by Katy Evans
PLAYBOY
New York Times Bestselling Author
KATY EVANS
To the risk takers and the love makers . . .
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
PLAYLIST
THE GIRL
FOUR OF A KIND
CELEBRATION
THE DARE
HIGH ROLLER
REDHEAD
JOBS
FLUSH
TONIGHT
SHOW
KING OF HEARTS
CRAPS
CONCERT
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS . . .
HEADS-UP
TELLS
WIN AND WYNN
SHUFFLING
ANTE UP
FULL HOUSE
ROYAL FLUSH
BLUFF
VEGAS, BABY
GAMBLING MAN
POKER
TEXAS HOLD’EM
THE FINAL TABLE
EPILOGUE – TOP PAIR
BACHELORETTE PARTY
BOYS
FOREVER
DEAR READERS
TITLES BY KATY EVANS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT
COPYRIGHT
PLAYLIST
“I’m Gonna Getcha Good” by Shania Twain
“Who Knew” by Pink
“The Good Parts” by Andy Grammer
“Always” by Andy Grammer
“Poker Face” by Lady Gaga
“Next to Me” by Emeli Sandé
“Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga
“3 AM” by Matchbox Twenty
“Never Gonna Leave This Bed” by Maroon 5
“Be Here Now” by Robert Shirey Kelly
“Feelings” by Maroon 5
“100 Years” by Five for Fighting
“A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri
THE GIRL
Wynn
“Are you sure this is safe?” I ask as my date parks his car in an empty parking lot next to a dozen others.
All of them too elegant for the surroundings.
My fingers tremble as I open the door and step out into the eerily quiet night, then I watch as my date hops out and takes a selfie standing next to a royal-blue sports car. I frown in confusion. What is he doing?
God. I’m not really out on a date with this guy? Am I?
“Relax, this’ll be fun.” He motions me to a huge looming warehouse. My heart gives a little kick of dread as I follow him.
After he picked me up, my date let me in on the fact that he was taking me to this clandestine poker game in the underground of Chicago. Now I’m wondering about my judgment and if it’s kind of like a girl’s virginity. Once it’s gone, there’s no getting it back.
I mean, we’re in the worst part of town. In the distance, the city’s skyscrapers hover like concrete bodyguards. It’s intimidating and comforting at the same time, but I’m not naïve enough to think I’m safe here. We’re in gang territory. Whoever runs this game is paying a steep tax to stay and play.
As I glance around the empty lot to be sure we aren’t held up at gunpoint before we reach the building, I smooth a hand nervously down my dress. This night out was supposed to be fun.
This was supposed to be a nice change for me.
A distraction.
An evening out of the apartment.
Except jail was never on the menu. Just stepping past those filthy-looking, crooked doors of that huge warehouse, I’ll be breaking the law.
I never break the law.
I’m a solid, responsible girl at thirty. Hell, I’m already way past the age I thought I’d be married and having babies. My friends are married. Rachel has a boy and a girl, Gina a girl, and Livvy is getting married this weekend. Me? I have a long string of breakups. Starting with my most recent one, from a relationship that lasted like four or five years and amounted to a big chunk of nothing.
I was dating a commitment-phobe. I didn’t know it at the time, and he sure as hell didn’t know it either. He could never take that step of proposing—much less the dozen steps it took to walk up to the altar and wait for me there. He asked for time and time and time, and I gave it to him. I gave him everything. I used to think he was the One. I used to think the One would come when I was ready.
“No, he wasn’t. He’s not the One, I tell you. If he were you’d be—”
“Married and popping out babies,” Rachel finished for Gina last week when we discussed my breakup.
I sat in sullen silence as I stared at the tissue box in front of me. Unable to believe that he threw me away the way he had. Still struggling, even now, to put the pieces of my life back together again.
“If I win over this guy, I can do fucking anything. Anything. Even win the Texas Hold’em Championship Tournament.”
My date’s voice has a slight tremor of excitement in it.
If Rachel or Gina could see me now, they’d fall back from the shock. They’ve always seen me as the sweet one. The innocent one. I’ve never even gotten a parking ticket.
Now I’m going to illicit poker games with a guy I just met?
Of course, my date is nice and moderately handsome. Medium height, nice brown hair, brown eyes crinkled at the corners. We met at the gallery when he purchased a work from my last exhibit, and I always admire people who love art like me. I’m not even sure why I agreed to the date in the first place, except when he asked me out and I weighed the option of spending the night alone in my apartment versus going out, there was no contest. Although I’m not interested in reliving a broken heart nor interested in anything with any man, I also know I need to get over my ex and it can’t happen if I don’t allow some new things to come into my life. I plan to focus on my gallery and stay off men completely—or at least stay off anything serious with any. But I still need to distract myself if I’m to get over him.
Emmett, a legendary chef in the making, wouldn’t take me down the street for a hotdog unless he prepared it in his restaurant kitchen. And even then, I’d need to make an appointment.
Maybe that’s why I’m here.
But as soon as my eyes land on the crooked doors of the warehouse we’re about to enter, I’m reminded of all the bad choices I’ve made in my life. Life choices involving the men I’ve decided to date.
