Page 74 of Sinful Escape

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 François 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.”

---