Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“ Ventisette euro.” The taxi driver’s gruff voice jolted me back to the present.
I hadn’t realized he’d stopped. “Oh, sorry.” I fetched thirty euros from my purse and shoved it forward. “Keep the change.” Clutching my bags, I dragged my miserable body from the taxi into the hotel.
Forcing my feet to take me to the elevator, I stepped in and jabbed the button for my floor.
My breath hitched as the mirrored doors closed.
I hardly recognized myself. Turning sideways, I admired my hair. The beautiful braid made my usually frizzy mop look thick and lush. I reached up to touch my face but stopped. My skin looked incredible. My heart thudded in my ears. I looked beautiful.
For the first time in my life, I liked my reflection.
I was no longer that na?ve, stupid twenty-two-year-old who’d created an illusion of being engaged to the man who’d stolen her heart.
That woman was long gone. I was a woman who'd traveled extensively throughout Europe. I was smart and interesting and independent.
I was looking at myself, yet my wonderful reflection made me feel different. Confident and, dare I say it, sexy. Yes, that was it; I felt sexy. Why did my frizzy hair and freckles make me feel unsexy? They didn’t change who I was inside.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to press the stop button and stare at my reflection all night.
No, I didn’t.
I wanted to slip on my sexy new dress and shoes and show the world the new Daisy Chayne.
Better than that. I wanted Roman to see the new me.
In my room, I stripped off, taking care not to mess up my new hairstyle. I waded through my underwear collection, trying to find a pair of knickers that wouldn’t show lines beneath my new dress. My limited options had me wishing I’d bought new lingerie while I was at the shops. Too late.
In the end, the best option was one of nanna knickers that I usually reserved for that time of the month. I chose the skin-toned ones and tugged them up to my waist. They were fucking ugly. But practical. I paired them with my equally ugly skin-toned bra and wrestled my tits into position.
Forcing myself not to look at my reflection until I was fully dressed, I tugged on the sexy black dress and pulled the zipper from the hemline to my bust. I slipped into the shoes and latched them at the ankle.
I waited until I had the jewelry on before I turned to the mirror.
My breath caught. Tears welled in my eyes, but I dabbed them away before they spoiled my makeup. I admired my hair, my makeup, my new dress that fitted me like I’d had it personally made.
My transformation was stunning.
Drab Daisy Chayne was gone. Before me was a woman who looked classy, confident, and smoking hot. I did what so many had done to me over the years . . . I looked up and down my body. Smoothing my hands over my hips, I smiled, and my already incredible transformation elevated to a positively glowing experience. My stomach fluttered as I anticipated Roman’s reaction.
I grabbed my phone, and it took seven attempts before I worked out how to take a full-body mirror photo without cutting off my head or feet, or pulling a face like I had a stick up my ass. The photo was so incredible that for the first time ever, I decided to send a selfie to Azalia.
Guess who?
Who are you? And what did you do with the real Daisy Chayne?
LOL I had a makeover
Holy fuck babe. You’re smoking
Thanks
Studying my reflection, I replied .
I hardly recognize myself
You hooking up with Roman?
My jaw dropped.
No!!! Of course not!
Ooooh, so who’s the lucky guy?
No guy. I’m finally going to Monte Carlo casino
Nice. You’re gonna hook up with someone. I just know it
Yes, with the blackjack cards
And a hot random. Be ready, cause I know I’m right. Don’t forget, I want pics
I giggled.
Not going to happen
The pics?
The pics and the hot random
Just go with the flow. Hey, you might meet a rich prince
Or a spoiled brat addicted to gambling
Stop with the negative vibes. Hang those tits out and put on your beautiful smile, and men will be tripping over their own tongues to get to you
Very funny
I bet I’m right. Listen to me. Just because you fuck a guy you only just met doesn’t make you a slut. It makes you a normal 29 year old single woman
I guess so
You’ll love it. Do it for me. God knows when I’ll next get lucky. I feel like I’m 100 years old.
You don’t look it, babe
You haven’t seen me latel y
My heart ached for her.
Ok, I’ve gotta go. Wish me luck
You look fucking hot. You are so gonna get lucky
I meant at the blackjack
LOL I’m serious, babe. Just don’t shut down a guy if he starts talking to you. Promise me at least that
Ok I promise
Luv ya. And don’t forget the pics
Damn, she was persistent.
Love you too
I had forty minutes before I met Roman. But with nothing else to do, I decided to head to the casino early. I placed my passport, phone, credit card, cash, and room key into my lovely gold clutch, secured the chain over my shoulder, and walked out my door.
