by Alice Ward
And speaking of attractive men...
He was. Oh god, he was. I’d been too embarrassed to look at him properly when I’d run into him before, but now with him sitting in front of me on a gambler’s stool I had the no-holds-barred close-up, and it was a thing of the gods. A coif of smooth chestnut hair fell over a smoother forehead, which melted into a sharp brow that shadowed eyes of the palest aquamarine. His jaw went on for days, adjoining an aristocratic chin in the front and angling up toward his ears in the back. The mouth above that jaw was thin but shapely, and it didn’t escape my notice that his glistening pink tongue slipped out to stroke the crease between his lips each time I spoke. This investor may have had innocent intentions in conversing with me, but he was utterly drenched in raw, wicked sexuality that had my inner thighs tingling.
Maybe I was the one only interested in sex. It wasn’t my style, but there was a first time for everything, and Owen Driscoll had all the makings of a divine first one-night stand.
“So, Miss Tabby…” His voice was dangerously suggestive and sinfully alluring, like a velvet-swathed razor. “Is it safe to assume you’re a betting woman?”
I glanced to the machine on which I was casually resting my arm. The money I’d put in was waiting patiently in the balance bar. Ordinarily, I would’ve been unable to resist the glowing SPIN button and would’ve carried on the chat while clenching my teeth and hoping for a jackpot hit. Owen had managed to break my questionable gambling tendencies merely with his presence.
“I am,” I admitted, “but I don’t think I’d use the word safe so close to the word betting in my case.”
“Oh? Do you have a tendency to get carried away?” He crooked his head and lifted a brow as a corner of his tempting mouth tilted upward.
“It’s an inherited trait,” I said, shrugging. “My dad had as serious a gambling addiction as it gets. Paycheck, car, house… if he could use it to feed his addiction, he would. Luckily, the worst thing I’ve ever gambled away was my food budget for out-of-town gigs. I guess I’ve got more willpower than he did.”
Owen’s expression changed, and I immediately wondered if my admittance of my vice had scared him off. I didn’t realize he was looking at me with concern rather than judgment until he asked, “Has he gotten back on his feet? He isn’t homeless, is he?”
His concern was endearing and something inside me melted a little.
“He kicked the habit when my mom kicked him out. She ended up being more important to him than the rush. They’re fine now, albeit living in a house half the size of the first and sharing a station wagon.” I chewed on one of my cheeks and averted my eyes as a mild ripple of embarrassment misted over me. Who could’ve imagined that avoiding dinner with Grace’s friends would have resulted in me telling a perfect stranger about my parents and their troubles? Weirder than that was he actually seemed to give a damn. What an unusual man. In the interest of lightening the mood, I pushed my glasses farther up my nose and joked, “Why, you want to buy him a house?”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’d be a drop in the bucket.”
I didn’t doubt that. He was dressed like a Rockefeller and dripped the kind of sophistication only money could buy. Even his cologne, a scent so deliciously intrusive I could taste it in whispers on my palate, smelled like wealth.
“Would you care to make a wager?” he went on. He smiled as yet another Santa walked past, bells ringing with each step. “A Christmas bet.”
The budding arousal and hints of affection plucking at my insides stilled, and the cloud I’d been floating on thus far sank an inch. Him asking me to make a bet with him after I’d just shared my difficulties in that regard raised a red flag for me. Though the flag was much closer to coral than it was to crimson, it was a flag nonetheless. Perhaps he was one of those men who sought out women’s weaknesses and preyed on them. If so, I’d offered up mine like a prayer. Then again, maybe he was simply trying to inject some good-natured fun into our exchange.
I pursed my lips thoughtfully. “A Christmas bet, huh? What are you thinking?”
He motioned to his right, in the direction of the place where I’d failed to pay attention and humiliated the crap out of myself. “I sit down at a table. Blackjack. I get one hand.” He bent forward, placing an elbow on a knee and canting his head until his eyes bored into me like sensual drills. “If I lose, you get whatever you want.”
