The Fox and Hen was on a bustling corner in Soho. From the outside, it looked like any other pub: dark wood paneling, the name written plainly in large gold letters above the door. Looked like any other pub on the inside, too. I liked having a pint at a pub as much as anyone else. My brothers and I had a standing appointment on Thursday nights at The Rose and Thorn, a pub just down the street from Primrose Palace. But I had to admit I was still a bit mystified by Charlie’s pick for our date. The pub was loud and humid. And people had begun to stare. I’d hoped that by keeping my head down no one would recognize me, but no such luck.

I followed Charlie to a staircase at the back of the pub.

“You need to go to the loo?” I asked, only half teasing.

Charlie threw me a look over his shoulder. Blue eyes, dark scruff, darker smirk.

My stomach set off on a rollercoaster ride. Part of me wanted to ask him if he’d be cool with scrapping this date thing so we could get right down to the naked part of the evening. But another part was curious. Where was this bloke—this billionaire in a sharply cut blue blazer—taking me?

“Hang in there, princess,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. I promised I’d show you a good time, and this”—he gestured to the pub—“isn’t it.”

We went down the stairs, keeping to the right to let another guy pass. The air was crisper down here. It smelled less like beer and more like…cigars?

I drew up short when Charlie pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

“Charlie, are you sure we’re allowed in here?”

His eyes were playful when they met mine. “You’re with me, Jane. Of course you’re allowed. C’mon, we’re almost there.”

I glanced back toward the stairs. My security detail looked just as confused as I was. One of the officers signaled to me—are you okay?

I’m okay, I signaled back.

We moved through the kitchen, careful to avoid the cooks as they went about their business. Pots clanked. Onions sizzled. Somewhere a timer went off. A few of the cooks looked up from their sauté pans as we passed. No one said a word, though—they just followed us with their eyes. A little curious.

Huh.

I wondered if Charlie was taking me to an underground sex dungeon or something. I sort of hoped he was. He looked so damn good in his plaid collared shirt and jeans. There was something about his neck and the thick, careless tousle of his hair—

He knocked twice on a red door in the far corner, two quick, short raps. The door itself was nondescript save for the elegant brass knocker Charlie didn’t use. By now my heart was pounding, hard.

Where the hell were we? And would I be cool with assless leather chaps and ball gags if they were on the menu?

The door opened. My heart leapt to my mouth.

“Fuck you, Charlie,” a female voice said. Her accent was also American. “Good thing I’ve got extra cash on hand tonight. You gonna rob me blind again or what?”

Charlie turned his head to smile at me. I just looked at him blankly, more confused than ever.

“I always get a warm welcome here,” he said, holding out his arm. “After you.”

I moved through the door to see a gorgeous forty-something woman in a power suit and heels standing inside. She wrapped Charlie into a friendly hug before they both turned to me. A spark of recognition lit in her eyes before it died out. Clearly I wasn’t the first celebrity to visit her establishment.

“Jane, this is Monica,” Charlie explained. “She runs the club.”

Monica eyed me as she shook my hand. “Hm…not roulette. Too simple for you. No poker face…craps, maybe, with the right crowd…no! You’re a blackjack girl, aren’t you?”

“Blackjack?” I said, blinking. “Uh. Well. I’m not sure, to be honest. I’ve never played.”

Monica grinned, tilting her head toward Charlie. “Good thing you’ve got an expert to teach you. You kids have fun. And for fuck’s sake, leave some money on the table, would you, Charlie? You nearly bankrupted me last time you were here.”

I blinked again. And noticed Charlie didn’t blink, not at all, at being talked to like this. In fact, he was still smiling.

“I’ll do my best to lose,” Charlie replied easily, like he’d had this conversation with Monica a hundred times.

Other guys I’d been with—they treated hostesses and waiters and staff with either bland politeness or barely concealed disdain. But Charlie talked to Monica like an equal. Like a friend.

I liked that about him. Made me curious about what his story was. Was he self-made? Had he worked at a place like this?

He was looking at me now. Gauging my reaction. I smiled. At his attention. His kind rapport with Monica. So far, Charlie was a complete one-eighty from guys I’d been with in the past. And I liked it. A lot.

Wishing Monica a good evening, Charlie put his hand on the small of my back and led me down a dark hall. His touch was gentle but firm, too. Confident. My body thrummed with awareness, a small heaviness gathering between my legs. I was getting more attracted to this man by the minute. The kind of attraction that made it hard to focus on anything else.

“So this is a casino,” I said. “And you’re some kind of blackjack whiz kid.”

“I’m definitely a blackjack whiz kid,” he replied, looking down as he spoke, his other hand in his pocket. “As for the casino part—yes and no. Technically Monica doesn’t have a license to operate one, so technically The Jackie O. Club is a members-only lounge. But if someone should happen to have a few decks of cards, and a table should happen to appear, and a few people gather around that table to play games of chance…well. You know how good we Americans are at stirring up mischief.”

I laughed. “Can’t help yourselves, can you? So The Jackie O. Club is technically a not-casino for American expats.”

“Exactly.”

We turned a corner, and suddenly we were inside the club. I smiled harder, and then harder again still, as I took it in. It was big and dimly lit with exposed brick walls that contrasted with the sparkling chandeliers that hung from the low ceiling. A faint smog of cigar smoke lingered in the air. Cushy furniture, tastefully appointed, dotted the space, and there was an art deco style bar at the far end of the room. It was intimate, a little crowded, a little retro. Cozy and unpretentious. No one looked twice at us. I couldn’t help but think that Jackie O. would fit right in. I imagined her standing at the bar in her pillbox hat, cigarette in one hand, martini in the other.

Nirvana was playing. A song from their acoustic album.

I’d never been any place like it.

I loved it at first sight.

“Tables—where the gambling happens—they’re in there,” Charlie said, nodding at a nearby doorway. “But first, whiskey?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, starting to hope—starting to worry—that this was the perfect start to what could be a perfect night.