The Mad British

by Leick, Hera

  "I guess you should run along now and pass on the goods to your dog." She throws her thumb toward the bar where Travis is watching us. “I’m sure he’s up next to hit on me—that, or sniff my butt.”

  I nod again and she looks worried at my sudden vow of silence. She gives me another second to respond and when I don’t—because how the hell do you respond to all of that?—she steps past me and starts to walk away.

  "Oh, James," she calls out behind. I feel her slip up behind me, then stretch up, resting her chin on my shoulder. "I forgot the most obvious thing of all. I’m still on my date, so neither of you has a chance of scoring with me tonight." And then, she is gone. Really, she’s gone. I turn round, wondering if I should at least say goodbye or even apologise, but she’s disappeared.

  I turn back in Travis’ direction, not surprised to see him grinning from ear to ear. I make my way across the room.

  "I saw the whole thing, man," Travis remarks when I near the bar. He lowers his glass beside him on the counter, getting to his feet. Patting me on the back he says, "Uh, yeah, sorry, Hatter, but I don't think you're hitting that tonight."

  3

  Queen

  WHO WOULD HAVE guessed that sitting with the finest of London high society, would be so much fun?

  I have just beaten twomiddle-aged businessmen playing blackjack.If the winnings keep coming like this, I can pay back some of my debts and maybe even cover the rent this month. Tonight won’t be a complete waste of my time, after all. I have no intention of going back to William’s house tonight. James got it spot on. William is a tosser. James’ words, not mine.

  Problem is, everyone leaves the table. Drumming my fingers against the green felt, I wait to reel in the next rich sucker so I can steal—I mean, skilfully take their money away from them. Cue in the sexiest man to walk on the planet—scrap that.

  The Universe.

  "Is it a good or bad sign when you're the last one left at a table?" comes a familiar deep voice behind me. I don’t have to turn round to know it’s him. His posh English tone is smooth and raspy, and makes my stomach flutter.

  His voice is sex.

  Pure, unadulterated sex.

  Mind-blowing sex.

  And the more he talks, the more I feel like I could orgasm, which was partly why I had legged it so fast out of the lift.

  "Miss Queen."

  I don’t turn round. “Mr. . .?”

  “Hatter.” He leans in closer, his breath hot on my ear. "Please don't tell me you're counting cards."

  My shoulders tense and my mouth starts to fall open, but I catch myself, spinning round in my chair to face him. "How dare you insinuate—"

  "I've been watching you." He sits down at the table beside me. His voice is low, and so damn calm; I hate it and love it at the same time.

  His eyes, piercing blue and probing, send every nerve inside of me into madness. He leans toward me, his scent almost sinful, and places a hand on my knee. The touch is electric, the hairs rising on my nape. There is silk between my leg and his palm, leaving me only to imagine what it will feel like to have his hand on my naked skin.

  I lick my dry lips. "More like stalking me."

  I nod at his dog, whom I’ve deemed to call Lassie. He is standing several feet away. Panting at his master.

  Good little trained doggy.

  I smile as an image of Lassie curled up by the foot of James’ bed pops into my mind. He’s fairly handsome, with curly, frizzy light-brown hair and glasses. Being this close to Lassie, I notice he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt underneath his suit jacket.

  "Oh look, you’ve brought your dog with you."

  "He's not my dog."

  James looks briefly in Lassie’s direction. I notice the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the sides when he smiles at me. It’s endearing, almost sincere. His custom tailored suit is black, his shirt white, and the absence of colour draws attention to those stunning devilish blue irises that shut everything out when I look into them.

  He’s too handsome, stunningly so, with sharp but rugged features. His chiselled face is framed with dark-brown hair, an undercut that is slightly longer on top. Film-star looks and a licence-to-kill body. If he isn’t the next Bond in the new film coming out this summer, it will be the crime of the century. I think about starting a Kickstarter project: James Hatter for next Bond. Rewards could be offering half-naked photos of him in various outfits and backdrops.

  Oh dear. . . I really need a good shag.