“That’s awfully vague.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knee. “What if I want a yacht or a trip around the world or the lead in a box office smash?”
“The yacht and the trip aren’t a problem, but I’m afraid the best I could do on the movie is supporting actress in a straight-to-DVD. Hollywood hasn’t been a priority for my portfolio.”
I gave him a long sigh and leaned back, pulling my ponytail over my shoulder to stroke my fingers down the length. “What a shame. And here I was almost impressed.”
He grinned, smattering his masculine features with a playfulness I didn’t think possible. “Fair enough. I’ll be more specific. How about this… if I lose, I’ll make you photographer for my newest restaurant’s PR package. It’s an easy gig. The designer staged the place last week, so it can be done whenever it suits you, and I’d guess it pays better than normal gigs.” It was his turn to lean forward, and the energy between us grew heavier. “And I’ll cover your extended hotel stay and flight back home to wherever you live.”
“Chicago,” I murmured. I was startled by his offer, not only because of the financial generosity but also because he’d never even seen my work. For all he knew, I was a hack who’d never done anything greater than sell stock pictures I took from an iPhone. On the other hand, I was curious what the balance was. If he was willing to give me that much if he lost, I could only imagine what he wanted if he won. I had a feeling I was about to see his true colors, dark and lecherous, come out.
“Chicago, then,” he agreed with an amicable nod.
I mirrored his nod with a watchful one of my own. “And if you win the hand?”
His eyes flashed, and a shimmer of rosy excitement caressed his face like a kiss. I felt the weight of his words before the first syllable even left his lips. “I take you to The Blackjack Club.”
Disappointment hit me like a slap, but I didn’t let him see it. “What’s that?”
“You don’t get to know until you go.” He stood up, shoving the stool back with the sole of his sleek black shoe, and held a hand out to me. It was the same hand that had clutched my wrist and kept me aloft in my moment of instability, but it somehow looked different now. Strong. Powerful. Enticing. The palm was smooth, the fingers long, and his thumb was twitching almost imperceptibly with repressed energies. “Shall we?”
I was eager to accept his proffered hand, but the logical side of my brain had more muscular control than I wanted it to have and refused to let me follow him wherever his heart desired like my wilder yang craved. The only thing I knew about this Blackjack Club was its name, but that was enough to craft images of seedy, glamorous people in a seedy, glamorous venue. I wanted to know more. Despite Owen being a physical Adonis and an oral charmer — god, I bet he was! — I didn’t truly know him, and going with him to a place I’d never heard of that he refused to explain was hardly a good idea. Plus, I was still a little wary about his request to make a bet after I’d confessed my gambling demons. I wasn’t sure what that said about his character.
“Tell me something about this club,” I said, “and I’ll do the bet.”
He didn’t take his hand back, but his shoulder relaxed slightly and a smirk graced his face. “You’re a feisty thing, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and the way he said it sounded like silken liquid chocolate. I just kept my stare fixed unblinkingly on him rather than responding, though my belly had plenty in the way of response. Prickling heat bloomed in my core.
“I can be.”
The smirk widened, and he acquiesced, “All right. One thing, and the bet is on.” He swung his eyes up
to the ceiling for a moment before returning them to me. Once he refocused on me, his expression again was hinted with pink thrill. “The Blackjack Club is the biggest secret you’d ever have to keep.” With that, he snatched my hand in his own. “Time to make good on your word, kitten.”
The way he said the nickname forced me to press my legs together. There was such double meaning to the innocent word. A play on my name, yes, but something else more raw and primal. A verbal pet… stroke… everywhere.
“That didn’t tell me anything!” I protested, digging my heels into the carpet and resisting his pull.
He narrowed his eyes at me, then shimmied them down the length of my body as if sizing me up. “That’s all you’re getting, sweetheart. If you want more, you’ll have to go there with me. Now, you can either straighten up and walk on your own, or I can throw you over my shoulder and take you to the table. Your call.”
