Chapter Four
Saturday night finally rolls around, and I cannot wait for the respite from Antony ’ s brooding about me being a few hours later than usual. But right now, I don ’ t want to think about that—tonight I ’ m here for Maxwell. I might be as anxious as he is. Okay, that ’ s a lie. I don ’ t think anyone could be as nervous as Maxwell is right now.
“ Your fidgeting is making me restless,” I tease, shaking my head.
“ Sorry,” he says after a pause. “ I ’ ve never done anything like this before.”
“ I never would have guessed.” I chuckle under my breath.
As promised, Maxwell ’ s town car picked me up at seven sharp, his driver stepping out before I reached the door, opening it wide. I thanked him and slid in beside a wan Maxwell, his perfectly kept salt-and-pepper hair disheveled. Even so, he still looks incredibly good in a pristine three-piece suit of a delicious dark navy and a burgundy button-up shirt. Sans tie, with the top button left casually undone, he finished off the look with platinum cufflinks. Maxwell looks every bit the rich, laid-back businessman, but I know he is anything but relaxed.
Still, we will be quite the pair walking into the casino tonight, me in a deep red, skin-tight, sequined gown. It ’ s stupidly low-cut, showing off ample amounts of cleavage, and has a thigh-high slit up one leg, showcasing my diamond-encrusted Jimmy Choos. I finished off my look with blood-red lipstick, thick fake lashes, and a long, straight blonde wig. Voil à . My stupid bimbo outfit was complete.
For over twenty-five minutes , I make small talk, bringing up the charity auction, ignoring the mixed memories flashing before my eyes regarding a stupid, admittedly attractive boy, and asking mundane questions about his company. He replies politely, but the responses are borderline short and quick, without any real thought or feeling behind them. All my efforts to distract Maxwell are moot; he still fusses relentlessly. Crossing and uncrossing his legs, he adjusts his cufflinks and, at one point, even reties his polished shoelaces.
“ Just think of this as any other date, albeit it with a gorgeous woman.” I give him a saucy grin, and he smiles for the first time tonight in return. “ We ’ re going to the casino, going to have a few drinks, mingle a little, play a couple of card games, maybe even some craps, and win, of course. Just a simple, ordinary evening. Who knows how the night will pan out?” I wiggle my eyebrows, and he smiles, relaxing a margin.
“ I ’ m sure nothing is ever simple or ordinary with you, Vivienne.” He chortles. “ I can ’ t say I remember what it ’ s like to go on a date, though,” he says softly, turning his head to look out the tinted windows.
I chance a quick glance down to Maxwell ’ s left hand resting on his thigh and the gold wedding band it ’ s sporting, pondering why I hadn ’ t known he was married before. Not that it would have made a difference. It never does. Not anymore.
“ I take it you and your wife don ’ t get out much?”
Maxwell ’ s shoulders stiffen before they slump a fraction, and I know I ’ ve hit the nail on the head.
His head hangs low as he shakes it, turning back toward me. He gives me a forlorn smile. “ No. Not since before she had cancer.” He pauses, frowning. “ It must be a good … fifteen years since I ’ ve been on a date of any kind. At least thirty with anyone other than my late wife.”
Late? His words are a sucker punch in the gut.
“ I ’ m so sorry. I didn ’ t realize. You still wear your wedding band . I just presumed.”
Maxwell looks down at his hand as if he ’ s forgotten he wore it. “ I guess.” He shrugs. “ I never actively thought to take it off. It ’ s been there so long, it just sort of … becomes part of you.” He shrugs again.
“ How long has it been … ? ” I trail off, not sure how best to word it.
“ Since my wife passed?” he prompts, and I nod. “ Ten years this past February.”
So long. I reach out, placing my hand over his and curling my fingers around his palm, giving it a gentle squeeze. I ’ m at a loss for words, for once.
Maxwell gives me a melancholy smile and pats my hand lightly with his other. “ It was a long time ago.”
“ But still just as raw?” I finish for him, removing my hand.
His jaw tightens as he nods. “ Time may heal our wounds, but the scars in our souls live on for eternity. That kind of pain, you never forget.”
I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat remains. Neither one of us says a word for the rest of the car ride. The silence is deafening, but I have nothing to offer. I ’ m way out of my element here. I couldn ’ t begin to understand pain like that. I ’ ve never been in love, not even close. And my parents ’ marriage, I ’ m sure, was one more of convenience than the kind of soul-crushing love Maxwell seems to have had. Sometimes I wonder if my folks could even spell the word.
