CHAPTER THREE
Tabby
I was more than a little interested in the suave man before me, as much as I hated to admit it because it would’ve been so much less humbling to just try and forget about the whole drink-on-pants scenario. Whether he was intelligent or not, I didn’t yet know, but he was definitely quick on the verbal draw. He was also either an incredibly good actor or he genuinely cared more about me as a person than he did about me in the sheets — a rare trait in attractive men, in my experience.
And speaking of attractive men...
He was. Oh god, he was. I’d been too embarrassed to look at him properly when I’d run into him before, but now with him sitting in front of me on a gambler’s stool I had the no-holds-barred close-up, and it was a thing of the gods. A coif of smooth chestnut hair fell over a smoother forehead, which melted into a sharp brow that shadowed eyes of the palest aquamarine. His jaw went on for days, adjoining an aristocratic chin in the front and angling up toward his ears in the back. The mouth above that jaw was thin but shapely, and it didn’t escape my notice that his glistening pink tongue slipped out to stroke the crease between his lips each time I spoke. This investor may have had innocent intentions in conversing with me, but he was utterly drenched in raw, wicked sexuality that had my inner thighs tingling.
Maybe I was the one only interested in sex. It wasn’t my style, but there was a first time for everything, and Owen Driscoll had all the makings of a divine first one-night stand.
“So, Miss Tabby…” His voice was dangerously suggestive and sinfully alluring, like a velvet-swathed razor. “Is it safe to assume you’re a betting woman?”
I glanced to the machine on which I was casually resting my arm. The money I’d put in was waiting patiently in the balance bar. Ordinarily, I would’ve been unable to resist the glowing SPIN button and would’ve carried on the chat while clenching my teeth and hoping for a jackpot hit. Owen had managed to break my questionable gambling tendencies merely with his presence.
“I am,” I admitted, “but I don’t think I’d use the word safe so close to the word betting in my case.”
“Oh? Do you have a tendency to get carried away?” He crooked his head and lifted a brow as a corner of his tempting mouth tilted upward.
“It’s an inherited trait,” I said, shrugging. “My dad had as serious a gambling addiction as it gets. Paycheck, car, house… if he could use it to feed his addiction, he would. Luckily, the worst thing I’ve ever gambled away was my food budget for out-of-town gigs. I guess I’ve got more willpower than he did.”
Owen’s expression changed, and I immediately wondered if my admittance of my vice had scared him off. I didn’t realize he was looking at me with concern rather than judgment until he asked, “Has he gotten back on his feet? He isn’t homeless, is he?”
His concern was endearing and something inside me melted a little.
“He kicked the habit when my mom kicked him out. She ended up being more important to him than the rush. They’re fine now, albeit living in a house half the size of the first and sharing a station wagon.” I chewed on one of my cheeks and averted my eyes as a mild ripple of embarrassment misted over me. Who could’ve imagined that avoiding dinner with Grace’s friends would have resulted in me telling a perfect stranger about my parents and their troubles? Weirder than that was he actually seemed to give a damn. What an unusual man. In the interest of lightening the mood, I pushed my glasses farther up my nose and joked, “Why, you want to buy him a house?”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’d be a drop in the bucket.”
I didn’t doubt that. He was dressed like a Rockefeller and dripped the kind of sophistication only money could buy. Even his cologne, a scent so deliciously intrusive I could taste it in whispers on my palate, smelled like wealth.
“Would you care to make a wager?” he went on. He smiled as yet another Santa walked past, bells ringing with each step. “A Christmas bet.”
The budding arousal and hints of affection plucking at my insides stilled, and the cloud I’d been floating on thus far sank an inch. Him asking me to make a bet with him after I’d just shared my difficulties in that regard raised a red flag for me. Though the flag was much closer to coral than it was to crimson, it was a flag nonetheless. Perhaps he was one of those men who sought out women’s weaknesses and preyed on them. If so, I’d offered up mine like a prayer. Then again, maybe he was simply trying to inject some good-natured fun into our exchange.
