Working on a Full House (2 page)

Yes, he'd achieved what he'd set out do.

Now he had no idea what he wanted any more.

Roy tapped his thumb against his thigh. Or maybe he did know what he wanted. Sensing the woman's eyes still upon him, he felt a stirring low in his gut. It was not an unpleasant sensation, like the stretching of muscles that hadn't been used in a while.

For a
nice
girl.

"Your bet."

The dealer was looking at Roy again, who hadn't realized he'd been dealt a new set of cards. Like an idiot, he made everyone wait while he peeked at what he had. Then it was as if he hadn't even registered the measly three-five unsuited, but was still betting his last hand. He threw in three chips.

Did I just do that?
Roy stared at his stupid bet lying on the table, then heard four other players match it. Not even a chance of stealing the blinds.

The dealer laid down the flop. A king, a ten, and a nine. Leaning back, Roy eyed the cards with a mixture of irritation and amusement. Now that it was too late, the numbers crunched in his head, falling over each other like ice in a glass until they fell into perfect alignment, each cube sitting straight on top of the others. He then knew, taking into account how many players were left in the action and how many cards were left in the deck, the precise odds of somebody making a straight, a high pair, or a flush.

He also knew that somebody was not going to be him, and yet he threw three more chips into the pot. As a completion to the motion, he lifted his gaze toward the bar.

She had her youthfully round cheek resting on one hand, like she had all the time in the world, and would waste as much of it as she wanted studying him.

Heat flashed through him. He'd never had a woman look at him the way this one was...like he was some rare kind of gem.

She blinked. Apparently she'd only just realized he was looking back at her. Her gaze shifted abruptly and she executed an awkward swivel back to the bar, where she poked her straw up and down in her Margarita.

Roy felt his lips curve. Any lingering paranoia he might have harbored disappeared. She hadn't been trying to get his attention; she didn't know who he was. Not an operator, but a simple tourist — a nice girl, curious about the big, bad gamblers of Vegas.

"Your bet."

With no potential for taking the pot, and with no excuse now that the woman was no longer looking at him, Roy nevertheless tossed six chips onto the table. He looked back at the woman.

So she was curious about big, bad gamblers, was she? Well, he could educate her. Wasn't he the biggest, baddest gambler around? Roy felt a strange urge, a kind he almost never had, to do something impulsive.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the fourth community card, the turn, bring another king onto the table. The numbers tumbled over each other again in his head. Odds were good somebody had trips, or even a full house. With the mighty strength of his three-five unsuited, Roy tossed six chips into the pot.

Impulsive.

It wasn't a word with which he had any familiarity. Since age seventeen, he'd carefully scripted and strategically planned his life in order to meet his goal. Every action had been taken to prove his father wrong. Roy wasn't useless. He wasn't stupid.

He'd earned thirty-five million dollars.

But now that he'd completed his proof, he was without a script. He was free to decide to do something...for no good reason at all.

The Girl Next Door lifted her Margarita glass and took a sip, not daring to look Roy's way again. Shy, huh? He didn't think he'd been around too many shy women, in fact, probably none.

The river card, the fifth and last community card, was a deuce, which was certainly no help to Roy, but he threw in another six chips. To his left, a player with a beard turned over a king and a nine; he had a full house. There were groans around the rest of the table as the chips began sliding King-Nine's direction.

Roy stood up.

"You want to buy more chips, Mr. B.?" Frenchie looked over at him, confused. He'd never seen Roy bow out of a game when he was down in the money.

"No, thanks, Frenchie. I...have something else to do." Actually, he had no idea what he intended, beyond saying hello. But Roy felt his smile grow as he tossed a chip Frenchie's way, then slid his two remaining dollar chips into his trouser pocket. He felt decidedly buoyant as he stepped away from the table.

