although I should in case my intrigue is written all over my face, but I’m too fascinated by his expression of both boredom and challenge to do anything other than gape.
His eyes—I can’t tell from this distance whether they’re blue or grey—travel my face, dip lower and then bounce back up. In that second I know he’s appraising me as I am him, and by appraising I mean assessing availability clues, scanning for a wedding ring and generally lusting.
And why shouldn’t I lust? My sexy side is long overdue an outing; in fact, she’s probably desperate to break free, she’s been so neglected recently. This guy certainly looks as if he could bring a nun out of her shell…
I smooth a hand over my sleek chignon, adjusting a hairpin that’s slipped a fraction in a largely unconscious gesture.
The stranger’s expression shifts again, his lip curling with mild derision, telling me that he, with his overly long hair and his disregard for the club dress code, very much sees that I’m exactly the type of member the M Club was created for—wealthy, demanding, with an appreciation for the finer things in life. But rather than my membership earning his respect, I can tell he’s somehow judging, as if he thinks he has me all figured out.
I stare a little harder, sit a little straighter, spurred on by defiance and used to fighting my own corner against the men in my life. His mouth stretches into a sinfully sexy and lazy grin that seems to burn through my designer silk dress as if it’s made of cobwebs.
Perhaps professional exhaustion and sexual frustration is messing with me, because he’s definitely interested, despite his judgement, our age gap and our apparent differences.
For a split second, danger and excitement zaps through my bloodstream as if he’s delivered a potent shot of the Macallan directly to my system from across the room with that seductive smile. But before I can suck in a calming breath, he looks away.
My pulse plummets. What was I thinking?
I spin back to the bar on my stool, trying to shake off the uncharacteristic bout of sexual curiosity for a younger man. Curiosity for any man since my divorce is a rarity. If I’m not working or travelling I’m thinking about work. Yes, I wanted to blow off some steam, but not with his kind of distraction. I need something more forgettable, less consuming and more…fleeting.
The idea of a horizontal distraction takes root as I tap one fingernail against my glass. Why not? It would be more fun than drinking alone at the bar. I dressed and came downstairs in search of a change from the norm, a break from the long hours I habitually put in, a way to stop myself pushing my latest deal into the hands of my main competitor—my father’s company.
With the reminder that, in my father’s eyes, and despite my having built my own international firm, I’ll never be quite good enough. I’m back to square one. Instead of celebrating the successes which have brought me this far, I’m mired in the two great failures of my life. I take another sip of Scotch, fighting the bitterness I usually harness for motivation. Hell, my entire marriage was squeezed into an unforgiving schedule of meetings, world travel and time zones, my workaholic nature almost certainly the reason it failed. Another thing to credit my father with. If he’d been a little more emotionally present, a little less professionally demanding, maybe I wouldn’t be so distant, so goal orientated, so driven. Perhaps then I might have given my marriage the attention it deserved.
Come on, pull it together.
I’m not looking for another doomed relationship. I’m not looking for a relationship, full stop. Just an anonymous night of pleasure…
I look up from my drink again, scanning the patrons around me for someone more forgettable than the roulette rebel. Someone my age. Someone safe.
Then everything happens in a frenzied blur.
A commotion breaks out at a nearby blackjack table. A woman cries for help and before I’ve even swivelled in my seat, my sexy stranger dives from his laid-back slouch and strides towards the woman’s husband, who is pale and sweaty and an alarming shade of grey.
While roulette guy commands what is clearly some sort of medical emergency—tossing off his jacket, crouching down and loosening the older man’s collar—an air of panic settles over the entire room. The man clutching his chest accepts some sort of tablet from his wife, popping it under his tongue, his colour improving almost immediately. Security rallies and within seconds the blackjack table has been cleared of players to afford some space and privacy, the club’s in-house nurse is in attendance and an ambulance has been summoned.
I turn away, but from the corner of my eye I see roulette guy and the nurse help the man into a wheelchair and he’s wheeled from the casino, even managing a weak smile and handshake for his rescuer, who waves off the smattering of relieved applause around him as he scoops up his jacket. He returns to his table to collect his chips, passes an impressive stack to the croupier and saunters towards the bar.
A kind of forced normality returns to the room. The croupiers smile thin smiles as they resume games, the waitstaff clear already immaculate tables and members, myself included, breathe a sigh of relief that the drama was quickly and efficiently dealt with.
But then, this is the M Club.
I settle my own adrenaline surge with a shaky sip of Scotch. Then a male figure enters my peripheral vision, the space between us flooding with a spicy masculine scent and an almost palpable wall of testosterone.
I look up. Way up—sexy roulette guy is tall.
Grey—the eyes are grey. And, up close, searing and intense.
‘You look pale,’ he says, his confident voice distractingly deep and resonant and exactly how I imagined it would sound. ‘Let me buy you a brandy—it’s better for the nerves than whatever it is you’re drinking there.’
I detect an Aussie twang to the accent. Although my private education rubbed the corners from my own lilt, I still have an ear for a fellow Australian.
I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to rush to the ladies’ room and check if, in fact, I am pale. ‘I’m good with my Scotch, thanks.’
As if deaf to my assertion, roulette guy signals the barman. ‘Brandy for everyone, please—the good stuff.’ He adds, although he should know the good stuff is all they sell at the M Club. Of course he would shout the entire casino a drink. The stack of chips I saw him tip the croupier with moments ago is more than most people will bet in an entire evening of entertainment.
But now I’m curious, although I try to affect boredom, which is out of sync with the raging of my pulse. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I want to blank him, to ignore the tantalising aura he seems to have around him, and return to my preconceived ideas of a privileged playboy intent on flashing his cash.
But if roulette guy wants to impress women with his affluence, he’s in the wrong joint. No one crosses the threshold of an M Club establishment without a string of zeroes at the end of their bank balance.
He drapes his suit jacket over the back of the stool next to mine and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves to expose strong, tanned forearms in a move that hints he’s dying to get out of his suit.
‘No, I’m not a doctor.’ The look he delivers seems to bathe me in the beam of a thousand floodlights. ‘But I’m no good at sitting back and watching things unfold either. I’m used to…getting my hands dirty, shall we say?’
He
