Betrayed by a Kiss (12 page)

“Yes. I am.” She smiled, closing her eyes. “Before meeting you seems like forever ago.” Her words felt like a compliment.

Dane sat at the desk, his feet crossed at the ankles, and admired her. He liked looking at her. “About this poker game tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“I should play. I’m a great poker player, and you’re exhausted.”

“Yeah?” She didn’t open her eyes, and her breath was shallow, as if she were drifting off.

He wanted to crawl into bed with her but knew she’d get no rest if he did. As it was, he was having a hard time not touching her. “How did you even know about this game?”

“I know a guy from Atlantic City. He was complaining last week that he couldn’t follow it to Manchester. Here, tonight at the Radisson. Ten-thousand-dollar buy in.”

“If we win we’re set.”

“I have a shot.”

He found it hard to reconcile this tiny woman with poker. “You don’t look like a poker player. I don’t see you drinking scotch and smoking a cigar.” He folded his hands and rested them on his growling belly. He was one big appetite, and neither hunger was being sated at the moment.

She snorted a laugh. “I just got an image of Freud in my head.”

All the poker games he’d participated in—and they were countless—usually became dicey when the winners were separated from the losers. Then again, the players he cleaned out wore sidearms or had assault rifles at the ready. “You can’t cheat. Professional players know all the tricks.”

“You let me worry about the game. You worry about your job.”

His mind went blank. “My job?”

“Arm candy.” She laughed outright. It was the happiest he’d ever seen her.

Dane didn’t want to rain on her parade, but he was the best poker player he knew. He wondered how difficult Marnie was going to be when he broke the news that he would be playing poker tonight.

Chapter Eleven

After lunch, Marnie got in a long nap and woke groggy. There was a thirty-thousand-dollar purse up for grabs tonight, so she had to be on top of her game. If she came up short or lost everything, she’d have to put other less pleasant ways of coming up with the money on the table, ways that might cause MacLain to balk. The pressure strained her already lagging confidence, so she paid especial care to her pregame rituals, psyching herself up. Food, bath, primping—she took her time getting ready, hogging the bathroom. It was hard putting on nail polish when her hands were shaking, but she did it. She smoothed her hair with product, making it shine, and applied a smoky eye, pale pink blush and gloss, and then slipped into her red silk dress. Cut low in the front, it draped tastefully between her breasts. Its midthigh length, however, would keep all eyes on her. Players would wait for a show, wondering if she were wearing panties. She wasn’t. No bra was a given.

She wanted this job over, WE’s files in hand, and to do that she needed quick cash. She was getting attached to MacLain and knew her one defense was putting him in her past before she got hurt in a bad way. So she really needed to win. A little flash here, show some skin there, was the least she was prepared to do to get that done.

The bathroom mirror reflected back her fears, panicking her.
You are good enough
, she told herself.
Win the money. Worry about the break-in later. Worry about not being good enough for MacLain later.
Shit. She couldn’t even control her thoughts.

MacLain knocked on the bathroom door, interrupting her anxiety attack. She met her gaze in the mirror and saw the little girl who woke alone in a seedy Las Vegas motel, her mom turning tricks to buy crack. She’d been helpless, at the mercy of anyone willing to hurt her. “Screw you,” Marnie whispered, giving her reflection the finger. That little girl didn’t exist anymore. In her place was a badass.

She opened the door and walked past MacLain. When he wolf-whistled, she stopped and rewarded him with a smile. He liked the dress. It made her anxiety ratchet down a few pegs.

“Be still, my heart.” His invitation was clear.

“Thank you.” She struck a pose, testing the power of the dress, allowing the bodice to gape a bit, her skirt to ride up. He reacted as hoped, a bit startled and impressed. “I can’t watch my back when I’m playing, so you’re going to stand behind me and keep everyone at a distance. I don’t expect any trouble, but I don’t know who’s going to be there. It will be one less thing I need to worry about while I play.”

“Yeah, like I said, I think I should be slaying them at the table and you can distract them with your beauty.” It was his turn to get ready. “I’m willing to do my part. I’ll show up naked, distract whoever your dress misses.”

His fingers unbuttoning his shirt distracted her enough to miss the content of his words until her brain caught up with her hearing. She frowned. “I thought we were clear. I’m playing tonight. These are my people.”

“I’m the better player.”

She put her hand on her hip and struck a pose. “Excuse me? How could you possibly know that without having played me?”

“Back at you. I’m good.” He said it like they weren’t talking about poker anymore, and it made her want to call him on his brag. Instead, she blushed and hated herself for it.

“I played on the circuit my senior year in high school,” she said. “It paid for college.”

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, “I played with trained killers in bunkers in the mountains of Afghanistan. Two tours. I think I have you beat.”

