CHAPTER ONE

      Orla

      I TAKE THE first delicious and well-earned sip of my drink with a sigh, my lip curling with satisfaction as the decadent flavour of the Macallan Scotch glides over my tongue. Not because I drink a lot of the spirit, or alcohol in general, but because it’s a Scottish single malt, and therefore considered inferior by my Irish-born father. Even at the age of thirty-six, I feel the need to break free from his expectations.

      The oppressive feeling that’s followed me since I arrived in Monaco to pursue my latest client, Jensen’s, weighs down on me once more, as if the air itself is too heavy. My intel that Jensen’s are shopping around, sniffing at my father’s door, adds to the pressure. Perhaps I’m burning out, pushing myself too hard to be the best, to outmanoeuvre the man who considered me unworthy to take the helm of our family business. But this deal has too much riding on it for me to blow it now; better to back off, to let the prospective client feel as if they’ve been wooed, but not cornered.

      My fingers toy with my glass, slowly spinning it on the sleek and shiny bar. I look around the dimly lit intimacy of the casino, trying to shake off any thought of work, more determined than ever to embrace a change of pace for the evening. That’s why I’m here, dressed to the nines, pretending to enjoy myself at Monaco’s most glamorous club; why I left my sumptuous suite in the hotel upstairs despite its stunning views of Port Hercule in the dusk, a million lights dancing on the gently bobbing Mediterranean Sea. To let off a little long-overdue steam after a day of meetings, of waiting for the email that will tell me I’ve won Jensen’s’ business from under my father’s nose.

      I clink the ice in my glass, smirking at my pathetic efforts to cut loose from working, which is pretty much my entire life—a single-drink party for one.

       Wow, Orla. You really know how to let your hair down…

      Ignoring my snarkier side, and to distract me from ruminating on the high stakes of the Jensen’s deal, I slide my stare around the casino, scanning the tables beyond the bar while I contemplate a tame gamble to liven up my rare night off. A small bet won’t hurt, even if it goes against every cell of my venture capitalist’s brain to risk money on a whim of chance. But it’s exactly what I need—a release valve, a way to break free from my own head, my own high expectations, my endless desire to succeed.

      A