The car eventually comes to a stop, pulling up to Plainridge Park, but it takes Maxwell a minute to notice, seeming to pull himself out of some faraway place.
“ We ’ re here,” he states.
I nod. “ Are you sure you ’ re up for this?”
He jerks his head in response, giving me a small smile, and steps out of the car, coming around to my side to let me out.
“ I forgot to mention how ravishing you look tonight. I apologize,” he says, offering me his hand.
“ Forgiven.” I smile at him, placing my palm in his, and step out. “ You look pretty spiffy yourself. I ’ ll be beating the women off with my purse.”
He laughs, relaxing again. “ Thank you,” he says simply, but the burn in his eyes is heavy, laden with meaning. He gives me one of the most sincere smiles I have ever witnessed, and my heart soars and breaks all at the same time.
I smile softly, wrapping an arm around his, and give what I hope is an affectionate rub as we walk toward the entrance. He ’ s too nice, too sweet for all of this.
“ Oh. Call me Mandy tonight. Yeah?”
“ Mandy? ”
“ You don ’ t like it? I thought it would go better with the wig.” I giggle stupidly, and he chuckles.
“ Candy would be much more fitting, my giggly blonde. Why the wig?”
“ Oh. Candy … I like. Done. And the wig is because sometimes it ’ s a lot more fun to be someone else and go incognito.”
“ Who am I, then?” His eyes sparkle with amusement.
“ Who do you wanna be?”
His face goes stolid, and he stares ahead. “ Just call me Max.” He shakes his head with a lax smile.
“ Baby it is.” We both laugh, walking through the doors, and pausing on entry. “ It ’ s game time.” I wink, steering Max to the bar. I know I definitely need a drink, and if Max ’ s stiff upper body is anything to go by, so does he. Maybe three.
“ Hi there, sugars.” The thick southern accent rolls off the bartender ’ s tongue like honey. “ What ’ ll y ’ all be having tonight?”
“ Candy, baby, what do you want?”
I bite my lip, scrunching up my face in thought, when in fact I ’ m fighting not to burst out laughing. Oh, he ’ s good. “ Um, oh, uh. Well, dang it. I don ’ t know. Something fruity? Oh, and pretty.” I force a giggle.
“ Coming right up, doll face. And you, handsome?”
“ Whiskey on the rocks.” He gives her a little wink as she busies herself making our drinks.
“ I didn ’ t peg you for a fruity girl,” Max whispers in my ear. I laugh stupidly, as if he ’ s said the funniest thing in the world, and smile seductively at him.
“ What, here? Oh, you!” I bat at his hand but make sure I catch his eye and shake my head with a slight cock of my brow. He nods and chuckles, catching my drift.
Fruity has never been me. I ’ m straight-up dirty and will leave you with a wicked hangover.
Donna, or so her name tag reads, comes back a few minutes later with our drinks. She places Max ’ s simple whiskey in front of him, and I look at it with longing for a second before she places my beverage down in front of me. My eyes widen in horror before I can rein them in. What the fuck?
“ Here ya go, sugar. I hope ya like it. It ’ s a little something I like to call Rainbow Bright.”
Rainbow what?
It ’ s served in a tall, round cocktail glass, filled with a swirl of pink, orange, red, purple, and blue, then topped with a bright pink umbrella and a few pineapple and strawberry pieces. It looks like a rainbow got gang-banged and squashed into a glass, slapped with some pretty fruity Band-Aids, and sent on its merry way. I ’ m afraid to drink it, but I squeal and clap like a sorority girl on crack. It sure looks the part. I suppress a shudder and smile brightly as I put the straw in my mouth, shooting Max a worried expression. He covers his laugh with a cough, and I fight not to scowl at him, taking a tentative sip.
Holy Skittles on steroids.
“ It ’ s good, right?”
I swallow the candy-like liquid and smile at Donna. “ So good. It ’ s like there ’ s a party in my mouth, and a whole orchard was invited.”
I shit you not. I can taste it all. I ’ ve yet to determine if I like it or not. The verdict is still out.
Donna is over the moon with my declaration and beams brightly at us before walking off to serve the other patrons.
