Reese's Wild Wager

by Barbara Mccauley

  Irresponsible, was he? Life was one big lark, huh?

  Well, fine, then.

  “Tell you what, Syd,” he said slowly, turning back to her. “What say we let a friendly card game settle this for us?”

  Her head came up, and her brow came down. “What?”

  “A card game. Go Fish, Crazy Eights. Maybe a couple hands of Old Maid?”

  His jab struck home. She straightened; her eyes shot blue daggers at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “A game of chance to settle this once and for all. If you win, I’ll keep Boomer fenced in, and if I win…” What did he need? Something to not only shut Sydney up, but put her in her place. Think, Sinclair, what do you need?

  He grinned suddenly. She’d never go for it. He knew she wouldn’t. He just wanted to see the expression on her face, wanted to see her back down from a challenge.

  “…if I win,” he continued, “you have to come work at the tavern for a week. I’m short two servers right now. Wages included, of course, plus tips.”

  Sydney’s jaw went slack; she was silent for all of fifteen seconds. “You expect us to settle this with a card game? That’s preposterous!”

  He grinned at her. “That’s my middle name.”

  “You’re serious. You’re really serious.”

  “Yep.” She’d back out now, Reese thought with smug satisfaction. No way she’d go through with anything as foolhardy as this. And since he had her attention, he’d up the ante till she squeaked. “Under my direct supervision, of course. You have to do what I say.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t go looking so hopeful, Sydney,” Reese said, thoroughly enjoying the flush on her face. “I’m only referring to business here, though we could certainly discuss job perks and options, if you like.”

  “Let me get this straight.” She blew a wisp of hair from her cheek. “If I win, you promise to take care of Boomer and keep him out of my flowers. If I lose, I have to work for you, here, for a week.”

  “Just three hours a day. Someone as tidy and organized as you could surely work three hours into your schedule.”

  Sydney’s laugh was dry and short. “Even coming from Reese Sinclair, this is the most absurd proposal I’ve ever heard.”

  He knew she wouldn’t go for it, but it had been fun, anyway. Still, he couldn’t resist giving her pride one more tug. “If you’re afraid to lose…”

  “Afraid?” Her eyes narrowed sharply, and she stepped closer to him. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Syd.”

  “All right, Sinclair.” That chin of hers went up again. “What do you say we make it more interesting? If I lose, Boomer’s not only free as a bird, I’ll come work for you for two weeks. If I win, though, Boomer not only gets kept in…” she leaned in close “…you have to come work for me for two weeks after my restaurant opens.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Afraid you’ll lose?” she asked sweetly.

  “You mean it.” He stared at her incredulously. “You’ll actually go through with it?”

  “I’ll not only go through with it, I’ll honor my bet, win or lose. Will you, Sinclair?”

  A muscle jumped in Reese’s jaw. “You’re on.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  They marched to the table and sat down opposite one another. Reese scooped up the scattered cards and started to shuffle them. It had been a long time since he’d played Go Fish or Crazy Eights. He hoped like hell he could remember.

  “So what’s it gonna be, Syd?”

  She sat straight in her chair, her hands laced primly on the table. “How ’bout five card stud, one-eyed jacks wild?”

  Reese nearly dropped the deck of cards in his hand. “You want to play poker?”

  “What did you think we’d play? Gin rummy?” She lifted one brow. “My father taught me to count with a deck of cards when I was two. When the other kids were playing Chutes and Ladders, I learned how to double down with an eleven in blackjack.” She smiled, held her cool eyes steady with his. “Now deal the cards, Sinclair. I’m about to kick your behind.”

  One hour and ten hands later, to Sydney’s delight—and Reese’s annoyance—her stack of chips was twice the size of his. It was a glorious sight, Sydney thought. Each tall, neat column of red, white and blue signifying her victory.

  And Reese’s defeat.

