by Lara Adrian
Table of Contents
Title Page
PLAY MY GAME
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
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EPILOGUE
PLAY MY GAME
A 100 Series Standalone Novel
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
LARA ADRIAN
© 2020 Lara Adrian, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (v1)
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PLAY MY GAME
New York Times bestselling author Lara Adrian returns to the sizzling, emotional world of the 100 Series with PLAY MY GAME, a contemporary romance between a tormented, brilliant painter and the beauty he is determined to have at any cost.
She stands out like a flame in the dark. Out of place in my orbit, she is a bright splash of color in an abyss of darkness. An innocent in a den of sin. And I, Jared Rush, am a master of corruption.
Like my paintings—dark, carnal images that have crowned me the king of the avant-garde art world while also making me a very rich man—I don't flinch away from my baser instincts. And now, every one of those instincts is hungry for the fresh-faced beauty who made the mistake of wandering into my lair.
I don't know her name yet, but that's inconsequential. I know who she belongs to. And while she has nothing to do with the bad blood that's been festering inside me for decades, I can’t help thinking about that old, unsettled score. I'm thinking about payback. And I already have a price in mind. One that begins with her.
When it comes to getting what I want, I always play to win. But in the end, will the cost of my vengeance be more than I can bear to lose?
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1
JARED
She stands out like a flame in the dark.
Surrounded by beautiful people, hundreds of bodies dancing and gyrating to the music throbbing inside my new club, Muse. But she is the one my gaze locks on and won’t let go.
Hair the color of a fiery sunset, cascading down her back in gleaming waves. Long legs and a superb ass wrapped in white denim. Her small breasts float buoyantly under a silky, pale blue blouse as she dances with one of the female friends she arrived with a short while ago.
I track her with singular focus from where I stand overlooking the dance floor two stories below.
She’s damn hard to miss in the roiling sea of black-garbed clubbers that swarm like a hive of drones around their queen. She doesn’t even seem to notice how naturally she draws the energy and attention of the room.
She is out of place here. A bright splash of color in an abyss of darkness.
An innocent in a den of sin.
And I, Jared Rush, am a master of corruption.
I don’t apologize for that fact. I make no excuses, either.
Like my paintings—dark, carnal images that have crowned me the king of the avant-garde art world while also making me a very rich man—I don’t flinch away from my baser instincts. I exploit them.
I fucking revel in them.
Right now, every one of those instincts is gnashing at the bit, hungry for a taste of the fresh-faced, auburn-haired beauty who made the mistake of wandering into my lair tonight.
I don’t know her name, but that’s inconsequential.
I know who she belongs to.
Over the years I’ve accumulated my share of enemies, but few worth counting.
Fewer still worth the effort to wound.
To vanquish.
To ruin.
She has nothing to do with the bad blood that’s been left festering inside me for decades. Yet as I watch her dance and laugh with her friends, it isn’t just the idea of a simple sexual conquest that has my cock going hard, no matter how powerfully I want her. If that were the case, I’m confident I could have her beneath me before the night is over.
No, I’m thinking about slaking something more than mere pedestrian lust.
Something sharper, colder.
I’m thinking about an old, unsettled score. One that, until recently, I thought I’d buried deep.
Now, I’m thinking about payback.
And I already have a price in mind.
One that begins with her.
2
Two weeks later . . .
MELANIE
The chain of pale blue gemstones circling my wrist twinkles under the glow of the dining room’s soft lighting. I can’t stop admiring the unexpected gift, or beaming at the man who gave it to me moments ago over dinner at GC, one of Manhattan’s finest restaurants.
“It looks stunning on you,” Daniel says as the waiter clears our dessert dishes. “I saw it while I was in Vegas last week and knew I had to get it for you. The tourmalines match your eyes.”
I glance down, my smile faltering a little now. My eye color is changeable, more often gray than blue. It’s silly that I should feel even a small disappointment that he doesn’t know that.
Daniel Hathaway and I have only been dating for three months. I can’t expect him to have memorized every minute detail about me in that brief time. After all, he’s a busy, talented man with a demanding career. His architectural work claims much of his time and attention.
I knew that when we began seeing each other. In fact, Daniel’s professional drive was one of the qualities I admired most in him when we first met. That and his kindness.
He’s a good man in a world that’s shown me so few of them in my twenty-five years.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s only a dream I’ve conjured, a wish I never dared to speak aloud.