I pursed my lips thoughtfully. “A Christmas bet, huh? What are you thinking?”
He motioned to his right, in the direction of the place where I’d failed to pay attention and humiliated the crap out of myself. “I sit down at a table. Blackjack. I get one hand.” He bent forward, placing an elbow on a knee and canting his head until his eyes bored into me like sensual drills. “If I lose, you get whatever you want.”
“That’s awfully vague.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knee. “What if I want a yacht or a trip around the world or the lead in a box office smash?”
“The yacht and the trip aren’t a problem, but I’m afraid the best I could do on the movie is supporting actress in a straight-to-DVD. Hollywood hasn’t been a priority for my portfolio.”
I gave him a long sigh and leaned back, pulling my ponytail over my shoulder to stroke my fingers down the length. “What a shame. And here I was almost impressed.”
He grinned, smattering his masculine features with a playfulness I didn’t think possible. “Fair enough. I’ll be more specific. How about this… if I lose, I’ll make you photographer for my newest restaurant’s PR package. It’s an easy gig. The designer staged the place last week, so it can be done whenever it suits you, and I’d guess it pays better than normal gigs.” It was his turn to lean forward, and the energy between us grew heavier. “And I’ll cover your extended hotel stay and flight back home to wherever you live.”
“Chicago,” I murmured. I was startled by his offer, not only because of the financial generosity but also because he’d never even seen my work. For all he knew, I was a hack who’d never done anything greater than sell stock pictures I took from an iPhone. On the other hand, I was curious what the balance was. If he was willing to give me that much if he lost, I could only imagine what he wanted if he won. I had a feeling I was about to see his true colors, dark and lecherous, come out.
“Chicago, then,” he agreed with an amicable nod.
I mirrored his nod with a watchful one of my own. “And if you win the hand?”
His eyes flashed, and a shimmer of rosy excitement caressed his face like a kiss. I felt the weight of his words before the first syllable even left his lips. “I take you to The Blackjack Club.”
Disappointment hit me like a slap, but I didn’t let him see it. “What’s that?”
“You don’t get to know until you go.” He stood up, shoving the stool back with the sole of his sleek black shoe, and held a hand out to me. It was the same hand that had clutched my wrist and kept me aloft in my moment of instability, but it somehow looked different now. Strong. Powerful. Enticing. The palm was smooth, the fingers long, and his thumb was twitching almost imperceptibly with repressed energies. “Shall we?”
I was eager to accept his proffered hand, but the logical side of my brain had more muscular control than I wanted it to have and refused to let me follow him wherever his heart desired like my wilder yang craved. The only thing I knew about this Blackjack Club was its name, but that was enough to craft images of seedy, glamorous people in a seedy, glamorous venue. I wanted to know more. Despite Owen being a physical Adonis and an oral charmer — god, I bet he was! — I didn’t truly know him, and going with him to a place I’d never heard of that he refused to explain was hardly a good idea. Plus, I was still a little wary about his request to make a bet after I’d confessed my gambling demons. I wasn’t sure what that said about his character.
“Tell me something about this club,” I said, “and I’ll do the bet.”
He didn’t take his hand back, but his shoulder relaxed slightly and a smirk graced his face. “You’re a feisty thing, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and the way he said it sounded like silken liquid chocolate. I just kept my stare fixed unblinkingly on him rather than responding, though my belly had plenty in the way of response. Prickling heat bloomed in my core.
“I can be.”
The smirk widened, and he acquiesced, “All right. One thing, and the bet is on.” He swung his eyes up to the ceiling for a moment before returning them to me. Once he refocused on me, his expression again was hinted with pink thrill. “The Blackjack Club is the biggest secret you’d ever have to keep.” With that, he snatched my hand in his own. “Time to make good on your word, kitten.”
