Ease up... make your movements flow... stimulate the bottom stick... steady, but not jerky... get that friction started... I can't tell you how important rhythm is... once you've established the pace, you can't let up or you'll have to start from scratch.
Jake's "lesson" replayed itself in her mind as she worked the stick. Amanda remembered everything; his words, his husky-rich tone, the way his cheek felt when it grazed hers, the way his sinewy chest and taut hips felt molded to her back and bottom. Everything.
Yet even though she followed his instructions to the letter, the stubborn fire refused to light.
Amanda cursed—vividly, aloud—and felt surprisingly better. Jake Chandler, she decided, was having quite a corrupting affect on her.
Sitting back on her heels, she glared at the pile of wood. It glared tauntingly back at her. She thought about how badly she wanted the fire lit, how much she needed to prove, if only to herself, that she wasn't a complete incompetent.
She sighed, her gaze sliding over her surroundings. The clearing was bathed in moonlight and shadows. Jake still wasn't back, and she didn't think he would be for a while yet. She still had time.
Her attention snagged on his saddlebag, and a crafty grin curled over her lips. So what if it was cheating? It would get the job done, wouldn't it? And Jake would never have to know.
Chapter 9
"So. You ever play poker, princess?" The spoon paused on the way to Amanda's mouth. Her green eyes lifted, and her gaze meshed with probing silver. "What?"
"Poker," he repeated flatly as he set his empty plate on the grass beside his hip. "Strip poker, to be exact. Ever play it?"
"I... well, actually—" Amanda snapped her mouth shut. Was it a lucky guess, she wondered, or did Jake know more about her than she'd thought? No, of course not. How could he? Then again... The fact remained that it was Amanda's skill with that particular card game that had prompted Miss Henry to ask her to leave school. The night Amanda had impulsively taught her friends at the Academy how to play, however, the only clothes that had come off belonged to cherished dolls. Somehow, she doubted that was what Jake Chandler had in mind.
The thought had no more receded when her spoon slipped from her suddenly slack fingers and clattered to her plate. Amanda scowled and glanced away. What little enthusiasm she'd worked up for the chewy jerky and tinny tasting beans evaporated like mist.
Jake grinned. Damn, but he liked it when she blushed! He liked it a lot. On one hand he could count the number of women he'd ever seen do that. Four had used an inspired flush as an entrapment measure; not even close to being spontaneous. Cynthia had too, but he'd been too blind to see it that way. He'd been so sure she was different, so sure her blushes were genuine. Only once he was in too deep had he realized the truth.
Amanda, for some insane reason, was different. Jake thought he must have developed a cruel streak somewhere along the line, because he found he actually enjoyed watching the sweet pink color peek up from beneath her collar, spread swiftly up her neck, splash over her regally carved cheeks and seep all the way up to her honey-gold hairline.
Amanda set her meal aside. There was no way the tasteless food was going to find an easy path down her drier-than-dry throat now. It took effort to keep her spoon from clanking against the tin plate—her hands were shaking quite badly—but she managed. She dipped her head, hoping the muted moonlight and firelight weren't bright enough to betray the hot color in her cheeks. "I've... heard of the game, Mr. Chandler."
"Have you? Good. Wanna learn how to play it?"
Amanda surprised herself by giving the ludicrous suggestion serious thought. When Jake had returned to the clearing earlier, his mood had been almost hostile. He'd barely spoken to her, and he hadn't looked at her at all. He was talking to her now, and he seemed congenial enough. For reasons she refused to scrutinize, Amanda was desperate to keep things this way.
Still... strip poker?!
In her mind's eye, she saw Miss Henry wagging a long, bony index finger and shaking her snowy head in stern disapproval. "No," Amanda said finally, if a bit stiffly, "not particularly."
"C'mon, princess, unlace those corset strings a bit, would you? It's only a card game. Something to pass the time. And you never know... it might be fun."
One golden brow arched skeptically high. "Fun? You think taking off our clothes in a card game would be fun?"
Jake's grin was wicked and quick. "I said might be fun. I take it you don't think so?"
Actually...
