by Jackie Ivie
“You’re on,” she finally replied.
He gave a choked sound. She couldn’t tell for certain since he was still hiding behind the hat. And then she wondered if she’d heard it wrong since his voice didn’t have any inflection in it. Not one.
“You raising or calling?” he asked finally.
“Calling. Three of a kind.” She turned over her hidden cards.
He turned his last dealt card over. It was the six of spades. Marielle nearly gasped before catching the impulse. If he had a flush...? And then he turned over the hole card. Queen of hearts.
“Your win,” he told her.
Marielle caught a triumphant smile, stood slightly in order to scoop the pot toward her, and then started stacking the chips beside her original ones. She watched them for a few moments before looking up at him. And her mouth said words she hadn’t cleared.
“I want the shirt,” she said.
“You want the tie, too?” he asked.
“Hmm. Your choice. I’ve got nothing against the male revue look.”
“The what?”
“You don’t know what that means, either? A male revue guy is a paid dancer. They strip their clothes off on stage, dancing to music. Usually in front of a big crowd while people stuff money into waistbands and g-strings while they do so.”
She could tell he was angry. Or something close. He’d pulled his tie loose and started unbuttoning his shirt, but finished by yanking it apart, spilling buttons into the room. He shoved it from his shoulders and started wadding the material. Marielle didn’t catch this gasp. She didn’t even try. Bramwell Stark was one ripped male. And then some. She’d never seen pecs like his. Not in real life anyway. All kinds of shoulder and arm muscle went into play as he chucked the balled-up shirt behind him. His belly rippled with the move, too. Holy crap. She’d never seen abs like his, either. Talk about definition. Her indrawn breath wasn’t the only issue. Her nipples tightened, her lower belly twisted, and her upper thighs began to twinge with a series of discordant motions.
“There is no way you’re a—I mean. No. Way.”
“You want to phrase that as a question so I can answer it?” he asked.
“Okay. How did you get so cut?”
“Cut?”
“Ripped. You know, built.”
“Built? You mean...muscled?” he asked.
“Yeah. That.”
“I rode herd. Punched cows. Roped steers. Broke range ponies in. Spent long hours in a saddle. Months at a time.”
“You’re a real cowboy?”
“Was.”
“Was? What do you do now? Gamble?”
“I’m a vampire now.”
“Oh, come on. You’re still pushing the undead thing? Despite the skepticism you have to hear coming out of my mouth?”
“Yep.”
“All right. Prove it.”
“That...might not be such a good idea.”
He lifted his chin, finally giving her a complete and perfect view of his face. Her heart stalled. Her jaw dropped. Her breath froze. Words failed her. Any descriptor seemed lame. His hair was black. Shoulder-length. At least some of it was, since she could see some strands. The color matched the fringe of lashes around incredibly dark eyes. She’d been dead-on about the smoldering part. His look created all kinds of havoc to meet up with what was already happening through her body. Her gaze shifted, dropping her focus to his strong chin, and full lips framed by the slightest shadow of whiskers. There was no denying it. Bramwell Stark was handsome enough to stop traffic. The upper body she’d made him put on display was complete overkill.
Marielle eased a breath out. “Chicken?” she finally asked.
“No. Just cautious.”
“Cautious?”
“Control issues.”
Oh. That sounded fascinating. Scary. And really cool. Oh, boy. Her heart wasn’t the only thing reacting. Each beat was thumped. Heavy. Shivers coursed her skin, alternately chilling and warming. Her belly was getting seized and then released by some unknown force. Through it, she kept eye contact with him, blinking slowly and evenly. She’d been trained by one of the best. She denied reaction of any kind.
Period.
She finally nodded. “Fine. And that was a bit unfair. You answered a lot of questions. Maybe you’d better start dealing.” She punctuated her words with a chip toss into the center of the table.