  I’m dragged back to reality when James takes his suit jacket off, hangs it over his chair, then rolls up his shirt sleeves to his elbows.

  Wow. . .

  Just. . . freaking wow.

  Broad shoulders, and arms thick with muscle, strain underneath his tailored shirt with every movement. The thick, corded veins running along his forearms disappear underneath his shirt. His body makes me want to join a gym just so I can prepare myself.

  I swallow, taking a silent deep breath. "Then you should know you’ve picked up a stray and I think it needs feeding. . . and his fur cut." I slide my hand over James’. His skin is so rough beneath mine and I get the distinct impression he works out hard either in the gym, or in some kind of manly sport. I’m hoping it’s the latter so I can go watch him secretly. Maybe use a few camera shots for my Kickstarter project.

  His pupils widen a little at the touch and he moves to link his fingers in mine. I brush his hand away before he can. Even though William is being a ‘tosser’, and I will be ending our date as soon as I get him on his own, he is still my date. He did, after all, pay for the very expensive tickets to get me into this casino fundraiser. It’s just so easy to forget myself when I’m around this tall, gorgeous blue-eyed hunk.

  "If you're sitting here," I say, leaning toward him, "I expect you to play cards."

  "Suppose I can't feel too bad taking your money seeing as you went about winning it by cheating." He pulls some chips from his pocket and lays them on the table.

  My stomach knots and a scorch of heat prickles up my neck. But I don’t lose my poker face, needing to do my best to gather my bearings or else he will surely one up me.

  Fit and intelligent.

  That’s a hard find in a man.

  "Now who’s being awfully presumptuous," I respond.

  I turn back to my stack of chips and watch as he pulls more from his pocket, until his stack doubles mine. He is such a man. Bewitchingly hot. But a typical man.

  “Does size really matter?” I quip.

  “It’s never been a problem for me,” he replies with a wink. I flush with heat when his dimples appear, and I crave to see whether he’s bluffing or not.

  He straightens out his chips, clears his throat, and his mood switches faster than flipping a coin. "Do you know how to count cards?" His voice is blunt and low, eyeing the dealer who’s busy shuffling the cards.

  My chest tightens a little. I pick up my glass of champagne, taking a long sip to quench a dry mouth and to buy my time. Is there a right or wrong answer, here? I can lie, but if he’s been watching me—damn it—he already knows the truth.

  "You'll just have to take your chances," I murmur, my eyes darting from James to the dealer.

  He shakes his head, smiling as our cards are dealt. My heart rate begins to steady when James doesn’t call me out, doesn’t make a big spectacle of it all. The men I had just swindled out of their money wouldn’t be so apt to let it go.

  "Hmmm," he mumbles, looking down at his cards.

  I take a sneak glance at James, trying to read him, but I know so little about him that it’s difficult. Not to mention it’s easy to get lost in the cut of his jawline, the intensity of his eyes, and the way his full lips twitch upward while he contemplates his next move. His shoulders tense, but he quickly relaxes, settling back in his chair as he meets the dealer's eye.

  Taking a sneak glance, I begin to wonder if James has any physical flaws. I don’t realise I’m spellbound, getting sucked into the vortex that seems to surro
und him, until his eyes catch mine. I look away and shift in my seat.

  No, I conclude, he definitely doesn’t have a single physical flaw. Even if one did exist, I’m willing to bet his one flaw would be a perfect flaw.

  "I called," he says, leaning toward me, clearly amused that I was checking him out.

  "Sorry." I rub my hand over my neck. I’ve completely forgotten to inspect my cards.

  Twit.

  I glance at his cards. He has an ace of spades turned upward and the dealer hits him with a four of clubs. I look down at my pitiful ten of hearts.

  Just great. . .

  I glide my fingers over the card, sliding my thumb beneath it. It’s hard not to look amused when I see the jack of diamonds. Looking back at the table, I move to double his bet after motioning to stay. I want to run a victory lap when I hear him sigh beside me.

  Sitting back in my seat I touch my fingertips together. "You sweating over there under that fancy collar of yours?" Now I am the one to wink at him. I am so going to enjoy watching his cocky butt walk away a loser.

