LITMIR.BIZ

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at me, bella.’ Leaning across the table, I tucked a knuckle under her chin and nudged her face up.

      What I saw though—when her emerald eyes finally met mine—was so real it shocked me to my core.

      Her eyes were dry, without the self-pitying tears I had been expecting, but also dazed and unfocused—she looked shattered. Devastated.

      A stab of something ripped through my chest. And the trickle of unwanted sympathy turned into a flood.

      ‘Bella? What’s going on?’ I said, disorientated and concerned—not just by the haunted look in her eyes, but also by my desire to take her anguish away.

      Why did she look so shattered? And why the hell did I care?

      ‘N... N... Nothing,’ she stuttered, shaking her head. She stood up. ‘I have to go.’

      She walked past me, her back ramrod-straight, her face a deathly shade of white, her whole body consumed by tremors now.

      I grasped her arm, felt the shudder of reaction. ‘Don’t...’

       Go.

      The word got trapped in my throat before I could utter it.

       Grazie a Dio.

      What was wrong with me? We’d kissed, once. And yeah, it had been spectacular, and unexpected. And I wanted more. But I wasn’t about to beg her to stay. So I took a different tack. ‘Where are you going in such a rush? Stay and have a drink,’ I said, attempting to sound relaxed and persuasive.

      I tugged her round to face me, disturbed by the sparkle of moisture in her eyes. I’d been expecting tears. But the sheen of distress looked genuine, something she was making every effort to contain, not use to guilt-trip me about my win.

      How could she seem so fragile and breakable now, when she’d been so strong and determined earlier in the evening? And why did I still want her so much? Because her vulnerability wasn’t doing a damn thing to stem the tidal wave of longing that had tortured me ever since our kiss.

      Surely it was all an act? It had to be. But why couldn’t I convince myself of that?

      ‘Bella...’ I cupped her cheek, brushed my thumb across the soft skin, stupidly relieved when her pulse jumped against my palm. And her eyes darkened.

      She still wanted me too. I hadn’t imagined that much, at least.

      ‘It’s only money,’ I said, certain the cause of her distress had to be her parents’ reaction. Perhaps her father would be angry. What man wouldn’t be at a million-euro loss, even an indulgent father?

      ‘You’re good. Just not good enough on this occasion. But I’ll give you a chance to win it back, if that’s what you want.’

      ‘Thank you. That’s very generous of you,’ she said.

      ‘Then you’ll stay, join me for a drink?’ I hated the element of doubt in my voice. We both knew I wasn’t just talking about her staying for a drink—the promise of that kiss was still snapping in the air around us.

      ‘Yes, okay,’ she said.

      ‘Good,’ I said, more relieved and excited than I should have been at her concession. I placed a light kiss on her forehead, pleased when her breathing stuttered. I forced myself not to take her lips again though, before we were both ready.

      She drew away and I had to stop myself from dragging her back into my arms, the desire to stake my claim on her all but overwhelming.

      She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Can I go and freshen up first?’

      ‘Of course,’ I said, even though I wanted to demand she stay.

      I wasn’t possessive with women. And I had no idea where the ludicrous desire not to let her out of my sight came from, so I ignored it.

      But, as I watched her leave the room, the rush of blood to my groin became all but unbearable.

      I poured myself a glass of expensive single malt Scotch while I waited for her, to calm my frustration and my impatience.

      Walking to the window, I savoured the smoky liquor as it burned down my throat. Once she was in my bed, and I had begun to tap the heat we had ignited with that kiss, Edie Spencer would soon forget the money she’d lost. And the problem of explaining it to her father.

      Hell, if we were as good together as I was anticipating, and that kiss had suggested, I could offer to support her until the fire between us burnt out. She clearly had expensive tastes, no income of her own and enjoyed the thrill of gambling with money she hadn’t earned. Perhaps I could employ her as a hostess for the week-long party I was throwing at my new estate in Nice at the end of the month? Edie would be perfect for such a role, smart, beautiful and classy—and well versed in how to charm elite businessmen after her privileged upbringing. Her skill at the table might also be useful.

      Of course, I might have a job on my hands persuading her to work for a living. But after her reaction tonight to losing her father’s million euro stake, I didn’t think it would be that hard to persuade her to take the job. I was a generous employer. Plus taming that free spirit of hers could be enjoyable for both of us.

      I bolted back the last of the Scotch, finally feeling more like myself. The burn in my throat matched the warm weight in my gut—a weight which I understood now and knew would be easily resolved once Edie returned.

      I glanced at my watch, surprised she was taking so long.

      My cell-phone buzzed. I lifted it out of my pocket and read Joe Donnelly’s text.

      We’ve got a problem. Call me.

      I sighed, tempted to ignore the request. It was four in the morning and Edie would be back soon.

      But my innate professionalism took over. Joe wasn’t the hysterical type, so if there was a problem he couldn’t fix it must require my attention.

      I clicked on the call button.

      Joe picked up instantly. ‘How’s the game going?’ he asked without preamble.

      ‘I won ten minutes ago, why?’

      Joe cursed, the Irish slang he never used unless he was rattled.

      ‘Is Edie Spencer still with you?’ he asked.

      ‘She’s freshening up,’ I said, but already the hairs on the back of my neck were going haywire.

      ‘So she’s not actually in the room with you?’

      ‘No... What’s going on, Joe?’ I asked, but I already knew something was very wrong, the twisting pain in my gut one I recognised from a very long time ago.

      ‘The bank draft she paid us with—it’s forged. And so is her ID. The accounting department figured it out ten minutes ago, when they noticed a shortfall in the night’s takings in the casino’s accounts.’

      The pain sharpened, turning into the hollow ache that had crippled me as a kid. She wasn’t coming back.

      ‘The good news is we think we might have figured out who she really is.’ Joe was still talking but I could barely grasp the meaning of the words, the blood rushing in my ears, the tremble of reaction in my fingers a combination of fury and something far, far worse. Helplessness.

      ‘Who is she?’ I asked, fury burning in my gut now, obliterating the distant echo of an anguish I had once been unable to control.

      ‘Ever heard of Madeleine Trouvé?’ Joe asked.

      ‘No,’ I said, resisting the urge to shout at my friend as my head began to pound. ‘Is that her real name?’ I said, keeping my voice low and even, although it was the opposite of how I felt. Edie Spencer had tricked me, made a fool of me. Made me relive a moment in my life I had spent a lifetime overcoming. And she would pay for that. As well as the money she’d just swindled me

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