“Uncomfortable,” he offered. “I can leave the door open.”
The look on his face was so guileless, she had to smile. “Leave it open, because if alarms start wailing, I don’t want to be looking for a palm pad to find out what’s wrong.” That wasn’t exactly factual. She knew where the palm pads were in every compartment on this ship. And since the passenger cabin Devin now occupied used to be the captain’s quarters, there was a command console integrated into the main panel in the desk to the right of the door.
He gestured to the other side of the corridor, retrieving his beer from her as she padded by, the decking cool under her bare feet.
The door to his quarters was open. She put her beer down on the circular plastiwood dining table in the far corner of the small living area. He tossed the cards on top and chose a seat with his back facing the aft bulkhead. She sat across from him and sifted through the deck, choosing specific cards before she dealt a hand. “Okay, now consider this …”
By the next hand, he’d developed strategies of his own, winning the solo game quickly without any of her previous hints. She had to remind herself that Devin was a linear thinker but that once he had that down satisfactorily, he opened up his more creative side.
“That’s two in a row,” she said, after he won the next hand in ten moves. Damned near pro status, that. “One more and I’m letting you loose in the casinos.”
He grinned. “Bet I can do five in a row.”
She snorted softly. “Maybe. But not each in less than ten moves.”
“Bet I can.”
She tilted his empty beer bottle and peered down the neck. “No more for you. You’re hallucinating.”
“You doubt me?”
“I can win five in a row. Sometimes. But not in less than ten moves.”
“So you doubt me.”
“I think … the game can surprise you. You’re a good card counter. But no one’s that good.”
“What’s it worth?”
“Pardon?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, then picked up a card and tapped it lightly against the polished tabletop. “What’s it worth to you? Make a bet with me. I lose and … you name the prize.”
My ship back in my name. It was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn’t say it, not in jest, which is what he had to be doing. “Seriously …”
“Seriously. What do you want? Your heart’s desire. Name it. I lose, it’s yours.”
Her heart thumped hard in her chest. This time there was no holding back. “My ship.” The rasp in her voice surprised her. “Clear title in my name.”
He nodded slowly, his face tilted slightly, not so much in puzzlement as in amusement. “Deal.”
Shock sizzled through her. “You have to win the next three hands in less than ten moves. You understand? Not just three hands but less than ten moves.”
“Understood.”
This was too easy. This was … Trepidation replaced her shock of a moment before. “And if by some fluke of the stars and heaven you win?” she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
“Besides the fact I get to say ‘I told you so’?” His grin was calm, nonthreatening, but it didn’t decrease her wariness one bit.
He tossed the card on the pile, then leaned back, his expression shifting to thoughtful. He lifted one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t know, Makaiden. What I want, you can’t put a monetary value on.” His smile faded slightly. “So given that … dance with me,” he said softly. “You taught me to play Zentauri. If I win, I get to teach you to dance.”
“Dance?”
“Don’t you remember? Two, three years ago we were on Aldan Prime. A meeting Jonathan scheduled with Donalt Eurek. We took the Triumph, made the meeting on time, but afterward they had this big party.”
She remembered. A lavish affair—the Eurek family owned a number of upscale restaurants and supper clubs. She’d argued she was an employee, just a pilot, but the invitation included everyone. Even Makaiden Griggs, feeling definitely out of place even in her formal GGS uniform.
There was a band—really more of an orchestra. The music was slow, soft, lovely. Devin had asked her to dance. And she’d confessed she didn’t know how.
“I remember,” she said.
“Have you learned since then?”
She huffed out a laugh. “No.”
“Well, then.” His smile widened. “It’s about time. Deal?” He held out one hand.
She eyed his open palm. So he’d try to teach her to dance. Besides being embarrassing, it wasn’t going to happen. He’d have to win the next three hands in less than ten moves. It wasn’t going to happen.
She took his hand, let him close his larger, warm fingers around hers. “Deal.”
His smile warmed her and worried her at the same time.
She withdrew her hand and shuffled the cards, then stopped. She pointed to an area below the edge of the table. “Your Rada. Over here, by me. It’s not permitted in casinos.”
Grinning, he unclipped it from his belt, then pushed it across the table toward her.
Kaidee had experienced tension before, but nothing like this. Part of her applauded Devin’s skill at the game and wanted to see him win five in a row, just for the sheer pleasure of watching it happen. Yet with the soft slap of every card against the tabletop, she knew she was that much closer—or not—to regaining the Rider. And regaining the Rider meant getting her life back—for good, for real.
He won the next hand in less than ten moves easily.
“That’s three down.” He held her gaze for a moment.
“You had a couple of lucky sequences,” she admitted, shuffling the cards a bit more intently. Three in a row—less than ten—was hard but not impossible. She’d done it.
She cut the cards, shuffled again.
Game four took longer, the orbit and gate stacks showing high cards when he needed low. She longed to know what cards he was holding, but then he might read approval or disapproval in her face. This had to be his game, his way.
He had to start losing.
He won.
“Damn,” he said, one eyebrow arched. His surprise sounded genuine. “One more to go.”
