Amanda's Guide to Love (2 page)

Amanda began to fidget with the
strap of her watch, annoyed that the table blocked her view of his footwear. So
many things could go wrong with the shoes! They could be synthetic or patent
leather, have rubber soles, be coated in dirt or dust, sport pointy toes or
toes that were too rounded . . . The list of potential offenses
was long, and every one of them was unforgivable even with mitigating
circumstances.

She was a bit of shoe fetishist.

Well, maybe a lot.

Overtaken by curiosity, Amanda
discreetly pushed a card to the edge of the table until it fell to the floor.
She bent down to pick it up and check
ed
out
the hunk’s shoes so she could add him to her huge “discard” pile. But, to her
surprise, Obsidian Eyes wore fine leather loafers that were flawless.

Probably Italian.

Handmade, without a doubt.

She sat up and studied his face
again, perplexed. He had such fine eyes—intelligent and framed with extra thick
lashes. The man was undeniably handsome, but not in a classic European way.
Come to think of it, handsome wasn’t the adjective she’d use to describe him. It
didn’t do him justice. It was too common, too weak. . . while he was
kind of stunning.

His complexion and features held a
touch of something exotic, faintly alien—something that kept her stealing
glances at him whenever he turned his attention to his cards. Was it his wavy,
jet-black hair, mesmerizing eyes
,
or chiseled
jawline? Or maybe his exquisite eyebrows that made her think of a raven’s
wings? Whatever that
je ne sais quoi
was, it made him look more than
ordinary. And hot.

The man was a blazing wildfire on
legs.

As if his looks weren’t enough,
Obsidian Eyes played exceptionally well. Forty minutes into the game, his
stacks of colorful chips had doubled while everyone else’s—including Amanda’s—
had
melted away.

That thought snapped her back into
reality. Panicked, Amanda raised her eyes to the high ceiling of the casino.

Please, I can’t lose.

She was gambling with her meager savings—half
of it, to be exact. If the Supreme Being above intended to activate her
beginner’s luck, now was the time.

“Newbie?” Obsidian Eyes asked, his
gaze never shifting from the deck in the dealer’s hands.

He spoke French like a native. A
slight Midi accent, maybe? A bit like Jeanne’s, but less pronounced.

Amanda looked around, unsure whom
he was talking to.

Obsidian Eyes finally lifted his
gaze from the cards and gave her a panty-dropping smile.

She arched an eyebrow. “Does it
show?”

“Mhmm.”

Ooh, that smile again.

The dealer held up a card for her,
and she started reaching for it when she noticed Obsidian Eyes give a quick shake
of his head. She pulled back.

And won the hand.

“Thank you,” she mouthed to her
unexpected mentor.

He gave her a small nod.

She followed his discreet
instructions for two more hands and won both. The evening was beginning to look
up.

The dealer bowed and ceded his
place to a good-looking young woman with sleek auburn hair smoothed back into
the world’s tightest bun.

She greeted the players and began
to shuffle the cards.

Obsidian Eyes turned to Amanda.
“Why blackjack? Beginners usually prefer the slots or roulette.”

“I don’t know . . .Too
passive for me, I guess.”

He nodded. “I avoid them
,
too.”

“So you know what I mean.”

“Yes. But that’s not my only
reason.”

She cocked her head. “No?”

“The slots are twice as costly to
players than the table games, and with roulette
,
too much depends on chance.”

Amanda smirked. “Isn’t
that
the case with all the games?”

“Not blackjack, if played right.”

“Let me guess—
you
play it
right.”

He glanced at the dealer
,
who was engrossed in shuffling cards. “I know a
trick or two.”

One of the Brits stage-whispered to
the other, “I hope he’ll show me some of his tricks tonight.” She paused before
adding even louder, “In my room.”

Both women burst out laughing.

Obsidian Eyes shifted uncomfortably
and looked down at his hands, pretending he hadn’t heard the saucy remark.

The man with greasy hair whispered
something to the plastic bimbo.

She didn’t acknowledge him. The
woman was too busy multitasking. With her chest heaving, she stared at Obsidian
Eyes and stroked her neck. Every five seconds she licked her lips and then
pouted.

But the black-eyed hunk was
oblivious to her onslaught.
He turned to
Amanda again. “I’m taking a break to stretch my legs.”

“Er . . . OK.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“I have a bad feeling about this dealer.”

“Oh.” She pushed her
chips closer together like he had done and stood. “I’ll do the same, then.”

“What brings you to Deauville
Casino tonight?” he asked as they strolled between the tables and observed the
goings-on.

After a second’s hesitation, she said,
“I’m writing a book about gamblers.”

“Participant observation, huh?”

Her eyebrows rose. “What do
you
know about participant observation?”

“Yeah, well, I need something to
help me sleep when I get to my room at three in the morning.” He shrugged.
“Reading a few pages of
Tristes Tropiques
works better than any sleeping
pill I’ve tried.”

She giggled. “I’m passionate about
cultural anthropology, but I could never finish that book.”

“I like psychology books better,”
he said. “They’re fun to read, and the info in them is useful
in
my trade.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Especially books like
Cialdini’s
Influence
and the ones on how to read body language.”

