Authors: Amy Jo Cousins
“Show us whatcha got, honey.”
The fingers that clamped down on her shoulder shouted tension, not loosening even
when she patted them before flipping her cards over.
A pair of kings, an ace, a six and a two faced the ceiling.
The collective indrawn breath of the crowd at the meagerness of her hand must have
sucked most of the oxygen from the room.
Sarah loved every moment of it, the drama and the risk. Knowing that it was possible
that she’d misjudged her opponent and that in two seconds she could be watching the
man walk away with every dollar she’d finessed from him.
The man across from her waited a beat before picking up his cards and tossing them
lightly toward the dealer. He shook his head.
Not this time.
The whoop of the crowd surged into her like the bright fizz of champagne or the pulse-pounding
rush of one of J.D.’s kisses. From across the table, Mr. Rossetti pierced her with
a look she imagined he reserved for particularly recalcitrant children. She stared
right back, keeping her face calmly neutral out of politeness. She’d always considered
it rude to gloat.
The older man’s stern look cracked into a wide grin after a moment and he laughed
out loud.
“You’ve got nerves of steel, girlie. Moving all-in with a hand like that.”
“Only at the poker table, sir,” she said and smiled back, meeting his outstretched
hand with her own for a firm shake.
“I doubt that.” As they both rose from the table, the crowd began to drift away. Congratulations
and companionable pats, from those hoping a little of her luck might rub off on them,
landed on her from all sides. Her opponent shook his cigar at J.D. “I’d keep a close
eye on this one. She’s liable to lead you on a merry chase.”
“I plan to.”
How was it that the warmth of his breath against her ear, murmuring those words, should
raise such a chill on her skin that she needed to shiver to release the tension?
When the person next to her finally moved away, she stepped to the side to avoid the
risk of bumping into the hard strength of the man behind her, who was refusing to
give her an inch of breathing space.
With a nod to the floor manager, she accepted his offer to change out her winnings,
which she ballparked at about twenty-five grand. She didn’t say a word to her shadow,
just shook hands and thanked those who offered congratulations before heading to the
cage, where she asked the floor manager to keep her winnings in the casino safe. Only
then did she turn to face J.D., head cocked to one side, wondering how he was taking
her refusal to be corralled by him.
He lifted one dark, straight brow, the only animation in an otherwise bland expression.
After a downbeat or two, she gave in and grinned. Her poker face was officially retired
for the evening.
“If you recall, I did warn you.”
His nod was calm. Serene, even.
“Yes, you did,” he admitted. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You sat there, Sarah Tyler, in your sensible shoes and comfortable slacks and warned
me not to let you near any high-stakes poker games.” The look he raked over her kindled
heat in her veins until she fairly sizzled with it. “You practically dared me not
to take you seriously.”
With effort, she bit her lower lip and controlled the laughter bubbling up inside
her. “I’ve never been prone to exaggeration. You might have remembered that.”
“I’m beginning to think I didn’t remember you correctly at all.” He stepped closer,
forcing her to tilt her head back just to keep eye contact. Above high cheekbones,
his dark eyes were locked speculatively on her face. “I saw what I expected to see.
I’m used to looking more deeply through my camera. Without it, I’m a little blind.”
He tilted his head for a moment and his gaze drifted, his thoughts clearly roaming.
When his attention snapped back to her, it felt like a spark leaping from his body
into hers.
“That’s it. I need to take your picture.”
Ah, no. Uh-uh.
She’d seen too many of J.D.’s pictures not to know what she was getting into. His
pictures bared the souls of their subjects. And though she could tell herself from
now until the day the universe eventually imploded that she didn’t want him, that
she didn’t dream about him during the night until she woke in a sweaty tangle of sheets,
she wasn’t fool enough to believe that she could hide anything from J.D. when he had
a camera in his hand.
He would see her only too well. And although she might catch his attention for a moment,
she knew how quickly that sweet, hot spotlight would move on. The humiliation of having
been so naked before him, metaphorically or not, would be unbearable.
