[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon Read Free

and outside bets. Honestly, I don’t remember most of it. I was too busy pretending to be enamored of him.
    “How much would you like converted to chips?”
    “Twenty thousand?”
    He nods, turns, and whispers in French. I suddenly notice the inconspicuous ear bud he’s wearing. Within minutes, a casino employee shows up with a tray of chips and gives it to Olivier. Once the croupier—the guy who spins the roulette wheel—finishes his latest payout, he looks up, nods and says, “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”
    “Bonsoir.”
    I study the table and try to remember what Tal did last night. I think he put five hundred on red. I do the same and then glance at Olivier for confirmation that I’m not making some roulette faux pas. His nod is nearly imperceptible. When no one corrects me and the croupier spins, I figure I’m okay.
    The ball bounces up and down in and out of slots until finally the wheel slows. Unlike places like Vegas and Atlantic City, the people surrounding the table do not cheer wildly or groan and pull their hair, they simply nod their heads and continue whatever conversation they were having as the croupier places the marker on the winning number and clears the table of chips. I’m so perplexed by the lack of emotion, I don’t notice that my pile of chips isn’t cleared but is added to.
    I won...I guess.
    The croupier calls for bets and I point to the part on the table that says Passe . Olivier places my bet and the ball starts rolling. People are still placing bets—which I’d forgotten you can do in roulette—until the croupier says, “Rien ne va plus.” Repeating himself in English—in that emotionless bored voice of high stakes dealers—he says, “No more bets.”
    I go on like this, making outside bets, winning more often than losing until my pile of chips almost doubles. I pull my smart phone from my clutch and check the time. Only an hour and a half has passed. Suppressing a yawn, I make my next bet.
    It’s going to be a long night.
    “You’ll never win big unless you bet big,” a deep, accented voice says from slightly behind me.
    I know who it is before I turn around, dammit.
    Christophe Chevalier.

Chapter Two
    G roaning inwardly, I cast a glance over my shoulder.
    Not only is Christophe Chevalier wealthy, he is—unfortunately—extremely handsome.
    Bastard.
    His suit fits him so fucking perfectly, showing off broad shoulders and a narrow waist, it makes me want to slap him. His dark, wavy hair is on the long side yet he’s managed to style it in a way that looks well-coiffed while still appearing as if you could run your fingers through it, and it’d be soft.
    Stupid hair.
    His jaw is strong and closely shaven, yet there’s a shadow that tells me by morning he’d have that lovely stubble that I find so deliciously masculine.
    This frustrates the hell out of me.
    Then there are his lips. Full. Sexy. Made for kissing—for fuck’s sake—and turned up in a way that says he knows it. Oh hell, he knows it very well.
    Finally, there are his eyes. Cobalt blue surrounded by dark lashes. Heavy lidded. Sinful. Teasing. Bedroom-fucking-eyes.
    Asshole.
    I tilt my head in the off-hand mannerism of the French that I have just adopted this very second. “Who says I want to win big?”
    “Doesn’t everyone?”
    “I don’t know,” I reply, turning my attention back to the table. “I make a point not to speak for everyone.”
    My attempt to snub the man fails. He moves closer to my side and whispers, “Then it is as I suspected.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You are unlike anyone I have met.”
    I don’t reply because there is no point. A pickup line is a pickup line and I am oh-so-not-fooled by them, it doesn’t matter how fancy the suit, how kissable the lips and how much one’s eyes say, come fuck me . Neither am I impressed by how much cash a person drops on the table in front of me.
    Which is exactly what Christophe does.
    Seconds before the croupier calls, “no more bets,”