The Virgin's Gamble

By Gina Hollands

With revenge on her mind, twenty-one-year-old Domino Vincent travels to the glamorous five-star Harbor Hotel in Montenegro, determined to beat its playboy owner, Luca Moretti, at his own game. Domino soon realizes the stakes are higher than she ever imagined. Disturbed by events in his past, Luca doesn't take kindly to losing. Nor does he appreciate Domino assassinating his character with her accusations that he took advantage of her sick father two years before. When he suggests a bet she can’t refuse, Domino finds herself playing for so much more than her family’s honor and, in return, getting far more than she ever bargained for. What started out as a gamble turns into a month-long forfeit as her enemy’s captive. Instead of being desperate to escape, she is strangely drawn to the brooding billionaire and his dangerous past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Aug 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781509219407

Gina Hollands

Gina Hollands was born and bred in Yorkshire, England. She has worked in public relations for 15 years, since graduating from Oxford University with a degree in modern languages. Gina now lives on the West Sussex coast with her husband and young son. When she's not writing Gina is likely to be participating in her other hobby - dancing, be it salsa, jive or lindy hop. The Virgin's Gamble is Gina's first novel.

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She could easily read his train of thought,

not that he was doing anything to disguise it. Under the raw masculinity of his gaze, her nipples tightened and protruded like hard ripe acorns against the threadbare fabric. She cursed her body for disobeying her brain and would have put it down to a chill in the air had it not been high summer.

A primitive flare of his nostrils made it clear he’d noticed how her body was reacting to him. She willed him to act on it, to come over to where she stood and take her in those muscular, tanned arms of his.

Christ! She was letting him suck her into those manipulative charms of his all over again. She wasn’t going to get reeled in this time.

Why exactly did you come here, Mr. Moretti? she said, desperate to derail his train of thought.

His smile faltered, and his eyes narrowed. Drop the niceties and call me Luca. It was more a demand than a polite invitation. I came here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.

The Virgin’s Gamble

by

Gina Hollands

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Virgin’s Gamble

COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Gina Hollands

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Champagne Rose Edition, 2018

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1939-1

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1940-7

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my dad,

Tone x

Chapter One

The Harbor Hotel in Montenegro attracted the superrich, the who’s who of celebrity A-listers, and even royalty, but something Luca Moretti didn’t normally see in his luxury five-star European getaway was an unattached beautiful woman. Those hanging off the arms of sugar daddies, with their dyed-blonde extensions and disproportionately large breasts, were all too commonplace, but a smoldering brunette with natural curves so enticing he couldn’t tear his eyes away was something he’d never seen here—or indeed at any of his other twenty luxury hotels.

Demurely beautiful in an understated but smoking-hot little black dress and with a dark, chic bob that swung perfectly back into place whenever she moved her head, she’d captured his attention from the very moment he’d stepped into the exclusive cocktail lounge.

He hadn’t been able to get a good look at her face because her reflection had been distorted by the glass window she’d been staring out of, apparently lost in her own thoughts. But he could just about make out piercing blue eyes, full, siren-red lips, and a heart-shaped face that lent an innocent, girl-like softness to her otherwise alluring and sensual image.

Then she turned to look at him and the full extent of her beauty became apparent. She wasn’t a model—that was for certain—as the slight roundness of her cheeks was in contrast to the sharp cheekbones the fashion media favored. But the glorious juxtaposition of her sultry hair and sexy dress and the natural, innocent softness of her face was nothing short of exquisite.

He met her gaze straight on. If she wanted to pose him a challenge, he wouldn’t disappoint. Dropping his eyes unashamedly to her subtly exposed cleavage, he watched as she brushed a perfectly manicured hand along her collarbone, as if inviting him to drink in more of her delicious body.

He took the time to luxuriate in the view and allowed his gaze to fall farther down the length of her shapely figure to the curve of her silky thigh, exposed by the daringly high slit in her dress. She lowered her hand and drummed her scarlet talons playfully just above the knee. Ah, she wanted to tease. Well, if that was her game, Luca was only too happy to play. After all, that’s what he was known for—taking on whatever dangerous challenge may raise its tempting head and ensuring he emerged victorious.