Every inch of my body was immediately drowning in chills, and I sucked in a sharp breath. He was so pushy, but I didn’t find it offensive. I found it… hot.
I looked at my drink. Had he slipped something in it? Not a date rape drug, but some kind of aphrodisiac? Or were his pheromones just this powerful?
“I’ve got money on the slot,” I pointed out and recrossed my legs, watching him watch me do it.
“I’ll reimburse you,” he said with a falsely irritated sigh. “Grab your purse.”
The logical part of my brain jabbed me sharply in the temple, but I ignored it. I snagged my purse, tried to gather as much composure as possible despite my trembling nether regions, and turned back toward him with my hand still curled snugly into his. “Okay. Let’s go, card shark.”
He grinned and started walking. I kept stride with him, but I felt extremely aware of every step I took. All the people who’d noticed me earlier weren’t even in my realm of awareness anymore. I was very conscious that I was side by side and hand in hand with quite possibly the handsomest man I’d ever met. More than that, I felt like everyone could see the flirtatious things he’d said to me stamped across my forehead. I might as well have been wearing a collar around my neck labeled “Owen” or had a chain around my wrist connected to his.
And I didn’t hate it.
The second we reached the blackjack table, I knew he was a regular. The dealer clearly recognized him, acknowledging him with a brief nod and a courteous, “Back so soon, Mr. Driscoll?”
A player seated at the table was evidently a friend or associate of Owen’s as well, given the raised eyebrows and knowing smile he offered, but he didn’t say a word. The bald man did, however, change his focus from Owen to me and didn’t look away until Owen slipped into the empty seat next to him.
“Really feeling ballsy today, aren’t you?” he muttered.
Owen cast him a sideways glance and flicked a casual smile back. “No more than usual,” he responded nonchalantly. He looked over his shoulder at me and reached behind the chair he now occupied. Fingers curled around my thigh. I shivered and involuntarily stepped forward until my hip pressed against the chair’s back.
Chips and money were exchanged, then cards were flicking from the dealer to the players, but I was too distracted by the gentle stroking of Owen’s forefinger on the inner seam of my jeans to pay attention to the scene unfolding before me. I didn’t even care that the bet determining whether I landed possibly my biggest gig ever was playing out. All that mattered was my body reacting to a gentle touch in ways I wasn’t accustomed to and the man making it happen.
“Looks like Lady Luck is on my side, sweetheart,” he murmured. He lifted the corners of his dealt cards to reveal a pair of queens. “The only chance I’ll lose is if Jeeves has—”
“Twenty-one,” the dealer announced, a distinctly British lilt in his voice.
I beamed with gleeful smugness. “You were saying?”
“There’s a lot more you could do with that mouth than brag,” he returned with soft venom.
I shivered again and sealed my lips together. Owen stood up, clapped a hand onto his shiny-scalped friend’s shoulder, nodded to the dealer, and removed his hand from my leg to weave his fingers between mine. The next thing I knew, we were walking, this time toward the casino exit.
“So, are you going to be sour lemons the whole time I’m shooting your restaurant because you lost?” I asked, only half kidding.
He came to a stop just before the doors and faced me. One of his eyebrows was stretching toward his hairline. “Who says I lost?” he challenged.
“The rules of blackjack, I believe,” I said, sarcasm dripping from the words.
“Oh, no,” he corrected, shaking his head and sending stray strands of hair across his forehead. His eyes bolted with lightning. “No, I definitely won.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Owen
I recognized Tabby before my limo even pulled up. She was standing outside the salon on the sidewalk with her purse slung over her shoulder and a black duffel bag at her feet. Her hair was tied up into the same casual ponytail she’d been wearing the day before, but I instantly noticed the absence of frames on her face. She looked younger, like she could’ve passed for an early college student or even a high school senior, although there were pale lilac circles of tiredness under her eyes. I wondered if she’d gotten any sleep at all, or if, like me, she’d been up for much of the night recalling the events of our meeting.