Amanda brought herself up short. What was she thinking? But, of course, she already knew. The thoughts spinning through her head were decidedly unladylike. And highly intriguing. "Why don't we play a game of gin?" she suggested hopefully. "That's a nice, refined game. We can play for... oh, I don't know. Money, possessions, whatever. But not clothes."
Jake sighed and shook his head. "First off, I'm not feeling 'refined' tonight, princess. Second, the only money I want is what you owe me." His eyes narrowed, darkened, swept her body. "And the only thing you've got that I want is... against the rules." Slowly, slowly, his gaze blazed a warm path back to hers. "I like my idea better."
"Spoken like a true man. However—"
"What's the problem, princess? Afraid of losing your shirt? Is that it? Or are you just afraid... of me?"
His tone—soft, cajoling, challenging—reminded Amanda of a cut-crystal snifter of brandy. While the liquor looked creamy and smooth inside the glass, it was only once it washed over the tastebuds that the bite could be felt.
Jake's grin broadened. He watched the play of her thoughts on her face—she was so damn easy read—and he liked what he saw. Her prim resolve was starting to crumble. He almost, almost, had her where he wanted her.
Well, no, that was a lie. Where he wanted her was beneath him, surrounding him, all hot and wet and tight, her long white legs wrapped around his hips, urging him closer, deeper. While Jake knew damn well he wasn't ever going to get that close to her—not if he had any brains—at least if he could get her to play cards he could see what self-preservation demanded he miss. No doubt it would make the missing it part that much harder... but, hell, it was worth it. He wanted, needed, to feast his eyes on her silky white skin, her unbound hair. Just once, just for a little while, he wanted to see what the forbidden looked like. He had a feeling it would look like perfection. Like Amanda Lennox.
He watched her scowl, knowing how close she was to relenting. She was tempted to accept the dare, and Jake couldn't honestly say he was surprised. From the first he'd sensed in her a passionate inner spirit swaddled beneath layers of prissy formality. It was only a matter time. All he had to do was play on it, turn it to his own best advantage, appeal to the fiery little imp in her, the one buried and too-long ignored.
"You know you want to," he coaxed.
Amanda remembered last night—Jake naked and wet and proud—and thought that, yes, she wanted to all right. Much more than good sense decreed she should. Her chin notched up; she hoped the gesture looked more determined than it felt. "No, Mr. Chandler, I'm afraid I know no such thing."
He shrugged, and Amanda's gaze snagged on the small brown feather resting against his breastbone. The feather shifted with every supple movement of his body. A gust of the cool night breeze tossed his hair back from his face, billowing the strands around Jake's shoulders like a thick, inky curtain. Firelight danced over his face, sculpting, defining, accentuating hollows while softening rigid bone structure. The diffused orange glow stroked his skin, making it glisten a rich shade of bronze. His eyes trapped the firelight and sent it stabbing back at her, stabbing into her.
He looked raw, wild and savage, untamable. Oddly enough, Amanda no longer felt frightened or threatened by him. Perhaps that was because he wasn't currently angry with her? Yes, that had to be the reason. His leashed fury was where most of her fear originated. With the fury gone, her fear had dissipated. Well, most of it had, anyway.
Jake sensed correctly that if he gave her too m
uch time to think, she'd make the wrong choice. Leaning to the side, he began rummaging through his saddlebag. "You can shuffle while I explain the rules, okay? Er—you do know how to shuffle, don't you, princess?"
Amanda took offense. "Of course."
"Good. Here, catch."
Something landed in her lap. Amanda gasped when her mind flashed her an image of the last thing Jake Chandler had thrown her way. A snake! She grimaced and, after a brief hesitation, mustered the courage to glance downward. A pack of unbound cards were strewn atop the wrinkled calico skirt covering her thighs.
Her hands were still trembling a moment later when she picked up the cards, stacked them evenly, then automatically cut and started shuffling them. It had been a while since she'd played, yet the cards felt good, familiar in her hands. "Gin?"
"Not hardly."