“ You ’ re a rather talented actor, ” Max states matter of fact. “ You never once slip.”
“ In my line of work, I need to be. I can ’ t afford to lose face, Max. But you ’ re wrong.” His forehead creases as he looks at me. “ Do you know any dumb blondes—stereotypically speaking—who would know what an orchard is?”
He guffaws before shaking his head. “ You ’ re fired.”
“ Oh, thank god. This wig is driving me crazy already,” I tease.
He takes my stray hand in his, and I watch curiously as he brings it to his lips and lightly kisses my knuckles. My mind goes straight to Jeremy , and I ’ m instantly unnerved. It ’ s not the first time someone has kissed my hand, but it ’ s the first time it makes me picture someone else.
“ I think I might actually enjoy myself with you,” he says.
It ’ s my turn to chortle. “ Oh, Max. You sure know the right things to say to a girl,” I quip. “ But then, if you don ’ t have a good time, I ’ m clearly not doing my job right.” I wink.
Max chuckles again and seems to ease, becoming more himself as the night—not to mention the whiskey— progresses.
We chat quietly. Max talks about his company with more detail and interest than he did in the car, while I peruse the crowd. After another drink, he brings up his late wife. My wayward heart constricts as he tells me how he met her, and the way he was instantly enthralled with her elegant beauty. They courted like only the young did in the late ’ 80s—clubs and dancing. I laugh at the visual of Max with a mullet and Lycra, even though I ’ m sure he had more sense than that.
“ We had a very unconventional romance,” he says, making me raise a brow. “ We were raised Catholic to a fault.”
“ You waited? Completely?”
“ We did.” His cheeks turn pink at the declaration.
“ That ’ s very romantic.” And crazy. “I can ’ t conceive of the idea, obviously.” A salacious grin twists my mouth. “ I find the premise sweet, but … ” I pause. “ How did either of you refrain for so long? Or know what to do? I ’ ve heard some horror stories.” I struggle, trying not to picture awkward wedding-night, first-time sex.
“ We all have to learn sometime.” He muses. “ Why? How did you learn?” he counters, with a curve of his brow.
I frown, thinking on that. “ Well, I should say it was lots and lots of practice.” I titter. “ But that would be a lie. It ’ s a gift. This body was made for pleasure,” I say with a cocky flair and laugh as Max ’ s face goes bright red. “ My first time, I don ’ t really remember. I was drunk—we both were. But I ’ ve sort of always known how to use my body.” I shrug. “ It ’ s what I ’ m good for, what I excel at.” Something flashes across Maxwell ’ s face, something I don ’ t really want to put a name to. “ You can ’ t teach talent, just technique.” I laugh softly, but it comes out uneasy.
“ True enough.” He smiles softly, almost … dejected. “ We knew the mechanics, and it was just a matter of putting it into practice. Some things are instinctual.” He smirks—he actually smirks at me, and I want to laugh at the change in his demeanor. “ The rest comes with time and knowledge. And lots and lots of practice.”
We both chuckle at that, but there ’ s a niggling feeling in the back of my mind, and I can ’ t help wondering if he ’ s all alone in the world now? I try to think back to the meeting in his office and saw any photographs, but I ’ m drawing a blank. I ’ m about to ask when he stands and offers me his hand.
“ Shall we?”
My brows lift, curious what exactly he ’ s suggesting. I have the distinct impression he has never been with another woman. For some reason, that makes my heart jerk.
“ I see a spot at the blackjack table has opened,” he clarifies, a little color flushing his cheeks again. I don ’ t really feel like playing or being on anymore.
“ Yes, let ’ s. ” I take his outstretched hand, and he tucks it under his arm, leading me to the table. I give myself a mental kick and get back in the game.
For the better part of an hour, Max and I dominate the tables. Beginner ’ s luck, we try to brush it off as, but we both know better. I don ’ t count cards, far from it—that ’ d be too much work—but I know a potential win before I see it.I have an uncanny sixth sense and can read people like pages in a book. Comes in handy in my business.
We mix it up a little. Max catches on quickly with my subtle caresses, and he soon learns when to lose. If you play with the understanding that the house always wins, you never get burned.
It ’ s a shame I don ’ t like gambling more, or maybe I should say it ’ s a shame I like sex so much. I could have had another “ career” if circumstances were different.
