“Because your real business is destructive. I’ve explained this repeatedly as well. I won’t be in France full time much longer.”
He scoffs. “And you’ll go back home to what, work in Roman’s factory?” Doing my best not to show my growing hatred for him and the fact I revealed far too much early on about my predicament, I wave the threatening emotion away and toss back the rest of my drink before speaking. “Don’t trouble yourself over it. I’ll find my own way.”
When the car stops, I shift in my seat to get out. When the door opens, he grips my wrist. Glaring at him, I let the dare in my eyes speak for itself.
In an hour, I’ll become financially independent, which will negate most of my use for him. I won’t let him take this from me. Tilting my head, I drop my gaze to the gun in his holster.
I’ve made myself invaluable to him. I’ve proven myself time and time again over the years. He wants ownership of me, and he’s not getting it, but the threat of losing me just might be enough to end my life. For now, he’s still got the upper hand. Toying with me, he mulls over the decision weighing the pros and cons of discarding me as he has so many other of his men before unlatching his fingers.
“You’re beginning to bore me with your laughable nobility,” he mutters, averting his gaze before sliding back in his seat and righting his jacket. “You’re no better of a man than me.”
“Always a pleasure, Antoine.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
On the other side of the caged counter, the man stills his progress looking pointedly at my busy fingers. Averting my eyes, I rip them out of sight as he produces the life-changing piece of paper. I snatch it from where it rests and stalk away, neck heating.
Walking up to the bar, I place my order. When my gin is delivered, I stare into my drink as a familiar blanket of unease begins to seep in. I’m completely and utterly alone in this gamble.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Taking a healthy sip, I glimpse the mirror behind the bar, briefly admiring my suit before lifting my gaze to the clock above it. Five minutes. A woman sitting alone catches my eye at last glance, and I look to my right to meet her smile. Dark hair, cunning brown eyes, and beneath her form-fitting dress, a body built for punishment. Her painted lips lift further as I drink her in, and she reciprocates, her eyes trailing from my lips to my Italian leathers. Briefly, I imagine doling out that punishment, but grab my drink from the bar instead, seeing her eyes dull when she reads my intent.
“Vous allez laisser une femme boire seule?” You’re going to leave a lady to drink alone?
“Veuillez accepter mes excuses, je vous assure que si c’était un autre jour… ” Please accept my apology. I assure you if it were any other day…
Her eyes rake me with determination.
“Je garderai la dernière gorgée pour la fin de cette course. Peut-être qu’alors vous vous joindrez à moi.” I’ll save the last sip until after the race. Maybe then you will join me.
I pull a bill from my pocket and nod to the bartender to grab her another.
With the lift of her lush lips, I read the promise in her eyes that says she’ll be waiting.
A step away from the distraction, I shift my focus to the paper safely tucked in the inside pocket of my jacket and amble outside. Veering from the bulk of the crowd, I take a vacant seat scanning the track just as my pulse elevates and my mind begins to race uncontrollably.
Stay calm, Tobias.
An overwhelming and familiar feeling engulfs me as I do my best to keep my shit together.
Two minutes.
Glancing around the horde of people, I’m all too aware of the leg up I’ve garnered in knowing what thoroughbred will cross the finish line. Keeping my eyes forward, I try not to think of the others who might’ve placed similar bets on the wrong horse—their own situation as dire as my own, and bat away the guilt.