CHAPTER EIGHT
His hole card for this round was a two of clubs. The first reveal card was a seven. Also clubs. She had the jack of diamonds. She bet a chip. He met it. His next card was the ace of clubs. Hers was the nine of spades. She bet another chip. He met the price again. His fourth card was the ten of clubs. Hers was the jack of hearts. She had a pair of jacks showing. He had a four-card flush.
Her last card was hidden. Her reaction would have been perfect...except for her heart rate. It sped up slightly again. He watched her fingers as she lifted and dropped three chips together, making a clicking sound. He knew she was debating the odds, thinking of upping the pot. Bram looked down at his stack to keep from reading any further clues from her. She didn’t know how her heart dragged his into rhythm with it. Nor how each pent breath had the same effect on his. This mating thing was almost cheating.
He lifted his last card by an edge and dropped it again. King of clubs. He had a flush. She’d have to have two nines or two jacks hidden to beat him. Full house or four-of-a-kind. Nothing less. She upped the pot by thirty thousand. He waited long moments before meeting her bet and then increasing it by another three. If she wanted to stay in, it would cost. Or she could fold. He watched her slide three chips in before he looked toward her. That was a major mistake. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a slight flush along the edge of her jaw. It was just above her jugular...
His canines tingled. That became the prelude to a whole lot of unrelenting reaction. He sucked on his fangs as they grew, pricking his tongue. And that was even more stupid. The taste sent sensation racing through him. It seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. Bram tightened his belly against the onslaught, then his thighs and buttocks. That lifted him slightly from the chair seat. Nothing worked much. His groin got a direct hit. The area infused with blood, warming rapidly. Oh. Hell. Tingling might have been manageable. This felt like sparks were flicking around. He started hardening.
In these tight pants?
Lack of control wasn’t just an issue. It was about to be an embarrassment.
“You want to meet my raise?” she asked from what sounded like very close range.
He glanced up. She’d shoved five chips into the pot, adding fifty grand. Her expression was unreadable but her heart was having difficulty keeping that illusion. Each beat came hard. Rapid. He met her bet with a shove of chips, looking awkward despite how he checked it. And then he called her.
“Oh. You first, handsome.”
Bram turned over his king. Her heart missed a beat. His matched it.
“Don’t tell me you have a flush. Okay? Just don’t.”
“Apologies in advance. I have a flush.” Bram turned over his hole card.
She made a sound beneath her breath and turned over a four of diamonds and one of hearts. She’d had two pair. Not bad. Not good enough...but not bad. Bram would have smiled if he wasn’t expending so much effort on handling things elsewhere on his frame.
“Fine. Looks like you have the win. What do you want?”
“The pant things,” he replied.
What was he thinking? He’d meant to say headband. The last thing he needed was to view any of her bare skin. At least, not until he had this reaction tamped. Or at least reined back.
“The leggings? Oh. I don’t think so, cowboy.”
“Why not?”
“Is that your question?”
“No.” He sucked harder on his fangs and looked down at his lap. He’d been optimistic. These pants of his weren’t just embarrassingly tight. They were painful. Everything was defined. And displayed. He didn
’t have an issue with control. He was having an all-out crisis with it.
“Since you’re a novice at this, and since we’re playing it...a bit incorrectly, I’ll explain. I can’t give you the pants without taking off my shoes. I have socks, too. Those need to come off, too.”
“Take off...the shoes then.”
“How about one shoe?”
“One shoe? What kind of ploy is this?”
“That’s how you play strip poker, Bram Stark. One piece of clothing per hand. You want the leggings? You’re going to have to win four more hands first.”
“Four?”
“Two shoes. Two socks. Four wins.”
That didn’t sound fair...
Wait.
He did a quick mental calculation. Five wins to get to her leggings. She couldn’t have much past that. If he separated his spurs, boots, socks, added the gun, gun belt, belt. Denims. Underwear briefs. Heck. It sounded like he had the advantage.
“I’ll take a shoe then.”
She slanted back in the chair in order to place one lower leg atop the table. His first impression had been so wrong, he nearly groaned. She had very shapely legs. Watching her undo the laces on her athletic shoe was torturous. It got worse as she pulled the shoe off. Bram’s entire form tried to lunge toward her. He grabbed the chair arms and stopped the move. It took an act of will. And every muscle at his disposal.