The way he said the nickname forced me to press my legs together. There was such double meaning to the innocent word. A play on my name, yes, but something else more raw and primal. A verbal pet… stroke… everywhere.
“That didn’t tell me anything!” I protested, digging my heels into the carpet and resisting his pull.
He narrowed his eyes at me, then shimmied them down the length of my body as if sizing me up. “That’s all you’re getting, sweetheart. If you want more, you’ll have to go there with me. Now, you can either straighten up and walk on your own, or I can throw you over my shoulder and take you to the table. Your call.”
Every inch of my body was immediately drowning in chills, and I sucked in a sharp breath. He was so pushy, but I didn’t find it offensive. I found it… hot.
I looked at my drink. Had he slipped something in it? Not a date rape drug, but some kind of aphrodisiac? Or were his pheromones just this powerful?
“I’ve got money on the slot,” I pointed out and recrossed my legs, watching him watch me do it.
“I’ll reimburse you,” he said with a falsely irritated sigh. “Grab your purse.”
The logical part of my brain jabbed me sharply in the temple, but I ignored it. I snagged my purse, tried to gather as much composure as possible despite my trembling nether regions, and turned back toward him with my hand still curled snugly into his. “Okay. Let’s go, card shark.”
He grinned and started walking. I kept stride with him, but I felt extremely aware of every step I took. All the people who’d noticed me earlier weren’t even in my realm of awareness anymore. I was very conscious that I was side by side and hand in hand with quite possibly the handsomest man I’d ever met. More than that, I felt like everyone could see the flirtatious things he’d said to me stamped across my forehead. I might as well have been wearing a collar around my neck labeled “Owen” or had a chain around my wrist connected to his.
And I didn’t hate it.
The second we reached the blackjack table, I knew he was a regular. The dealer clearly recognized him, acknowledging him with a brief nod and a courteous, “Back so soon, Mr. Driscoll?”
A player seated at the table was evidently a friend or associate of Owen’s as well, given the raised eyebrows and knowing smile he offered, but he didn’t say a word. The bald man did, however, change his focus from Owen to me and didn’t look away until Owen slipped into the empty seat next to him.
“Really feeling ballsy today, aren’t you?” he muttered.
Owen cast him a sideways glance and flicked a casual smile back. “No more than usual,” he responded nonchalantly. He looked over his shoulder at me and reached behind the chair he now occupied. Fingers curled around my thigh. I shivered and involuntarily stepped forward until my hip pressed against the chair’s back.
Chips and money were exchanged, then cards were flicking from the dealer to the players, but I was too distracted by the gentle stroking of Owen’s forefinger on the inner seam of my jeans to pay attention to the scene unfolding before me. I didn’t even care that the bet determining whether I landed possibly my biggest gig ever was playing out. All that mattered was my body reacting to a gentle touch in ways I wasn’t accustomed to and the man making it happen.
“Looks like Lady Luck is on my side, sweetheart,” he murmured. He lifted the corners of his dealt cards to reveal a pair of queens. “The only chance I’ll lose is if Jeeves has—”
“Twenty-one,” the dealer announced, a distinctly British lilt in his voice.
I beamed with gleeful smugness. “You were saying?”
“There’s a lot more you could do with that mouth than brag,” he returned with soft venom.
I shivered again and sealed my lips together. Owen stood up, clapped a hand onto his shiny-scalped friend’s shoulder, nodded to the dealer, and removed his hand from my leg to weave his fingers between mine. The next thing I knew, we were walking, this time toward the casino exit.
“So, are you going to be sour lemons the whole time I’m shooting your restaurant because you lost?” I asked, only half kidding.
He came to a stop just before the doors and faced me. One of his eyebrows was stretching toward his hairline. “Who says I lost?” he challenged.
“The rules of blackjack, I believe,” I said, sarcasm dripping from the words.
“Oh, no,” he corrected, shaking his head and sending stray strands of hair across his forehead. His eyes bolted with lightning. “No, I definitely won.”