by Jackie Ivie
She snorted. His best guess was that she choked back a laugh. Her words made that guess a certainty. Especially as she chuckled after speaking.
“Oh. You’re cute, cowboy. But you’re not that cute.”
Bram straightened. She sounded like he’d said something silly, but the compliment took a bit of edge off her words. Or...was it complimentary? He wasn’t sure about the vernacular. He’d been called handsome more than once. Downright gorgeous by one fancy lady in Dodge City. But cute? That was a new one. Last he’d known, cute was for babies and small children.
Maybe he needed to get out more.
“What’s your name?” he asked finally.
“Marielle.”
“That’s it?”
“No. The long version is Marielle Astrid O’Donnall.”
She segmented and stressed each name. Her first name was a fancy version of Mary. Common enough, everywhere. Her middle name was a clue. Astrid was Scandinavian. She could have some Viking ancestry. That would explain her height. Her surname was pure Irish. That accounted for the black hair. Pale skin. And eyes the shade of a Caribbean island lagoon.
He grunted finally.
“And I suppose now you’ll to tell me your name so we can finish introductions?”
“I’m Bram. Bram Stark.”
“Oh. Of course you are.”
“I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Well, Mister Bram Stark. I’d ask if you are kidding, but your body language is vetoing that. So. I’m simply remarking that your name fits the view. Perfectly. And I sure hope you don’t need me to explain that.”
He frowned. What view?
“Okay. Fine. You want specifics? You got ’em. I am not shy. So...here goes. Your name sounds like one they’d use in a romance for a hot cowboy. And look. You are a hot cowboy. Sexy, too. You’ve got sex appeal written all over you. Tall, dark, and handsome is a given, but then I gotta add in something I’m going to call smoldering. You’ve got a look that really takes the view right over the top. And that’s before I factor in your name. Maybe it’s the hat. I don’t know. I’m just saying if there isn’t a cowboy hero named Bram Stark, there should be. Okay?”
“Uh.”
He didn’t know what to reply. He was flushing or suffering something akin to it. Which was damned odd. He didn’t have physiological issues. He couldn’t. He didn’t. Because that would mean...?
He took a quick step back. Shook his head.
Oh no. It wasn’t possible.
Just.
No.
“I really like the name Bram, by the way. Is it short for Abraham?”
“Uh...no.”
“Are you going to tell me, or keep me guessing?”
“What?”
“Are you just Bram? Or is it short for something like...Brammerton? Bramson? Ibram? Bramley?”
“Bramwell.” The name was growled, grating as it left his throat. And he could swear he felt the spot tingle.
Oh hell no.
“Bram...well. That’s unique. And really cool.”
Her voice had lowered when she split his name into two, making a caress out of it. His skin rippled with what could be a shiver. That was almost pleasant, if it wasn’t so odd. He decided to ignore it. He knew his name was rare, but he’d never heard it called cool before. That must be the reason behind the sensation of goose bumps along his skin.
He was a vampire. Undead. Been that way for a long time.
Any physical reaction was impossible.
It was also unwarranted. He knew his name was unique. That was a problem. Unique names got remembered. Spoken of. Written about. It was especially noticeable on Wanted Posters. No man wanted a unique name. Trouble followed in what had been his world. Akron was the only man that used it anymore. As if that was a cue, a cell phone in his pocket started rumbling. He lifted his right hand toward Marielle, index finger up, as he slid the packet of slim phones from his pocket with his left. He flipped it open with his thumb and put it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Ah. Bramwell. There you are. Finally. Was I mistaken with the instruction earlier? Weren’t you supposed to call when you got back to Dobbin Creek?
“Oh. No, Sir. And then, yes.”
“You are back then?”
“Yeah.”
“I usually do not keep new associates up because we are awaiting calls. LizBeth? You may go to your rest, dear. Tristan should be here momentarily. I’ll handle the desk until then. Yes. I’m capable enough. And no, that wasn’t rude. I’m flattered that you care enough to ask. Now, Bramwell. We have a job. Ready for the particulars?”