Within fifteen minutes I was strolling toward the grand entrance of the world-famous Monte Carlo casino, and my nanna knickers were crawling their way up my ass.
Rolls Royce’s, Lamborghinis, and Aston Martins were queued up outside the entrance, reminding me I was heading into the realm of the rich and famous. Doing my best to retain my impersonation of a lady, I resisted reaching around to pluck the pesky fabric from my crack.
Focusing on my feet so I didn’t trip up the marble steps, I followed a young, immaculately dressed couple through the front door which was held ajar by a stern-faced bellhop in a crisp red suit.
From the second I stepped over the threshold I was taken to another world. A world that languished in opulence and grandeur. Intricate frescos adorned the ceiling and were as beautiful as the artwork in the Louvre. A grand marble statue of four life-sized horses rearing on their hind legs dominated the atrium. Women wore dresses in shimmering fabrics that sparkled almost as much as their abundant jewelry. Elegance and extravagance were the theme.
At the entrance desk, I showed my passport, expecting the lovely young lady behind the counter to question my photo. She didn’t. Maybe she was accustomed to seeing such dramatic transformations. She simply smiled and took my money.
After passing through the security doors, I entered La Salle Europe. The grand room was a feast for my senses. The carpets were crafted in bold colors of gold and emerald green. Bohemian crystal chandeliers that weighed in at three hundred and thirty pounds each were centered in sections of rich gold-gilded cornicing.
Electronic jingles tempted gamblers to the rows of slot machines lined up like soldiers. Hundreds of people filled the room with excited chatter and hoots of laughter. Strolling through the crowds, I attempted to take in every inch of my surroundings. With each step, I wanted to pinch myself. I was finally here, in one of the most opulent casinos in the world.
The cool air conditioning prickled my skin as I ambled past gaming tables that offered a wide selection of games . . . poker, craps, baccarat. I was drawn to a series of blackjack tables gathered together in one section and as I strolled toward it, trying to take everything in, scents flitted from potent alcoholic beverages to expensive floral perfumes .
It was easy to see why the James Bond movie Casino Royale was filmed here. Nearly every man I saw was dressed in a three-piece suit, and the women were in stunning gowns that would be appropriate to wear to royal weddings.
My parents had always been keen to party. They were either entertaining random strangers with my father’s guitar-playing and Mother’s attempts to sing, or we’d have card nights. In a trailer park, it didn’t take much to draw a crowd. Music and gambling usually did it. By a very young age, I’d learned many card games.
My photographic memory came in very handy, and by my early teens, I’d learned how to count cards. Once Father had started to consistently lose to me, the card-playing nights petered out and were replaced instead with boozy sessions that lasted until sunrise. Or until Mother or Father flopped into bed, usually with somebody else.
Casting the rotten memories aside, I found a blackjack table that required a minimum bet of five euros. I had no intention of losing. But I needed to be careful. If the casino even suspected I was counting cards, I’d be escorted out.
Maybe it was my lucky night because within a minute of arriving at the table, two miracles happened. One was that a seat opened up and I quickly slotted into it before someone else did; the second was my timing perfectly coincided with two fresh decks of cards being supplied to the table.
As the dealer put the cards through a machine that shuffled the two decks together, I sent Roman a text telling him where I was. After setting my phone to vibrate so I wouldn’t miss his call, I returned it to my clutch, removed a fifty-euro note, and placed it onto the monogrammed green felt.
The croupier was a young, slender man in a crisp white shirt and grey waistcoat who looked like he’d rather be at home watching television than working at this iconic casino.
With my cash exchanged for chips, I rested my clutch on my lap and prepared to concentrate. The first couple of rounds were purely a guessing game, and I was cautious with my bids, deliberately going bust on a round or two so I didn’t draw suspicion.
Unlike the raucous couple beside me, I kept my emotions to myself, working on my poker face. Both the man and the woman were dressed in outfits that probably cost more than I’d earned since I’d started working for Vacation Dreamz. She wore several diamond rings and a diamond-studded bangle that I had no doubt was real. Embarrassment flushed my cheeks as I considered tossing my cheap bangle into my clutch. The fact that it wouldn’t fit in my tiny bag was the only thing stopping me.
Her high-pitched cackles and their continuous banter had everyone looking at them. The pair of them laughed whether they won or lost. They also couldn’t keep their hands off each other. I didn’t mind, though—as long as security was watching them and not me, I was happy.
