Page 26 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
That solidifies my decision. All of us need justice—especially Damon. A sense of protectiveness rises up inside me, as foreign as the possessiveness I feel for him. I don’t understand it, but I know he’s hurting. I know this will help.
And my life isn’t his to risk. It’s mine. “I didn’t sell myself to your father, but that doesn’t mean you own me. That’s what I came here to tell you. I’m making the decision to do this.”
His eyes turn liquid black. “And what if I decide to stop you?”
“Can you?” I ask, feeling bold now. Feeling free. “He already knows where I work. Already came to see me once. He’ll do it again. You know that as well as I do.”
“I could keep you here.”
I look around at this beautiful prison, the bars made of ancient oak. He’s the one trapped here. Trapped by his anger and his need for revenge. In a perverse way, trapped by me.
“No,” I say softly. “I don’t think you’ll do that.”
He smiles, which only makes him seem darker. More dangerous. “That sounds like a challenge.”
The idea forms with a sense of deep satisfaction, of rightness.
Damon Scott ties me into knots. The things I feel for him crisscrossing and turned over—sympathy and guilt and longing. And an unbearable anger that he became this man. Not exactly his father, but still so far away from my wild boy.
Everything may have led me to this moment, but not so that I could lose to him.
So that I could beat him.
“Do you want to be challenged, Damon?”
His name hangs in the air, far too intimate for the two of us.
“God yes,” he says, and it sounds like a prayer.
“Then let’s play cards. If I win then I help you catch Jonathan Scott. I’m your bait.”
He looks dubious. “Have you even played much cards?”
“No. Actually never,” I admit, feeling shy. “But I’ve seen Daddy play plenty.”
“Christ.” He shakes his head, at once amused and dismissive. “And when I win, what will you give me? I think you know the answer to that. You’ll stay here with me. You’ll be mine. Mine to keep, Penny. Mine to protect.”
Chapter Twelve
Of course we don’t play cards at anything as mundane as a kitchen table.
Not over a coffee table, the way Daddy sometimes fiddles with an old deck, shuffling the cards and running them through his fingers. He would never even bother with Solitaire. It couldn’t satisfy that itch.
Damon has a private card table, deep emerald velvet and butter-soft leather on the bumper surrounding. There are only two seats at the table, even though poker usually has more. I imagine private business meetings happening in this small wood-lined room.
Or maybe he brings women here.
It seems appropriate for a man like him. A bordello for people turned on by risk.
He pulls out a chair for me, every inch the gentleman. Even in a shirt soft from wear, in slacks less than crisp, he could be in a magazine for menswear. His eyebrow rises as I stare at him. My distrust of him must be plain on my face, because he seems pleased.
“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping into the most magical chair I’ve ever sat in.
I turn my face away so I can hide the look of pure bliss I must have. God, I would sleep in this chair. I would live in it. The thick leather cushions cradle my body like a cloud.
“Comfortable?” he asks casually, laughter in his voice. He knows. Of course he does.
He sits across from me, all business. “How many cards?”
Now I see the point of the chairs. They’re a distraction, like his movie star smile. Keeping me from seeing what’s underneath. “What game do you play?”
He smiles. “I play all of them, baby. I want to know which one you like.”
Awareness rushes over my skin, smooth as water down my arms, my back. I can’t help the shiver that comes, his words a sensual caress. “Five,” I tell him, my voice faint.
“A classic,” he says, sounding pleased.
Of course I immediately regret the decision. Anything that makes him happy must be bad.
He pulls a fresh deck from a little shelf under the table, the plastic wrapper glinting off the lamp overhead. His hands are strong but deft, tugging the little blue strip with practiced ease. The wrapper comes off, discarded into a small leather wastebin.
The scent of new paper and whatever glue coats the cards fills the small space as he pulls out the deck. His hands move impossibly fast, shuffling the cards with intimate knowledge. The same intimate knowledge I imagine he has with women.
You’re a woman, my mind helpfully supplies.
Damon Scott won’t be intimate with any part of my body. Not if I win this game.
There’s a sense of loss about that, but also power—because I’ll be the one to decide my fate.