I decide to be less demanding (a problem Emmett claimed I had) and have some good old illegal fun as we head inside.
There’s a cloud of smoke and several games underway across a line of round tables.
Dark wood. Low ceilings. The place is straight out of an old movie with its Bokhara rugs dividing floor space and black-and-white photographs scattered across the walls. I recognize a few legendary Chicago criminals.
It’s a sign. These games are off the books. A poker room like this can shut down on a dime. I know this because I’ve been watching movies, not because I’ve decided to take up with Clyde and would enjoy being Bonnie.
“Shit, he’s here.”
He exhales, then pinches his nose and tries to draw a breath.
“Who’s here?”
“The fucking Tsar of poker. Current worldwide champion. A veritable legend. Ice-cold eyes, you never know what he’s thinking. Best poker face around. I’m telling you, if I beat him, I’ll be unstoppable. My name will be everywhere.” Carson, my date, glances across the room.
I’m not a poker fangirl, but given how my date is acting, maybe I should ask the guy for his autograph.
“Shit, it’s really him. I’m sorry, my hand is sweating.” He ushers me forward with a motion, and I’m glad he doesn’t take my hand because lately I just don’t even like it when men grope me anymore. I follow him to a table at the end of the room, and I can feel a guy at the far end of the table watch me.
I gulp.
The man doesn’t
look polished, not one bit. He has an earthy, raw, compelling presence. Something magnetic makes it seem as if the whole room gravitates around him. He looks to be in his early thirties. Hot as fire.
A shiver runs down my spine as his gaze rests on me.
Silver eyes like diamonds dipped in platinum, cold as ice, gleaming like shards. His jaw square and hard, his lips immobile but wickedly plush-looking. His black sweater stretches over wide, hard shoulders and I can make out the muscles beneath, his biceps straining the fabric as his hands rest on the table. For some reason, I notice the fact that he has long, strong fingers and tanned hands.
I gulp. His gaze is tactile. I can feel it on me and it makes my skin do funny things. He runs it down my black stretchy cotton dress, down to my thighs. Checks out my legs. Down to my ankle boots. Breathe, Wynn. Exhaling nervously, I follow my date. And the Hot Gambler with the Silver Eyes continues to watch us approach.
I’m the one walking; but the guy’s the one stalking me with his gaze.
My mouth dries up, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about how small and tight my knee-length, long-sleeved black dress is.
“He’s looking right at us, motherfuck me,” Carson says.
Right. Motherfuck me.
Carson pulls up a chair across the table from the guy, and I lower my butt to it, aware of the men at the table watching me. Especially him.
“You’re late.” His voice is deep and rich, and terribly, terribly sexy.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. My date took a while to come down—”
I hate feeling the flush creep up my cheeks as Carson blames me for not being ready on time. I’m a redhead, so I hate flushing and getting a red face. Isn’t it expected that the girl needs to be five minutes late—at least—on the first date? You can’t look too needy. But then again, I’m thirty and single. Maybe the strategy needs some rethinking.
The guy just looks at him, and I somehow sense he finds his excuse distasteful. I’m beet-red, feeling like I should scrape myself off the side of the moving bus this jerk tried to toss me under.
Silver Eyes gives me a brief look, and something between my legs tingles. I glance away as my date pulls out some bills and gets a tray of chips in exchange.
“I’m Carson, by the way . . .” he belatedly says, standing and leading me forward by the elbow toward the guy.
“I’m Carson,” he repeats. “And this is . . . my date.” He introduces us awkwardly.
“Hey. I’m, uh . . .” Did Carson just forget my name? I’m about to say it, but as the guy’s silver-grey eyes stare at me from this close, I seem to lose all power of speech.
God, do eyes this color really exist?
Yes, they do. Metallic, sharp, and hypnotizing. I extend my hand. He takes it, his grasp warm and firm.
“You were saying?” There’s a smile in his voice. In his deep, terribly masculine voice.
I pull my hand back and rub the tingling sensation he left it with against the side of my dress. A thousand eyes are on us as we head back to our seats. So he is the guy my date has been rambling about?
Obviously I get the rambling now.
I become nervous about this whole thing. I glance around the room and notice there are plenty of women here—many of them glancing in the direction of who I’m sure is the Greatest Poker Player in Town.
I don’t think I’ve ever reacted to a guy like I’m reacting to this one. My heart is beating so hard I think it’s on the speakers, blasting across the neighborhood.
As the table gets organized for the next game, I try to breathe and chill and remind myself this is supposed to be fun.
Silver Eyes is blatantly watching me.
When he starts giving me that slow, lopsided smile, my lower body starts getting much too involved for my liking. Fuuuuck, how am I supposed to sit here and fake it?
I close my eyes and breathe.
“First timer?” he asks, as if there’s no one else seated at the table but us.
Hell and fuck me. Does he have a crystal ball? Clearly he has two steel balls the kind that some men never will.
“It would help knowing what ‘first timer’ means,” I stall.
He lifts his hand and instantly a waiter is at his side. “A whiskey on the rocks for the lady. One for me.”