Blatant sexism. “Try to see past
this
.” She used her hands to indicate her skimpy dress and all the makeup. “I’m a damn good poker player. You could ruin this chance to get the money.”

MacLain indicated her body and face. “I might as well be dead if I ever find myself seeing past your smoking-hot legs and…” He stared at them and then up the dress to her breasts, her neck, her lips, and then met her gaze. His shirt hung open as he tugged his T-shirt from his waistband. “Kill me now.”

“MacLain.” This was serious.

“And let’s say you lose—how’s that gonna sit on your shoulders?”

He was trying to protect her. Butterflies frolicked in her belly. He really was the sweetest person she’d ever met. Still. “I know how good a player I am. It’s why I chose this game as our moneymaker. What if you’re not good enough?” MacLain folded his arms over his chest, seemingly unconcerned. She had no idea how he pulled it off. She was out-of-her-mind worried about the game.

“So we play each other. Winner plays for the money.”

She couldn’t have approved more. It was the perfect solution. When he lost, he’d back off and she could continue psyching herself up. The glint in his eye made her suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

He smiled now, all slow and sexy. “Strip poker. Five-card draw. If you’re not standing there naked by game’s end, you get to play tonight.”

“MacLain, stop fooling around!” She stomped her foot. “The tournament is Texas Hold’em. There’s no equivalent game we could play. It will prove nothing.”

“Poker is about reading the other players. I think you’ll be surprised how similar the experience is.” He paused, allowing the silence to hover. Just when she thought he was giving up on the idea, he twisted the knife. “You can always say no and admit I’m the better player.” Oh, he was enjoying himself.

“I’m good, MacLain. Better than most. Maybe better than the people there tonight. Winning isn’t guaranteed with me, but I’ve a good chance.”

“Prove it. Play me.”

He tempted her. She wasn’t a fool—strip poker with MacLain would be glorious! She’d get him down to his skin, have the game as an excuse, and she wouldn’t have to risk her heart with intimacy. There’d be no commitment, no guilt, just pure pleasure. She’d kissed the guy, straddled him, and come close to begging him to finish the job. She didn’t need to be told he was a perfect specimen of manhood. His suggestion exposed the weakness of her argument. Yeah, she wanted him naked. The game—that he suggested—would be a perfect excuse. But, well…

“I don’t have a deck,” she said, feeling lame. It wasn’t as if she could jump up and down and proclaim she’d love to play strip poker with the guy. Such enthusiasm would be unseemly and not normal. Right? She wasn’t sure.

MacLain held up a cellophane-wrapped deck of cards and sat on the bed. “I called down to the concierge while you were in the shower. Thought it would be good to have a few practice hands before I had to play the real thing.”

“I just got dressed. It’s not a good idea.” He shrugged, as if unconcerned, as if he’d known she’d say no.

“There’s no shame in admitting defeat.”

Now he’d gone too far. She could use his hubris as an excuse to give in without revealing her enthusiasm. That MacLain needed his ass handed to him was a perk. She was in the mood to do it. Anyway, she thought, a practice hand would be good for her confidence when she walked into the game. Loosen her up a bit. Seeing MacLain naked, eating crow, well, that was a valuable memory she could take with her when he went his way and she went hers. The images popping into her head made it difficult to breathe regular, and she felt herself flushing as her imagination went into detail.

“Deal.” She was relieved she didn’t stammer.

MacLain’s eyes lit up. “Yes, ma’am.” He peeled the cellophane off the deck and handed it to Marnie. “Ladies first.”

He was too confident. Marnie’s instinct told her she was being conned, but like he said, poker was about reading the other players. Maybe MacLain was acting more confident than he deserved, trying to unnerve her. Well, she was unnerved. Strip poker. An excited little shiver ran the length of her. She was going to crush him.

Marnie dragged the desk’s chair to the bed and decided a simple “I told you so” was punishment enough for doubting her expertise. She wouldn’t belabor the point when he was stripped bare. “If we’re doing this—”

“Oh, we’re doing this.” His rakish smile unnerved her.

“Then you need to strip.” Yes, she just said that. Yes, her blush was painfully hot. “I’m wearing a dress and shoes. You need to strip down to two items.” She swallowed hard. “What items I leave to your discretion.” Dane’s laugh burst out of him, as if he’d been trying to keep it in. It almost made her laugh, too, but she kept her game face on. They were negotiating terms. This was not a joke.

“This will be a short game, then.” He stood and stripped down to his pants. His glorious chest and muscular arms rippled as he went about the mundane task of taking off his boots, socks, and drawing his T-shirt over his head. The man was a physical paragon. How was she supposed to focus with that much magnificence feet away?