She shuffled the cards, very aware now that they were more than plastic-coated symbols. They were the Rider; they were her life and her dreams. She cut the deck, shuffling again, her mind and heart racing. Years ago she’d learned how to cheat at just about any card game, especially if she sat as dealer or banker. She could palm a card or three, hold them back or never use them altogether. If she managed that now, it would throw him off. It would guarantee her a win.
It would gain her the Rider, free and clear.
She fanned the cards across the table with her right hand, then folded them up again with her left. The table was slick, not cloth as in the casinos. Even easier to slip a few cards out.
Devin was taking a long pull on his beer. “Empty,” he said. He reached for her bottle. “Yours too. I’ll get us two cold ones. To celebrate,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “For whoever wins.”
“Thanks,” she said, feathering the cards through her fingers as she watched him rise.
Then he was out the door, his boot steps heading for the galley.
She fanned the cards on the table again in a wide half-moon, her breath suddenly fast. He’d left her alone with the cards. She could set their order so that one or two shuffles when he came back would look legitimate but in reality she’d control the flow. Or she could simply take out a few key cards, hold them back. There were ways, methods …
The Rider would be hers.
He’d never know. The chances of someone winning five hands in a max of ten moves were so rare. He’d never know.
It would be so easy.
She scooped up the cards, their edges cutting into her skin as she held the deck tightly in her fingers. It would be so easy.
And it would be so wrong.
If it were Orvis or Frinks
, she’d do it. No question. But this was Devin Guthrie. Forget that he owned her ship and, in essence, owned her. This was Devin—who risked his life to save his nephew, who pushed Barty ahead to safety in the tunnel, and who came back for her when the striper and the Takan clerk tried to trap her in a scam.
This was Devin, who was, she sensed, a loner by his own choice. Yet he’d asked for her friendship.
She put the deck of cards in the middle of the table, then folded her hands in front of her because they were shaking. She wanted her ship back, badly.
But not that way.
Devin returned, placing a tall bottle on her left. “I peeked in on Barty. His readouts are all good.” He took his seat, his own beer on his right.
“He’s a fighter,” she said, pushing the stack of cards toward him. “Count them.”
“Hmm?” He frowned.
“Count them. You left the room. Make sure that’s a complete deck.”
He picked up the stack, tapped the edges on the tabletop, his gaze on her. Then he slid them back in her direction. “I trust you.”
Her heart lodged in her throat at his words. Her eyes threatened to mist. How could three simple words have such power? Maybe because trust, right along with love, were casualties from her marriage to Kiler. She knew how rare and precious they were.
Damn you, Devin Guthrie.
She gave the cards one more shuffle, then, fingers trembling slightly, dealt the final hand.
The orbit and dock stacks’ top cards were mid-range, which, damn it, created an easy setup that opened a number of workable options. Fate taunted her. But the gate card was a high card, and suddenly she knew, by the way his mouth tightened slightly, that Fate wasn’t taking sides and it was anyone’s game.
He played his first two cards—one high, one low, being cautious. She was only the bank, so she had no choice in which cards she put down in answer to his move. But she prayed they were low cards, boxing him in further if he indeed had a poor hand.
One low, one high. It was still anyone’s game.
He had eight moves left in which to win. She was eight moves away from ownership of the Rider. She had to remind herself that it was his skill being tested, not hers. She was simply an observer. But that didn’t stop her throat from going dry.
She took a sip of her beer as he pulled out a card and put it in line with the dock stack. Okay, she saw a pattern, or the beginnings of one. The next card he played should be high, if that was the pattern.
He played a low card.
What was he doing? She almost asked him that, then realized that neither of them had spoken for more than ten minutes. Was he nervous? For the first time, she considered the possibility. He’d invested considerable funds in her ship. What would happen if he lost it, and in a card game? J.M. would probably deem it irrational and unacceptable. Likely Jonathan would agree. Would this be one more thing to put Devin at odds with his family?
He’s turning out to be something of a rebel. The thought surprised her and amused her. Not just Devin “Perfect and In Control” Guthrie.
Because, somehow, the moniker no longer fit the man seated across from her, hand fisted against his mouth as he concentrated.
Then there were two moves left and, from the line of his cards and the spread of the three stacks, there was no way he was going to make it. A thrill of joy shot through her, followed by a twinge of regret. Devin’s family was going to make him pay in hell’s hard work for losing the ship.
Maybe there was some way they could hide the truth. She could pretend she was working off the debt. Something that—
He pulled a card from those in his hand and put it under the gate stack.
Her heart stopped. It was high on high. Suddenly the numbers shifted. So did her luck.
He was watching her over the rims of his glasses. “This is it.”
She turned over the next three cards from the stacks in order: orbit, gate, dock. A high card would win at this point. Her gaze raked the cards in the spread. There were a lot of high cards out already, and he’d just played one. His last? She didn’t know but had to suspect, yes, it was. Which meant he had only low cards left, and he would lose, and she—
He played the next card.
It was high.