“I see.”

“Hey, how about a glass of
champagne on the terrace after I’ve won my target amount?” He gave her an
innocent smile. A little too innocent.

“I have a cocktail voucher,” she
blurted before she could stop herself.

Did I just accept his invitation?

Oh, well. What harm could a drink
do?

His face contorted in exaggerated
disgust. “Trust me, you don’t want their free cocktail unless you’re a
gustative masochist.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I
was given a free voucher, and I intend to use it.”

“OK, OK. But don’t say I didn’t
warn you.”

She tilted her head to the side.
“You said ‘my target amount’ earlier. Are you
that
good?”

“In all modesty . . .
yes. But my target amount is also reasonable. And I have a spending threshold
,
too. When I reach it before I’ve won my target
amount, I
always
stop.”

“How very rational for a gambler!”

“I’m full of surprises, in case you
haven’t noticed.” He gave her an appreciative look. “And I suspect that so are
you,
ma belle
.”

“When did I become your
belle
?”

“Oh, it’s just a placeholder until
you tell me your name.”

Should I?

“So, what’s your name, ma belle?”

“Am . . . elie. And
yours?”

“Kes.”

“What kind of name is Kes?”

“A Gypsy name.”

“Like,
a
real
Traveler Gypsy?”

“As authentic as they come.”

“Ah.” She raised her chin. “That
explains it.”

“Explains what, Amelie?”

“That you make me think of Tarzan.”

“Really?”

“Not that you aren’t dashing in
your suit, but you look like someone who was born to ride horses bare-chested.”

“Wow. You’re the bluntest belle
I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the most gorgeous Gypsy
I’ve ever met.”

Where did that come from? Must be the
vodka.

The corners of his mouth twitched.
“So refreshingly honest. Why, I’m flattered.”

She looked away.

Honest, my foot.

He wasn’t just the most handsome
Gypsy she’d ever seen—he was the most spectacular
man, all ethnicities
included.

Now,
that
was honest.

She turned to him and cleared her
throat. “Shall we go back? Target amounts and all.”

“Sure.”

The sleek-haired dealer was leaving
when they returned to their seats. Both giggling Brits and Greasy Hair were
gone. The elderly couple and the bimbo still played
,
but judging by their dismal faces and the measly number of chips in front of
them, they weren’t doing well.

Kes had been right about the
dealer.

“What does your gut tell you about
this one?” Amanda eyed the middle-aged man who had taken over
for
his colleague.

“He’s the best.”

Her face fell.

Kes grinned. “Not for the house, ma
belle
,
for us. Move closer so I can see your cards without twisting my neck.”

She moved as close to him as their
chairs allowed.

“Now relax and do exactly as I
say.”

Amanda glanced at Kes,
but he had already turned his full attention to the cards.

* * *

For the next hour, they played in
near silence. The few times Amanda tried to strike up a conversation, Kes
shushed her with a smile and a whispered “counting for two here, remember?
”

And count he did.

Amanda’s job was easy: she hit when
he said hit, stood when he said stand, and split her cards when he said split.
Their chip stacks kept growing until Kes laid his palms on the table and
mouthed to her,
Stop
.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Now?”

He nodded and then tipped the
dealer. “I’m going to call it a night.”

“But we’re winning. Please, you
can’t stop now.”

“Oh yes, I can.” He leaned to
whisper in her ear, “And so should you before they ask us to back off. Besides,
this deck is becoming too hot.”

She hesitated. The seven hundred
euros she’d won wasn’t the amount she’d been hoping for when she jumped on the
train at Saint-Lazare. It would hardly solve her problems . . . but
it would pay her mortgage next month. In spite of the alcohol in her system,
Amanda knew she would’ve lost half her savings tonight had it not been for Kes.
Continuing to play without him would be unwise.

“What about that drink you promised
me?” he asked.

“Sure.” She stood and smoothed her
dress. “Lead the way, maestro.”

He took her to the bar where they
climbed onto tall barstools and ordered their drinks. The voucher cocktail was
as bad as Kes had predicted it would be. Amanda winced at its candy taste and
pushed the glass away.

“How about a mojito?” Kes asked.
“It’s one of their more decent concoctions.”

She nodded.

As he passed her the glass, their
fingertips brushed.

Amanda couldn’t help noting how
pleasant that contact was. Actually,
pleasant
was an understatement. It
was electrifying.

Easy, girl. No one-night stands,
remember?

“So, what is it like, the life of a
gambler?” she asked.

“I’m not a gambler. Well, not in the
usual sense, anyway.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I’m a card counter. I’ve made a
decent living from it for five years.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“So you see this as a job?”

He nodded. “That’s exactly how I
see it. I have a job that I like and am good at.”

She felt a sharp pang at his words.

Aren’t you lucky?

“What’s wrong, Amelie?”

“Nothing.” She gave him one of her
fake smiles. “And what about five years ago—what was your occupation then?
Palm-reading or playing the accordion in the métro?”

He smirked. “So tactful and
unprejudiced. Have you applied for sainthood yet?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“If you were trying to imply those
are common Gypsy occupations, you’re wrong. At least, as far as the French
Gitans
are concerned.”

She arched an eyebrow.