Page 35 of Conning the Billionaire
Flashing ghosts swooped above the crowds.
Cinnamon stink rolled through the air, drowning out even the cigarette smoke.
An orchestral rendition of “Green-Eyed Purple People Eater” played every hour on the hour, while one of “Puff the Magic Dragon” played at the half-hour mark.
And Kylie was scheduled for six hours straight of that pumpkin spice barrage.
For her six-hour shift, Kylie shimmied between the poker room patrons with her usual plastered-on smile and pretended to like the gamblers while she brought them drinks and collected her tips.
She laughed at their inappropriate remarks and imagined how horrified they’d be if someone had said that to their daughter.
She toted out hundreds of Bud Lights for men who worked manual labor jobs, Seven-and-Sevens for the precious guys who didn’t really like liquor, Long Island Iced Teas and Manhattans for the people who were going to be trashed in a few hours and thrown out by security for starting a fight, vodka tonics with lime for the women, IPAs for college kids who’d just turned twenty-one, and passionfruit martinis for the guys who like their vomit to be neon orange.
But then, a tall man sitting at a blackjack table right in the middle of her section caught her eye.
No way.
Nuh-uh. He did not.
That goddamn blond Italian had some goddamn nerve showing his face anywhere in Atlantic City, let alone in her section of the Tropicana.
Him showing up in her waitressing section was not an accident, not after he’d known the name that she went by even though she’d never told him, gotten a fake ID in that name weeks before she’d ever met him, and had been scoping her out at the steakhouse where she’d pulled the pretend-fight con with Rita the night before.
Kylie couldn’t decide whether she hated the guy or admired him, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to be conned again.
So she stayed far away from his table, only dipping into that area to bring drinks to those patrons when the blond Italian left the table for a few moments.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye, though.
He never looked at her. As far as she could tell, he was oblivious to her presence, but she didn’t believe that for a goddamn second. A con man like that would have feelers. He would know everything that was going on around him all the time. He would surveille every person around him like moving dots on a map.
But Kylie wasn’t going to be a mark again.
Definitely not.
The blond Italian wasn’t going to get a second bite at her apple.
Absolutely not.
Speaking about bites at the apple, even after a week, his teeth marks on the inside of her thigh was still tender every time her legs rubbed together when she walked.
And thinking about his mouth between her legs—tonguing her, biting the inside of her thigh—made her panties damp.
After her shift, Kylie sat on a locker bench in the changing room at the casino and stared at the sparkly red fabric of her con outfit.
Ihsan was getting dressed for her shift, and she eyed Kylie’s red dress. “You doing okay, sugar?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Kylie told her.
“You missed a couple shifts. We were all worried about you. You been sick?”
“Oh, no. I just had some other stuff going on. Sprained ankle, you know.”
Ishan’s expression softened, her dark-lined eyes widening. “Oh, I didn’t know that. Is it better?”
“Oh, yeah. I kept it wrapped up for a few days, and it was fine tonight.”
“‘Kay, good.