We walk away with a few grand more than we started with and move on to a few craps tables. I love craps the most. It ’ s exciting and very much up in the air. It ’ s all in the wrist and luck, mostly. A few drinks under our belts later and a few hundred less, we ’ re feeling no pain. It ’ s then that I see an opening at the high rollers table.
“ It ’ s playtime,” I whisper to Max, gesturing to the Texas Hold ’ Em game that just finished. He smiles widely and bobs his head.
“ Oh, baby. Look!” I purr loudly, pulling on his arm. “ I love Texans. Can we play?”
Max chuckles loudly in a deep, semi-drunken way. I ’ m not sure how much of that is for show or for real. He ’ s had a nice warm glow to his cheeks for the past two or three drinks. Maybe this isn ’ t such a good idea …
“ Sure thing, baby girl.” He pulls me to him and kisses me, or I should say, smacks me with a loud, wet peck straight on the lips. He pulls back not even a second later, smiling, but his eyes are wide with what I can only gather is shock. I giggle stupidly and pull him again to the big table toward the back, fighting not to burst out laughing.
“ Is this seat taken?” he asks, sounding more sober than he did moments ago.
The dealer nods his head, his eyes fixed on me. I send him a megawatt smile, hoping he ’ ll let me stay close. He blinks as if blinded— well, that was easy —then rushes off to a closed table a few rows behind to return a moment later with another chair.
“ Oh, gosh. You are so sweet. Thank you.” I beam, my stomach turning mildly at the sugary-sounding words coming out of my mouth.
“ My … my pleasure, miss.” He moves the chairs a little wider apart at the end of the oblong table to make room for me next to Max. It couldn ’ t have been more perfect if I ’ d tried. I have a direct view of all the other players. Jackpot.
Everyone seats themselves, and the recent additions to the table set up their chips in front of them as Josh, our dealer, explains the rules briefly, the blind and bid limits. I tune him out as I take in the others. The figures mean little to me. Max understands the game, and I ’ m just here to see that he plays smart.
I watch as the men around the table are dealt their hole cards. The first, a slender, weedy-looking man in his late thirties, possibly early forties, doesn ’ t even blink as he takes in his cards with a quick flick of his wrist, and I realize he was one of the men here when we joined the table. A quick glance at his chips before moving my eyes on to the second guy tells me he ’ s been here a few rounds and is possibly the one to beat.
The second man looks barely of age, with his pimpled face and oil-slicked hair. He looks as if he ’ d be far more comfortable sitting behind his computer screen than here in the presence of actual people. His eyes blink rapidly as he quickly checks his hand before fumbling slightly and putting the cards face down in front of him.
One of the waitstaff interrupts my perusal, and I order a martini with extra olives and a whiskey for Max. Max smiles at me sweetly before checking his own cards. He ’ s good, not great, but good. He has very few tells, just a slight flicker of his eyelashes as he takes in the two queens he ’ s holding. Beginner ’ s luck indeed.
I sit back and watch Max, our drinks arriving not long after. He ’ s at ease with himself now, and I was right in my observation. He did need a few drinks to relax, but now he ’ s in control, nothing like he was the first time we met.
The game progresses, and Max does well, not over-betting or showing his hand too early. It ’ s an easy first win, but he doesn ’ t push it, which shows the other players he ’ s not overconfident. It could also work against him, showing them he knows exactly what he ’ s doing. I lean forward, putting my elbow on the table, and pull the pick out of my martini, bringing it to my mouth.
“ You won, baby.” I smile widely before popping the toothpick in my mouth, dragging one olive off. I catch sight of all the men at the table watching me in my peripheral vision, and it makes one corner of my mouth twitch.
Max, such a quick study, doesn ’ t miss a beat as he responds in kind. “ How could I not, with my lucky charm here?” He grins, chucking the tip of my chin playfully, and winks.
The next hand is subsequently dealt, and Max bets more than he should, looking overeager, only to bow out two rounds later. He loses with a frustrated grunt and turns toward my pouting face, amusement sparkling in his knowing eyes. “ Guess you can ’ t win ’ em all, huh?”
“ I ’ ll make sure you win later, baby,” I respond, running my hand along his thigh.
Max tries to hide his stiffening response and gives me a wicked grin, holding my playful gaze until the dealer clears his throat, drawing Max ’ s attention back to the third game in play.
