached, Jacob, one of the longtime croupiers, started to raise a hand in greeting. Dante made a subtle cutting gesture with his free hand. And Jacob—who’d been taking cues from the Moreau men for years—turned away without missing a beat.

  It was all Dante could do not to smile. Damn, but his father knew how to train his staff.

  They approached at the same time as two other couples, and Jacob started the wheel spinning.

  “What number?” Dante asked her, as the other couples spread their chips over the numbered grid.

  “No way,” she said. “Your wager, your responsibility.” She leaned in close, then kissed the tip of his nose. “But I will wish you luck.”

  “And I thank you for that.”

  They shared a smile, and he put a crisp hundred-euro note on number 17. Then he did something he’d done only once before. He tapped his index finger once on the table, then stepped backward and pressed a finger to his temple. The first time, he’d been an arrogant teenager, trying to win a stupid bet. This time, he was a lust-filled adult, trying to win the girl.

  No one suspected as Jacob worked the floor pedal, ensuring that number 17 came up the winner. And as the other players applauded his good luck, the woman on his arm looked at him with wide, intrigued eyes. “Congratulations.”<
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  “I have you to thank,” he said as he scooped up his winnings, making sure to signal to Jacob to have the rooms of all the players at the table comped.

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one who wished me luck.”

  “Mmmm.” She looked him up and down. “And it worked. I take it you’re feeling lucky?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So it looks as if we’ll be having dinner together tonight.”

  “That was the wager.”

  “Indeed.” She tilted her head to the side, then looked at him through lowered lashes. “And where do you plan on taking me?”

  “Actually,” he said, swept away on a wave of boldness, “I was thinking room service.”

  ‡

  Chapter Four

  Lucia was having fun.

  There was, quite simply, no other way to describe it. And while the emotion didn’t exactly disturb her, the ramifications did. After all, she needed to be at her best if she was going to pull off this assignment. Distractions—especially of a sexual nature—would simply not do. And yet . . .

  And yet she couldn’t bring herself to walk away from this man. There was something about his laugh. Something about the way he was willing to put himself on the line for her. The wager. The banter. All of it delighted her. And, yes, all of it excited her. And when he’d suggested room service rather than a five-star restaurant . . . well, honestly, the mere thought of being alone with this man in a room was almost more than she could stand. And after several millennia, Lucia had withstood a lot. “Well?” He was looking at her, the query in his eyes as intent as the need she saw there. She recognized it, absorbed it, and reflected it right back at him.

  More than that, though, she realized suddenly that he didn’t know her name any more than she knew his. The realization sent shock waves of relief and lust coursing through her. Anonymity meant freedom, and with this man she wanted the freedom to do anything.

  And why not? Wasn’t she under the absolute worst kind of job stress? She needed a little stress relief. Not only that, she deserved it.

  “Absolutely,” she said, unable to hide her smile. “Room service sounds positively delicious.”

  His return smile matched hers, and that was all the response she needed to know that she’d made the right decision. After all, this was not a situation where she would be forced to try to complete her task with a clinging male dogging her every move. This man wanted exactly what she wanted—a quick fling. And the freedom to then move on.

  “Your room or mine?” she asked, which broke her rule of never inviting a man to her room. But she was already breaking her rule of never seducing a man while on an assignment—unless he was part of the assignment—so she decided one more rule shattered wouldn’t hurt. Besides, the room wasn’t listed under her real name—or, at least, not under the surname she’d been using for the last dozen or so years.

  Still, the fact that she’d so cavalierly offered made her uneasy, and she was about to rescind when he resolved the issue for her.

  “Our room,” he said, holding up his winnings with one hand while slipping his free arm around her waist and pulling her close.

  “Ours?” The word sounded weak, and she had only his touch to blame. The man had already turned her ignition up high. The added heat generated as he pulled her close set her near to combusting.

  He urged them forward. “Come with me, Mrs. Smith.”

  She kept in step with him, fighting a smile, because she had never once bowed to convention and checked in to a hotel with a man under an assumed name. With this man, though, the idea seemed not only brilliant, but erotic. And full of infinite promise.

  They strolled through the casino toward the hotel registration desk, his thumb grazing her back, bare from the halter that tied at her neck and waist. Every few strokes, the tip of his thumb would ease below the waistband of her skirt, and each time it did, Lucia wanted to moan and beg.

  She didn’t show it, though. She prided herself on that. The intense lust was under the surface, as was his. He kept up the playful banter as they walked, his tempting finger the only clue that his mind was on a more decadent form of play.

  The dichotomy was overwhelming, and by the time they reached the front desk, she knew her panties were soaked. One touch, and she would surely come right there.

