SAMANTHA VAN BERGEN'S husband was missing in action. Again.
And unfortunately, Sam knew where he was.
She knew where to find him when he didn't return home for
days at a time, and she knew what to expect.
Disaster.
This was a battle, she thought, drawing her gray velvet
cloak closer to her evening gown as she swiftly climbed
the stairs to Monte Carlo's grand Le Casino, a battle she
was losing.
Johann had always been a compulsive gambler but he used to
win more. He used to walk away from the table when it
turned ugly. But he didn't do that anymore. He just sat
there, losing. Losing. Losing.
They'd already lost so much. Their savings. The chic
penthouse. The Ferrari — not that Sam had ever driven it.
What was left? She wondered, climbing the casino's marble
steps.
In Le Casino's VIP card room, Cristiano Bartolo lounged at
his favorite table when the door to their private room
opened. Annoyed by the interruption, he glanced up, but
his irritation eased as he recognized beautiful, blond
Samantha van Bergen, or more commonly known as the
baroness van Bergen.
It was, he thought, mouth curving faintly, such a huge,
stately title for such a young blushing English bride.
He played his card, then looked up to watch her unfasten
the top hook on her velvet cloak, letting the dove-gray
velvet fabric fall back over one shoulder revealing her
white evening gown beneath.
She fascinated him. He didn't know why. He'd only seen her
once before, but she'd made such an impression that night
six months ago he knew he'd never forget her.
The first time he'd seen her had been here, at Le Casino,
as well. Then, as now, he'd been sitting at the exclusive
high roller tables, and then, as now, every head at the
table had turned. Cristiano turned, too, to see what had
caught every man's attention.
No wonder every man stared.
The baroness was small, slim, beautiful. She had a
delicate oval face framed by blond ringlets, long loose
curls that gave her a decidedly angelic appearance,
although her eyes, slightly tilted at the corners, were
not completely innocent.
Beautiful girls were a dime a dozen, but she touched him;
with her serious expression, her dark brown brows pulled,
the deep furrow between arched brows.
Cristiano watched now as the young baroness stood just
inside the door, not nervous or uncertain, just focused.
She wore a look of utter concentration, an expression of
grave concern, and Cristiano was certain this is what Joan
of Arc must have looked like before battle as she moved to
Johann van Bergen's side.
Cristiano had never liked Johann, would never like Johann,
and had deliberately sat at this table so he could play
the baron. Cristiano had discovered months ago that Johann
van Bergen didn't know how to play cards, couldn't gamble
and hadn't a clue how to walk away from a game even when
he was being bled. And he was most definitely bleeding
tonight.
Bleeding out.
Bleeding dry.
Cristiano scooped up a handful of chips, moved them
forward, upping the ante by two hundred and fifty thousand
pounds. It wasn't a small bet, but neither was it huge.
Over five million pounds had already been wagered tonight.
Johann's loss to Cristiano's gain.
Eyes narrowing, Cristiano watched as Samantha approached
the table, watched one long loose blond tendril slide
forward on her shoulder, dangle across her breast. He
envied the curl. Longed to take it, twine it around his
fingers and then dip it between her full breasts.
Cristiano reached for his whiskey, sipped it, let the heat
and fire warm him, wanting Samantha. She made him feel —
curious, carnal, intent on possession.
She crouched now at Johann's side, her velvet cloak pushed
back on her shoulders, her slim bare arms extended, her
hands on Johann's thigh.
Her hands didn't belong on Johann's thigh.
Her hands belonged on his.
Cristiano's gaze moved from her bare arms to her shoulders
to her deep cleavage revealed by the plunging neckline of
her white evening gown. Leisurely he let his gaze travel
up, along the smooth column of her throat to her firm
rounded chin and jaw, the curve of cheekbone and the worry
in her blue eyes. The worry was also there in the faint
line between her perfect arched brows, as well as in the
press of her lipsticked mouth, her beauty delicate and yet
painfully pinched.
Angels shouldn't be so tormented, he thought, finding his
chair suddenly uncomfortable, just as his body felt too
hard and tight.
