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.
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.