  Considering her desperate straits, the five-star service was much appreciated. She’d been in many hotels, but never in her life had she seen a hotel staff scurry so fast. This staff did, and all Dante had to do was ask. In less than five minutes, Mr. and Mrs. John Smith were booked into an executive suite on the twenty-fifth floor.

  She clasped his hand, practically dragging him to the elevators with a ferocity born of a need that she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Had she ever felt this way about a man? This desperate? This out of control?

  Lucia was no stranger to lust. To wild passion and physical abandon. She was, after all, her father’s daughter. But the hard-hitting drive of pure sex—while decadently wonderful—had an edge to it unlike what she felt with this man. With him, she wanted . . . what?

  She didn’t know, and she told herself that there was nothing else to it. She wanted sex. That was all.

  Sex. Abandon. To lose herself in this man and in these few hours of freedom before she threw herself hard and heavy into her final assignment.

  She told herself all of that, and yet she didn’t quite believe it. Still, the truth hardly mattered at the moment, when all she wanted was to feel the press of his skin against hers. And as they moved toward the elevator bank, she barely even noticed the surroundings, the warm gold and dazzling gemstones little more than reflections of her own vibrant emotions.

  The mirrored elevator doors reflected their approach—and her need. She could see it in her own eyes, and saw it equally matched in his. And it was that glimpse into the depths of his own desperation that convinced her that she was right to simply go with this. Tomorrow, she could be Lucia again. Tonight, she would lose herself in the heat of anonymity.

  The doors opened, and they stepped on together. The car was empty, and they turned, their eyes catching for only a fraction of a second. That was all it took for ignition. He pulled her roughly to him, and she moaned, her body crying out with need. She pressed herself against him, her leg up, suspended by the press of his hand on her thigh. His fingers spayed along the bare skin under her skirt, just inches from her crotch. She pressed her mouth to his and wriggled shamelessly, desperate to feel his fingers stroking her and filling her.

  His mouth was hot and firm against hers, his tongue demanding entrance. She opened herself to him, delighting in the warm taste of him and the way his tongue teased and explored.

  His thumb made slow circular motions on her thigh, coming near to driving her mad. With one hand, she cupped his neck, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss. With the other hand she reached down, closing her hand over him and urging his fingers higher, searching for a different kind of depth.

  His groan was all the encouragement she needed. “Stop the elevator,” she whispered, her tongue flicking at his ear.

  “There are cameras in the cars. Security.”

  She pulled away just long enough to meet his eyes. “I don’t care.”

  He slipped his hand up, his finger sliding easily under the edge of her silky panties. She felt her body tighten as his fingertip explored her folds. Then he pulled back, ever so gently, and kissed the tip of her nose.

  “I care,” he said.

  She wanted to protest. To rant and rage and beg that—cameras be damned—she simply couldn’t wait any longer.

  But there was no need. The elevator slid to a stop, and the door to their room was right there. She stumbled out, tugging him with her. They edged forward, their bodies so intertwined she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. She wasn’t at all sure how, but somehow they got the door open. They tumbled inside, the scent of champagne and strawberries surrounding them, castin
g their hard-edged lust with a romantic edge.

  He kicked his foot back, and the door slammed shut with a resounding thud. That noise was like a cue, and suddenly they were ripping at clothes, pulling and tugging, lips joined, and skin touching.

  A few straps and buttons later, and Lucia found herself naked on the bed, this perfect man above her, his body as hard and cut as the statue of a Greek god. She opened her mouth to beg—to demand—but no words came. Instead, she saw the look in his eye and knew that all good things come to girls who wait.

  So instead of demanding, she let her head fall back on the pillow, then shivered as his fingers traced over her body, forming slow sensuous circles around her navel, then tracing down, down, down to tease her between her legs.

  She gasped as his finger slipped inside her, but the sound barely escaped, blocked by the pressure of his mouth on her lips. His tongue thrust deep inside her even as his finger mimicked the same rhythm and stroked her intimately. She lifted her hips, silently demanding more of him. She clung to his back, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

  He broke the kiss, but didn’t stop stroking her. Her body hummed, a tight wire ready to snap, as his mouth closed over her breast. His tongue danced around her nipple and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that this man would be the death of her—an amazing feat, considering her immortality.

  He nipped at her, teeth and lips teasing her, and sending a hot coil racing through her to find his fingers, still exploring her secrets. He stroked her in small circles, tensing and tempting and—

  Oh, sweet Hades!

  She couldn’t take it. Had to have him. Had to have release.

  And so she reached for him, her fingers twining in that silky black hair. She tugged him toward her, then nipped at his chin, his neck. And then, when she couldn’t take it anymore, she shifted her weight, and shifted him as well, rolling him over until she straddled him.

  He grinned, slow and satisfied. And completely unperturbed that she’d taken advantage of the situation.

  She pressed a kiss to the dimple revealed by his smile, then followed that with another to his chin, his neck, his chest.