With the diminishing deck, I had a better expectation of which cards could be dealt. After four rounds of cards, I was in front by eighty euros. After seven rounds, I was in front by two hundred and twenty euros. I increased my opening bid to twenty euros.
Soon, a crowd gathered behind us. The couple beside me had introduced themselves as Blaze and Montana, and with each round of cards they drank more and lost more money, but continued to laugh and giggle as if losing more than two thousand euros in thirty minutes was akin to tossing a few coins into the Trevi fountain. Based on the virtual dollar signs emanating from her jewelry, it probably was.
A contagious vibe of expectation from the surrounding crowd made my blood pump. But I imagined the onlookers were just as curious about how much we’d lose as how much we’d win .
I spied Roman walking toward me. It was only when his eyes bulged that I remembered my makeover. A flush of exhilaration radiated through me. With the smile on his face, Roman liked what he saw. He made a show of ogling my cleavage and when he mouthed “wow,” my instant urge was to yank up my zipper. For the first time in my life, I resisted. As the lady in the dress shop in Paris had indicated, these were my prized jewels, and I should show off my assets.
Roman shifted his gaze over my shoulder, and when I glanced that way, I was treated to a vision of male perfection.
The man standing right behind me, wearing a three-piece suit, could have been a sexy James Bond. His smoky gray eyes dazzled as they met mine. “ Bonsoir .” His smile was spectacular.
Holy smokes. “Oh, hi.” I touched my hair as my eyes flicked over one delectable facet after another. In a flash, I’d admired his black bow tie, his gunmetal gray waistcoat sporting a light metallic sheen, and diamond cuff links adorning crisp white cuffs. I’d seen clothes on wealthy people before and without a doubt, I was looking at a man who was flush with money.
“Please don’t let me interrupt.” He spoke perfect English. “You’re on a roll.”
I yanked my eyes away. The dealer eyeballed me. He’d been waiting for my bid. I picked up my cards—a pair of tens. There were still three aces yet to be dealt, and the pack was down to less than a third. It was stacked in my favor.
I split the tens and placed another four five-euros chips behind each one. An arm reached over my shoulder, the diamond cuff link twinkled in the lights, and he placed two stacks of chips against my cards. Each stack totaled five hundred euros. As my heart pounded at the obscene amount of his dual bids, his scent captured me. Cologne and spice and everything nice .
My head swooned, my insides curled, but I forced my brain to focus.
The dealer played a card to the first man at the table. With a perfected poker face, the man glanced at the card and requested another. He busted and his poker face morphed into a scowl.
Roman was standing to my right at the back of the crowd, watching me. I smiled and pulled a ‘poor bugger’ face, and he mouthed “good luck” to me. I winked.
The second man at the table followed the same route as the first and he busted too.
My turn. The dealer flipped a card onto my first ten, a king. Yes. With a smile twitching at my lips, I swiped my hand, indicating I’d rest.
He dealt the second card onto my second ten. An ace! The crowd erupted into applause.
“Blackjack!” The woman beside me squealed so loud it was a wonder she didn’t shatter the million-dollar chandelier in the center of the gaming tables.
My heart thundered. In the space of one minute, my mysterious ghost player had made more than twelve hundred euros. The dealer paid out for the blackjack straight away, paying thirty euros for me, and an enormous stack of chips for James Bond behind me.
The dealer moved onto the lady at my side who squealed again when she won, and I wriggled my finger in my ear, hoping she hadn’t rendered me deaf.
“May I buy you a drink?” James Bond’s deep baritone in my ear drove a delicious shiver up my neck.
Yay, my hearing was still intact. “Oh um, yes please, that’d be lovely.”
His lips were a fascinating shade of crimson and a line of hair led from those luscious lips to his neatly trimmed beard. “What would you like? ”
“A glass of champagne would be nice.”
“French champagne, I assume, or do you have another preference?”
“Well, my favorite is Louis Roederer, if that’s okay?”
His eyebrows bounced together, and I scrambled to retract my request. “Oh no,” I blurted a stupid chuckle. “Sorry, no, pardon me, that’s too expensive, I’ll have?—”
He touched my forearm, and the familiarity of the move made me draw a breath. “It would be my pleasure. You’ve just won me a decent kitty; it’s the least I can do.”
James Bond clicked his fingers, and a scantily clad waitress scurried over. As he ordered our drinks in French, I glanced at Roman. His eyes bulged and he gave me a thumbs-up signal.
