Page 27 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
He deals the cards so fast they look like blades through the air, flying into two neat piles in front of us. I stare at the classic red designs, the nondescript backs hiding their numbers and their suits, my stomach as small and hard as a rock. How did I get here so fast?
“Shouldn’t we have chips?” I ask, because I’d like to count something right now.
“I don’t think we need them,” he says, his voice smooth and certain. “We won’t play long enough for that. One hand should do it, I think.”
The knot in my throat makes it hard to swallow. “One hand?”
He smiles that stupid-beautiful smile. “Luck of the draw.”
One hand means I won’t be able to count the cards. There’s only what I have. Not enough to be statistically significant. Does he know that I can count cards? I was sure he wouldn’t know. Being able to do advanced calculus in theory doesn’t mean you have perfect recall.
Or maybe his insistence on one hand has nothing to do with counting.
Maybe he doesn’t want to waste time before claiming me.
My gaze somehow strays to his throat, to the place at the collar of his shirt, tanned skin and a hint of dark hair. Such a personal detail to show in public. Then again we’re not in public. No, this is very private. Enough to make my breath come faster.
“Fine,” I say, wanting this to be over more than I want to win.
No, I can still do this. My odds are as good as his—better, because I can at least count what I see.
“Aces high or low,” he adds. “No wild cards.”
I pick up my cards and look at them. A pair of jacks. Not the worst hand. Not the best.
The other three cards are all spades, which is exciting in another way. If I were to turn in my jacks, I might get back two spades. And that would be a strong hand. Probably a winning one.
Damon lifts only the corner of his cards, glancing at them briefly before pushing them back down on the table. It’s the kind of move only an experienced player could do, whereas I’m holding mine upright, my hands almost trembling. I push them down onto the table, clumsy.
He leans forward, his dark eyes large in the dim light. “Now that we’ve seen our cards, we could up our bet. Do you want to call, baby genius?”
The nickname plants itself inside me, some deep buried seed that finds new life. “Don’t call me that. And I thought you were already taking everything, if you win. What else could I give you?”
“A kiss,” he says, seeming contented as if he’s already won. “And it wouldn’t be something I would take. You would give it to me.”
I stare at him, more shocked than I should be. Sex. I had offered him sex, and he turned me down. Because he isn’t like his father. And I suppose that’s still true. I doubt Jonathan Scott would ever ask for a kiss.
Somehow I could keep a serious face when we were talking about sex, but the suggestion of a kiss brings heat to my cheeks. “You want me to kiss you?”
“Anywhere you like.”
“Your cheek,” I say immediately, but it doesn’t feel as innocent as I meant it. Not when I imagine that dark stubble against my lips, the scent of him up close, the taste of his skin burrowing deep.
He laughs, enjoying himself more than is decent. Really, nothing about him is decent. “Your choice. And if you’re calling the bet, that means I have to put something more in. What would you like?”
Definitely not a kiss, even if my imagination whispers that I might like it. “My father’s debt.”
“Ten thousand dollars for a kiss,” he says, his voice thoughtful.
My chest burns at the implication that I’m for sale. That even if I were for sale, that I’d be worth that much. I feel more like an object than a person. Except I’m not the one who started me down this path. Damon did that himself, when he proposed taking me instead of Daddy’s debt.
You know that Daddy is the reason you’re in this mess.
My mind needs to be quiet sometimes.
“Take it or leave it,” I say, sounding unconcerned.
He makes a sound, kind of tortured, like I just said something sexy. I didn’t say anything provocative, at least I didn’t think so, but he seems to like it when I challenge him. It’s enough to make me want to stop… but not really, because I’m going to fight to my last breath.
“Take it,” he says, sounding almost cheerful as he pushes in his entire hand.
My breath catches. “All of them?”
That means he has a terrible hand. It also means that he could have anything on the next round. Most people think of randomness as favoring chaos. That he wouldn’t be likely to get something strong in a single hand. But really the odds are about the same to get a strong hand as a weak.