She hadn’t left my mind since we parted ways. Even as I’d curled up under my covers and closed my eyes to force myself into slumber, I’d been bombarded with the image of her snarky smile and dancing hazel orbs. The casino was like the first hit of an addictive designer drug, and I was craving more. Seeing her now, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and bumps prickled on my arms. I was so close, so close to that second hit…
“Good morning, sunshine,” I greeted, stepping out of the limo before Stephan, my driver, could round the vehicle and open the door for me.
Tabby smiled, her face immediately lighting up. Even the sleep-deprived bruises under her eyes faded slightly. “Fancy meeting you here,” she teased.
I brushed my hand toward the bag on the ground. “Is that your equipment?”
“It is, indeed,” she said. “Lucky for you, I brought it with me. Otherwise, I would’ve been forced to do your pictures on a cell phone, and I’m not sure that would’ve been worth your money.”
If only she knew how worth it I thought it was regardless of her camera choices.
Stephan had made it to us. He was visibly uncomfortable, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, most likely because I was overstepping my usual role and taking care of the smaller details of his job myself. Without door-opening, the only other thing he could do was take her bag for her, but he seemed reluctant to interrupt my conversation to ask if she’d like him to stow it away in the trunk. I motioned to the capped and outfitted middle-aged man to introduce him. “This is Stephan, my driver. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let him know.”
“Hi,” she said brightly, stepping forward and extending a hand toward him. Her smile was still lighting her face, and I watched Stephan’s stiff, professional demeanor slip a little. “I’m Tabby. Tabitha, really, but call me Tabby.”
“Stephan,” he replied cordially. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tabby.”
I watched their handshake before swinging my gaze to the woman beside me. It was the first time I’d heard her name was actually Tabitha, and I felt an unexpected surge of jealousy that she hadn’t revealed it to me first before telling my driver. As Stephan lifted her duffel bag and took it to the trunk, I helped her into the back of the limo. It wasn’t until he’d reclaimed his place in the driver’s seat and the car was moving that I addressed her name though.
“So, I only deserved the nickname, did I?” I jibed, winking.
“What?” she asked in confusion. Her back was unnaturally straight against the limo’s cushioned seat, and her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. She had either
never been in a vehicle like this before or she was simply uncomfortable in the lavish surroundings.
“Your name is Tabitha,” I explained. “You only told me it was Tabby yesterday.”
She grinned. “For all I knew, you were a psychopath.”
“How do you know Stephan’s not a psychopath?” I pointed out good-naturedly.
“He’s got a nicer face than you do.”
I reached out and squeezed her knee, pressing my index finger and thumb into the sensitive pressure points on either side to make her jump. She squeaked, giggled, and swatted my hand, but I wasn’t deterred. I repeated the squeeze and taunted, “You think you’re funny, don’t you? You think you’re just a riot.”
She laughed again, trying to pry my fingers away. “You’re the one who said I shouldn’t take you for being a politer man than you really are.”
“Hmm.” I halted my tickling assault and bobbed my head thoughtfully from side to side. “That’s true. Good memory.”
She crossed one leg over the other as if to protect herself in case I decided to seek her laughter again. “Besides, I’m not the only one who left information out. What about your cock-and-bull detail about that club of yours?” she prodded.
I chuckled. “That was actually a rather juicy detail, which you’ll discover if I can get you there.”
Jesus Christ, I hoped I could get her there.
“Well, I think it was a cop-out,” she shot back. Her cheeks rose and swelled with a shimmer of a humored smile.
“Yeah? You haven’t even told me your last name. How’s that for a cop-out?” I quipped. “For all I know, you’re the psychopath.”
“Only on Tuesdays.” The colors in her irises swirled around each other like tie-dye paints, and she jiggled her dangling foot to a tempo only kept in her head. I allowed myself a quick gloss over her supple calf, hidden under clinging black leggings, before returning my attentions to her face. She was studying me carefully. Then, in a placating tone, she added, “Rickard. Tabby Rickard.”