Rolling my eyes at Roman, I turned my attention to the dealer and our next round. The first two players drew a series of small cards and stopped their accumulation at seventeen and eighteen respectively. Conversely, my first card was an ace. James Bond backed up my ace with one thousand euros.
My heart set to explode.
It was like the dealer was moving in slow motion, drawing out the grand reveal. He flipped the next card. A jack! Blackjack again! I just about burst with relief as the crowd around me erupted into cheers.
Roman was as loud as the woman at my side.
Two blackjacks in two hands. It’s my lucky night.
When James Bond reached over my shoulder and placed my champagne on the felt before me, I noticed his unadorned wedding finger. Maybe I’d hit the greatest jackpot of all—a smoking-hot, single man, willing to buy me a drink. That was another first for me.
I swiveled to him. “Thank you very much.” My breath caught at how handsome he was. And it wasn’t just his attire. He was Top Model material. Carefully trimmed three-day growth, stunning eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes and lips that were totally kissable. My mind swirled in a whirlwind of crazy. His tongue lashed out, brushing over his lips, and when his eyes flared, I realized he’d caught me staring. I whipped around, back to the table. Heat crawled up my neck and it took all my might not to fan myself.
I glanced at Roman. He mouthed, “ Lucky you.”
I sucked my lips into my mouth, trying not to smile, but it was impossible.
Daisy Chayne did not get lucky. Then again, I’d been ‘lucky’ twice on this tour. Maybe Roman was right . . . I was putting out vibes. With my current strike rate, the vibes were more akin to supersonic radars.
Whoa, calm down, sister. All he did was buy you a drink after he’d won some money. That’s it.
He was just being a gentleman.
Deciding not to push my luck at the cards any further, I thanked the croupier and scooped my chips into my clutch. I grasped my champagne and when I pushed back on my chair, James Bond assisted by easing it out for me. I stood and my clutch flopped to my feet. A flush of embarrassment shot up my neck as I went to gather it from the floor.
“ S'il vous plait , allow me.”
My mysterious stranger bent at my feet, and when I glanced at Roman, he gave me a two-thumbs-up signal and flashed a ridiculously zealous smile. Stifling a giggle, I bulged my eyes at him and mouthed, “ Stop it.”
When James Bond drew back up to full height, my breath escaped me as I looked up into the most incredible smoky gray eyes. Everything around me vanished into obscurity as I fell into his gaze.
He handed over my clutch, and when his fingers grazed across mine, my pulse galloped. “There you go. ”
“Thank you.” I hugged the clutch to my body and was at a complete loss as to what I should do next.
He bent his elbow. “Would you like to accompany me somewhere a little more private?”
A smile blazed across my lips. “I would like that very much, thank you.” I curled my arm into the crook of his and with one last glance at Roman, who looked on the verge of applauding, we walked from the casino floor.
“I’m Oscar LeRoche.”
“Hello Oscar, I’m Daisy.” I deliberately withheld my rotten surname.
He led me through the bustling casino toward Salle Médecin, a gaming room privy only to members. At the entrance, the stiff guard stepped aside to let us through, and the scantily clad receptionist on the other side welcomed Mr. LeRoche with a smile that was appropriate for a teeth-whitening commercial.
Salle Médecin was where the serious money was played. The architecture was amazing. Even though I’d never been here before, I recognized the work of famed Monacan architect Fran?ois Médecin. Somewhere in this room was an old, forged-iron cage elevator. Hopefully, I’d get a chance to see it.
Lush textures and bold colors of mahogany, bronze, and empire green were the theme. But with each step I took, passing one casino game after another, my bloody nanna knickers inched farther up my ass. It felt like I had a whole damn curtain up there.
Forcing my brain from the discomfort, I studied the intensity on the players’ faces. It was impossible to tell if these people were having fun or fighting a bout of diarrhea. The gaming room where I’d played had excitement hanging in the air like pink smoke. This place would give a funeral parlor a run for its depressing vibes .
I wanted to gush over everything and spout random facts such as the name of the architect this room was named after, Francois Médecin, and that all the paintings were the work of one artist.
Thankfully, I managed to keep my history lesson at bay. I wasn’t a fact-burdened tour guide at that moment. I was a single, twenty-nine-year-old woman, being escorted through a stunning nineteenth-century building by an equally stunning man.
After several minutes, I began to regret my choice of shoes. The balls of my feet were killing me. And my nanna knickers were vying for wedgie of the century. Between the two of them, if we didn’t stop soon, I was about to start wobbling like a shackled drunk.
