Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 123(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 123(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” the valet nods. “Bienvenue a L’Hotel Degas.”
“Bonjour,” I reply in a curt tone.
Then I stride into the hotel with a confident step. Heads turn immediately because I cut a sharp figure. A dark suit emphasizes my broad shoulders, paired with a blindingly white shirt emphasizing my deep tan. Years-long dedication to a combination of Hard 75, Crossfit, and Hyrox have ensured that my torso narrows into a vee and that my legs are thick, muscular, and athletic. Of course, there’s also the fact that I’m six four and tower over your average male. Ladies appreciate my physique and as I step into the lobby, quite a few are eyeing my masculine form hungrily while literally licking their glossy lips.
But there’s no time for hellos because as soon as I enter the Degas, a concierge steps forward.
“Mr. O’Lachlan,” she greets formally, inclining her head. “Please, come with me. Your table awaits.”
Then, with swift, sure strides, we enter an elevator to the far left of the lobby. It’s incredibly discreet, and almost impossible to see because the ornate wallpaper of the Degas continues unmarred, covering the lift itself. But when the doors slide open, it’s clear that an elevator is hidden in the wall, existing among the profusion of lilies and roses on the hand-painted wallpaper.
“After you, sir,” the concierge gestures politely while inclining her head again. For a moment, I wonder if she gets a headache because her bun is so tight that it pulls painfully at her temples. But then I shrug and step into the gilded cage. It’s not my place to critique the grooming of Degas employees, and in fact, I have half a mind to reveal to Christian Degas what happened in his high rollers room at some point. After I meet my lovely lady, of course.
The elevator carries us upwards before the doors slide open silently, and we step into a lush corridor.
“This way, Mr. O’Lachlan,” the concierge gestures before striding down the hall towards a set of enormous white doors. Then, the doors open on their own, as if they knew I was coming. Of course they did. My experienced gaze spots a tiny camera mounted in the corner of the hallway, pointing straight at my face.
“As you know, Mr. O’Lachlan, any recording devices are strictly prohibited in the main room. If you’ll just allow me your phone?” the woman asks expectantly.
“Of course,” I growl before taking out my cell and slipping it into her outstretched palm. “The Degas would never tolerate cheaters.”
The woman nods before slipping the cell into a small silk bag, and then gestures to the room before us.
“Please, Mr. O’Lachlan. They’ve been waiting for you.”
I step into the double-height space from yesterday, my stride confident. Nothing has changed except now, there’s a small bar set up in one corner, with a bartender in shirt sleeves and a dark vest. A few tables with chairs are scattered here and there, but it’s the circular table in the center that draws the eye. Around the flocked green velvet surface, a few men and one woman perch on stools, waiting expectantly.
“Sir,” the dealer calls politely. “If you’ll join us?”
My eyes fly to the one woman in the room because it’s the gorgeous girl from yesterday. She’s even more ravishing now, clad in a red evening gown which highlights her enormous tits, narrow waist, and delectably wide hips. Her lips are painted crimson, and her big blue eyes blink at me like she’s trying to recall my face from memory. But therein lies the rub because she’s never met me ... while I’ve already gotten an eyeful of her voluptuous curves.
4
ASHLEY
Where do I know this man? I ask myself. I tend to be good with names and faces, and surely, I’d remember if I’d met a man so domineering in the past. After all, our new entrant isn’t just tall and handsome. He exudes charisma in waves, from the slight smirk on his handsome features to the cut glass of his square jaw.
You know him, Ashley, the voice in my head encourages. Think, think!
My mind whirs because anything I can dredge up on a competitor can only help me, given the high stakes ahead. Have I seen him play before, perhaps at another casino? Have I glimpsed him at a poker tournament, that powerful build unmistakable in a sea of smaller, slighter men? Or maybe he’s a celebrity out to gamble away his fortune, and I’ve seen him on TV.
But nothing pops to mind, despite the fact that the alpha male definitely knows me somehow. As he seats himself at the table across from me, those blue eyes slide appreciatively over my deep décolletage before coming up to my slightly parted red lips.
“Patrick O’Lachlan,” he says with a slight Irish burr. “Pleasure to meet you.”