He imagined kissing her full mouth until it softened
beneath his, saw her lying naked in his bed, her slender
limbs stretched out beneath him, her delicate gold
necklace the only thing she wore.
But his blond Joan of Arc was on a mission, and she was
oblivious to all but Johann as she spoke to him, her voice
but a murmur of soft sound. Cristiano couldn't hear what
she said to Johann van Bergen, but the baron made no
effort to lower his voice. "Go," Johann told her, tone
cold, blunt. "Go back home where you're supposed to be."
But she didn't go. She continued to crouch at Johann's
side, whispering urgent words only the baron could hear,
words that only angered him further. "I don't need a
mother," he said, slapping his cards down. "I already had
one. And I don't need you. You've done nothing for me."
Two dark pink blotches stained her cheeks. Silently she
regarded him, face flushed, chin lifted, painful dignity.
Then without another word, she slipped off her cloak,
handed it to the gentleman at the door and took a chair,
sitting behind Johann.
During the next hour and a half Cristiano watched her. He
liked watching her. She'd been beautiful six months ago
but she was even more stunning tonight. He'd have her.
Soon. Very soon. Even if she was another man's wife.
Cristiano folded his cards, tossed them onto the table and
leaned back, content to use the time to watch his woman.
Because she was his. She was everything he wanted — young,
sleek, sexy and unavailable. The unavailable aspect he
found especially seductive.
It was good to feel tempted. Seduced. It felt good to want
something, someone. It made him feel, period, and God
knows, he didn't feel much of anything anymore.
Lashes lowered, he watched Baroness van Bergen now as
again she whispered more urgent words to her husband. But
her husband was ignoring her.
Foolish man, Cristiano thought derisively. Foolish man to
marry such a woman and then ignore her. Because there was
beauty, and then there was beauty, and Johann's young
blond wife wasn't your run-of-the-mill beauty, but
something finer. Rarer.
Cristiano called Johann's bluff, forcing the baron to show
his cards. Nothing.
It was all Cristiano could do to hide his contempt. Johann
was gambling his life away. What a fool. A gambling man
understood risks, and took them. A gambling man understood
wins and losses. But Johann wasn't a true gambler, he
didn't understand risk, and he didn't understand loss.
But Cristiano did. He knew what it was to win, and he knew
what it was to lose and he didn't like losing. So he
didn't. Not anymore. Hadn't lost in so long that he'd
almost, almost, forgotten the bitter taste.
Almost.
But not quite.
And that faint but bitter taste of loss still burned his
tongue as it burned his heart and made him take. Risk. And
win.
It was conquering. It was plundering. It was — he reached
for the cards just dealt him — revenge.
Sam sat behind Johann, her gaze fixed on his new hand of
cards, seeing what he was seeing, wondering if he was as
nervous as she. He had terrible cards. Absolutely nothing
in his hand and yet he was sitting there playing as if he
held only aces in his hand.
God, Johann, what are you doing?
What are you thinking? Playing?
Stomach in knots, hands folded on her knee, Sam drew a
deep breath, her white jersey dress with the gold
spaghetti straps pulling tightly across her shoulders.
The villa was gone.
The bank account emptied.
There was nothing left to wager.
With a cry of disgust, Johann tossed his cards onto the
table, showing what he had. Nothing. Three sevens.
Sam bit the inside of her cheek to hide her shame. Three
sevens. He'd bet and lost their home with his three
sevens. God forgive him. Where was his common sense? His
survival instinct? What kind of fool was he?
"I'm out," he said, sitting back, running his hand across
his darkly tanned face. Johann, an Austrian baron, playboy
and fixture on the Monte Carlo scene, diligently
maintained his deep tan by sunbathing daily on the pool
terrace, usually with a stiff cocktail at his side. "I've
nothing else, Bartolo."
Thank God, Sam thought, eyes burning, body alternately hot
and cold. He was done. It was over. Let them go home now
and figure out what they were going to do. "Johann —"
"Be quiet," he snapped.
She flushed, bit her tongue, knowing the man called
Bartolo watched and listened to everything. She knew
Bartolo had watched her tonight, too, had felt his gaze
rest on her repeatedly, and each of his inspections grew
longer, heavier, more personal until she thought she'd
scream for relief. He made her feel strange.