If ever there was a great time to do something for no good reason at all, it had to be now.

~~~

Valerie speared her straw into the slush that used to be her Margarita and struggled to slow her heart rate. He hadn't looked at her; it had just appeared that way when he'd been gazing at something behind her, like the aquarium that stood as a pillar at the other end of the bar.

That's right. Hissing out a breath, she bet that if she peeked at the poker table now, she'd see him concentrated on the game. He was a card shark, after all. It was too mortifying to think he'd caught her staring at him.

She squeezed her fingers around the plastic straw and made herself glance over. She was correct. He wasn't looking at her. He was standing up. He was leaving the game.

A rush of disappointment hit her. She wouldn't be able to watch him any more. All she could do was crane her neck to catch a last glimpse as he strolled away from the table. Broad in the shoulder and lean at the hip, he not only looked like a wolf, he moved like one, too, smooth and predatory. Valerie managed to keep him in sight as he skirted the potted palms set below the platform of the bar.

She was still watching when he turned and bounded up the stairs that led to the bar area.

She froze. Okay, he was coming up to the bar — to get a drink. Sure. That's why he must have left the game, in fact. To get a drink.

It was a good theory, a great one, but Cashmere strode right past the empty seats at the bar. His steel-colored eyes rose to lock on hers.

No. She couldn't believe he was looking at her. Why would he do that?

She whirled to face her drink. With her heart thumping, she made a few more stabs in her Margarita with the straw. But she could feel him coming toward her. He stopped at the stool next to hers.

As Valerie stared at her drink, disbelieving, she felt a nudge against her right shoulder. Her eyes popped wide and her head whipped around.

He was looking directly at her. His beautiful mouth was curved in a smile of easy familiarity, as if they already knew each other. Right. As if he'd just found a good friend and had given her a playful shove.

"Hey." His voice was as smooth and rich as the rest of him. "You going to buy me a drink?"

Valerie choked. "Excuse me?"

He seated himself on the stool next to hers. "Buying me a drink is the least you can do after making me lose the last two hands."

Valerie's jaw dropped. "I didn't make you lose!"

"Sure you did." He glanced away from her to give a nod to the bartender, then looked back, smiling. "You distracted me."

An automatic scoffing sound came out of Valerie's mouth. Meanwhile her brain felt like scrambled eggs. His eyes, his build — it was all right next to her, talking to her,
focused
on her.

It wasn't that she never got approached by men. It was that she'd never been approached by a man as good-looking as this one. Certainly not by one she'd just been mooning over.

"You're a menace, you know that?" he went on. "They shouldn't allow you out on the floor."

"Please." His flattery was over the top, but still, it
was
flattery. He was going to that much trouble for her. How incredible was that?

"Hey, look." He drew one shoulder back so that he could reach into his trousers pocket. "Two dollars." He pulled forth a couple poker chips and held them out. "After you — well, now that's all I've got left."

"Oh, come on. You're a pro."

He halted then, as if she'd surprised him, which was when she discovered her accusation had been correct. He
was
a card shark.

He smiled and tossed the poker chips on the polished counter of the bar. The smile creased his cheeks with two long crescents. "You think? And yet, I'm broke."

Oh,
sure
. Broke. Meanwhile the bartender came over and set a drink of clear liquid and ice next to the poker chips on the counter. It could have been anything from bottled water to vodka.

"Thanks, Julio," the man said to the bartender, then turned back to Valerie. "And since I'm out of money, and it's your fault, I figure it's up to you to entertain me for the rest of the evening."

Valerie blinked. Whoa. This was more than flattery. This was — an invitation to spend time with him. From Cashmere, the wolf, essence of all her feminine dreams.

And yet, she was in a bar in Las Vegas and she didn't know this guy from Adam.

Something shifted in his gaze. A micron of his predatory heat cooled. "Oh," he said, in a different, and somehow less awe-inspiring, tone. "Since we're going to be spending so much time together, I suppose I should tell you my name. I'm Roy. How do you do?" Then, with a smile that almost made him safe, he reached his right hand past his glass of mystery liquid.

Valerie found herself lifting her hand. She found her mouth saying, "I'm Valerie. How do you do?" And then they shook hands.