  Of course, she hadn’t officially won yet, but it was just a matter of time—a short matter of time, based on the past three hands. At the rate he was losing, she should be able to put him out of his misery in the next hand or two.

  She still couldn’t believe she’d let him goad her into this. At twenty-six, she liked to pride herself on being a mature woman, in control at all times, one who had a solid handle on her emotions. A woman who used logic and practicality to make decisions, not childish grammar-school antics of one-upmanship.

  But he’d looked at her with such arrogance, such smug amusement, she’d simply accepted the challenge, as much to her surprise as his.

  Glancing over the cards she held, she watched him study the hand she’d dealt him. Those incredible eyes of his were narrowed with concentration, and one shock of thick, dark hair tumbled over his furrowed forehead. Absently, he brushed his thumb back and forth over the strong line of his chiseled jaw; the quiet rasp of thumbnail against the shadow of his beard was the only sound in the office.

  She’d never had the opportunity to stare so openly at a man before. It was not only rude, it was extremely forward. In this situation, though, she considered it a necessity. After all, this was poker. The most important rule of the game, her father had taught her when she was a child, was to closely assess an opponent. Every movement, every blink, every twitch, was to be noted, then analyzed. If her father had taught her nothing else before he’d left when she was twelve, she had learned to be observant. If she ever saw him again, she just might have to thank him for that one thing. But seeing her father again was one bet she’d never take. He’d called a few times, sent a couple of birthday cards, but he’d never come back once to see her after he’d walked out fourteen years ago.

  Knowing what an extremely difficult woman her mother had been to live with, Sydney could understand the lack of visits. What she couldn’t understand, what she couldn’t forgive, was him leaving her alone with her mother, who had no one else to take out her bitterness on except her daughter.

  But that was water under the bridge, Sydney thought with a sigh. She was twenty-six now and in a few short weeks she’d have the business she’d dreamed of for so many years. The past would be behind her, including the humiliation of Bobby and Lorna.

  Sydney Taylor was going to be a new woman. She was going to be the woman everyone thought she was: confident, self-assured, poised. A woman who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought or said about her.

  All the things she wasn’t, but desperately wanted to be.

  Realizing that she’d lost focus of the game while her mind wandered, Sydney snapped her attention back to Reese. She’d learned that when he touched his finger to the cleft in his chin he had at least a pair, when he scratched his neck just under his left ear, he probably had three of a kind or better. When he brushed his jaw with his thumb, as he was doing now, odds were he was bluffing.

  And so she watched him. Closely. Strictly for the game, of course.

  She’d never noticed the scar just under that firm mouth of his, or the slight bump at the bridge of what she would consider an otherwise perfect nose. He wore his hair combed back, and the ends just brushed the collar of his blue flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his forearms muscled and sprinkled lightly with the same dark hair that peeked from the vee of his shirt.

  No question about it, he was an amazing specimen of masculinity. He wasn’t her type, of course. After Bobby, she’d sworn off smooth-talking, shallow playboys who h
ad more muscle than brain. While she could certainly appreciate Reese Sinclair’s blatant maleness, she had no intention of being a victim of it, as were most of the women in town.

  But then, Sydney knew she wasn’t Reese’s type, either. He went for the bubbleheads, the women who giggled at every joke and endlessly batted their eyelashes. She’d seen Heather Wilkins hanging on his arm last month at the pumpkin festival in town, then Laurie Bomgarden had been snuggling with him a week ago at the Women’s Auxiliary’s annual fall charity drive. Sydney doubted that Heather and Laurie’s IQs combined was equal to the current outside temperature. And considering it was only the beginning of November, she was being generous.

  But who Reese Sinclair spent his free time with was of no concern to her. Her only concern was beating the pants off that arrogant butt of his that the women of Bloomfield were so crazy about.

  She glanced at the “Best Butt in a Pair of Blue Jeans” award he’d hung on the wall in his office. The conceit of the man, she thought with a sniff. Maybe they’d give her an award when she kicked that butt in poker.

