The Winning Hand (20 page)

“I don’t mind you being nervous. I like it. It’s exciting to know you’re a little afraid, but when I touch you, you’ll give.” He reached out to toy with the sassy red strap on her shoulder. The dress clung to every quiet curve. “What’ve you got on under there, Darcy?”

Her breath shuddered out. “Hardly anything.”

His eyes flashed, a clash of swords in the sun. “I don’t want to be gentle this time. Will you risk it?”

She nodded, would have spoken, but he was already dragging her against him. His mouth was bruising and hungry and tasted of such raw passion she could only marvel he felt it for her.

Then he was pulling her to the floor, and the shock of that alone had her gasping. His hands took her over, body and mind, racing over her, taking, possessing, inciting a fury of sensations.

All she could think was that it was like the roller coaster, a fast and reckless ride. Glorying in it, she yanked desperately at his jacket, tugged at his shirt while the pulse pounding in her seemed to scream hurry, hurry, hurry.

She moaned as he peeled the dress down, and the sound raged through his blood. Her breasts were
small and firm and when he filled his mouth with the taste of them she fisted her hands in his hair, urging him to take more. Desperate for the taste of flesh, her flesh, he used tongue and teeth until she writhed under him, her sobbing breaths like a drumbeat to his greed.

But still it wasn’t enough.

His mouth streaked down, laying a line of heat on skin that had gone hot and damp. Her muscles quivered beneath his tongue, her body shivered under his busy, relentless hands. His own breath was ragged when he gripped her restless hips and lifted them.

The fast plunge ripped a scream from her throat. The fire that shot through her was molten, shocking her system with sensations so acute she feared for a moment they would simply tear her apart. The climax rushed through her, a towering wave of hot, hard pleasure that tossed her high, sucked her deep. Helpless, she tossed an arm over her eyes and let it drag her where it would.

When she thought there could be no more, he pulled her mercilessly over the next edge.

She lay bonelessly as he yanked off the rest of his clothes. Her skin glowed under the lights, flushed and damp. Her mouth was swollen from his. When he drew her up, her head fell weakly back, leaving him no choice but to plunder her soft mouth.

“Stay with me.” He murmured it as he assaulted her neck, her shoulders. He shifted, bringing her over him, brought her down until she took him into her, closed that glorious heat around him.

Her moan was long and deep and broken. He watched as flickers of fresh pleasure moved over her face and into the clouded eyes that opened and fixed on his.

“Take what you want.” His hands moved up her body and covered her breasts.

She was already moving. Her body was unable to rest. There was a shock of control, of power, a nervy kind of energy that demanded movement. Tantalizing. She arched back and drove herself mad.

Everything inside her was as bright, as brilliant, as reckless and bold as the world she now lived in. A world where nothing was too big or too fast, or too much.

He was quivering beneath her, and his hands were rough as they gripped her hips. A new thrill
snaked through her, the knowing that she was taking him with her.

Stay with me, he’d demanded. And she wanted nothing more than to obey.

When the climax bowed her back, when it had her melting down on him, he rolled her over, his body plunging, his heart pounding, until both body and heart emptied themselves into her.

The phone woke Darcy at five past nine. She thought blearily that her days of working an ordinary eight-hour day were over. It had been nearly four in the morning when she’d given in to exhaustion. And even then she’d been wrapped around Mac.

Since she was alone in the big bed, she had to assume he’d figured out a way to function on little to no sleep. If he could learn, so could she.

She yawned widely, reached for the phone with her eyes still hopefully shut. “Hello?” she mumbled, and buried both her head and receiver in the pillow.

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting straight up in bed, staring at nothing. Maybe she’d been dreaming, she thought, and stared at the phone. Had she actually just talked to an editor in New York? Had that editor actually asked to see her work?

She pressed a hand to her heart. It was beating, fast but steady. She could feel the light chill from the air-conditioning on her bare shoulders. She was wide-awake.

Not a dream, she told herself, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms tightly around them. Not a dream at all.

Her story was all over the media—the editor had said as much. Darcy had told reporters that she was writing a book, and now the next miracle had happened. A publisher wanted to see it.

It was only because of the attention from the press, Darcy thought, resting her forehead on her knees. She was an oddity, a story in herself, and the publisher would consider her manuscript because of the public’s interest in the writer, and not the work.

