Karma Read Free

continued to ask about him.
The poor kid felt abandoned by her father.
    Young
as she was, Katie blamed herself whenever her stupid father let her down. Why
did women always think everything was their fault when a man screwed up? Was it
genetic? Cultural? Marcy had sailed on that guilt ridden boat of desperation
for far too long already. Now she was done with men. They were way too much
trouble.
    Marcy
became aware, out of the corner of her eye that someone was sitting at her bar.
People didn't often come to this bar. Drinks were only free if a patron was actively
gambling.
    "Oh,
I beg your pardon," she said to the unexpected customer. "I didn’t
see you there."
    "You
were most busy," the man said, charitably excusing her neglect.
    Marcy
tilted her head and smiled at him, enjoying his French accent. While not precisely
handsome, the gentleman had a pleasant face. There was an aura of humor about
him, in his manner and appearance. His eyes were dark and remarkably bright with
intelligence, his eyebrows thick and expressive. The fellow's clothes seemed
understated yet expensive, classy and elegant. What gambler spruced up to visit
a place like this?
    After
working in the casino for six months, Marcy could recognize the difference
between a poser and the real thing.
    This
man was the real thing.
    He
wore a perfectly tailored top-of-the-line charcoal suit and vest, a subdued
tie, with a well-pressed, crisp white shirt. The faint drifting smell of
nutmeg, cedar and Brazilian Rosewood scents came to her nostrils. Marcy was
familiar with that cologne – it was a high-class product for the ultra rich.
    Was
he a professional sportsman, she wondered? Because he was in excellent shape: flat
stomach, broad shoulders, dark hair, cut short around his neck and ears. Dark brown
eyes and clean shaven. There were numerous pock marks on his chin and cheeks,
yet they didn't detract from his healthy attractive appearance.
    He
was younger than she was, or at least he looked younger - if that carefree,
mischievous grin was anything to go on. The man exuded charm. Marcy found
herself smiling at him, finding it odd that she liked him instantly. Was he from France, or perhaps Quebec? The desire to practice
her high school French was an impulse she decided not to suppress.
    "Bonjour,
Monsieur, comment allez-vous?" she said.
    The
stranger's face lit with pleasure. "Très
bien, parlez-vous français?"
    She
smiled and gave him a half shrug. "I'm sorry, I don't speak French really.
I went to France as a high school graduation present. It was one of the most
wonderful experiences of my life. I just couldn’t resist saying something to
you in your own tongue."
    " Merci
beaucoup." He shot her a pleased grin and nodded. "It is always
well to hear the language of one's childhood. I am Mr. Chevalier," he said
and held his hand out to her.
    "Oh,
you can call me Marcy," she said. With well ingrained manners she offered
her hand. It was never a good idea to touch customers, and Marcy didn’t much like
touching anyway - yet she responded automatically to his open palm.
    "Je
suis enchanté, "
Mr. Chevalier said and his teeth flashed white against his tan skin. He caught
her fingers in his and lifted them. With flirtatious male grace, he pressed his
lips to the back of her hand, his eyes focused on hers.
    Marcy
felt her face heat, and her smile falter under his observant gaze. Was he hitting
on her? Or was this some French display of respect? How was she supposed to
respond? Pull her hand away? Leave it? Wait?
    The
man's eyes glittered with shrewd humor. Clearly aware
of her dilemma, and vastly amused by it, he released her.
    Marcy
pulled her hand away. "What can I get you?" she asked, slipping into
her bartending patter as a safe fallback.
    "What
is your specialty?"
    Marcy's
smile returned. She was on firm ground once more. "I recommend a
margarita. That's one of my personal favorites."
    " Eh
bien , then I will have a margarita, I thank you."
    Marcy
took out a