Rafe Visconti hated cheaters, yet he fell for the biggest swindler he met. A cheat was what you were—counting cards, sticky fingers, seducing tactics. You were everything he hated.

Yet despite this, he still hired you as a bartender in his casino, never fired you even though your fingers were stickier than syrup.

He claimed to hate you, yet he felt a heated fire whenever he was around you. How could he resist such a sexy cheat, he thought.

He was a known gentleman—to everyone but you.