Red for sizzling hot.
Red for I'm going to charm the panties off her, oh my she could be wearing thongs which makes this even more intriguing to find out what she is wearing.
"She's alone," Matteo observes, in the tone he uses when he is pretending to make a neutral comment.
I take another slow breath and wish I hadn't because the rose in her scent spikes again, that sharp edge of something raw sitting just beneath the defiance, and my chest does a thing I did not authorize. "Good."
They both look at me.
"Are we going to the table or not?" Matteo asks, already moving.
I watch her place a chip on red. One chip. She does it with one finger, sliding it across the felt.
The wheel spins and she watches it with this expression that I cannot look away from.
"Cazzo," I say, under my breath.
I straighten my jacket, and decide that if anyone is going to flirt and seduce her tonight, it has to be me.
"I'm going to the table," I say.
"Obviously," says Matteo, not turning around.
"To play roulette," I add.
"Sure," says Tomas.
I cross the floor. The casino noise does what it always does, slot machines and low voices and the shuffle of cards somewhere to the left, all of it blurring into a kind of white noise that Vegas manufactures specifically so that whatever you're walking toward feels like the only real thing in the room.
She is still watching the wheel when I settle into the seat beside her.
Up close, her scent is something else entirely. Warmer. The strawberry has this depth to it that the distance didn't carry, something almost edible about it, and the rose is right there, present and a little wounded and so real that it takes genuine effort to keep my expression neutral.
She doesn't look at me yet. The ball is still making its decision.
My saffron is doing absolutely whatever it wants at this point.
"Red's a bold choice," I say.
She turns. Green eyes, very direct, the kind of look that measures a person in about four seconds and files the result.
"It matches the dress," she says.
"It does." I glance at the table, then back. "Did you pick the dress first or the strategy?"
The corner of her mouth does something that isn't quite a smile but is thinking about it.
"Both at the same time," she says. "It was that kind of day."
The ball drops. Red. The croupier pushes her winnings across and she looks at the chips for a moment with an expression that is one part surprise, two parts something fiercely, quietly satisfied, and I feel the shift in her scent before I see it on her face. The rose slightly softens.
"Looks like your luck is turning," I say.
She picks up her winnings and stacks them neatly without hurrying.
"Ask me again in twenty minutes," she says.
My alpha tells me that I better not have lost my touch, because within the next twenty minutes, she'll be in my suite, screaming my name.