His flesh was warm and dry, his grip firm but gentle. Jeez, even his
handshake
was the stuff of dreams, sending an amazed shiver down her arm to her belly.

But the fact remained: he was an absolute stranger. She let go abruptly. "Um, I think you should know. I'm not into — I mean, even though this is a bar, and I am sitting here alone..."

His brows drew down and he tilted his head. Valerie felt like a dolt. Here he was playing this subtle, sexual game, and she was fumbling about, blurting blatant truths. And not even managing to blurt them, actually.

But his expression smoothed. "Oh. I think I know what you mean. But I'm not expecting anything like
that
. Actually, I was feeling pretty flush you shook my hand and told me your name. That
is
your name, isn't it?" He smiled.

Valerie stared. She couldn't believe she'd just heard that. He was surprised he'd got this far? And the ease with which he'd come out with his admission, as if it hadn't cost his ego a thing. "Yes," she told him. "Valerie's my name."

His smile widened. "Good."

"And Roy is yours?" she thought to ask.

"Mm hm." His gray eyes seemed warmer now, definitely less threatening.

"But the two dollars." His small admission had given her enough courage to tease. "That isn't really all you have left."

A strange look crossed his face. "Let's just say, it's all I have left for tonight."

"Uh huh." Valerie supposed it was possible. She'd heard stories about gamblers who went up very high one night and were broke the next. But —

"Now, don't worry on my account." He smiled again. "In fact, I changed my mind. I'm not asking you to entertain me. I'll entertain you." He tapped the two poker chips on the counter. "With this."

"Excuse me?"

He took a sip of his drink. "Perfectly aboveboard. Nothing illegal or illicit. Or even...the other thing you mentioned before. I bet I can provide you with a full evening's entertainment for...
less than
two dollars."

Valerie didn't want to tell him he could entertain her just by sitting there. "Hm," she said, doing her level best to sound cool. "Define a full evening."

With his eyebrows lifting, he stretched out his left arm and looked at a remarkably Rolex-looking watch. "It's eight o'clock now. I'll bet I can give you a full night's entertainment, not a minute of boredom, all the way until midnight."

"Midnight, hm?" Inwardly, Valerie gawked. A man who looked like this, tough and suave and knowing, actually wanted to spend four hours with her?

Doing what? She was just an ordinary woman, no femme fatale. If this guy offered to spend four hours in her company, he anticipated getting something out of the business — probably sex — no matter how self-deprecating he'd sounded.

"You're looking worried," he observed.

Damn. He was perceptive, too.

"I'm not on the make," he claimed.

Very
perceptive. "Well, I..."
what
? She — what? She was going to say yes to his proposal? Because of course he was on the make. And she wasn't going to — to engage in a one-night stand, no matter how yummy he was. But on the other hand...

On the other hand, this was her dream, wasn't it? Her deepest, most secret fantasy. He was looking into her eyes as if she were the most fascinating creature alive. If she spent the next four hours with him, she could pretend she was, in fact, such a creature: Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Angelina Jolie. She could pretend she was the kind of woman who could take a man to his romantic knees.

Instead of the kind of woman who got dumped for Cindy Parker.

He leaned his forearm on the bar. "Well, you — what?" he asked.

Well, she thought she was crazy for even considering the notion. He was an operator, totally smooth, an expert.

And yet — and yet — this was her chance. On top of which, he was so surprisingly nice.

"Well, I guess that would be fun," she said. "Less than two dollars. Let's see if you can do it." A blush heated her face as the words came out of her mouth. She was going to do this, take a chance, live a dream — have fun!

A long, happy crescent curved each of his cheeks. "Yes, let's," he agreed, and cupped one of his hands, strong and firm, around one of hers.

CHAPTER TWO

Her hand was small and delicate in his. He took hold of it at the bar in Mandalay Bay, hoping to distract her as, already cheating on his two-dollar bet, he nodded a signal to Julio to put both drinks on his tab.

After that, he didn't want to let her hand go. He liked the sensation of fragility in his own big grasp. The few minutes he'd spent talking to her at the bar had confirmed every assumption he'd made about her via his perusal from the poker table. She was a drop of clean Ivory soap in a vat of cloying French perfume. She was a tree of fruit-producing wholesomeness in a garden of stunted hothouse orchids.