  “You vote for me, Syd?”

  “What?” Realizing that she’d been caught staring at the award, Sydney snapped her gaze back to the table. Reese was watching her, and the amusement she saw in his eyes made her stiffen.

  With a grin, he nodded toward the wall. “Did you vote for me?”

  “Certainly not.”

  It was a bald-faced lie. She’d considered it her civic duty to vote when the ballot box went around for the annual “best butt” election. The contest had been close this year, between Lucian and Reese and the sheriff, Matt Stoker. It had been a difficult choice, but in the end—she almost smiled at her own pun—she’d voted for Reese.

  And she’d die before she told him that.

  “Who’d you vote for, then?”

  She straightened the cards in her hand, lining them up perfectly. “What makes you think I voted for anyone?”

  “Sydney Taylor miss an opportunity to express her opinion on something?” He settled back in his chair and regarded her with a curious gaze. “So why didn’t you vote for me? Don’t you think I deserved it?”

  She was becoming increasingly flustered by this rather personal topic of conversation. “I wouldn’t know if you deserved it or not. I’ve never noticed.”

  “You’ve never noticed?” He looked slightly wounded. “You come over to the tavern every Wednesday night for the book review club. How could you not notice?”

  “Reese Sinclair!” She slammed her cards down on the table. “In spite of your high opinion of yourself, I do not go to the book review meeting to stare at your butt!”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, I do not—”

  “I heard what you said, I just don’t under— Oh.” He glanced at the wall, then back at her. “I was talking about the restaurant award. You are a member of the Chamber of Commerce, aren’t you? And you did vote for the top restaurant in Bloomfield County, didn’t you?”

  The restaurant award. She felt her cheeks burn. He was talking about the restaurant award.

  He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Sydney Taylor, shame on you. Where is your mind tonight?”

  Her entire face was on fire now, the heat spreading down her neck. “I…well…I—”

  “I’ve never seen you stutter and blush, Syd.” Reese gave her a lopsided grin. “You were thinking about my—”

  “I was not!” She scooped up her cards again and stared at them. “The sun will be up in a few hours and you can crow all you want, Sinclair. Right now, this game is gathering moss. Could we get on with it, or do you need some ice for that swelling in your head?”

  “You know, darlin’—” Reese picked up the cigar he’d put out an hour ago and bit on it “—that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one of these days. You need to learn to lighten up and have some fun.”

  “I am having fun.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I have twice as many chips as you do. Bet’s to you, darlin’.”

  Reese grabbed a large handful of chips and tossed them on the table, then grinned at her. “Five dollars.”

  It was a steep bet, the largest he’d made since they started playing. He was bluffing, she thought. She’d seen him brush his thumb over his jaw a few moments ago. Sydney matched the bet, then slid another column across the table. “And I raise you.”

  And then he scratched his neck under his left ear.

  Oh, dear.

  Now she wasn’t sure.

  She stared at her own cards. She had three jacks, ace high. A good hand, but not great.

  His thumb brushed his jaw again. She chewed on her bottom lip.

  “Let’s have some real fun,” Reese said casually and glanced up from his cards. “Let’s bet it all.”

  Bet it all? Her throat went dry. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” He shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and leveled his gaze at her. “Winner take all.”

  She knew enough not to look away, not to so much as glance at her cards. Confidence was everything in this game. Never sweat, never falter. Absolute self-assurance.

  “Do you know how to make quiche, Sinclair? With a splash of goat cheese and a kiss of basil? It’s a little more complicated than flipping burgers and pouring beer, but you’ll get the hang of it.” Without so much as a blink, she pushed her stack to the middle of the table. “Or maybe I’ll have you put on a tux and wait on tables. There are plenty of people who’d pay to see that.”

  “Not as many who would pay to see you wearing a wench outfit toting a load of drinks.” Reese shoved his chips across the table. “Hell, I’d give a month’s salary for that, myself.”