Taking a chance when the odds were stacked against him was what had earned him the status of self-made billionaire in the first place. No one had expected the troubled boy from Geliano to amount to anything, not after what he’d done to his family, how he’d totally disrupted their lives with his ill-thought-out actions.

He pushed the demonic thoughts away, just as he had been doing for the fourteen years since that fateful night when, on the cusp of manhood, he’d realized the hard way who he truly was, what he truly was. He could still see his sister’s panicked face as she cowered before him. Her eyes, which had once brimmed with love for the older brother she adored, flashed with horror, and she froze before him, not recognizing the brutal beast he had become. Her only brother, who after that unforgettable night had become a stranger to those who loved him the most.

The dark thoughts hit him like an ice-cold bucket of water, wrenching his attention away from the beautiful woman sitting provocatively in his cocktail lounge, and refocusing his mind on the real reason he was in Montenegro this week.

Eight thirty p.m. A cursory glance at his tarnished old watch—the only thing he wore that wasn’t pristine and the only memento he had of his real father—told him he had thirty minutes before the game. Thirty minutes to try to relax and shake off his demons, for now. They’d be back. But at least for tonight if he were to have a hope of winning the annual poker game he hosted, he had to get himself into a better frame of mind. And by the way the foxy brunette in the corner was giving him come-to-me eyes, he appeared to have found just the tonic.

****

Domino glanced down to ensure her new, so figure hugging it was criminal little black dress was showing just the right amount of cleavage, and that the deep slit in the hem was best positioned to flatter her lightly, albeit from a bottle, tanned thigh. Then taking a long, slow breath in, she turned her head slowly, seductively, just as she’d practiced, and locked eyes with the very man she despised.

"Buona sera, signorina. May I?"

Until he stood there, right at her table, she hadn’t realized just how big he was. Well over six feet and broad shouldered to match, he dominated the entire room, making her, at a statuesque five feet nine, feel like a delicate doll in comparison.

Nerves danced in her throat. She coughed in a way she hoped was ladylike before daring to open her mouth to answer. Please do, she husked, nodding toward the chair opposite.

"Salute!" He set a fresh flute of Kia Royale on the table before her.

They delicately chinked glasses, and she took a long, slow sip. The sparkling liquid caught in her throat.

She hadn’t anticipated having him just inches away would constrict her airways, hadn’t imagined being able to pick up his scent—fresh and citrusy yet with a layer of spicy masculinity that threatened to intoxicate her if she dared to breathe in once more.

Everything about him was dark and dangerous. His cave-black eyes, framed with the thickest black lashes she’d ever seen on a man, reflected the darkness of his hair and created the picture of a Mediterranean god.

She’d never been truly intimate with a man but had been around plenty of them to know this wasn’t her normal reaction. Most of the punters in The Three Crowns pub where she’d spent the last two years working every shift she could get to scrimp and save for this trip were men, and she had been at ease talking with them. But there was something very different about this particular man, something that made her feel not uncomfortable but irrationally conscious of her own femininity compared to his masculine brawn.

Keep it calm, Dommie. It was just the stress of the situation playing tricks on her. She couldn’t forget she hated this man. She hated him. She took a deep breath in and forced herself to look at him head-on.

And then she noticed it, a faded scar on his upper lip. Without it, his appearance would have been almost perfect, model-like even, but the faint track of white, healed flesh that sliced across his cupid’s bow gave him a tougher, grittier appearance­—the face of a man who had lived through a battle. A survivor.

Get a grip, Dommie! What was it about this man that distracted her from the job she’d come here to do, the job of claiming back what rightfully belonged to her family?

A glance down at her exposed inner thigh reignited her strength. She’d had her body inked three months ago on her twenty-first birthday, to show the world how determined she was to become a professional poker player. The tattoo, a raven-haired queen of hearts, stared firmly back at her, giving her the strength to continue her ambitious charade.

So how do you like my hotel? His smooth, velvety tones interrupted her thoughts.

The game was on. Little did he know she was here not to be seduced or impressed by his preposterous levels of wealth but to make a fool of him by once and for all denting that cast-iron ego of his.

