JC Harroway - The Proposition

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 looks at my mouth while he says the word dirty . I press my lips together, already imagining the taste of his kiss. Bold, firm, all-consuming.

What is wrong with me?

He thanks the barman for his glass of brandy with a jerk of his angular chin and tosses back the liquor in a single swallow. ‘And I have some first-aid training—he’ll be fine, I’m sure. He just panicked because the angina attack was worse than usual. I’m sure most people here would have helped—I just got there first.’

‘I guess, although, as M Club members, we’re used to everything, medical emergencies included, being dealt with efficiently and discreetly.’

His eyes swoop over the length of my body from head to toe, and I feel his scrutiny again, as if he too has made a snap judgement on our differences.

We’re interrupted at that moment by a petite brunette in her twenties with a winning smile.

‘Excuse me, sir, I’m Ellie Little.’ At his nod, she holds up an M Club key fob. ‘The key to your new supercar, sir.’

I smile at Ellie and then look back to my smug companion, my eyebrows raised in question. I passed the display of sleek sports cars in the ballroom on my way to the casino, but I paid them little attention, short of wondering who would succumb despite their hefty price tags. I guess now I know.

‘Thanks.’ He takes the key and pockets it, his smile for Ellie wide and engaging.

Ellie leaves us, and I spy her joining Ash Evans, the club owner, at the casino entrance. When I turn back to face my companion my expression must speak for me.

‘What?’ he asks, all innocence.

I shrug. ‘You’re having a great night, if you exclude your losses at the roulette table. Which car did you buy?’ I may not know anything about cars, but I do know you can’t walk into a regular showroom and drive away with a supercar. They’re made-to-order, top of the range, one of a kind.

He looks away, appearing bored. ‘I’m not sure…the yellow one, I think.’

‘You’re not sure,’ I deadpan. Is he for real? Despite my growing attraction to him, I can’t decide if I feel appalled or delighted.

‘I bought the winning car—were you in town for the race earlier?’ he asks, and I shake my head.

‘No—I’m here on business.’ I don’t elaborate. The last thing I want to talk about is the deal that brought me to Monaco. The deal I’m trying to forget for one night.

He scoffs. ‘That figures.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘What does that mean?’

‘You have that look about you—impatiently tapping your glass, frequently checking your phone. You look like a woman waiting for either a date or a business deal. Since no one in their right mind would stand you up, I’m guessing it’s work that has you distracted.’

‘Oh, nice recovery,’ I say.

He flashes another disarming smile. ‘So—’ he glances down at my still half-full drink ‘—is this a party for one, or would you like some company?’

I flush that he’s noticed my lacklustre attempts to let loose. Then I bristle that he’s judging me. ‘Are you suggesting I don’t know how to have a good time simply because I’m not blowing a small fortune on a single spin of roulette or buying the latest thing on four wheels?’

I mash my mouth closed, irritated with myself for admitting I hadn’t been able to stop myself watching his little show.

He lifts one eyebrow in a look that says if the shoe fits , but then his eyes darken, the heat behind them kissing my skin wherever his stare trails. ‘Do you know how to have a good time?’

Why does it feel as if we’re talking about something more intimate than gambling or drinking? ‘I… Of course I do.’

He rests one elbow on the bar. ‘I assume you’re here to let your hair down in a safe, luxurious space—isn’t that why you’re an M Club member?’ He leans in. ‘Or is it all about the networking? All work and no play?’

His spot-on assumption leaves me squaring my shoulders with indignation, a move that in no way combats my attraction to his particular brand of insolent swagger. ‘Why are you a member? And why Monaco? Why so far from home?’

He shrugs, feigning boredom with my question, but I see a flash of hesitation in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability, rapidly blinked away and replaced with that roguish smile. ‘Can’t you tell?’ He tilts his head in the direction of the roulette table. ‘I’m on a bender, a pleasure spree, free and easy and hoping to broaden my horizons with luxury travel, fast cars and—’

‘Let me guess,’ I interrupt, ‘beautiful women?’ I try to laugh but I’m too attracted to him for the sound to emerge.

But he laughs, a deep rumble in his broad chest, and I flush hot at the power he seems to hold over my out-of-practice libido. His tongue swipes his bottom lip as he watches me more intently. ‘Well, what’s not to love about that combination? You’re a stunning woman, intriguing, alone—what are you doing here if not seeking your own kind of hedonistic escape?’