I turn my gaze to dealer-boy and pop the last olive in my mouth, slowly drawing out the toothpick. His eyes zero in, watching the movement with such fever. It ’ s not until my lips quirk up at the sides that his lust-filled gaze turns stunned and embarrassed as his eyes dart to my now smiling ones. His entire face flushes a deep shade of crimson, and I give him a salacious grin with a wink before he returns his focus to the game at hand.
The evening continues in much the same fashion for another few games, the stakes rising and the tension building each time. My earlier suspicions about guy number one, whom I now mentally refer to as Skeeze, were correct. He ’ s far from subtle in his endeavor to win, unlike Max, who ’ s still calm, cool, and collected. There ’ s no competition from the other three men, and by the sixth game, Pimple Face and one of the others have cashed out what few chips they had left, leaving Max, Skeeze, and one other—a fat, balding man who sweats too much.
By the eighth game, the tension is ripe. Max and Skeeze are even on the number of chips by the look of it, and the other guy, Baldy, is about to bust out at any minute. It ’ s last call, and the vein in Skeeze ’ s neck bulges. I can almost read his disdain at having to play by the rules, the desperation to go all-in shining in his beady eyes. Unfortunately for him, it ’ s pot limit. That thought makes me smile, and he catches it, licking his lips at me. I suppress the cringe his gesture causes and look away, feigning embarrassment. He matches the pot limit, his beady eyes turning to Baldy, whose sweating has been grossing me out for the past three games. He curses, throwing his cards down in defeat, and Skeeze gives a dark chuckle. Asshat. All eyes move to Max, but he turns to look at me.
We both know he can ’ t win this game—not with the jack and ten he ’ s holding. Not bad odds when there ’ s another jack and ten in the flop, but that ’ s only two pair. If Skeeze has a queen and a king, it ’ s game over. I suck in my bottom lip, and Max smiles.
“ All in,” he bellows, and I giggle. Good man .
“ It ’ s pot limit,” Skeeze scoffs.
“ Oh, right.” He smiles sheepishly, withdrawing some of his chips.
Josh, dealer-boy, calls it, and Max flips his hole cards over. Whether he was meant to go first, I can ’ t recall. I have had one rainbow explosion and four, maybe five, martinis. He beams excitedly, and I add my little squeal to the mix. Skeeze all but jumps out of his skin, only mildly managing to keep it together as he turns over his hand, revealing the king and queen I presumed he ’ d been sitting on. Max ’ s face falls, rather comically I think, as Josh readjusts the flop, announcing the winning hand to Skeeze.
“ I ’ m sorry, pumpkin. I thought I had that one,” he says, faking forlorn as he stands.
“ It ’ s just money, baby. There ’ s more where that came from.” We only lost what we ’ d won. I step into Max, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing against him. For a second, I ’ m surprised he doesn ’ t stiffen like he has all night. Interesting. “ Anyway, I ’ m all the prize you need.”
Max chuckles and surprises me yet again as his hands leave my waist to cup my ass with a squeeze for good measure as he pulls me closer to him. I chuckle, a little lost for words.
“ You play a good game,” Skeeze interrupts.
Max releases me and turns to face him. “ You wiped the floor with me.”
“ I ’ ve been at this for a while.” He smiles, but there ’ s no warmth to it. It ’ s cold and slimy, like him. “ I get plenty of practice in. I have a get-together with some people a couple of times a month. There ’ s a decent amount of cash to be made, if you ’ re interested. Off the books, of course.”
“ Like an underground ring?” Max asks, forcing excitement.
“ It ’ s just a casual thing,” Skeeze lies. “ A little more laid-back than most, I ’ d imagine.”
“ Can we, baby? Please?” I puppy-dog face Max.
“ Sure, baby girl, why not? Anything for my sugar,” he responds, tapping the end of my nose with a finger.
“ Eek! ” I squeal, jumping up and down on the spot, my breasts bouncing dangerously high.
“ Name the time and place, and we ’ ll be there.”
“ With bells on!” I giggle.
Skeeze writes the details on the back of his card and hands it to Max. “ I look forward to seeing you both soon.”
I smile warmly in return, and the men shake hands before Skeeze swaggers off into the crowd.
I beam at a nervous-looking Max, his cool facade wavering but the excitement still evident in his eyes. A devilish grin pulls at the corners of my mouth, and I take his hand, giving it a squeeze. “ Now the fun really begins.”