The Winning Hand (18 page)

She went limp with it, the hand that had gripped his shoulder sliding bonelessly to the tangled sheets.

So hot, he thought, and his hands weren’t completely steady as he drew the lace down her legs. So wet. So beautifully ready. He felt his heart slamming in his chest as her heavy eyes flickered open and that clouded gold fixed on him.

“I’ve never …”

“I know.” He was the first, and it made him mad to have her. “Again,” he murmured, and brought her close, so desperately close that her hips arched up to meet him when he came into her.

His muscles screamed, his blood seemed to snarl as he met both heat and resistance. “Hold on.” He panted it, linked his hands with hers.

She felt herself reaching again, flying toward that astonishing peak. The pain was a shock, so mixed with pleasure she couldn’t separate the two. Then she was opening for him, taking him into her. Mating. And there was only pleasure.

Movement and magic combined to sweep her off on some high, curving wave that crested so slowly, so gracefully that she seemed to tremble on its peak endlessly before sliding down, and down into a quiet and shimmering pool.

Resting there, with him on her, in her, she wrapped herself around him and sighed his name.

She could smell the heady and exotic fragrances of the tropical bouquet on her dresser. The sun poured through the windows and beat warmly against her face.

If she kept her eyes closed she could picture herself in some lush and deserted jungle, gloriously naked and tangled around her lover.

Her lover. What a marvelous phrase that was.

She let it repeat in her mind, over and over, as she turned her head to press her lips to his throat. But when he started to shift, she tightened her grip.

“Do you have to move?”

His mind didn’t seem to want to clear. She was still inside it as completely as he was still inside her. “You’re so little.”

“I’ve been working out.” She wanted to keep tasting it, the hot, dusky flavor of his throat. “I’m starting to get biceps.”

He had to smile. He eased back just enough to pinch her upper arm where the tiny muscle melted like wax under his fingers. “Wow.”

She laughed. “Okay. I’m
almost
getting biceps. In a few more weeks, nobody’s going to call me Pencil-Arm.”

“You don’t have pencil arms,” he murmured, distracted by the texture of her skin along her elbow. “They’re slender. Smooth.”

She studied his face, marveling at the concentration in his eyes as he traced his finger from her
shoulder to her wrist. Did he have any idea just what that absent brush of fingers did inside her body? She didn’t see how he could, or how he could possibly understand what it was like for her to look at that beautifully sculpted profile and know that for a little while he belonged to her.

Was it because she was in love with him that their lovemaking had taken on such a brilliant sheen? Was it because he was her first, her only, that she couldn’t imagine being so close, so intimate with anyone else?

Whatever the reason, she would treasure what he’d given her. And she would hope she’d given him something he would remember in return.

“I have to ask.” Her smile was a little apologetic. “I know it’s probably pitifully typical, but … well, I need to know.”

His gaze had come back to her face, and it was wary. He was afraid she would ask him how he felt, what he wanted, where this was leading. Since he was still struggling with the first part of that, he had no idea what followed.

“Was I—was it …” How did one phrase it? “Was it all right?” she asked him.

Then tension in his stomach dissolved. “Darcy.” Struck by a wave of tenderness, he lowered his mouth and kissed her, long and deep. “What do you think?”

“I stopped being able to think.” Her eyes opened slowly, glowed into his. “Everything got jumbled. I always imagined that I’d remember all the details, sort of step-by-step. But I couldn’t pay attention. There was so much to feel.”

“Sometimes …” He wanted her mouth again, and took it. “Thinking’s overrated.”

“Thoughts just slide out of my head when you do that.” Her hands stroked down his back as she floated on the kiss. “And when you started to touch me, everything got so … hot.”

He groaned against her mouth, then swallowed her gasp as he hardened inside her. “You don’t have to pay attention,” he told her. “Just let me have you.”

Her breath came fast and thick, shattered on each long, slow stroke. She came on a moan and a
shudder that ripped through him like claws. He gripped her hips, lifted them. “More. Give me more this time,” he demanded, and drove deep, dragging her over the edge with him.

Later, when she was alone, she caught her reflection in the mirror over the bed. Her eyes went wide with shock at the image of herself, hair tousled, face glowing, her naked body sprawled over a tangle of sheets.

Could this be Darcy Wallace? The dutiful daughter, the conscientious librarian, the shy and pitiful doormat from Kansas?

She looked … ripe, she decided. Aware. And oh, so satisfied. Then she bit her curving lip as she wondered if she’d have the nerve to look up into the mirror the next time Mac made love with her.

The next time.

Overcome with joy, she hugged a pillow and rolled. He wanted her. She didn’t care what the reasons were, it was enough that he did. There had been simmering promise in the kiss they’d shared before he’d left her. He’d asked her to have a late supper with him in his office.

He wanted her.

Was it so impossible to believe she could find a way to make him keep wanting her? And to find a way to turn that wanting into love?