She sucked in a hard breath, part of her astounded at what she’d just seen, at his skill. But the rest of her felt deep-space chilled. The Rider. Her ship. It was her ship and, damn it, she deserved to win! She deserved to own the ship that had been the sole focus of her life for the past two years. Her sanity. Her lifeline.
And she’d just lost her best chance at getting it.
She reached for her beer and, forcing a smile, raised it in acknowledgment. “Congratulations. That was … amazing.” She took a long swig, wishing now the bottle held something stronger. Lashto brandy, maybe. Not that she could afford it.
Devin took a sip of his beer, then put it down. “I know you’re disappointed.”
She shrugged. “It was only a silly game. A way to pass the time tonight.” And time had passed—almost two hours. “We both should get some sleep.” Her day officially started in another five. She pushed herself to her feet.
He rose also, then tugged the empty beer bottle from her grasp. “Makaiden.” His voice was low, almost gentle. “You owe me a dance.”
No, she couldn’t do that. Not after everything today—the shock of Devin buying her ship, of being pursued through Pisstown, detonating cargobots, and then Barty collapsing. No, she could not let herself lean into Devin’s arms, because if she let herself get that close to him, she honestly didn’t know if she’d punch him or, God help her, kiss him, seeking solace because he was warm and male and solid. And she felt, literally, adrift. “Look, it’s late—”
“Not lessons, not tonight. Just one dance.” He stepped closer. “To celebrate.”
“I can’t.”
“Please.” He held his hand out toward her in such an elegant gesture it made her laugh nervously.
“Devin, look at me.” She swept one hand down her front. “I’m in an old shirt and sweatpants.”
“And I’m not about to win any gentleman’s fashion award.”
She almost debated that. His half-open shirt offered a peek at a muscled chest sprinkled lightly with dark hair. His face had a slight beard shadow; his hair was tousled. If a man could ever pull off sexy and vulnerable at the same time, it was Devin Guthrie.
“There’s no music.”
He tapped at his Rada on the table, next to the stack of cards. The soft, lilting notes of a piano filled the small room.
“This is silly,” she protested.
“I think, after the past few days, we both could use a good dose of silly.” He held his hand out again. “One dance.”
Damning her rapidly evaporating willpower, she stepped—not without a huge dose of trepidation—into his embrace.
Devin circled Makaiden’s waist with one arm, then enfolded her hand in his. He put his lips near her ear and, for a moment, lost himself in the sweet scent of her soft hair. But no, no, that wouldn’t do. She was wary, suspicious.
He didn’t blame her. He’d done just about everything wrong since he found her. And this likely was one more thing on the list.
But his life was crumbling around him. His father was behind some kind of mad and dangerous scheme, his family’s home had been threatened, and Barty, his friend and mentor, was ill. In two and a half days they would come out of jumpspace and head for Port Chalo. He had no idea what they’d find there, but he suspected more trouble.
And this time, escape might not be so easy.
So he needed to dance with Makaiden. He needed her in his arms, he needed the heat of her body against his.
“It’s not difficult, really,” he told her. He could feel her breath against his neck, and the desire to pull her more tightly against himself warred with the knowledge that that would only drive her away. And he would lose the only thing of real value to ever come into his life.
“I’ll step forward with my left foot, you step backward with your right. Try not to think about it too much. Just listen to the music.”
“You try not to step on my toes, okay?” Her voice was small against his chest but held a note of defiance. “I’m barefoot.”
“Wait.” He pulled back reluctantly. “I can fix that.” He released her hand, sat on a nearby chair, and quickly pulled off his boots, then padded back to her in his socks.
“You could still do some damage,” she said as he drew her back against him.
“The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” He watched her face as he spoke. There was a double meaning to his words. He hoped she understood.
She lowered her lashes but made no comment.
“Now,” he began, because it was late and he didn’t want the silence to grow between them. “Listen to the beat of the music. One, two, three. For you, right foot, left, then together. Right, left, together.”
“Going backward?”
“Going backward.”
She sighed, then, under her breath, “Right, left, together.”
He chuckled, waited for a few notes to pass, then swayed her gently backward. “Right, left, together,” he repeated with her, moving lightly against her at first. Then, as she seemed to fall into the cadence, he turned her mid-step. She made a small stumble but caught herself. He pulled her back to him and they again moved as one, closer this time.
He needed that.
The melody rose and fell smoothly—it was a classical tune he’d heard since childhood, clear, simple, and elegant. Nothing at all like the woman in his arms who was alternately amazing and frustrating, mischievous and intense, forthright and damnably secretive. By the fourth turn around the passenger cabin’s small main room, he felt her relax. She was following the music, but she was also synchronizing with him, her body strong and lithe, yet fluid.
In the part of his mind where his fantasies lived, they weren’t in the cabin’s main room but in his bed, her body moving in time to his, her breath stuttering against his skin as his hands caressed her curves. The heat between them simmered slowly, building with every brush of a fingertip, until his mouth covered hers with a kiss that finally let him taste her, a kiss that let him groan her name in need, in desire. And she—
Rebels and Lovers Page 21