Lap of Luxury (Love Don't Cost a Thing)

“I remember you saying we were going to rob a private mansion—”

Damir places a finger over my lips. “My darling. Be careful that your tongue doesn’t talk your head off. When you leave the yacht, you are a beautiful, silent ornament on my arm.”

I fume at him, but his smile only widens. I wonder if this is how Ciara felt when she first started dating Mikhail, like a rich man’s toy who’s told to be just tits and ass and an empty head.

I mouth fuck you at Damir, but he merely turns his head to look at the approaching marina.

There’s a silver Mercedes waiting for us once we step out of the speedboat. Damir and I get into the back while Boris and one of Damir’s other men take seats at the front, Boris driving. There are beautiful people everywhere, strolling along the shore, standing in open air bars, stepping out of expensive cars. The women wear beautiful long evening gowns or short cocktail dresses that show a lot of skin. The men, sculpted and groomed Europeans, wear suits in pale colors with expensive shoes. I see a silver fox with a short, neat beard help a much younger woman off the back of his scooter, and hold her hand as they walk into a restaurant together. There’s a slender gold watch on her wrist and diamond studs in her ears. This place is rich-guy heaven. I would have cleaned up here, had I managed to escape London.

We pull up in a laneway by some dumpsters, and the two men in front get out and open our doors for us. I don’t get out, partly because there’s a dirty puddle right by my door, and partly because this alleyway is setting off my fight or flight response.

Damir comes around to my side of the car, and I start to ask him what the hell we’re doing in a place like this, but before I can, he leans down, scoops me up in his arms and lifts me over the puddle. Then he sets me down on dry asphalt keeping a firm hold of my hand.

There’s a door set back in an alcove, guarded by two enormous bouncers. They eye us coldly.

“Why do I feel like you’re taking me to a torture dungeon rather than a casino?” I hiss in his ear.

Damir’s smile widens, and he addresses the bouncers. “Bonsoir, gentlemen. Damir Ravnikar. I’m an old friend of Lucan Navarro’s.”

They seem to speak English, and one of the men radios someone inside, and we wait. I fidget with my bracelet, but Damir stands at his ease, his free hand casually in his pants pocket as he converses with the other bouncer about the weather.

A message is relayed back. We can go in.

We walk down a short, dark corridor and my impression that we’re entering a torture dungeon doesn’t fade until my high-heeled shoe lands on soft carpet. The doorway opens up onto a room filled with laughter, music and the clinking of poker chips. The dingy building is actually a sumptuous casino, with craps tables, roulette and blackjack, and dozens of people in evening-wear. It all seems very innocuous, until I look closer. There are guns laid on some of the blackjack tables, and scantily dressed girls are giving lap dances in the lounge area. In full view of a security guard, an older woman snorts something off a handheld mirror and rubs the residue on her gums.

“Is this an illegal gambling den?” I whisper to Damir, staring around at the scene.

“Of course,” he murmurs back. “We couldn’t go into a legal casino even if we wanted to.” He slides his hand over his jaw. “My handsome face would be picked up by the facial recognition software hooked up to the security cameras the second we stepped through the door, and I’d rather Interpol didn’t intrude on our happy little sojourn.”

I’m about to reply that I don’t like this place and want to leave, when a heavy, autocratic voice behind us says, “Damir Ravnikar. I didn’t believe it when I heard it was you.”

The smile fades from Damir’s face and something akin to hatred flickers in his eyes. He lets go of my hand and turns around, and his brilliant smile is back. He spreads his arms wide. “Lucan Navarro! It’s been too long.”

The two men clasp each other like father and son, and plant kisses on each other’s cheeks.

“What brings you to Monte Carlo?” Navarro asks.

Damir gives the man a roguish grin. “A spot of bother in London. I have to make myself scarce while until it blows over.”

Navarro chuckles. “I did hear something. And Mikhail has fled, too. Good idea, splitting up. Makes you both harder to find.”

“Indeed.” Damir turns to me, taking my hand with a proud smile. “This is my fiancée, Bethany.

His what?

I open my mouth to announce that I’m certainly not his fiancée, but Damir squeezes my hand and talks smoothly over me. “We were meant to be married at the Savoy next month, but of course, all that’s off. We left England so quickly that Bethany couldn’t even pack her Vera Wang wedding dress.”

Navarro gives me a soppy, sympathetic look, the sort you might give a child who’s upset about a broken toy. “Oh, my dear. How terrible for you.”

Oh, yeah. My supposed fiancée has fled the country on criminal charges, but the real tragedy for me is the loss of a hank of overpriced tulle. It’s honestly so dumb how men think women are so dumb.

“It’s us who owes you our sympathy,” Damir says.

A somber mood pervades the air. Navarro’s smile fades. “You heard, then.”

“I did.” Damir gazes into my eyes, as if we’re sharing a sad moment. “We both did. Tragic.”

I look up at him, confused. Damir squeezes my hand again, a signal to play along. I dig my nails into the side of his palm as hard as I can. If he wanted me to go along with some story, he should have told me what it was first.