Page 9 of One Night Gamble
She pivoted on her heel and moved close enough that one small step closed the gap between them. Their chests bumped against each other. He arched one eyebrow at her and the side of his mouth quirked up.
She lifted her hand, gently touching the scar at the right side of his mouth. It was tiny—not even half an inch long—but it must have been bad because the scar looked old.
“How did you get this?”
“Taking a chance,” he said.
She realized that he wanted something from her, too. Probably just sex. Not to get to know her or to talk about anything serious. She felt a twinge of disappointment, but then reminded herself that this was only for one night.
One cray-cray night that she’d be able to tell Sami about in the morning. They’d have a laugh about it and then life would resume.
“So not all of your gambles work out?” she said.
“Where would the fun be in that?” he said.
Confirmation, her gut said, that she was putting herself in the hands of a true gambler. She wanted to pretend that didn’t excite her, but her contrary disposition told her it was a lie. “No fun at all.”
The words felt like sawdust in her mouth and she realized she couldn’t pretend about this. It was interesting, because she’d been able to fake her way through so many other things. But risking her livelihood on chance wasn’t one of them.
…
She wasn’t the daring sort. He’d already picked that up from her comments outside the grocery store. But she was game. And he liked that.
He was the first to admit that his threshold for boredom was low. One of the reasons he’d so often gotten into scrapes, which he’d only escaped by using his wits, was that he was impulsive. It was a trait that had never really done him much good when he gambled. But every once in a while, that impulsiveness paid off.
Like tonight.
She looked so determined to be here. There was some sort of electric attraction between the two of them that was burning hotly through his veins. He’d been careful to make sure she didn’t feel…well, trapped for lack of a better word. But she was here and every masculine instinct he had was screaming for him to claim her. Make her his.
He had to be honest and admit he didn’t want to talk about his past or Vegas. It was odd that the very thing that had made him who he was, was the one thing he hated most. Yet he knew no other way to earn a living. There was no other life he knew as well as he did the life of a gambler.
But he wasn’t thinking of that tonight. His hormones were in charge. And right now, each inhalation of breath was scented by the sweet flowery scent that had been at the nape of her neck. Her skin was soft and smooth and he wanted to explore her entire body and find out if she had any imperfections, like the scar he wore on his lip.
It had been caused by a slap from the man who ran the first foster home his mom had dumped him at, back before Casey had learned how to bluff.
Her mouth was perfect. Just a cute little bow shape with a full lower lip that made his own tingle with the thought of tasting it. He lifted his hand, cupped her jaw, and then used the pad of his thumb to touch it. Her lips parted and her breath was warm against his fingers. He leaned to the side, putting his champagne flute on the glass-and-chrome sofa table, then he took hers and put it next to his.
He leaned in and she went up on tiptoe, their noses brushing, and he almost smiled. She was a mass of energy which had intrigued him the moment he’d first set eyes on her at the grocery store. She’d moved down the aisle with such intent, such determination, it seemed like nothing could ever slow her down.
She was like one of the powerful thunderstorms that had fascinated and scared him as a child. He wanted to claim her, keep her, tame her. At least for this night.
He was careful as he brushed his lips against her. Feeling the arcing of electricity between them, he swallowed her surprised exclamation. Then he opened his mouth over hers and she tipped her head to allow access as his tongue slipped past her lips. She tasted of sparkling wine and woman.
Her hand rested against his shoulder, holding on to him. He put his hand on her waist and felt the heat of her body through the fabric of her dress.
She pulled back and looked up at him. She had a serious way of studying him that made him feel…like a fraud. Like he was in one of those cups in the shell games he used to run on the streets. Despite his trappings of success, he knew he was all illusion. That he had no substance. Most of the time, he was pretty damned sure that no one else knew it, but there was something about her that made him very aware of his shortcomings.
He turned away from her and walked toward the large console table in the corner of the room. He heard her exhale and then the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor as she followed him. He opened the drawer in the table and took out a deck of cards. A new deck.
He’d learned a long time ago that no one wanted to play with an old deck. There were too many risks that it might be stacked.
That had always amused him—that anyone could believe that anything other than fate was playing the biggest cosmic con. It was always slightly perplexing to him.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a chance that you’re not as against gambling as you’ve indicated.”
She stopped a few feet from him.
