The Proposition / Her Every Fantasy. JC Harroway

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 detect an Aussie twang to the accent. Although my private education rubbed the corners from my own lilt, I still have an ear for a fellow Australian.

      I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to rush to the ladies’ room and check if, in fact, I am pale. ‘I’m good with my Scotch, thanks.’

      As if deaf to my assertion, roulette guy signals the barman. ‘Brandy for everyone, please—the good stuff.’ He adds, although he should know the good stuff is all they sell at the M Club. Of course he would shout the entire casino a drink. The stack of chips I saw him tip the croupier with moments ago is more than most people will bet in an entire evening of entertainment.

      But now I’m curious, although I try to affect boredom, which is out of sync with the raging of my pulse. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I want to blank him, to ignore the tantalising aura he seems to have around him, and return to my preconceived ideas of a privileged playboy intent on flashing his cash.

      But if roulette guy wants to impress women with his affluence, he’s in the wrong joint. No one crosses the threshold of an M Club establishment without a string of zeroes at the end of their bank balance.

      He drapes his suit jacket over the back of the stool next to mine and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves to expose strong, tanned forearms in a move that hints he’s dying to get out of his suit.

      ‘No, I’m not a doctor.’ The look he delivers seems to bathe me in the beam of a thousand floodlights. ‘But I’m no good at sitting back and watching things unfold either. I’m used to…getting my hands dirty, shall we say?’

      He looks at my mouth while he says the word dirty. I press my lips together, already imagining the taste of his kiss. Bold, firm, all-consuming.

      What is wrong with me?

      He thanks the barman for his glass of brandy with a jerk of his angular chin and tosses back the liquor in a single swallow. ‘And I have some first-aid training—he’ll be fine, I’m sure. He just panicked because the angina attack was worse than usual. I’m sure most people here would have helped—I just got there first.’

      ‘I guess, although, as M Club members, we’re used to everything, medical emergencies included, being dealt with efficiently and discreetly.’

      His eyes swoop over the length of my body from head to toe, and I feel his scrutiny again, as if he too has made a snap judgement on our differences.

      We’re interrupted at that moment by a petite brunette in her twenties with a winning smile.

      ‘Excuse me, sir, I’m Ellie Little.’ At his nod, she holds up an M Club key fob. ‘The key to your new supercar, sir.’

      I smile at Ellie and then look back to my smug companion, my eyebrows raised in question. I passed the display of sleek sports cars in the ballroom on my way to the casino, but I paid them little attention, short of wondering who would succumb despite their hefty price tags. I guess now I know.

      ‘Thanks.’ He takes the key and pockets it, his smile for Ellie wide and engaging.

      Ellie leaves us, and I spy her joining Ash Evans, the club owner, at the casino entrance. When I turn back to face my companion my expression must speak for me.

      ‘What?’ he asks, all innocence.

      I shrug. ‘You’re having a great night, if you exclude your losses at the roulette table. Which car did you buy?’ I may not know anything about cars, but I do know you can’t walk into a regular showroom and drive away with a supercar. They’re made-to-order, top of the range, one of a kind.

      He looks away, appearing bored. ‘I’m not sure…the yellow one, I think.’

      ‘You’re not sure,’ I deadpan. Is he for real? Despite my growing attraction to him, I can’t decide if I feel appalled or delighted.

      ‘I bought the winning car—were you in town for the race earlier?’ he asks, and I shake my head.

      ‘No—I’m here on business.’ I don’t elaborate. The last thing I want to talk about is the deal that brought me to Monaco. The deal I’m trying to forget for one night.

      He scoffs. ‘That figures.’

      I narrow my eyes. ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘You have that look about you—impatiently tapping your glass, frequently checking your phone. You look like a woman waiting for either a date or a business deal. Since no one in their right mind would stand you up, I’m guessing it’s work that has you distracted.’

      ‘Oh, nice recovery,’ I