We arrived at the entrance to Bar des Privés and by flashing his Cercle Monte-Carlo Players Club card, Oscar and I were allowed to enter the exclusive club.
Floor-to-ceiling glass panels adorned the far wall, and the magnificent vista took my breath away. Beyond the windows, the panorama looked over the Bay ofRoquebrune-Cap-Martin and the vast collection of boats moored in the bay were lit up like Christmas trees.
Oscar chose a couple of lounges in a secluded corner. As we settled into the burgundy leather nestled right next to each other, I admired his classy designer suit. It would have cost as much as he’d just won at the blackjack table.
I’d learned to appreciate expensive clothing when I worked at Goodman Mayfair in London when I’d first left Australia. I was only there a few months before I got the job on the cruise ship, yet I quickly learned to differentiate between the patrons with real money and the ones who were trying to keep up.
Oscar had real money.
Which had me wondering why he’d chosen me. With his looks and class, he could’ve had any woman he wanted. And my mini makeover today did not afford me the luxury of a man like him.
You are waaaayyyy out of your depth, girlfriend.
Seeds of doubt crept into my overactive mind like a weed.
What the hell are you doing, Daisy?
“Your accent, it’s Australian, no?” His sexy baritone snapped me from my tumbling thoughts.
I nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Hmmm.” His eyes locked in on my hair.
My hand snapped up to my braid like I had a nervous twitch, and it took me a couple of thumping heartbeats to confirm that my curls were still contained.
“What brings you to Monte Carlo casino?” He tilted his head, and the lights caught in his eyes. They were such an interesting color, like early mist on a crisp spring morning, that I wondered if he was wearing colored contacts. Rich people did stuff like that.
I wanted to respond to his question with something that wouldn’t peg me as a fraud. Because that was how I felt; I didn’t belong in a place like this. Then again, Oscar probably already knew that. I decided to tell the truth. “I’ve been to Monaco thirty times, but this is my first time in this casino.”
His eyebrows bounced together. “Thirty times. That’s very precise.”
“I’m a tour guide. Every month for the last thirty months, I’ve brought a tour group to Monaco. Yet I’ve never been inside this glorious building.”
“It must be my lucky night then.”
I giggled. “Mine too.” A hot flush blazed up my neck at the way his eyes devoured me. I cleared my throat. “So, what do you do for a living, Oscar?”
He picked up his champagne glass, and when he twirled the stem between his fingers, I noted that, unlike Luca, Oscar’s hands didn’t look like he’d done a day of manual labor in his life. “I own a chain of hair salons. Oscar & Oskar. Have you heard of them?”
My heart skipped a beat. Not only had I heard of them, but I’d also visited one today. Thank goodness I had because otherwise, my unruly mop would’ve attracted his attention for all the wrong reasons. I applied restraint with my response. “I have, as a matter of fact.”
“Your hair was what attracted me to you.”
I reached up and patted my braid like it was a sleeping kitten. “It did?”
“Yes. Most women with red curly hair want to change the color and make it straight. It’s rare to find hair of such virgin quality.”
“Oh.” His words floored me. I had never thought of my hair as attractive. Not many days went by when I didn’t hate my hair for one reason or another. Too red. Too curly. Too messy. Too frizzy. Luscious locks were not my thing.
Oscar reached out, and I froze as he pinched a curl of my hair between his thumb and forefinger. His pupils widened. “ De beaux cheveux .”
To hear him say my hair was beautiful made my heart sing. But the way he said it, with the words whispered off his tongue, had my insides positively purring. The intensity of this moment triggered all sorts of crazy thoughts dashing through my mind. My girly bits did a weird pirouette that had me squirming on my seat.
“Do you speak French?”
“Oh, ummm . . .” I held my fingers an inch apart. “A little.”
“ Voulez-vous un autre verre de champagne ?”
I smiled. “ Oui, s'il vous pla?t . I’d love another glass of champagne. Merci beaucoup.”
When he smiled at my response, I was dazzled by the transformation. His already stunning eyes lit up, his teeth were white and straight, and a gorgeous dimple punctuated his right cheek. James Bond just got a hell of a lot hotter.
Oscar held one finger in the air, and within five seconds a woman dressed in a teal and black tunic that fitted her voluptuous curves in all the right places arrived at our corner.
“ Bonsoir , Mr. LeRoche. How may I help you?”
“A glass of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne for the lady, and I’ll have a negroni with Roku gin, s'il vous pla?t .”
I’d never tried a negroni and after a silent two-second debate the new adventurous me leaped in. “Actually, may I please have a, ummm, negroni too. Merci beaucoup .”