I reach across the intimate table to slip my fingers into his. “The bracelet is perfect. This whole night has been perfect.”
“I want it to be. We’re celebrating,” he reminds me. He brushes a lock of my unbound auburn hair behind my ear, his grin lighting up his handsome face. “Business at the firm has never been better. The way things are going lately, I could make partner before the year is out. You must be my lucky charm, Mel.”
He lets go of my fingers to pay for our e
xpensive dinner and the three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine he ordered even after I reminded him I don’t drink. I’ve never been much of a drinker. Given my family history, I suppose that counts as something close to a miracle.
Since I started back at college part-time to finish my MBA last year, the strongest thing I consume now is coffee. But not tonight. I’m in the middle of summer classes and I have an exam in the morning. The last thing I need is to lie awake half the night wired on caffeine.
“Ready to go, beautiful?” When I nod, Daniel rises from his chair to help me up from mine.
His hand at the small of my back steers me through the busy dining room. On our way out, Gavin Castille, the handsome Australian chef and owner of the popular restaurant, stops us to chat for a few minutes with Daniel and make sure we enjoyed our meal. Daniel’s easy charm and gregarious openness win him friends wherever we go. It certainly worked on me when we met over a lunch order mix-up at my favorite deli near the university.
The valet brings Daniel’s Jaguar around and soon we are merging into the crush of Tuesday night summer traffic. When he heads in the opposite direction of the bridge that would take me home toward my place in Queens, I assume he has ideas of capping off our celebration by making love together at his Midtown apartment for an hour or two before I have to think about getting home.
But he’s not driving that way, either.
I swivel a confused look at him. “What’s going on?”
He smiles. “You look gorgeous tonight and I want to show you off. Actually, things have been going so great at the firm the past couple weeks, I’m feeling like I could take on the world right now. Especially with you on my arm.”
“Daniel, what are you talking about?”
He pulls a black envelope from the interior pocket of his suit jacket and hands it to me. The seal has been broken, but I can still make out the stamped monogram of the stylized initials J and R in the pressed glob of antique-gold wax.
A crisp white invitation is inside. At least, I assume it’s an invitation.
All that’s printed on it is today’s date and a Lenox Hill address on the Upper East Side.
A very expensive address.
“I don’t understand.”
Daniel’s eyes gleam in the glow of the dashboard. His grin is practically giddy. “That’s a ticket into one of the highest stakes poker games in the city. Extremely exclusive. Invitation-only.”
“You’re taking me to a poker game? Now?” A current of unease passes through me. I set the invitation down in my lap and glance at him. “I didn’t even realize you play.”
“I guess it never came up.” He reaches out to touch the side of my face. “Does it bother you?”
I shrug, trying to decide if it does, or why it should. I’m sure there are many things about Daniel that I have yet to discover. But something about this feels like a secret, and for the first time in our relationship, the ground beneath me seems a little less solid than it did just a moment ago.
I meet his concerned stare. “I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all.”
“Relax,” he says gently. “It’ll be fun.”
I wish I could be as enthusiastic as he is. Suddenly, I just want to go home. “Maybe you should go without me. You know I don’t like staying out late—”
“If you’re stressing about your exam tomorrow, don’t. You’re brilliant, Melanie. One late night isn’t going to derail your perfect GPA.”
“It’s not only that.”
My studies are important, but I’m also thinking about the other obligations waiting for me at home. My mother and six-year-old niece have been living with me since my older sister died four years ago.
Even though Mom says she doesn’t wait up or worry about me when I’m out, I know better than to believe that. And I try hard not to let her down.
Daniel’s only been to my place a few times, but he knows what my family means to me.
He gives me an understanding smile. “We don’t have to stay long, I promise.”
Reaching over he retrieves the invitation and envelope from my lap, tucking them back into his jacket. “And it’s not just a poker game tonight, Mel. It’s a chance to rub elbows with anyone who means anything in this city. With any luck, maybe I’ll clean out some of their deep pockets while I’m there. Besides, it’s not as if I could refuse when the host is none other than the firm’s biggest new fish, Jared Rush.”
Even though I’ve never met the man, my heart stutters at the mention of his name.
Famously talented and renowned for his dark, edgy portraits that seem to expose even his most beautiful and vaunted subjects down to the barest cores of their broken souls, Jared Rush has been a legend in the art world for a decade.
