The Proposition. JC Harroway

he’s younger than I assumed—mid-to-late twenties—young, in fact, to be a member of the M Club, which is exclusively for billionaires.

      Too young for me. But I did ask for a distraction, and they don’t come more eye-catching than a gorgeous man in his prime.

      My finger traces the rim of my glass as I watch. He’s focused once more on the spin of the wheel, and yet I can’t drag my greedy eyes away, even though I’ve seen this kind of display before, met his type before. Playing hard and fast, they never last long as M Club members, no doubt blowing money they have no idea how to master, allowing it to own them until they lose every cent and their membership is delicately, but adamantly, rescinded.

      But despite his flagrant display, my body warms, the delicious stirring of interest kicking up my pulse as I watch the latest easy-on-the-eye hotshot from my vantage point at the bar. From his appearance, the way he’s flouting the strict dress code of tuxedos for men and evening wear for women with his absence of a bow tie and his unbuttoned shirt collar, I’m surprised he was even admitted to the casino. Somehow, and for reasons I can’t fathom, his devil-may-care attitude adds to his appeal. My existence must be particularly dull at the moment for me to be impressed by someone who, on the surface, seems to be intent on making himself considerably poorer. After all, I, and most of the people in this casino, are in the money-making, not money-losing, business.

      The rebel lifts a glass of amber liquid to his mouth and I’m caught off guard anew by his hands: the manly size of them—serious, capable hands that look more accustomed to manual labour than they do to running an empire from a smartphone as do most of the M Club’s members.

      Teasing fingers of intrigue dance down my spine. What would those hands feel like holding my face as we kissed? Rough or smooth? Hesitant or demanding?

      In unison the crowd around him sighs, snapping me from lusty fantasies about a younger stranger and informing me that his winning streak has dried up. But not a flicker of emotion crosses his handsome face. With less interest than if he’d tossed away a soiled napkin, he slides a stack of chips forward, placing another bet seemingly at random.

      Then our eyes collide again.

      I freeze, too startled to look away, although I should in case my intrigue is written all over my face, but I’m too fascinated by his expression of both boredom and challenge to do anything other than gape.

      His eyes—I can’t tell from this distance whether they’re blue or grey—travel my face, dip lower and then bounce back up. In that second I know he’s appraising me as I am him, and by appraising I mean assessing availability clues, scanning for a wedding ring and generally lusting.

      And why shouldn’t I lust? My sexy side is long overdue an outing; in fact, she’s probably desperate to break free, she’s been so neglected recently. This guy certainly looks as if he could bring a nun out of her shell…

      I smooth a hand over my sleek chignon, adjusting a hairpin that’s slipped a fraction in a largely unconscious gesture.

      The stranger’s expression shifts again, his lip curling with mild derision, telling me that he, with his overly long hair and his disregard for the club dress code, very much sees that I’m exactly the type of member the M Club was created for—wealthy, demanding, with an appreciation for the finer things in life. But rather than my membership earning his respect, I can tell he’s somehow judging, as if he thinks he has me all figured out.

      I stare a little harder, sit a little straighter, spurred on by defiance and used to fighting my own corner against the men in my life. His mouth stretches into a sinfully sexy and lazy grin that seems to burn through my designer silk dress as if it’s made of cobwebs.

      Perhaps professional exhaustion and sexual frustration is messing with me, because he’s definitely interested, despite his judgement, our age gap and our apparent differences.

      For a split second, danger and excitement zaps through my bloodstream as if he’s delivered a potent shot of the Macallan directly to my system from across the room with that seductive smile. But before I can suck in a calming breath, he looks away.

      My pulse plummets. What was I thinking?

      I spin back to the bar on my stool, trying to shake off the uncharacteristic bout of sexual curiosity for a younger man. Curiosity for any man since my divorce is a rarity. If I’m not working or travelling I’m thinking about work. Yes, I wanted to blow off some steam, but not with his kind of distraction. I need something more forgettable, less consuming and more…fleeting.

      The idea of a horizontal distraction takes root as I tap one fingernail against my glass. Why not? It would be more fun than drinking alone at the bar. I dressed and came downstairs in search of a change from the norm, a break from the long hours I habitually put in, a way to stop myself pushing my latest deal into the hands of my main competitor—my father’s company.

      With the reminder that, in my father’s eyes, and despite my having built my own international firm, I’ll never be quite good enough. I’m back to square one. Instead of celebrating the successes which have brought me this far, I’m mired in the two great failures of my life. I take another sip of Scotch, fighting the bitterness I usually harness for motivation. Hell, my entire marriage was squeezed into an unforgiving schedule of meetings, world travel and time zones, my workaholic nature almost certainly the reason it failed. Another thing to credit my father with. If he’d been a little more emotionally present, a little less professionally demanding, maybe I wouldn’t be so distant, so goal orientated, so driven. Perhaps then I might have given my marriage the attention it deserved.

      Come on, pull it together.

      I’m not looking for another doomed relationship. I’m not looking for a relationship, full stop. Just an anonymous night of pleasure…

      I look up from my drink again, scanning the patrons around me for someone more forgettable than the roulette rebel. Someone my age. Someone safe.

      Then everything happens in a frenzied blur.

      A commotion breaks out at a nearby blackjack table. A woman cries for help and before I’ve even swivelled in my seat, my sexy stranger dives from his laid-back slouch and strides towards the woman’s husband, who is pale and sweaty and an alarming shade of grey.

      While roulette guy commands what is clearly some sort of medical emergency—tossing off his jacket, crouching down and loosening the older man’s collar—an air of panic settles over the entire room. The man clutching his chest accepts some sort of tablet from his wife, popping it under his tongue, his colour improving almost immediately. Security rallies and within seconds the blackjack table has been cleared of players to afford some space and privacy, the club’s in-house nurse is in attendance and an ambulance has been summoned.

      I turn away, but from the corner of my eye I see roulette guy and the nurse help the man into a wheelchair and he’s wheeled from the casino, even managing a weak smile and handshake for his rescuer, who waves off the smattering of relieved applause around him as he scoops up his jacket. He returns to his table to collect his chips, passes an impressive stack to the croupier and saunters towards the bar.

      A kind of forced normality returns to the room. The croupiers smile thin smiles as they resume games, the waitstaff clear already immaculate tables and members, myself included, breathe a sigh of relief that the drama was quickly and efficiently dealt with.

      But then, this is the M Club.

      I settle my own adrenaline surge with a shaky sip of Scotch. Then a male figure enters my peripheral vision, the space between us flooding with a spicy masculine scent and an almost palpable wall of testosterone.

      I look up. Way up—sexy roulette guy is tall.

      Grey—the eyes are grey. And, up close, searing and intense.

      ‘You look pale,’ he says, his confident voice distractingly deep and resonant and exactly how I imagined it would sound. ‘Let me buy you a brandy—it’s better for the nerves than whatever it is you’re drinking there.’

      I