Luck of the Dragon

Chapter Ten

“So when I said Moroccan…” Lucy fingered a piece of flatbread. “I thought you would take me to Africa.” Her words were teasing and light.

“Next time.” Alec sat on a cushion on her left, one knee bent and the other leg stretched against hers. “I need to stay in town just now.”

They had arrived at the Moroccan restaurant off the Strip in the chauffeur-driven black Bentley and had been shown to a private room. They sat in an alcove with silk cushions on the floor, nestled around a knee-high table. Carved wood paneling and candlelight made the alcove both otherworldly and intimate.

Lucy took a sip of her excellent red wine. Alec’s next time statement annoyed her. It wobbled precariously on top of no other women, on top of the million-dollar uncut sapphire—it all seemed a Jenga game of fairy tales bound to topple.

“Tell me more about Lucy De Luca.” Alec ran his hand down her arm to the pulse at her wrist. It jumped under his finger. “What do you enjoy?”

“Besides spas and priceless jewels?” The words flew out of her mouth like a shield. They needed to get things straight between them. This was a fling—a fling to remember for the rest of her life—but a fling nonetheless.

Alec frowned. “I’ve offended you somehow?”

“I just…” Lucy sighed. “I’m okay with all this.” She waved her hands around the room. “As long as you don’t pretend there’s some kind of next time, happily-ever-after at the end.”

Alec leaned toward her and she leaned away.

“I grew up with con artists and grifters. My father went to the pen. My brother…” Lucy swallowed and refocused. “My brother will probably wind up there, too. I can’t live in a fairy tale.” She watched his face and smiled, trying to soften her words. “I’m attracted to you. Can’t that be enough?”

Alec said nothing, and his face gave her no hint as to what he thought about her speech.

A waiter arrived to take their order, cutting off any further talk. “Kefta tangine with lamb and couscous to share,” Alec ordered in a smooth baritone. They had already agreed on their dinner choice.

“Yes, Mr. Gerald.” The waiter set dates and olives on the table and left as soundlessly as he’d arrived.

Alec turned his wine stem in his fingers, seeming to watch the ruby red sparkle in the candlelight. Silence stretched between them. Lucy shifted on her cushion, kicked off her strappy shoes, and crossed her legs at the ankles. The only sounds in the room were candles crackling and sinuous Middle Eastern music. Lucy plopped a dense and sugary date in her mouth and chewed.

Still Alec did not speak.

This was getting ridiculous. What kind of man pouted over a no-strings-attached clause to getting laid? Lucy pressed her lips shut against the one hundred placating words piling up on her tongue. It must be that no one had ever told him no. She wasn’t saying no, just no games. He should appreciate her practicality.

Geesh.

“Tell me about your mother,” Alec said.

“What?” Lucy’s head whipped toward him. “My mother? I didn’t mention her.”

“Exactly,” Alec said. “How did she handle your father going to prison?”

Lucy took a slow sip of her wine. Just the mention of the penitentiary was enough to put most people off talking about her family. “She worked as a maid downtown when she could get out of bed.”

Alec nodded. “How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“And your brother?”

“We’re twins.”

“Ah.” Alec nodded, and Lucy wondered what he was inferring.

Embarrassment crawled up her back like marching spiders. Alec seemed to peer into her past, seeing the poverty and desolation. This was why she didn’t like talking about her family. She always felt ashamed, like she needed to explain that she had a made a different life. She wasn’t like that anymore.

She. Was. Different.

But was she? Alec-pilfered thumbprint was in play somewhere.

“You’re a strong and admirable woman.” Alec’s words were soft, as if he sensed her discomfiture.

Lucy drained the remaining wine from her glass. She rolled the tart sweetness over her tongue and looked away from his searching gaze.

“Yes, I am.” And she believed it—most of the time.

A group of waiters arrived and laid out their meal. Cinnamon and cloves mingled with the scent of succulent meat. Her stomach growled appreciatively. She glanced at Alec with renewed enthusiasm. “Yum.”

Alec laughed, the tense moment gone. “You’ve never had Moroccan food?”

“No.”

Lucy ate as much as she dared. On cue with her last bite, a bevy of belly-dancing beauties entered the room, their hips shaking in time with live drums. The women were dark and gorgeous, fleshier than most tummy- baring Vegas gals. Their colorful veils hid their mouths, but not their dark, seductive eyes. On their fingers, cymbals chimed in time with the sway of their bodies.

Lucy watched them shimmy, impressed with their abandon. Their purple-veiled leader approached her and beckoned for Lucy to join them, but Lucy shook her head.

Then the woman moved to Alec. She took her time, shaking her hips with a demanding rhythm. Look at me, her hips screamed. Alec leaned back against the wall. The woman took this as an encouragement, stepped over his lap, and dropped to her knees. All Lucy could see was her mostly bare back and undulating arms and hips.

Lucy’s stomach churned around her meal, and she cast her eyes for a place to stare. What did she expect? Alec was like catnip to women—they threw themselves at him, and he didn’t seem to mind.

The drums stopped and Lucy looked at the pair. Alec said something to the woman and she ran her hand slowly down his chest, snaking her fingertips between the buttons of his shirt to his skin. She whispered something back before standing and shimmying out of the room with the rest of the harem.

Alec met her gaze, unflinching and direct. “We should try the hookah before we go.”

“You mean the hooker?” Her question had a bite she hadn’t intended to show.

Alec poured more wine into their glasses. “That talented woman did not want to be paid for her charms.”

“I bet.”

He picked up her clenched hand and kissed it, letting the tip of his tongue caress the grooves between her knuckles. Lucy saw sparks, literally, and tried to pull away. He held her hand tight until she looked at him.

“I told you could trust me.” His voice held aggravated certainty.

Lucy watched his face, searching for the microscopic tells that always gave a person away. There were none. Alec’s face was impassive, and his dark blue eyes were only keenly interested in her response. This was a man who kept his cards close. She shouldn’t bet against him. She could lose more than casino chips.

She could lose her heart.

Their waiter entered the room, carrying a violin-shaped pot with a gold hose coiled on the neck. He set it on the table and cleared their dishes. “Your hookah, sir.”

“Thank you,” Alec said. “A piece of baklava and honey to share, please.” The waiter nodded and left.

Lucy eyed the steaming contraption.

“It’s a water pipe.” Alec uncoiled the hose and inhaled from the end before blowing a small smoke ring above the table. The ring widened, and he blew another inside it. Ring after ring floated to the ceiling in an apricot-smelling haze.