He made her feel alone. And hopelessly vulnerable.
It wasn't a way she wanted to feel. Not now, not ever.
But now Bartolo smiled lazily as he lay down his own
cards. "You were on a winning streak for a while."
"I nearly had you," Johann agreed, signaling for another
round of drinks.
Sam's hands tightened on her knee, convulsively squeezing
her kneecap. No more liquor, she prayed, no more liquor
tonight. Let's just go, Johann. Let's leave here...
"So close," Bartolo said.
Sam hated Bartolo then, realizing for the first time that
he had been expertly baiting Johann tonight, egging him
on. But for what purpose? He'd already stripped Johann of
everything — house, wealth, respect. What else was there
to take?
Johann nodded. "So close." He paused, studied the other
man. "One more hand?" he proposed, taking the bait.
The air bottled inside Sam's chest and her nails dug into
her hands. Damn Bartolo, and damn Johann. Johann couldn't
be serious. He couldn't possibly think he'd win, not
playing Bartolo, and certainly not after
drinking. "Johann."
"Shut up," Johann said without looking at her.
She flushed with fresh shame but she wasn't going to shut
up, wasn't going to let this slaughter continue. Bartolo
was amoral. But she knew what was right, and this wasn't
right. "Come home with me now, Johann. Please."
"I told you to shut up," Johann snapped.
The heat scorched her face. It was humiliating being here,
humiliating running after a man, begging a man to stop,
think, pay attention. But she'd do what she had to do.
She'd do anything for little Gabriela.
"Johann," she pleaded softly.
Johann ignored her. But Bartolo looked at her, a long
measured look that went straight through her. A look that
said he was merciless and proud, hard and unforgiving.
Ruthless. Savage.
Bloodthirsty.
She leaned forward, touched Johann's shoulder. "Johann, I
beg you —"
Johann reached up, shoved her hand off. "Go home before I
ask that hotel security walk you out."
"You can't continue," she whispered, face, body, skin
aflame. She was mortified, and terrified. The future had
never seemed as dark as it did that moment.
Johann looked up, nodded at the plain suited security
guard standing just inside the VIP room's door. "Could you
please see the baroness out?" he asked, even as he took
the fresh cocktail from the waitress. "She is ready to go
home."
All eyes but Johann's were on her but she didn't move,
didn't even flinch despite the plainclothes security guard
at her elbow. "This isn't right," she said out loud.
But no one answered her and she felt Bartolo's eyes. His
gaze burned, seared. Punished.
The guard bent his head, murmured, "Madame, please."
Madame, please leave without making a scene. Madame, go
home while your husband loses everything and everyone...
Furiously, reluctantly, Sam stood, her gown's white jersey
fabric falling in long elegant folds. "If you can't think
of me, Johann, can you please think of Gabby?"
He didn't answer her. He didn't look as if he'd heard her.
Instead he was drinking hard, throwing back his cocktail
even as the dealer was dealing a new hand.
Escorted by hotel security, Sam walked silently through
the casino overwhelmed by the clink and bells and whistles
of the one-arm bandits edging the casino floor. She hated
casinos, hated the noise, the garish colors and lights,
the artificial glamour that seduced so many.
Fortunately the security didn't touch her, push her or
rush her. There was no hurry. She, like the hotel staff,
knew what happened now was beyond her control. No one
would stop a gambler, not even a compulsive gambler. Monte
Carlo had been built on the backs of those with deep
pockets and a dearth of self-restraint.
Back at the small town villa in the historic district, Sam
collected a sleeping Gabby from the neighbor's house,
carried her home, put her in her bed and after a lingering
glance into the little girl's simple bedroom, shut the
door.
Sam curled in a chair downstairs in the living room, a
blanket pulled over her shoulders. The house was chilly
but Sam couldn't turn up the heat. There wasn't money to
pay for such extravagances. There wasn't money for
anything.
Tears started to her eyes but she pressed a hand to her
face, held the tears back. Don't cry. You can't cry. Tears
are for children.