She shrugged. It’s okay. I’ve seen better.

There it was. That smile she’d been desperate to see two minutes ago. His straight white teeth and boyish dimples caused her stomach to flip once again. Next time she’d be more careful what she wished for.

Well, that’s a more muted response than we normally get from our guests—celebrities, royalty, and the like, not to mention the international media who voted us in the top-five hotels worldwide. But thank you for your honesty.

Her heart raced. Had she messed things up already by one stupid, naive comment? Would a woman who was accustomed to staying in fancy hotels say that? Of course not. The Harbor Hotel was one of the finest in the world. What was she thinking?

Determined to retain her calm demeanor, she twirled the stem of her glass between her thumb and forefinger in a way she hoped was seductive enough to make him quickly forget her ridiculous comment. She turned her head to the side, as if looking for someone more interesting. His laughter subsided, and a shot of relief pulsed through her. Her behavior had produced the desired effect.

"If you don’t mind me asking, signorina, what brings you here?"

Well, if you mean work or pleasure—she turned to face him again, as if doing so almost bored her—a bit of both.

"You don’t give much away, do you, gattina?"

She lowered her head and looked up at him through her lashes. She’d practiced it enough times to know the angle flattered her face and drew attention to her two best assets, her ocean-blue eyes and her cleavage.

Taking his time to appreciate the view of her body, which she’d positioned so brazenly before him, he leaned toward her. She swallowed her nerves and did the same, deliberately mirroring his body language—a trick her father had taught her for encouraging trust in your opponent—aware that the visible cleft between her breasts deepened as she did so.

"What is your name? Tell me that at least, signorina." He voice was barely more than a demanding whisper.

Her act of playing hard to get was pushing all the right buttons. My name? Well, if you’re that desperate to know, it’s Domino Vincent. Pleased with herself for breaking a lifetime habit of introducing herself as Dommie Harris, she let her lips curl into a self-satisfied smile.

Domino? Unusual. Your father must have been a keen game player.

Damn, damn, damn! Had she really just given herself away that easily? Her insincere smile began to pull uncomfortably at her cheek muscles. How come when playing poker, the give-nothing-away expression came so naturally, but in any other scenario it made her face ache?

She cursed herself for not having invented a pseudonym. She’d changed her surname to her mother’s maiden name so as not to give away her identity too early, but her first name—it had never occurred to her to change it. A silly little mistake, but one now threatening to blow her cover just when she needed him to buy into her well-honed woman-of-the-world persona to put him off his game.

She had the skill to beat him fair and square, but a few well-thought-out tactics beforehand never hurt and could only enhance her chances of winning. And when the stakes were this high, she was prepared to do everything, and anything, in her power to make sure she left him spitting out her dust. Think quickly now, Dommie. Get yourself out of this one.

"My parents had high hopes for me. You see, dominus is Latin for master." Resisting the urge to wipe her brow in relief, she thanked her mother for insisting her home-teaching lessons included a healthy dose of the classics.

Ahh, a well-educated woman. For me, there’s nothing more appealing.

Delighted you find me appealing, Moretti. He wouldn’t be finding her quite so appealing after she thrashed him at his own poker table. It was nothing less than he deserved.

Domino kept her thoughts to herself and straightened her posture, pretending not to realize that the shift in her position had the added benefit of pushing her generously proportioned breasts a little closer to him.

And are you? he asked.

Am I what?

Masterful? Live up to that powerful name of yours, do you?

It has been known. When the mood takes.

How is the mood taking you now?

She looked at him coquettishly, tilting her head teasingly to the side, as if giving it some thought. This was way easier than she’d imagined. She was reeling him in like a starving fish desperate to taste her delectable bait. Actually, right now I’d say I’m feeling more…let’s say…ready to conquer.

He raised one eyebrow. She attempted to hold his gaze, but the intensity of his eyes on her was so agonizingly passionate she feared if she held it any longer she would crumble under its sheer masculine strength and confess her façade. A late-night poker game after hours with the old boys in The Three Crowns might be as glamorous as it usually got for her, but he didn’t need to know that. Nor did he need to know the flawless hair and makeup had taken a full