  They stared at each other, neither one flinching.

  “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” Reese raised one corner of his mouth.

  Sydney laid her cards on the table without even looking at them. Reese glanced down. Without any expression at all, he laid his hand down, too.

  Breath held, she slowly lowered her gaze.

  Three tens.

  And a one-eyed jack.

  Four of a kind.

  Her breath shuddered out of her. She felt a pounding in her head, as if her skull were a tin drum and someone was beating on it. Boomer, who’d started this whole business in the first place, lay under the table, softly snoring.

  But she could hardly blame the dog for her own stupidity.

  “We don’t open until ten tomorrow,” Reese said cheerfully. “But show up at eight to get ready for Sunday breakfast. The Philadelphia Gazette ran an article about the tavern winning the Chamber of Commerce award, so I’m expecting a crowd.”

  Numbly, she rose from the table, every limb stiff and cold. She’d lost. Dear Lord. Two weeks. She had to work for Reese Sinclair for two entire weeks. Under his “personal supervision” as he’d put it.

  She couldn’t think right now. Couldn’t let Reese see how completely humiliated she was.

  She’d never let anyone see her like that again.

  “All right, then.” Drawing in a deep breath, she tightened the belt of her robe. “Eight o’clock it is.”

  “Sydney.” Reese shook his head and chuckled. “You don’t think I was serious about this, do you? I was just having some fun.”

  She lifted her chin and narrowed a cold look at him, praying he wouldn’t see how badly her hands were shaking. “That’s just one difference between you and me, Reese. Everything’s a big lark to you, a game. You don’t take anything seriously, where as I intend to honor my bet and the deal we made. I said I’d be here at eight, and I will.”

  A muscle jumped in Reese’s jaw, and she watched as his eyes darkened. “Have it your way, Syd,” he said with a shrug. “Just remember if it gets too rough for you, that I gave you an out.”

  “I can handle whatever you dish out,” she said in a voice so serene it surprised even her. “What remains to be see
n is if you can handle me.”

  His brow shot up at that, and she simply smiled, turned on her muddy, slippered feet and walked calmly out the door.

  She intended to give Reese Sinclair two weeks in his life that he’d never forget.

  Two

  Sunday was the only morning that Reese allowed himself to sleep in. He cherished that day, was grateful that he had a manager like Corky to come in early, start the coffee brewing, the grills heating, and the cinnamon rolls baking. Squire’s Tavern and Inn was well-known not only for their hamburgers and pizza, but also for their breakfasts—plump sausages, country potatoes, biscuits that melted in your mouth and eggs so fresh they were still warm from the nest. He loved the smells and the sounds of his business: the food grilling, people laughing, having a good time while they ate and talked.

  It reminded him of meals in his house when he was a kid. With five kids at the table—four of them boys—you had to yell to be heard over dinner in the Sinclair house. His father had always joined in with his children’s antics, while his mother frowned and made a convincing effort to keep order. But as strict and rigid as she’d tried to be, they’d have her laughing and acting silly right along with the rest of them before the meal was over.

  He missed those meals almost as much as he missed his parents. Twelve years had passed since the car accident that had taken them both. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday, other times it seemed like an eternity.

  Yawning, he rolled into the softness of the mattress and his pillow, cracked one eye open to glance at the bedside clock. Eight o’clock. He frowned and slammed his eye closed again, shutting out the early-morning light that poured through the open slats of his wooden blinds. He was up every other morning by six, but he never woke up before nine-thirty on Sunday. He still had an hour and a half to go, and he intended to savor every minute of it. The cottage he lived in was directly behind the tavern, a redbrick carriage house he’d converted into living quarters after he’d bought the abandoned tavern and completely renovated it four years ago. He was close enough to his business to handle whatever problems might arise, but it offered enough privacy for him to have alone time when he needed it. Or to entertain company.