Although it’s been a while since he’s produced anything new, his paintings always command millions. Even if his art disturbs, few would deny its raw, seductive beauty.
Much like the roguishly handsome, rebel artist himself.
“The Gramercy Park project you told me about tonight. The bid for the boutique hotel and gallery your firm recently landed? Jared Rush is the client?”
Daniel slants me an amused glance. “Don’t sound so shocked. He doesn’t seem that bad, actually.”
I know I look skeptical. It’s impossible to live in New York City for any length of time without having at least heard of the arrogant artist and his work.
Or about his rumored carnality.
It is that reputation I can’t seem to ignore now, no matter how hard I try.
All the words I’ve ever heard used to describe Jared Rush fly at me in the dark of the vehicle as Daniel drives us deeper into the posh area of the city near Central Park.
Depraved.
Debauched.
Deviant.
Dangerous.
In the seat beside me, Daniel continues talking, oblivious to my growing unease. “You know, I’d heard Rush was a real asshole beneath a facade of good ol’ boy charm, but landing his account has been one of the smoothest deals we’ve negotiated at the firm. He practically handed the project to me when I met with him in person for the first time last month. Apparently, he’s investing some of his sizable fortune into entertainment ventures these past couple of years. Dance clubs, hotels, that sort of thing. Sounds like he knows what he’s doing, too. He just opened a new club in the Meatpacking District a few weeks ago and it’s been turning big profits from day one.”
“Muse.”
Daniel grunts. “What’s that?”
“The new club is called Muse. I went there with Eve and Paige one night while you were in Las Vegas.”
“Did you?” He seems taken aback by the news. His dark brows furrow slightly. “This is the first you’ve mentioned that.”
I offer him a smile, but it feels tight on my face as I toss his words back at him. “I guess it never came up.”
And as we turn onto East 63rd Street and continue toward the 19th century, five-floor brick-and-brownstone mansion at the address on the invitation, my sense of foreboding deepens.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m approaching the edge of a deep abyss. We haven’t even stepped foot inside the door and I’m already desperate to leave.
Because something tells me if I’m foolish enough to enter this place tonight, I may not find my way out.
3
MELANIE
“Didn’t I tell you we’d have a good time?”
Daniel’s voice is a low, confident whisper beside my ear as he and the other players take a short break after the second round has ended.
And he’s right. I am having a good time.
If I had imagined myself walking into a cavernous, multi-million dollar BDSM dungeon filled with half-naked women and coarse, leering men hunkered over a poker table in a gloomy, smoke-filled room, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
After being welcomed into a warmly lit, opulent foyer by a polite doorman in a black tuxedo while a similarly dressed valet took the Jag and whisked it a
way from the curb, Daniel and I were brought into an elegant second-floor salon. Inside nine other men and a handful of their beautiful companions—male and female—had gathered for cocktails and fancy hors d’oeuvres before the start of the game.
I’d nearly choked when the urbane, silver-haired man in charge of the private gathering presented Daniel with twenty-five thousand dollars in chips, instructing him that he may settle the credit whenever he wished to leave the game.
Twenty-five grand.
Even now the idea makes my stomach clench. It’s more than I make in a year working part-time at my office job in between classes and waiting tables at my neighborhood diner.
The staggering sum hadn’t seemed to faze Daniel in the least. “It’s all right. Only a drop in the bucket compared to the commission I’ll pocket from Rush’s project. Besides, I’m going to win at the table tonight, I can feel it.”
And so he is winning.
Running the table, in fact.
In the hour and a half since we arrived, he’s more than doubled his original stake. I have to admit I’m impressed. Daniel plays like a seasoned professional. Bold moves and clever bluffs. Steep bids that have me holding my breath in my seat behind him.
After the brief pause between rounds, we head back to the table with the others. I’m relaxed even without the cocktails everyone else is drinking, and as I exhale some of my earlier apprehension, I take a moment to soak in the sumptuousness of our surroundings.
Strains of classical music drift quietly through the mansion. High above our heads a massive chandelier sparkles like diamonds. The air is rich with the mingled fragrances of the oiled and polished mahogany millwork and the large arrangement of freshly cut flowers that graces the center of a gleaming Louis XVI table complementing the rest of the luxurious furnishings in the spacious salon.