Well. Smooth, isn’t he?
“First game?” he specifies.
“Yes. Poker virgin.” I’m saucy on purpose.
“Good. I like going first.” His expression remains a blank page. For a second, I think he might drag me off to the nearest dark corner and I’m surprised how much I like that train of thought.
“Let’s get started then.” His lips curve ever so slightly.
He watches me as if he knows what I’m thinking.
And wow. This guy is more illegal than this gambling establishment.
Cards are shuffled then dealt. Each player gets two cards and after they peer at their hand, the betting begins. There’s an order to follow but I have no idea what it is. It probably has something to do with that plastic white button on the table. I’ll figure it out, assuming my date stays in the game long enough.
I watch as Silver Eyes checks his cards to see what he has. He slips them down to the felt in one smooth motion and then leans back and crosses his arms, his features unreadable as he studies his opponents, until . . . his eyes lock on mine.
He doesn’t smile this time.
And it makes me nervous.
He continues to look at me. I sense that he knows I’m squirming but doesn’t care. A hot little frisson starts in the pit of my tummy as I return his stare. I sit very still, trying not to let on that he affects me. But how can he not? He even affects my date, who’s palpably nervous beside me.
Silver Eyes finally reaches into his pile of chips and tosses half of his money into the pot.
Some men back out of the hand. One or two say, “Fold.” My date reluctantly adds half his chips and says, “Call.”
They play out the hand. My date loses and Silver Eyes wins with three-of-a-kind. Queens.
The irony doesn’t escape me.
The cards are dealt again.
I try not to look at the guy, but once again, he plays his hand, and then does nothing but watch me. He’s intimidating, his stare laser-sharp and direct, and very, very tactile. I can feel it on my face. His masculinity makes my own femininity come to life.
Thank god I’m sitting down, because if I were standing, my knees would be wobbly and I’d be maybe making a fool of myself.
Rachel would know how to handle a hot stud like this one. She was pursued by the most legendary manwhore in town, Malcolm Saint, and was able to withstand his attention without caving in. At least, for a little while. Me? Three minutes and I’m already wet in my panties.
This guy . . . I can tell that he can have any woman he wants. The waitresses walking around the warehouse keep giving him interested looks. But he ignores them. I can also tell that he’s very, very interested in playing cards with my date—for now his attention is on Carson, which seems to make my date nervous—and the tension in the room has escalated substantially.
Some of the players fold as if they sense the game is about something more than winning chips. Silver Eyes studies Carson and then thoughtfully strokes his chips before shifting one stack under the other. Carson, jittery as ever, knocks over his short stack.
Embarrassed for him, I quickly focus elsewhere.
“You a gambler?” an older gentleman asks as he twirls three chips close to the felt.
“No.” I sound too evasive. “I mean, I could play.” Anyone can lose money here, right?
“Wanna place a prop bet?” I don’t respond and he adds, “Your boyfriend will lose his bankroll in five hands or less.”
“He’s not my—”
“I’ll raise,” Silver Eyes finally says, jumping in at a convenient time. He commands attention and gets it. The other players sit up and take notice.
My date stutters, “I . . . I
can’t call you . . . I’m out of chips.”
Silver Eyes slowly slides his gaze back to me, his expression unreadable. “The girl.”
My eyes widen.
My date looks at me wide-eyed too.
My heart stutters.
I scramble to my feet but Carson grabs me by the elbow. “He wants you to stay here,” he hisses. “He’s forcing me all-in.”
“By the looks of things, he’s forcing me all-in.” I lower my voice. “Look, I don’t care who—”
“I’ve got a great hand. Please?” Carson discreetly shows me his cards. He’s got a full house. He sounds desperate, and I feel bad. At the same time, I’m mad. This dude is out of his league.
“Please, Wynn.”
And the jackass now remembers my name.
So I sit.
There’s an unspoken exchange between Mysterious Gambler and the old guy. The old guy shakes his head disapprovingly then folds. “If you say so.”
I don’t hear any other words pass between them.
The guy across the table makes me nervous. He’s not looking at me right now and is instead eyeing Carson, but I can’t stop looking at him—Silver Eyes. He’s got that kind of mouth that is set but makes you wonder how it feels, and a hard jaw, and . . . stop it, Wynn! You’re off men, remember? Except for sex, and you’re not going anywhere near Casanova over there!
I chew on my lower lip, acting as if the guy across the table doesn’t nerve-wrack me as he seems to nerve-wrack my date.
Once everyone folds, except Carson, my date shows his hand, and the guy turns over his cards and crosses his arms. He’s got a straight flush. Aces high.
I blink.
What the hell just happened?
My date lost? And sold me to this guy in the process?
The guy’s eyes glimmer in victory. “Want to bring that chair over here?” he asks me, nodding slowly at his side.
I really don’t know what I got myself into, but I decide getting out of it is my best bet. So I stand and spin around to leave, telling Carson, “I am seriously not . . .”
Silver Eyes stands, comes around the table, and suddenly his chest is a wall I’m about to crash into as I try to leave.