She didn’t act the least bit affected as she dropped the shoe somewhere beside her. It landed with a thud. Then she put her leg back down, reassumed her exact same position, only this time she linked her fingers together as she regarded him. Her breathing wasn’t unaffected, however. Nor was her pulse. Both were coming quick and sharp. She was very good at bluffing. If she wasn’t his mate, he wouldn’t have known. But, if she wasn’t his mate, he’d never be in this position.
“You ready to deal now?”
Bram eased the stricture he’d placed on his upper body. Watched as she glanced at his belly and then back at him. She might be noticing how his muscles moved and bunched and clenched. He instantly dismissed that idea before something worse happened. Her gaze returned to the approximate area of his nose. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“I get a question answered.”
“Oh. That. Sorry. Go ahead.”
“What brought you out here?”
“To Nevada? Dobbin Creek? This tunnel?”
“Any. All.”
“I’m an artist.”
“Artist. I see.” He didn’t see anything, but he was careful not to phrase it as a question.
“My specialty is painting. Mostly pictures. Scenes. Portraits.”
“Sounds...interesting.”
“I’m really good, too. Unfortunately, that isn’t enough.”
“For what?” Damn it! He’d asked a second question. She didn’t seem to notice.
“I can’t paint what I want to.”
“Oh.”
“I really want to paint fantasy scenes. You know. Fairies. Werewolves. And yes, vampires. All kinds of cool creatures. I’m really good at it...but you’ve heard of starving artists, right?”
Her voice had a wistful tint. His heart gave a twinge. He didn’t reply. She didn’t seem to expect one.
“Well. Trust me. It’s true. The market is overstocked with artists. And now that there are computer art apps and laser printers, well. It’s hardly worth the effort. Few people will pay for an original. So. I do whatever jobs are paying. Or find another occupation. Lately, that has been painting signs. Wait. I can’t even say that. I’m not painting them. I’m refurbishing. I’m not fond of it. It’s like doing paint-by-number. But, that’s why I’m here. I was working on the sign above the Number Eight saloon. My scaffolding fell. I landed in the saloon, grabbed the boot rail to save myself...and voila! I found your trap door. And then I found you, the guy claiming to be a vampire.”
“No claim to it. I am a vampire.”
“Yeah. Right. Do you have any whiskey? Maybe if I get a bit soused, I’ll believe you.”
Bram thought a moment. “I might.”
“I was kidding, okay?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You say you’re a vampire? Okay then. Why are you up? I mean...” She lifted her wrist and checked her watch. “Will you look at that? It’s nearly six. In the morning. Doesn’t that mean you should be in that coffin back there?” She gestured to the other room.
“Not necessarily.”
“I thought vampires had to rest during the day. So they could roam around and feed all night.”
“We’re underground,” he replied.
“So?”
“It’s not light that’s a problem. It’s sunlight.”
“You mean, you’ll burn if the sunlight gets you?”
“It’s a bit worse.”
“So that’s true? I can kill a vampire with sunlight?”
“At first. I’m young still. Immunity comes with time.”
“Is that like vampire sunblock?”
She laughed. It was a luscious sound. His lower body jumped in response. Bram held onto the chair arms and shoved his ass back into the chair seat. The wooden structure vibrated with the effort, making a thumping noise as the chair legs hopped on rug-strewn floor. It was some time before he could reply. She’d probably watched him the entire time. He had to guess at it, however, since he didn’t dare look toward her again.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Uh...”
Okay was a catch-all phrase. Meant orderly. All right. Normal. It might be lingering at the periphery of his existence but it wasn’t anywhere near. This felt like he was besieged from within, forced to stifle urges and needs unlike any he’d faced before. He was all kinds of stimulated and aroused and needy. He needed to be with her. Meshed. Enwrapped...
Sheathed.
Whoa. Down boy.