  "I don't sweat." He nods to the table when he calls my bet, then nearly triples it. "But I won’t mind seeing you sweat."

  I look down at my cards when the temperature of the room triples. "Too bad you probably never will." I call his bet, but don’t raise it.

  "You said ‘probably’ so I do have a chance." He nods toward my chips. "And you didn’t raise. That's a sure sign of weakness."

  "Or maybe I don't want to feel too guilty when I take your money." I polish off my glass of champagne and hold the glass up toward him. “Just in case you have the urge to steal my drink again. But please, feel free to discard my empty glas—”

  I thump my glass down on the felt when the dealer flips the cards over. "Crap," I mutter, gritting my teeth when the dealer flips over my jack of diamonds and his six of hearts.

  Twenty-one.

  Damn him.

  "Not so cocky, are we now," James taunts, mocking my previous smug tone. "You just never know when the cards are going to turn."

  I toss down my chips to buy in, and refuse to look at him. I can feel his eyes on my face, tracing over my profile, then down over my cleavage.

  I freeze.

  Oh. God.

  Sighing as if I’m bored, I wave the dealer to hit me without even looking at what card he flips over.

  "A true gambler," James remarks, raising his bet. He lowers his voice. "Or rather a true counter."

  "Better than just being a slimy cretin." I tip my head to the side and force out a smile. “Why don’t we quit the chatter and get straight down to business.” I’m determined to do my damnedest to ignore this beautiful bastard. Money will pay the bills. His sexy arse will only land me in trouble.

  “Adelaide, I’d love to get my business straight down in you.”

  Holy Hell. . .

  This man should come with a warning: Not suitable for under eighteens.

  Sliding my thumb under the card I see a two of diamonds, which adds up to seventeen with my other two cards. Great. I’m going to lose again and he is going to bring out the fanfare, his thrown in tow, and proclaim himself the best blackjack player in history, while his dog barks the song of victory.

  "Adelaide." His voice purrs like a panther. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

  Is it possible to hate someone at the same time you want to push them against the wall and kiss them until you die from asphyxiation?

  I tap my fingers repeatedly against the felt when the dealer reveals he has nineteen, and hold back the insult weighted at the tip of my tongue. A really witty insult, something to do with James, his brain—his lower brain—and him being sore. I refuse to show him that he’s getting under my skin, when all I really want to do is shove his poker chips down his throat.

  And so the next several hands go like this: James takes my money, hands out a few smug words, then grows annoyed when I don’t give him any kind of response.

  Gradually, three other men join us at the table. Somehow I’ve allowed the smooth know-it-all James to throw me off track and now I've lost count of the cards. No doubt he's done this intentionally, boosting his own enormous ego in the process. So, I sit back in my seat, observing the other men as they all take their turns, sipping my glass of champagne.

  James barely acknowledges the other men. I notice the way his eyes sweep across the table, then glance up at the dealer, then back down at the cards. Every move he makes is meticulous.

  I fold, knowing the dealer is going to flip up a low card to the first man, a face card to the second, and I suspect—just a gut feeling—an ace to James. The third man is already busted.

  Sure enough, the first man gets a five of hearts, only to fold, and the third man gets a king of spades to go along with his matching six. And James gets an ace of diamonds to match his the-sun-shines-out-of-my-arse expression. He wagers high, smirking at the other man. My eyes widen as my thoughts scramble to understand.

  Then it hits me like a speeding train.

  Oh, the nerve of that cocky bastard.

  He is just as guilty of counting as I am.

  "Adelaide," James says, placing his hand on my shoulder.

  I flinch at the touch, then shrug his hand off my bare shoulder. "Sorry, I’m just uh—"

  "Just what?"

  I feel a vein twitch in my neck. "Thinking about how I'm going to win my money back."

  I give him a hard stare, then glare at his ever-growing pile of chips. It’s more than half that he’d collected from mine.

  "Feeling lucky?' he asks, angling toward me, completely disregarding the other men at the table.

