watching Maxie storm the town in feather boas and elbow-length gloves one
night and fringed flapper dresses and six-inch-long cigarette holders the next, Sarah
had decided to dip her toes in the grown-up pool of poker with a raise limit higher
than a quarter. And that was when she discovered her gift: she could treat a poker
hand with a hundred bucks riding on it as if it were a fifty-cent hand back in college.
She played smart, she didn’t get emotional and she took big gambles without flinching
when the moment seemed right. She didn’t always win, but she won far more often than
she lost. And when she did lose, she shrugged off her losses and enjoyed the pool.
And, that one time, the tattoo parlor.
Only, things had gotten a little out of hand on her most recent trip to Sin City.
“Casinos are very good at keeping track of their clients, and they want to keep you
happy. Keep you playing.” She nodded
yes
to more champagne as their server cleared their dinner plates, and ran a fingertip
down the list of desserts propped in front of her. “My line of credit kept getting
raised, and I was introduced to higher and higher limit poker tables. When I sat at
a table where the pot was double my annual salary, I decided it was time to take a
break. Raspberry tart or the classic crème-filled éclair?”
“Both.” J.D. was leaning back, one hand cupped around the wide bowl of a brandy snifter,
warming the amber liquid with the heat of his palm. “So that was why—”
“The slots, yes. And I’ve never played at the Bellagio before, so I figured I’d be
safe. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Fiorentino, the floor manager—” she answered his tilt
of the head “—just made the move here from the MGM Grand. He spotted me on one of
his stroll-throughs of the casino and, well, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
She grinned.
Their server chose that moment to inform them that Mr. Fiorentino wanted to welcome
Ms. Tyler and her guest to the Bellagio by comping their meal. Along with any other
celebrating they would care to do that evening at the hotel’s other venues.
“See what I mean? Plus, he thinks I saved his pug’s life when all I did was put him
on a diet.” She shook her head as J.D. ordered both desserts. “What can I say? I have
no willpower. Not when it comes to poker.
Or
pie. You know I’m going to eat both of those, don’t you? I’m going to burst right
out of this dress.”
J.D. leaned forward and linked his fingers loosely with hers. Bringing her hand up
to his mouth, he brushed a kiss onto her knuckles and kept her hand in his as he spoke.
“Every man in the room would consider his evening complete.”
She’d never been so aware of her fingers before, feeling each one resting against
J.D.’s warm skin, her thumb pressed pad-to-pad with his and moving back and forth
languidly in the dim light.
Looking at him seemed impossibly risky. She watched their hands instead, enjoying
the contrast of her paler fingers against his darker golden ones. Her competent, strong
hand looked delicate when cradled against the wide palm and long fingers of J.D’s.
The mood no longer felt casual.
Or friendly.
Raising her eyes to meet his hooded gaze, she felt his hand grip hers.
“J.D. Do you think—” she began.
The arrival of dessert interrupted the moment. Between extra plates and dessert spoons,
it was easy enough to disengage her hand from his. She sat up and scrubbed her palm
surreptitiously against her thigh in a vain effort to stop it from tingling.
“Do I think what?”
It was annoying how he never dropped the thread of a conversation, even when you wanted
it dropped.
Talking about this thing between them, this shudder of pleasure she felt every time
he touched her, and the fact that she could feel his gaze like a long, slow stroke
across her skin—talking about that could not possibly be a good idea. The charm he
was using on
night and fringed flapper dresses and six-inch-long cigarette holders the next, Sarah
had decided to dip her toes in the grown-up pool of poker with a raise limit higher
than a quarter. And that was when she discovered her gift: she could treat a poker
hand with a hundred bucks riding on it as if it were a fifty-cent hand back in college.
She played smart, she didn’t get emotional and she took big gambles without flinching
when the moment seemed right. She didn’t always win, but she won far more often than
she lost. And when she did lose, she shrugged off her losses and enjoyed the pool.
And, that one time, the tattoo parlor.
Only, things had gotten a little out of hand on her most recent trip to Sin City.
“Casinos are very good at keeping track of their clients, and they want to keep you
happy. Keep you playing.” She nodded
yes
to more champagne as their server cleared their dinner plates, and ran a fingertip
down the list of desserts propped in front of her. “My line of credit kept getting
raised, and I was introduced to higher and higher limit poker tables. When I sat at
a table where the pot was double my annual salary, I decided it was time to take a
break. Raspberry tart or the classic crème-filled éclair?”
“Both.” J.D. was leaning back, one hand cupped around the wide bowl of a brandy snifter,
warming the amber liquid with the heat of his palm. “So that was why—”
“The slots, yes. And I’ve never played at the Bellagio before, so I figured I’d be
safe. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Fiorentino, the floor manager—” she answered his tilt
of the head “—just made the move here from the MGM Grand. He spotted me on one of
his stroll-throughs of the casino and, well, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
She grinned.
Their server chose that moment to inform them that Mr. Fiorentino wanted to welcome
Ms. Tyler and her guest to the Bellagio by comping their meal. Along with any other
celebrating they would care to do that evening at the hotel’s other venues.
“See what I mean? Plus, he thinks I saved his pug’s life when all I did was put him
on a diet.” She shook her head as J.D. ordered both desserts. “What can I say? I have
no willpower. Not when it comes to poker.
Or
pie. You know I’m going to eat both of those, don’t you? I’m going to burst right
out of this dress.”
J.D. leaned forward and linked his fingers loosely with hers. Bringing her hand up
to his mouth, he brushed a kiss onto her knuckles and kept her hand in his as he spoke.
“Every man in the room would consider his evening complete.”
She’d never been so aware of her fingers before, feeling each one resting against
J.D.’s warm skin, her thumb pressed pad-to-pad with his and moving back and forth
languidly in the dim light.
Looking at him seemed impossibly risky. She watched their hands instead, enjoying
the contrast of her paler fingers against his darker golden ones. Her competent, strong
hand looked delicate when cradled against the wide palm and long fingers of J.D’s.
The mood no longer felt casual.
Or friendly.
Raising her eyes to meet his hooded gaze, she felt his hand grip hers.
“J.D. Do you think—” she began.
The arrival of dessert interrupted the moment. Between extra plates and dessert spoons,
it was easy enough to disengage her hand from his. She sat up and scrubbed her palm
surreptitiously against her thigh in a vain effort to stop it from tingling.
“Do I think what?”
It was annoying how he never dropped the thread of a conversation, even when you wanted
it dropped.
Talking about this thing between them, this shudder of pleasure she felt every time
he touched her, and the fact that she could feel his gaze like a long, slow stroke
across her skin—talking about that could not possibly be a good idea. The charm he
was using on
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