Into the Fire by Anne Stuart Page A

money—she’d started with nothing and she’d end with nothing. But it felt like her very life hung on the turn of a card. Or, in this case, four cards.
    She pushed back from the table. She’d had just enough beer to make her foolhardy—never a good thing. She put her hands on the table and leaned across, looking into his eyes.
    â€œCome on, Jamie,” Dillon said. “Accuse me of cheating. I’m waiting for it. You probably think that’s the only way I can beat you. The only way I can accomplish anything in this world. By cheating.”
    There was no missing the touch of acid in his voice, but she wouldn’t react. “You tell me.”
    He simply grinned up at her. “I don’t give easy answers.”
    â€œDo you give hard ones?”
    An awkward, suggestive silence, but she didn’t back down. “I’ve been known to,” he said. “Why don’t you try me?”
    She didn’t like where this was going, not at all, so she pulled back, moving away from the table, heading toward the refrigerator.
    â€œThere’s not much in there,” he said, rising fromhis seat in front of that mountainous pile of poker chips. Coming toward her.
    She held on to the refrigerator door like it was a life preserver. “I don’t need much. A glass of milk should help me sleep.”
    â€œThe beer should help you sleep,” he said. He reached past her, into the open refrigerator, and pulled out the carton of milk. He opened it and tipped back his head to drink straight from the carton. Then he wiped his mouth and held it out to her.
    Too close, but she wasn’t going to run. It was a matter of pride. If she ran now she’d never be able to stand up to him. His hand was on the top of the refrigerator door, his arm effectively trapping her. “I’d like a glass, please.”
    â€œOf course you would. I don’t have any.”
    She knew that was a lie—she’d had orange juice for breakfast out of one. But he was barring her access to the sink.
    â€œForget it. I don’t need milk.”
    â€œMilk builds strong bones,” he taunted her. “What are you afraid of? Never done it before?” He moved closer, crowding her, his hips almost brushing against her. “Come on, you’ll learn to like it, you know you will. Don’t worry so much about it. You just open your mouth. Let it slide down your throat.”
    â€œYou’re not talking about milk,” she said in a hoarse voice.
    â€œNo, I’m not.” He leaned closer, and she could smell the milk on his breath. “Be brave, Jamie. You want it. It tastes good.” His mouth was almost touching hers, and she did. She wanted it. She wanted everything he was talking about, everything she’d never done, and she swayed for a moment, toward him, and it was so close, so dangerously close.
    She didn’t know what saved her. Maybe the ghost of Nate, watching over her. Maybe her own buried common sense. She heard a noise from outside the building and she pulled back, ducking under his arm and heading for the stairs at a run.
    She expected his hand on her shoulder, spinning her around, and then he’d kiss her, and she wouldn’t have any choice but to kiss him back, because she was trapped and it wasn’t her fault, was it?
    But he hadn’t moved. She took one last furtive glance behind her as she darted up the dark, narrow staircase, and he was still standing in front of the open refrigerator, a carton of milk in one hand, watching her panicked retreat.

8
    H e should have let her win. He’d be a hell of a lot better off if she took Nate’s box of possessions and headed back to Marshfield, Rhode Island, and the chilly bosom of the Duchess. Once she left, he’d never have to see or think about the Kincaids. That part of his life would be over, and it was long past time.
    He’d been acting on impulse since he looked up from