He’d been told of mating. He hadn’t been told the level of physical sensation he’d endure. The combination was massive. Dangerously so. It just kept increasing, despite the hold he maintained.
And she asked if he was okay?
“Is it the daylight thing? Or...the fact I don’t believe you?”
“Um. Neither.” Good. His voice still worked. Somewhat.
She chuckled, making his existence even more hellish. Bram fought another surge that came from within his own body. One of the chair arms creaked ominously.
“Maybe we should start another hand,” she offered.
“You know how to deal?”
“Oh. Please. Do I look that incompetent?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d really hate to have a battle of wits with a misogynistic vampire. Even a fake one.”
She stood, reached across the table, gathered the cards, sat back down, with a bit too much squirming in his opinion, and started shuffling. She looked capable and then some.
But she was also shaking.
CHAPTER NINE
He was thankful he’d cleaned up in his big Victorian claw-foot tub and donned new store-bought underwear briefs before heading into the city last night. This could be worse. Bram shifted on the seat. The wood was hard. Unforgiving. Shoving deeper into it didn’t alleviate the throbbing pain overtaking his groin area. It felt like he was immersed in a fiery bath and someone kept adding boiling water.
Lady Luck was on Marielle’s side. And she was good. Not perfect, but damn close. The two times he’d had a better hand, he’d believed her bluff and folded. She now had over two million in chips in front of her. He’d lost his spurs, his boots, and both socks. She knew a whole lot about him, too.
More than any other person.
Ever.
He’d told her how he’d run away from home - a farm back east. Hooked up with a herd leaving Texas. Learned how to ride. Rope. He’d been twelve. Big for his age. Raw-boned. Eager. Angry. Those traits helped when he’d been tossed from a mustang or had to race down a stampede and head it of
f.
After he lost the next hand, he’d told Marielle of those years. Six of them. Each summer the trail ended at Dodge City. That last year he’d gotten a little too drunk. Shot up a bit too much of the city. Had a nice overnight stay in the jail. Gotten off with a fine. That night altered him. He no longer cared for long days in the saddle with only his horse and the wind. He wanted more out of life.
So. With Marielle’s next win, he’d told her more. He’d spent his nineteenth year practicing guns and cards, got fitted for a couple of fancy suits, and took up life as a steamboat gambler. The Mississippi River was full of men just like him, all working the card rooms and anywhere else they could get into a game. Or a fight. Bram ran through a couple of small fortunes before deciding gambling wasn’t his calling, either.
A couple of wins later, and his mate knew more.
Bram had been twenty-seven then. He’d been in a few gunfights. He never lost. He had a reputation. Dobbin Creek, Nevada wanted that. They’d hired him as sheriff. And despite how he’d flushed and mumbled through it, Marielle got him to admit that he’d toyed with settling down then. He’d had his eye on a clapboard house and a very pretty girl. Fate sent him on another path, however. He didn’t tell her why. That was one secret nobody would ever hear. It had been bad enough he’d ditched a future and gone into Indian Territory for a spell. Bram joined a gang. Spent a summer and fall working the stage line, lightening drivers of their strongboxes. Getting his picture and name on wanted posters.
He’d learned from that experience. Not how to become an outlaw. That was the easy part. He’d learned that nobody could be trusted. And that any company was sometimes too much company.
Oh. Hell. His mate even knew how he’d been turned.
He’d been heading back to Dobbin Creek. Spring. 1883. Penance included paying for past sins, and remorse was a weight he’d tired of hefting. He suffered a thirst nothing quenched, a hunger nothing satisfied. He felt old beyond his years. Thirty-four. That’s why he’d surrendered to a posse. He hadn’t fought a neck-stretching from the first tree they’d come across, either. He still remembered the feeling of everything going dark before fate stepped in again. Akron Profit had materialized from behind him, tossed Chinese-made firecrackers like they were candy, scattered men and horses, and then he’d cut Bram down. That night Bramwell Stark got the choice: Vampirism or burial in an unmarked hole somewhere between Winnemucca and Carson City.