Desperate to snap this mood, she forced a gay laugh and punched him in the shoulder
like she would her brother.
“Don’t be fooled, boyo. Like I said, Vegas Sarah is just a game. Underneath it all,
I’m still just plain old boring Sarah Tyler.” Before he could open his mouth to contradict
her, she looped a friendly arm through his and headed for the nearest aisle that ran
mazelike across the casino floor. “I’m famished. What kind of death march do you think
it’ll take to find a place where they’ll sear me a side of beef in this joint?”
It seemed like he was going to let her get away with defusing the tension, at least
for now. The hard muscle of the arm beneath her hand wasn’t the only unrelenting thing
about J.D.
“I can tell you one thing about Vegas Sarah.” He shifted so that he was walking just
behind her, one hand resting lightly against her back, as the foot traffic increased
toward the center of the casino.
“What’s that?” she tossed back over her shoulder.
He must have bent his head down to whisper so closely in her ear.
“I thought she must’ve been drunk to make that bet.”
Her laugh rang out over the bells and whistles and constant murmurs of conversation
surrounding them.
A quick stop at the floor manager’s office resulted in a call to Le Cirque, the most
exclusive of nearly a dozen eating establishments at the Bellagio, ensuring them a
table as soon as they arrived. Sarah sped through the menu after the server placed
it in front of her, raising one hand in the air to keep the man at the table.
“I’ll have the wild salmon carpaccio to start, the beef tenderloin, rare, and feel
free to drop off the dessert menu in advance.”
Both men at the table stared at her.
“What can I say? Gambling makes me hungry.” She shrugged and handed the menu back
to the server. No reaction from either of them. She looked from one to the other.
“Did I forget to mention the champagne?”
J.D. rattled off his own order, and the server left their table with an admiring glance
back at Sarah.
“Jesus, Sarah,” J.D. said. “You hold your liquor like a sailor.”
She queried him with a look.
“The champagne on the flight. What was it, a martini on the rocks in the casino?
Now champagne? I’m surprised you weren’t under the table, instead of ruling it. What
do you weigh? A buck ten soaking wet?”
She grimaced. Having always wished for her older sister’s curves, she’d resigned herself
to the fact that at least clothes hung well on her slim frame.
“Never ask a lady what she weighs, Damico.”
“Still, you must have the tolerance of a Saturday night brawler.”
“Thank you,” she said as the waiter returned with the champagne. When the cork popped,
he filled her glass with shimmering golden liquid that foamed briefly to the brim,
and then filled J.D.’s. Lifting the delicate flute, she toasted J.D. and sipped before
answering. “Don’t believe everything you see, my amateur friend. The cocktail at the
table was a fake.”
“What?”
“I set it up with the waitress beforehand. I ordered a vodka rocks, and she brought
me water over ice.” J.D.’s laugh was short and disbelieving. “It suits me to let my
opponent hope that my judgment is slipping with each round I order.”
She raised her flute to her lips and let the champagne slide over her tongue, savoring
its delicate bite.
“Now, this I have earned.” With a satisfied sigh, she leaned back against the rich
leather and let the pleasurable tension of the past few hours flow out of her muscles.
Now that she had the width of a table between them and the casual flow of light conversation,
it was easier than she’d expected to relax with J.D. Besides, despite her original
decision to avoid him as much as possible for the weekend and enjoy Vegas on her own,
she was having far too much fun not to want to share it with someone.
And if she occasionally indulged herself by picturing that someone naked when he was
talking to her, who needed to know?
“So tell me, Sarah Bearah, how did a nice girl like you turn into a card shark?”
“It’s a long story.”
He lifted a hand to the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the wide lake in
front of the Bellagio, where a sweep of spotlit fountains jetted water in an arcing
dance to the rhythms of a symphony they could faintly hear.
“Beautiful view. Beautiful woman. Beautiful wine.” He clinked his glass lightly against
hers. “I’m in no rush.”
She ignored the flush of warmth that swept over her skin at his offhand compliment.