“Two practice hands?” he said. “Then we start?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sitting, uncomfortable with the amount of leg she was showing, especially since she wasn’t wearing panties, Marnie turned her hips in such a way that both her legs were to the left as she was dealing forward. It was awkward, and distracting. His ranger tattoo over his right pec was distracting also. The skull and crossbones with a black beret seemed to mock her as it moved when he picked up a card or shifted on the bed.

Five cards each were dealt; they both discarded two, receiving two new cards from the deck. Dane showed his hand. Two pair, tens high. He won. Marnie only had one pair.

“I lost. Do you want to deal?” Marnie said.

“This is only practice. Keep dealing.” He seemed comfortable on the bed, half naked, playing cards with the payoff being a naked girl. Marnie suspected he’d done this before. Many times. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t. They played hand after hand, neither suggesting they start the
real
game. Each was searching for tells, sizing the other up for overconfidence or anxiety. It was tough for Marnie, because she wasn’t sure how much of the emotion roiling about them was card related or anticipation of seeing each other naked. When she felt comfortable she’d learned all she could, she gave the signal it was time.

“One more practice hand and then we play. We need to be upstairs in forty minutes.” Marnie was impressed with how professional she sounded, as if they were signing paperwork or doing something equally mundane. If Dane wasn’t looking at her like she was steak and he was starving, she might even have convinced herself it were true.

“Deal.” His tone was clipped, and maybe a bit impatient. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit his confidence was unnerving.

Marnie dealt them five more cards. This time, she had a good hand: a pair of queens, a jack, ten, and an eight. She discarded the ten and eight and picked up two more cards. Bingo. Another queen. Impatient to get to their real game, Marnie showed her hand. “Three of a kind.”

“You beat me.” Dane threw down two pair. A good hand, but not good enough to win. “Okay, so now we play.” He studied her as she gathered up the cards. “Just so we’re clear, we’re playing because you need to be reassured I’m good enough to play tonight.”

Confidence.
This guy had it in spades. She liked it. “The stakes are who will play tonight.” She shuffled the cards.

“Same thing.” He grinned.

She refused to be baited. “Does it bother you that I’m not taking your skill for granted? Irk you a little?” She shuffled them again.

“Nothing wrong with a little foreplay.”

She swallowed hard and separated the deck to begin the final shuffle. MacLain was enjoying the hell out of himself, and Marnie had to admit she was stoked. Life was pretty good at the moment. She got to look at his chest while they played, and it was enough to make her hot and bothered, wiggling on the chair. She fought a blush as she shuffled and screwed it up, losing a few cards in the process. MacLain reached down, muscles rippling, staring at her legs as he came back up and put the wayward cards in front of her.

Marnie acted like nothing had happened, dealt, keeping her game face on, studying him as he perused his cards, giving nothing away. Might as well be looking at the phone book for all he indicated the value of his hand. It was reassuring. Marnie wondered if knowledge of her own skill was getting in the way of acknowledging his.

She lost the first hand. Not because she did anything wrong, she assured herself. It was a shitty hand. Small consolation as she kicked off her heels.

She handed MacLain the deck. “Your deal.”

He shuffled like an expert. He wasn’t fancy about it, or showy, but rather his strong, manly hands controlled the cards as if they were his bitch. Huge turn-on. She licked her suddenly dry lips and couldn’t help but remember how those hands felt on her skin, how he’d cupped her breasts, how they’d nearly had sex at the farmhouse.

This hand lasted longer than the previous, mostly because Marnie knew this was her last chance to see any cracks in MacLain’s game face. He met her gaze, gave her no indication of what he was thinking. Reassuring. As she laid down her discards and watched him deal her two new cards, she saw something in his expression. It made her pause. Careful to keep her expression clear, her body loose and her breathing even, Marnie studied him. What had she seen? Were his cards that good? There it was again.

He wanted her.

The realization sent a thrill through her. It happened so quickly, she didn’t have a chance to control her body’s response to MacLain’s message. And it was a message. He’d sent that signal on purpose. The man was good. He’d just played her.

Marnie revealed her cards. She had nothing. Ace high. MacLain’s expression never changed as he laid his cards on the bed. One pair. Sevens. Marnie lost. But only in the most liberal use of the word.

MacLain had game, and now the weight of winning the thirty thousand was on his shoulders. She’d never been so relieved in her life. Her relief reminded her of who might be at that game, and how hard they would be to beat. “Damn.” The ten-thousand-dollar loan from Pinhead, their buy-in, was their only reasonably legal shot to get the money without tipping off Whitman Enterprises. What if MacLain lost? She broke out into a sweat. “Are you sure?” Marnie searched him for any wavering of confidence. All she saw was his desire for her to take off her dress.