“Can it wait?”
There was a small silence. Akron pegged the reason instantly. “Trouble?”
“Yeah.”
“Minor? Or should I send a 4-D Team to obliterate everything?”
“Not 4-D. Uh. Not yet, anyway.”
“Specifics?”
“I got company,” Bram replied. He glanced at her as he said it. He immediately wished he hadn’t. A look of surprise had widened her stunning eyes. He had to turn aside or risk...
He didn’t dare put any more words to this. It was enough that her proximity affected him. Things were happening. Small things at first. But, as he stood there, he could swear he heard the tiniest hint of a heartbeat. It was more of a quiver, actually. Bram tightened his ab muscles and waited to see if anything repeated.
Akron spoke again, jolting him back to the here and now. “This is an interesting development. Male or female?”
“The latter.”
“The prostitute from the anonymous police call?”
“No.”
“Something a bit more serious?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
Akron started chuckling. Bram moved the receiver away a fraction until the sound faded.
“It’s not what you think, Sir.”
“Oh. It rarely is,” Akron replied.
“But—”
“You just handle things on your end, Bramwell. The job can wait. Most everything else can, too. I’ll contact you tonight. No. You’d better call us. Much better plan. I think you’re going to be...occupied.”
“But, Sir—” Bram tried again.
“This call has reached it’s time limit, Bramwell. Cheers.”
The line went silent. Bram regarded the now-dead phone in his hand for a long moment. His right hand was still lifted. That felt, and probably looked, stupid. He lowered his hand as he shoved the dead cell phone into a back pocket. These denims hadn’t been sewn with extra room. It took a bit of time to fit the phone. He should have worn a pair of his trail trousers. They were looser. Faded. Worn. Comfortable.
Nothing about this situation fit any of those descriptions.
Nothing.
“Well. That certainly pops my bubble,” Marielle said.
Bram tilted his hat brim just enough so he could peer at her from beneath the edge. That was still too much impact. He had to tighten his leg muscles to prevent a subconscious lunge toward her. There was no ignoring this. And no stopping it. And just to make certain he got the message, his heart gave another thump in his chest.
Hot damn.
He swallowed any reaction, worked at keeping anything from being read on his face or what she called body language. When that failed, he settled with looking down again. At his own body.
Reanimating.
The heartbeat made it official. Everything vampirism had taken from him was returning. His heart had been reanimated from undeath. It inexorably continued pumping, sending blood through veins, racing returning sensation into every cell.
Because of her. His mate. The one. And only.
He sent a quick glance toward her again. Looked away before they locked gazes. Whoa. He was one lucky son-of-a-bitch. She was truly unbelievable. Slim. Stunning. Her words were hard to fathom, though. She was watching him with her eyebrows raised and a slight twist to her lips as she waited.
“What...um...bubble?” he
asked finally. He should have waited a bit longer. He had to clear his throat between the words to keep emotion from coloring everything.
“You have cell phone service.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Well. Bramwell. What can I say? I was kind-a hoping for something a little different.”
“I have a land line, too.”
She laughed. “I didn’t mean that. I was referring more to this.”
She gestured with her hand at his coffin behind her. Bram followed her arm, then looked at her face, held her glance for long enough his ears rang, and then dragged his gaze away before anything else happened. He was in way over his head. His voice reflected it as it warbled.
“Wh-what of...it?”
“Well. Quite frankly. This coffin gave me hope.”
“Hope?”
Now she was completely mystifying. Was he hearing right?