Curling into the pillow, she rested her head. It would be a gamble. She would be risking what she had now in the hope for more. Because he’d been right, she admitted. What he’d said in the rooftop garden had been a bull’s-eye. She did want marriage and family and permanence. She wanted children. She wanted, desperately, to be able to take this love that threatened to flood right out of her heart and give it.

And for once in her life, she wanted to feel loved in return. Not the lukewarm affection of duty, not
the kindly indulgence of affection, but the hot-blooded and dangerous love that sprang from passion and lust and blind need.

The kind of love that could hurt, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. The kind that lasted and grew and shot up and down the hills of the roller coaster and demanded screams of delight and terror.

She wanted it all. And she wanted it with Mac Blade.

How would she win his heart? She sighed a little, absently snuggling into the pillow as her limbs grew heavy. She would figure it out, she promised herself, and sighed toward sleep.

After all, the only way to win was to play. And she was on a hot streak.

She wore the beaded jacket she’d fallen in love with on her first day at the hotel. Under it was a daring little excuse for a dress in lipstick red. The jacket gave her confidence, made her feel glamorous.

The dress made her feel just a bit sinful.

She wanted to try her hand at blackjack again, decided she might make it her signature game. If she was going to live in Vegas—and she was—and be involved with a man who ran a casino—which she hoped to be—she needed to be skilled in at least one form of gambling.

The slots, she decided, didn’t take skill. She’d proved that herself. Roulette appeared to be a bit repetitive, and craps … well, it looked wonderfully exciting and rousing, but she just couldn’t follow the action.

But the cards were self-explanatory, and they always came up in a different and intriguing order.

She wandered for a while, just enjoying the crush of people, the raucous sounds, the pulse of excitement. The tables were crowded tonight, and the cards moved, fast and sharp. She was toying with joining a game, and had talked herself into risking a hundred dollars for the night when Serena came up beside her.

“I’m glad to see you decided to get out for a while.” Angling her head, Serena took in the glittery jacket. “Celebrating?”

“Um.” Darcy felt color flood her face. She could hardly tell Mac’s mother she was, in her way, celebrating making love to him. “I just wanted to dress up. I bought all these clothes and I’ve been living in slacks and shorts.”

“I know just how you feel. Nothing perks up the soul like a great dress. And that’s a great one.”

“Thanks. You don’t think it’s too … red?”

“Absolutely not. So are you going to try your luck here?”

“I was thinking about it.” She nibbled her lip. “I hate to join a table where everyone knows what they’re doing. It must be irritating to have a novice plop down and slow the game.”

“It’s part of the game, and the luck of the draw. If you stick to the five- or ten-dollar tables, most people will be willing to help you out a bit.”

“You were a dealer.”

“Yes, I was. And a good one.”

“Would you teach me?”

“To deal?”

“To play,” Darcy stated. “And to win.”

“Well …” Serena’s smile spread slowly. “Go get us a table in the bar. I’ll be along in a minute.”

“Split your sevens.”

Eyes sober, Darcy followed instructions, setting the two sevens she’d been dealt side by side on the silver table in the lounge. “And this is supposed to be good, right? Not stressful because now I have two hands to worry about.”

Serena just grinned. “Cover your bet on the second hand.” She dealt Darcy her next cards. “Three for ten on your first hand, six for thirteen on your second. Dealer has an eight showing, what do you do?”

“Okay.” Darcy wiped her damp palms on her knees. “I double down on the first hand, then take a hit.” Remembering the ritual she’d been taught, she counted out the bar nuts standing in the place of chips, then tapped a finger on her cards. “A three—thirteen. I have to take another one.”

“Pulled a six for nineteen. Holding on nineteen?”

“Yeah. Now we do this one.” She tapped her finger on the second hand and winced at the steely eyes of the king she drew. “Well, at least that was fast.”

“Busted on twenty-three.” Serena raked in the nuts, and cards, then turned over her down card. “Dealer has eleven, fourteen, and breaks on twenty-four.”

“So I win on the first hand, but I doubled the bet so it’s like winning twice. That’s good.”

“You’re getting it. Now if you want to buck the house, you let that bet ride on the next hand.”

Darcy stared down at her pile of nuts. “It’s a lot—twenty nuts on one hand.”

“Two thousand.” Serena twinkled at her. “Didn’t I mention the nuts are a hundred a pop?”

“Good God, I’ve eaten a dozen. Let’s go for it.”

“Is this game open, ladies?”

Serena tipped up her face for her husband’s kiss. “You got a stake, pal, you got a chair.”

He snagged a bowl of pretzels from a neighboring table. “I think I can afford a few hands.”

“Thousand-dollar chips. We got us a high roller.” Delighted with the game, Serena rubbed her hands together. “Place your bets.”

When Mac found them a half hour later, Darcy was sitting hip to hip with his father and giggling as she piled a mix of nuts and pretzels into a sloppy mountain on the table. “You’re not supposed to hit on seventeen when the dealer’s showing a two,” Darcy said, sniffing experimentally at the smoke from Justin’s slim cigar. “Why did you?”