  "I have fifty pounds." I smack my chips together. "Thirty minutes ago, I had about five hundred. How do you think I'm feeling. . . love?"

  He leans in, an inch away from my ear, and whispers, "Five hundred pounds you won by cheating." Leaning back, he looks me straight in the eyes, daring me to argue with him. "Now. . . you may want to recount your losses."

  James glances at the other men when he notices their irritation with him slowing the game. With one look—one pretty lush look that I’ll never admit to melting under, not even under the pain of torture—the three of them retreat like they’re the Three Little Pigs and James is the Big Bad Wolf. When Fifer, Fiddler and Practical Pig leave the table, Wolf turns back to me, looking like he just ate a plate full of bacon sausages.

  "But,” he adds, “I am willing to help you win it back." His wolfish smile is disconcerting. I’m not sure I want to win the money back now.

  "If you want me to show you my 30B boobs," I start, squinting my eyes at him, "that is so not happening."

  "While I appreciate the thought. . .” His gaze dips to my cleavage once again. I’m torn between thrusting his chips down that big cocky mouth of his, or ripping his shirt off so I can lick every dip and curve that I’m sure is waiting for me under there. I clear my throat with exaggeration and he finally looks up. “I’m not one to skip straight to dessert. I had something else in mind."

  I sit back. "I'm not sure I even want to know." I fight the urge to smile like a schoolgirl with a big crush.

  "All or nothing." He holds his hand up, motioning at his stack of chips. "You win, you get all of yours and mine, which is a little over. . . one thousand pounds."

  "And if I lose?" I lift my chin. "I'm seriously not going to show you my boobs."

  "I'm not going to pay you to show me your—" He pauses, stumbling over the word.

  "Boobs," I offer. He looks embarrassed so I say it again.

  "Adelaide—"

  "What? Are you not a boob guy?" I laugh softly.

  "I like them very much," he replies, refusing to say the word. "But I don't pay women to take their clothes off."

  "You mean they just rip them off for you?"

  It surprises me when he grunts, seeming to be annoyed by my response. "I didn’t mean it like that. Why do you always have to mis—?"

  "Anyway, what's your wager?" I cut in. Yank
ing his chain is not as fun as taking his money. I eye his stack of chips. "I want to win my money back."

  "You're very sure."

  "Hey, don’t hate the player, remember? It’s not my fault I'm better at blackjack than you."

  "Are you judging from your losses?" He nods in the direction of my measly two chips.

  "Just tell me what it is.”

  Why does he feel the need to draw every interaction out? I’ll win back my money, then leave. It feels like I’m hanging on a rope with James Hatter. These mixed feelings I have for him are giving me a headache. And now that I’m back on track, I know I can win.

  "You lose and . . .” He stops to think. "You come up to my room for one drink."

  I snort. "A drink? Is that code for sex?"

  “Miss Queen, you have a filthy mind. It’s code for: I will pour you a glass and we can chat. Alone. Get to know one another.”

  I’m torn between losing on purpose, or winning my money back and walking away with my pride. I decide to go for the dramatics, hoping he will drop the offer entirely. "If you get me drunk I still won't show you my boobs."

  "I don't want to see your damn—"

  "What's wrong with my boobs?" I peer down at my chest and he laughs at me, but not in that you're-being-ridiculous kind of way. Instead, he seems to be endeared by my antics. "Seriously, my boobs—"

  "Are perfect," he cuts in. I blush to the tips of my ears, and his eyes seem to scintillate without mercy. I drag my eyes away from the endless blue.

  He’s humouring me, which should madden me, but he has been leering at my cleavage enough to know. And it’s hard not to feel weak-kneed when a man like James Hatter makes it blatantly clear that he is attracted to me.

  I’m not sure why I feel so drawn to him. I have talked to him for all of thirty minutes—half of that time filled with urges to smack him—and yet I want nothing more than to go to his room for. . . a drink.

  God help me.

  I really could do with a double shot of vodka.

  Maybe it’s the way his eyes soften when he looks in my direction. I've noticed the way he looks at all the other women in the room.