“Look. I can’t explain it, but I’ll try. Okay? I’ve been in some weird kind of trance ever since I discovered that little trap door in the saloon. I feel like I’ve been on a steady diet of energy drinks, and that’s something that is a complete no-no with my immune system. I still remember how it feels, though. Amped up. Energized. Excited. Fidgety. Ready to leap tall buildings. Create all kinds of things. Knock other things down. Never mind. It’s not important. What I’m saying is I had this unreal compulsion to walk through miles of tunnels, got covered with cobwebs, and what did I find? Your lair. I still don’t know how. Or how to get out. You still with me? Good. Well. Finding this coffin gave me such a feeling of...I can’t explain it. Euphoria? Thrill? You have to understand. I’m an artist. I thrive on imaginative things. Finding a time machine is at the top of my list of dreamscapes, but meeting an immortal is second. I thought, for a bit there, that I’d actually stumbled into a fantasy realm. Or, I’m dreaming. Because I thought you were a vampire. A real one, not just some guy faking it with the underground den, a fancy-lined coffin, and a whole lot of sexy vibes. Stupid me. I know the truth now.”
“Oh, you do...do you?”
Bram was hard put not to chuckle. She might have been describing the effect of consuming energy drinks – whatever those were – but he knew exactly what she meant. Because he felt everything she’d listed. All at once. In a concert of emotion. He didn’t dare act on it. Not with something as precious as his mate. He was struggling with the need to take her. Taste her fluid. Hold her close. He trembled in place. And she thought it fake?
“Oh, come on. It’s obvious.”
“Is it?”
“Enough. Okay, Mister Bramwell Stark? I’m calling your bluff. Vampires do not use cell phones.”
“You play poker?” he asked.
“Poker? That’s out of the blue. Poker?”
“You used the term bluff.”
“Oh. Yeah. I know how to play poker.”
“You any good?”
“I’m not bad. Why?”
“I’m thinking we could spend some time on a game. I’ve got a big table out there. A fresh deck of cards. Poker chips...”
“Just show me the way out of here, okay?”
“Oh. I think you’re going to need to earn it.”
Bram lifted his head, speared her gaze with his, and thoroughly enjoyed the loud ringing in his ears as he waited for her answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The game was Five Card Stud. Her choice. First card dealt face down. That one was called the hole card. The next three were face up. Bets placed on each one. Last one was dealt face down. She usually liked Draw poker, but Stud was the best option when facing a master.
Like Bramwell Stark.
She’d been silent as he’d brought several decks of cards from a saddlebag over in his barrel/tack area. He’d stacked the cards at one edge of the table. He had five decks, each wrapped with a faded red and blue ribbon. She hid the gasp as he opened a pack, cracking the wax seal. He was using Rambler cards. Printed by the National Card Company, mid-1880s if she didn’t miss her guess. Looked real. If so, they were fairly rare. There had been a partial set in the antique shop her mother used to run. Every card had value.
And Bram was using them for a poker game.
Unbelievable.
He divvied up chips next. She’d watched silently as he’d opened the bag at his hip and dumped out chips. They were imprinted with a Dobb Lake casino logo. She’d stayed expressionless as he divided the chips into stacks of ten. Fourteen each. Then he slid her stacks across the table to her. That’s when she got a good look at them.
They were using $10,000 chips.
Holy shit. He’d just given her $1.4 million. The guy was carrying around $2.8 million in negotiable chips. In a leather bag strapped to his hip.
The easy-going Marielle would have been open-mouthed in awe. The gambling Marielle hid any reaction. She picked one of her chips up and studied it as he started shuffling. He did it well. Efficiently. Easily. Gracefully. He wasn’t watching his hands. He had his hat brim just high enough she caught a gleam coming off his eyes as he watched her.
That’s when he’d asked her game preference. She gave it to him. Cut the deck, and put in her ante.
One chip. Ten grand.
Bram was impressive. Every move was slightly unnerving. But she was really good at hiding emotion. Always had been. That came in useful. Besides, she hadn’t exaggerated. She was good. If she needed a room and meal, and hadn’t much money, she could earn it at cards. Easily.
She’d learned poker as a kid. Her mother had been a free spirit. Wild. Trusting. Open. Beautiful. At least, before cancer got her at the age of thirty-six. Mom had gone through several boyfriends before then. One of them had been a dealer in Tokyo in what he’d called his misspent youth. He’d taught Marielle how to shuffle. Deal. Play.
