Page 94 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
This is Harper St. Claire, pressing the self-destruct button.
I’ll break into a million pieces, but I’ll take them all with me.
I don’t bother with anything so mundane as permission. I don’t wait for him to welcome me. Instead I throw myself into his lap, and he doesn’t miss a beat.
As if my body is made to fall. As if his is made to catch me.
Up close I can see the glint of bristle on his jaw, the tired lines under his eyes. Why is he playing a high-stakes game when he’s tired? A surge of affection takes me by surprise. Lust is something I understand. With a man built like him it’s only natural. I run my fingers through his golden hair, yanking a little before I let him go.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You want to play, Harper?”
There’s a pull deep inside my body, an answering yes that comes from the memory of how it can be between us. Hot. Intense. Devastating. “I’m just here to watch.”
A small smile. “Then watch.”
The words sound unbearably erotic, as if I’m going to watch something more intimate than a high-stakes poker game. I turn slightly in Sutton’s lap so that I can see the table. And his cards. I touch them with my forefinger, affecting a surprised look. “Hey, there’s one of these on the table!”
Sounds of muffled amusement come from around the table. The man with dark tousled hair gives a bark of laughter. “Watch your woman, Mayfair,” he says with a curl of his lip.
“She doesn’t belong to him,” Christopher says, his voice sharp.
Something flashes through his onyx eyes, something I’ve never seen there—violence. It’s cold and calculating, everything I know him to be. And terribly serious. I’m not sure whether he’s mad that the stranger’s words implied ownership—or that he said I belonged to Sutton instead of him.
An uneasy silence descends on the table, which makes me flutter my eyelashes at the stranger. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Harper. Harper St. Claire.”
“Ms. St. Claire,” the man says with a look I suppose some women would find charming. It reminds me of a snake, the way it studies you before striking. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Sutton tenses. The words would be a compliment to a man. They’re the worst kind of insult to a woman. “You want to be careful,” he says softly, mirroring the earlier warning.
The man grins, looking like the dictionary entry for reckless. “I meant her artwork, of course. And her social causes. What was it you wanted to free? A post office?”
Asshole. “It was a library. And you are?”
He manages a small, mocking bow while remaining seated. “Victor Emmanuel, Prince of Piedmont. At your service, of course.”
“A prince.” I give a wide-eyed look. “Is that like Prince Harry? Are you going to marry a commoner? Oh, I do love a royal wedding.”
That earns me a lazy smile. “I suppose I haven’t met the right woman.”
The statement could be considered flirting if he hadn’t basically just called me a slut in a roomful of people. Does he think he could get away with that because he’s minor royalty? I can feel Christopher’s anger in the air, feel Sutton’s tension beneath me. From the corner of my eyes I see Blue and his bodyguards stiffen, as if preparing for a fight to break out.
What was it Blue said? All the men around the table are armed. Oh God.
“We’re here to play cards,” Damon says, gently chiding. He runs the Den and makes plenty of money off these games. I suppose it wouldn’t help to have bloodshed. He tosses his cards in. “And I’m out.”
“That’s probably for the best,” I tell him in my innocent voice. I glance at Sutton’s hand again. “His cards are really good. I mean really good.”
Damon only smirks back at me, probably seeing right through the act. Because Sutton’s hand really is good, but it’s not the one pair that I implied when I first sat down. No, he’s got a flush with a queen high. And I’m playing this clueless act to get someone to stay in, thinking they can beat him when they can’t.
Victor the Asshole Prince, that’s what I’m going to call him. He winks at me before tossing in a thousand-dollar marker. “Raise,” he says pleasantly.
Christopher’s eyes sear me from across the table. I know for sure he sees through my ruse, which means he knows that Sutton’s cards must be actually good. Then he narrows his gaze on my hip, where I feel the warmth of a large hand, where the calluses must surely catch on the silk of my dress. My whole body seems to turn inside out, as if I’m naked for the table. He tosses his cards into the pile. “Fold.”
The last of the players hem and haw over the increased amount, but in the end they stack up hundred-dollar chips and push them into the pile, where they topple over.