Settling in, she spun him a tale. Over appetizers, she described the boyfriend in
college whose Friday night devotion to his card game with “the boys” annoyed her enough
to send her to the library in search of blackjack and poker strategy manuals. His
eventual fit of pique over the fact that a girl, and one he was sleeping with no less,
could consistently take his money in seven-card stud or Black Mariah spelled the death
of their relationship. She was left with a bruised heart—she’d just wanted to understand
his obsession, not drive him away—and a growing appreciation for the fun of checking
and raising on a down and dirty pair of aces.
By the time their entrées arrived, she was hip deep in the story. She waved her steak
knife freely as she told him about her first trip to Vegas. The trip had been taken
after the drama school graduation of Maxie, the baby of the Tyler family, an event
the young woman had been determined to celebrate with pomp and circumstance. All four
siblings had gone, Tyler insisting on joining his sisters to “keep them from calling
home for bail money.”
In between watching Maxie storm the town in feather boas and elbow-length gloves one
night and fringed flapper dresses and six-inch-long cigarette holders the next, Sarah
had decided to dip her toes in the grown-up pool of poker with a raise limit higher
than a quarter. And that was when she discovered her gift: she could treat a poker
hand with a hundred bucks riding on it as if it were a fifty-cent hand back in college.
She played smart, she didn’t get emotional and she took big gambles without flinching
when the moment seemed right. She didn’t always win, but she won far more often than
she lost. And when she did lose, she shrugged off her losses and enjoyed the pool.
And, that one time, the tattoo parlor.
Only, things had gotten a little out of hand on her most recent trip to Sin City.
“Casinos are very good at keeping track of their clients, and they want to keep you
happy. Keep you playing.” She nodded
yes
to more champagne as their server cleared their dinner plates, and ran a fingertip
down the list of desserts propped in front of her. “My line of credit kept getting
raised, and I was introduced to higher and higher limit poker tables. When I sat at
a table where the pot was double my annual salary, I decided it was time to take a
break. Raspberry tart or the classic crème-filled éclair?”
“Both.” J.D. was leaning back, one hand cupped around the wide bowl of a brandy snifter,
warming the amber liquid with the heat of his palm. “So that was why—”
“The slots, yes. And I’ve never played at the Bellagio before, so I figured I’d be
safe. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Fiorentino, the floor manager—” she answered his tilt
of the head “—just made the move here from the MGM Grand. He spotted me on one of
his stroll-throughs of the casino and, well, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
She grinned.
Their server chose that moment to inform them that Mr. Fiorentino wanted to welcome
Ms. Tyler and her guest to the Bellagio by comping their meal. Along with any other
celebrating they would care to do that evening at the hotel’s other venues.
“See what I mean? Plus, he thinks I saved his pug’s life when all I did was put him
on a diet.” She shook her head as J.D. ordered both desserts. “What can I say? I have
no willpower. Not when it comes to poker.
Or
pie. You know I’m going to eat both of those, don’t you? I’m going to burst right
out of this dress.”
J.D. leaned forward and linked his fingers loosely with hers. Bringing her hand up
to his mouth, he brushed a kiss onto her knuckles and kept her hand in his as he spoke.
“Every man in the room would consider his evening complete.”
She’d never been so aware of her fingers before, feeling each one resting against
J.D.’s warm skin, her thumb pressed pad-to-pad with his and moving back and forth
languidly in the dim light.
Looking at him seemed impossibly risky. She watched their hands instead, enjoying
the contrast of her paler fingers against his darker golden ones. Her competent, strong
hand looked delicate when cradled against the wide palm and long fingers of J.D’s.
The mood no longer felt casual.
Or friendly.
Raising her eyes to meet his hooded gaze, she felt his hand grip hers.
“J.D. Do you think—” she began.
The arrival of dessert interrupted the moment. Between extra plates and dessert spoons,
it was easy enough to disengage her hand from his. She sat up and scrubbed her palm
surreptitiously against her thigh in a vain effort to stop it from tingling.
“Do I think what?”
It was annoying how he never dropped the thread of a conversation, even when you wanted
it dropped.