Well, that was going to be a problem, then. Amanda knew she should warn Jake that, win or lose, she was not going to take her clothes off, but the idea of playing just a few hands of cards was too tempting a distraction to pass up. After last night, she decided it would be best if they kept themselves occupied. Cards would be a good pastime, so long as she could convince Jake that she wouldn't disrobe after removing a few unrevealing articles. She felt confident she could do that. Deceptively, so.
Jake's steely eyes narrowed. Amanda's fingers were working the cards with fluid familiarity. That was his first sign that he was being had. The woman might not know much about poker—that had yet to be seen—but she damn well knew her way around a deck of cards! Filing that bit of information away—and thanking God he hadn't agreed to play gin!—he said gruffly, "We'll start off with something simple. The game's five card straight. No draws, no wilds, no opens. We'll ante with our," he grinned wickedly when her eyes rounded, "shoes."
"You are planning to explain all those terms, I hope?" she murmured sweetly. She stopped shuffling long enough to unlace and pull off one shoe. A scuffed but fashionable high-laced ankle boot joined one doeskin moccasin on the carpet of grass between them.
"I'll explain as we go," he griped, waving her on. "Just deal."
Amanda dealt. The third of Jake's cards hit his bent knee and landed face up in the grass. It was the jack of spades. She glanced up, asking with her eyes if he wanted a new card or a new deal. He shrugged, tipped the card face down with the tip of his index finger, and winked. Obviously, he wanted her to continue dealing. Strange man, she thought, and did exactly that.
After they'd each been dealt five, Amanda set the rest of the deck aside and picked up her cards. She arranged her hand meticulously, careful to be sure equal space was distributed between cards. It gave her jittery fingers something to do, and made the fan of cards so much easier to hold.
She looked up just as Jake was lifting his cards off the ground. He picked them up in no discernible order, digested them in one unemotional sweep, then set them aside, face down. She had a feeling he wouldn't look at them again.
Strange, strange man, her mind echoed as he began explaining how the winning hands were ranked. His voice, she noticed, and not for the first time, was mesmerizing. Too mesmerizing. She found herself not listening to what he said so much as how he said it. Her ears warmed to the smooth, underlying drawl, and the lazy way he had of rolling words off of his tongue.
"... think you can remember all that?"
Amanda was holding the cards high in front of her face, pretending to study them. Jake's question made her peek over the jagged top of the fan. The cards hid her grin. "Yes, Mr. Chandler, I think so. If I have questions, I'll let you know."
Was he returning her grin, she wondered, or initiating one of his own? Did it really matter? The end result was the same either way: the bottom fell out of her stomach.
"Sounds good, princess. Oh, and by the way, it's your turn. I just bet you a sock."
"Let's see. I'll bet my... hair ribbon." That seemed harmless enough.
It took effort for Jake to bite back his grin. This was working better than he'd hoped. Her hair ribbon was the first thing he wanted to see go. "Okay. I'll see your hair ribbon with my other sock, and raise you my... shirt."
Amanda swallowed hard. The man didn't waste time, did he? Now, why wasn't she surprised? She saw his bet with one of her stockings, but didn't raise him. A pair of sevens was good, yes, but nothing to bet the farm—or, in this case, the shirt off her back—for.
As it turned out, she'd risked nothing, but had oh, so much to gain. Her sevens beat his ace high.
"Does that mean I win?" She leaned forward and, grinning widely, extended her hand. She wiggled her fingers in much the same way he had this morning when he was trying to get her to surrender her gun. "I believe you owe me one pair of socks and a shirt, Mr. Chandler."
Jake paid his debt, grudgingly. Amanda could have sworn he muttered "Beginner's luck" under his breath as he wadded up the garments and tossed them to her. Of course, she might have been mistaken. It was hard to tell, because right now she was staring at his firm, lean copper chest... and even the simplest thought was rapidly turning into a complicated process.
"Same game," Jake growled, picking up the cards scattered over the ground between them. His thick fingers deftly turned them face down. "This time we'll add deuces and one-eyed's, just for variety."
I get bored easily, and when I get bored with you...
"All right," Amanda agreed, and smiled indulgently when he explained, in detail, what a wild card was, how one recognized it, and how it figured into a hand of poker. Good heavens, the man really did think she was an idiot, didn't he?