And bluff.
She really needed the last when facing Bramwell. Good thing she was tall. Her height put them on equal terms once settled into a big chair with carved wooden arms and a high back that felt like a small cage. Marielle shook off the fancy. She was going to need all her skills in this game. Especially the hard-to-define ones: Intuition. Gut instinct. Third-eye.
Her hole card was the three of hearts. Her second card was an ace. Same suit. That was a good start. He had a two of spades showing. He lifted his hat brim, touched a glance on her, and then looked down. Her heart rate picked up. She had to work at calming it.
“Any bet?”
“Ten grand,” she replied, sliding a chip in.
He mirrored the move and then dealt her a three of clubs. He gave himself the ten of spades. He had a possible flush. She had a pair.
“Ten grand.” She slid another chip in.
He did the same.
Her next card was another three. This time a diamond. She had three of a kind. Nice. Her heart rate was problematic. It sped up again. Marielle fought the flush before it became noticeable as he dealt himself a five of spades.
“Twenty grand.” She slid two chips into the pot.
He picked up two chips, clicked them together between his forefinger and middle finger like castanets, and then leaned forward to place them atop the pile. He didn’t place them flat. He balanced them on their edges. All without looking like he expended one bit of effort. Wow. That move was as impressive as when he’d holstered his gun.
He didn’t say anything before dealing her last card. Face down. He was easily as proficient as her teacher, Yoshihisa had been. Her card landed with a short edge kissing the last card. Marielle lifted an edge with reverence. No bending of these cards. She had the eight of hearts. That left her with three of a kind. It was a good hand. He’d need to have two fives, two tens, or two spades hidden in order to beat her.
“Bet?” he asked.
“Ten grand,” she said and slid in another chip. Her move knocked one of his chips over. The other remained standing on its edge, although it rolled an inch first.
“Met. And raised. Twenty.”
She watched him pick up three chips. He maneuve
red them in his hand as he moved, splitting his fingers apart with a chip between each digit. They were reassembled into a stack with the same hand as he placed them beside the upright one. Marielle considered the stack of chips for a long moment before looking back at him.
“Want to make things interesting?” He tipped his chin up to ask it. It didn’t help. The shadow from the hat brim reached his upper lip.
“Oh. I’m thinking it’s already into that territory, handsome. But I am intrigued. What do you have in mind?”
He sounded strange when he answered. He also stuttered the first word. That was entertaining. She didn’t know what caused it. It couldn’t be what she’d called him. That was patently ridiculous. Anyone who looked like him had to get called handsome a lot.
An awful lot.
“Win-winner gets to ask a question. Loser has to answer. No subjects barred.”
“That’s rather...intense. Maybe we should just play strip poker?”
He choked. Then he flushed. And then he tipped his chin down, hiding his face. Well. That decided one thing. His hat had to go. It might be cool as hell, but it was an unfair advantage.
“I’m almost afraid to ask what that entails.”
“You’ve never played strip poker? Yeah. Right. Like I believe that.”
“You gonna tell me or not?”
“Well...fine. Strip poker is exactly what it sounds like, Bram. Loser gives up a piece of clothing. Their choice. Oh. I’m still in, by the way.”
Marielle slid two more chips into the pot. She was looking at the equivalent of one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. On a card game. The remaining upright chip fell. It circled a bit before landing beside his fingers.
“How about a combination of the two? Winner gets the pot, a truth...and one piece of clothing. But I think we should change it a bit. Why can’t the winner choose the clothing item?”
He flicked the chip back in with a middle finger. Nonchalantly. Unconcernedly. Marielle worked at containing her reaction. The stripping idea was tickling her innards with excitement. The truth thing was doing even more, since it came with a frightening edge. She didn’t let anyone get close enough to know secrets. But she shouldn’t worry too much. She really was a good player. Yoshi used to call her his best pupil.