He cocked his head. “Have you ever had one before?”
Sprung. I contemplated lying but decided against it. “No.”
“I love a woman who experiments.” His eyes captured mine, and the unmistakable twinkle suggested that he hoped my experimental phase would continue beyond my choice of alcoholic beverage.
An appropriate reply had me flustered. Why on earth a man like Oscar would choose me had me confused. I had no class. I certainly wasn’t beautiful.
Then it hit me. My boobs. Maybe Mother was right. For the first time in years, I’d shown off a hint of cleavage and James Bond had swooped in.
My fingers twitched with the burning urge to tug my zipper up to my chin as the angel and devil in my brain fought a mighty battle.
So what if he’s looking at my tits.
You are more than just giant melons, Daisy.
Stop it! Why can’t you show off your assets?
You are just like your mother.
Faaark. My heart thudded down to my belly.
That last thought was a low blow. I was nothing like Mother .
Our drinks arrived, and I sat on a lavish leather sofa in a truly incredible building with an equally incredible man, and we were just talking. If it was my boobs that’d led me to this magical moment, then YAY to mountainous melons.
I clutched my crystal tumbler and admired the cocktail—it was presentation perfection. Nestled within the dark orange liquid was a giant ice cube. On top of that was a thin orange slice that looked absolutely pristine.
Is it fake?
Oscar picked up the slice and nibbled on the rind. Not fake.
I copied the move. The orange was solid and when I bit into the slice, I smiled. It had been candied. It was both a surprise and delicious.
We sipped our drinks, and the conversation flowed. Oscar had a wonderful way of making me feel comfortable, and despite my initial concerns about being totally out of my league, I quickly settled in. On his right hand, he wore just one ring. It was a chunky gold band with a row of diamonds centered around the middle—elegant, stylish, yet still manly. My best guess was that his ring cost more than I earned in a year.
“Would you like to come up to my room?”
He’d timed his question to coincide with me sipping my drink, and I gulped back a huge swig. Holy shit! I covered my mouth, and as I coughed into my hand, trying to be as dainty as possible, my mind slammed from one response to the next.
Should I?
Shouldn’t I?
I’d never gone to a stranger’s room before.
Der, that’s because I’d never been asked.
And I’d especially never been asked by a man as incredible as Oscar .
“You don’t have to.” He twirled his giant ice cube in the glass. Calm. Elegant. Gentlemanly perfection. Oscar had it all.
“Oh, it’s ummm, just that . . . why’d you pick me?” I blurted my question, and in an effort to stop my fingers trembling, I clutched the crystal tumbler so hard it was a wonder it didn’t shatter.
His eyes dazzled and a tiny smirk curled his lips. Then his face morphed into seriousness, and he eased forward until our knees touched. Oscar placed his hand on my thigh, and a breath of air escaped my throat. A flush of warmth emanated from beneath his palm and shot through my body.
“I was initially attracted to you because of your stunning hair.” He reached for a curl on my shoulder and twirled it between his fingers. “But it was your blackjack skills that held me captive. It’s not very often I meet a woman who can count cards.”
I shot backward in my seat, gasping, and slapped my hand over my mouth. The urge to run blazed across my brain until I pictured myself wobbling across the plush carpet in shoes that were already killing me and my nanna knickers going so far up my ass, I’d be able to taste them. I glanced around, expecting burly men holding handcuffs to be striding toward me.
“It’s okay, Daisy. Your secret is safe with me. Especially as you made me a significant amount of money.”
My heart thundered against my chest as I eyed him. Oscar was the epitome of cool and calm. He’d been practicing his James Bond impersonation for a very long time. I leaned closer and whispered, “How did you know?”
“I’ve been here often enough to have witnessed it a few times. You’re good.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand. Why were you even in that room? You could be in the high rollers’ suites. ”
“They’re all stiffs in there. Nobody’s having fun. I like the atmosphere in the room where I found you.”
“Hmmm.” After seeing the stiffs in the high rollers’ room, his reasoning made sense.
“So, Daisy.” He slipped his hand into his pants pocket and removed a card. “Here’s a key to my room. I’m staying at Hotel De Paris, suite 710. You may meet me there if you wish.” He pointed across the room. “There’s a connecting passage to the hotel in the far corner.” Oscar wove his fingers beneath my hand, raised it, and kissed the back of my palm. “Though I shall be sorely disappointed should you decline.”
He stood and nodded once, and without even another glance in my direction, he strode away.