The woman had seen him in less than a pair of flimsy cotton underdrawers. Hell, she'd seen him wearing nothing but a few beads of water and some moonlight! Jake knew he had no reason to feel uncomfortable, but... Dammit, he'd feel a whole lot better if she had lost something! Anything. Her hair ribbon. Her stockings. Her corset—which was the reason he'd originally started playing this fool game of poker to begin with.
Was it any wonder the lady had put up no more than a token resistance when he'd first suggested strip poker? Hell, no. Amanda Lennox was a card shark!
In the last fifteen minutes she hadn't lost a stitch. On the other hand, she'd acquired quite an accumulation of Jake's clothing. He was down to his undershorts, the eagle feather anchored to his braid, and the half-smoked cigarette clamped tightly between his teeth. That wouldn't be so bad, if the night air hadn't turned so damn brisk!
Amanda delicately cleared her throat and passed Jake the cards she'd collected to indicate it was his deal. Ever the lady, he thought sarcastically. His eyes narrowing against the smoke floating up from the tip of his cigarette, he glared at her sharply. She looked far too pleased with herself.
Jake decided it was time to cheat.
"So, princess," he said as he started shuffling, "where the hell'd you learn to play poker?"
Amanda grinned. "My father taught me."
"That figures." Jake shuddered to think what else that man had taught his daughter. The veneer of "lady" was chipping away more every minute. Not a good sign. It would be better, safer, if they kept to their original parts; her the indignant society princess, him the untamed savage. The problem was, the more he got to know this woman, the more he thought he might—might—have misjudged her.
"My father was an excellent card player, Mr. Chandler," she elaborated, her upper-crust accent now locked firmly in place. "While poker was one of his many specialties, he excelled at bridge. Have you ever played bridge?"
One steely gaze slitted. "Contact bridge, Miss Lennox?"
"Yes."
"Not with cards, no." One corner of his mouth kicked up as his attention dipped to the base of her throat. Her pulse was fast and hard. Jake took perverse satisfaction in that. It was nice to know he was getting under her skin. At least he was winning at something tonight, even if it wasn't cards. And speaking of cards...
He resumed shuffling, then dealt out a hand of five card draw, nothing wild, pair or better to op
en, jacks or better to win, progressive. A nasty game, one that could take forever to play through, especially with only two people. However, since he was dealing Amanda's cards from the top of the deck, and his own from the bottom, Jake felt confident that a victory wasn't too far off.
He anted with his sparrow feather. She tossed in a hankie she'd dug out of her skirt pocket. The scrap of cloth was made up of crisp white cotton and frothy white lace. It was also monogrammed, he noted; her initial landed topside. The intricately stitched A was staring him right in the face, like a challenge itching to be met.
It defied rhyme or reason, it certainly defied logic, but Jake had a sudden, overpowering urge to win that hankie. Instinct said that she was the one who'd labored over those perfect, tiny stitches. In the cloud of smoke shifting around his face, Jake pictured her golden head bent to the task, her brow furrowed in concentration, her hands plying the needle with the same casual skill his brought to wielding a knife. He suspected the embroidery wasn't a labor of love; she didn't seem the type to enjoy such a dreary task. Still, it was hers, it was personal, and... dammit, he wanted it! To hell with the corset. The lady could asphyxiate herself trying to ride and breathe tomorrow, with his blessing. Tonight, he wanted that damn hankie.
Amanda leaned forward and frowned. Now what, she wondered, had put that hot silver glint in Jake's eyes? She didn't know, wasn't even sure she wanted to find out. "I said one hair ribbon to you, Mr. Chandler."
"Jake," he replied sharply. "When I'm thinking dirty thoughts about you, call me Jake."
Amanda's mouth snapped shut. Her spine went rigid. Well, that certainly put her in her place, now didn't it? Despite her resolve not to, she wondered what dirty thoughts Jake was entertaining. Just as swiftly, she decided she would be better off never finding out.
It didn't take Amanda long to realize that there was something about this hand of poker that made it different from the previous ones. Jake was playing differently. Betting differently. Recklessly. She could feel the determination in him, could almost smell it in the piney, tobacco-scented air.
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