And that, she thought with a sigh, didn’t make her a writer.

What difference did it make? She sat straight again, balling her fists. It was a foot in the door, wasn’t it? A chance to see if—no, not to see, she corrected, to
prove
her work had merit.

She’d send the first book in, and the opening chapters of the second. She would let them stand or fall on their own.

Tossing the sheets aside, she scrambled out of bed, bundled into a robe and raced downstairs to turn those first two chapters into gems.

She said nothing to Mac, to anyone, afraid she would jinx herself. Superstition was another new character trait, or perhaps one she’d kept buried. She worked steadily through the day, ruthlessly cutting, lovingly polishing her words until she was forced to admit she could do no better.

While the pages printed out, she retrieved her list of agents. If she intended to be a professional, she told herself, then she would need professional representation. It was time to take the big risk. Finally take it.

They were just names to her, faceless power symbols. How would she know which one to pick, which one would see something inside her worthy of their time and attention?

The face of the slot had been only stars and moons, she remembered. She’d gambled everything once. It wasn’t so hard to do it again. Following impulse, she shut her eyes, circled her finger in the air, then jabbed it onto the list.

“Let’s see how lucky you are,” Darcy murmured, and calculating she had fifteen minutes before offices closed on the East Coast, picked up the phone.

Twenty minutes later she had representation, or at least the promise to read the manuscript and sample of her work, and to negotiate if the publisher made an offer.

More than satisfied, Darcy typed up a cover letter, then called the desk to request an overnight bag and form before she could change her mind.

She nearly did so while the bellman waited for her to seal the envelope. She very nearly gave in to
the dozens of excuses whirling in her head.

It wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready. The book needed more work. She needed more time. She was sending work she’d slaved over to strangers. She should ask someone’s advice before she mailed the pages. She should call the agent back and tell her she wanted to finish the second manuscript rather than submitting the first.

Coward, she berated herself and, setting her jaw, handed the bellman the envelope. “Will this go out today?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’ll be in”—he glanced at the address on the form—“New York tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow.” She felt the blood drain out of her face. “Good. Thank you.” She handed him some crumpled bills as a tip, then sat down the minute he was gone and dropped her head between her knees.

It was done. There was no going back now. In a matter of days she would know if she was good enough. Finally good enough. And if she wasn’t …

She simply couldn’t face failing at this. Not this. As long as she could remember, she’d wanted this one thing. Had set it aside time after time after time. Now there was no one to tell her to be practical, to accept her own limitations. There were no more excuses.

Steadier, she sat up, took two long breaths. She’d plugged in her stake, she told herself, and she’d pulled the lever. Now she would have to wait for the end of the spin.

When the phone rang, she stared at it, horrified. It was the editor calling back, she thought frantically, telling her there had been a mistake.

Holding her breath, she picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said, with her eyes tightly shut.

“Hello yourself, little girl.”

“Daniel.” His name came out on something close to a sob.

“Aye. Is something wrong, lass?”

“No, no.” She pressed a hand to her face and let out a quick, nervous laugh. “Everything’s fine. Wonderful. How are you?”

“Right as rain.” The way his voice boomed through the receiver seemed to prove it. “I thought I should let you know, I lost every penny in a leveraged buyout.”

“I—I—” She blinked so rapidly the room spun in front of her eyes. “All of it?”

His laughter roared out, forcing her to pull the receiver several inches away from her ear. “Just joking with you, lass.”

“Oh.” She pressed a hand to her speeding heart. “Ha-ha.”

“Got your blood moving, didn’t it? I’m just calling to let you know we made some money already.”

“Made some? Already?”

“You know, Darcy girl, you’re using the same tone for the good news as you did for the bad. That’s a good sign of a steady nerve.”

“I don’t feel steady,” she admitted. “But I feel lots of nerves.”

“You’ll do. We made a tidy little sum on a short-term deal, an in-and-out sort of thing. You should go buy yourself a bauble.”

She moistened her lips. “How big a bauble?”

He laughed again. “That’s my girl. We pulled in a quick fifty, just getting our feet wet.”

“I can get some nice earrings for fifty dollars.”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Thousand,” she repeated though her tongue seemed to tangle on the word. “Are you joking again?”

“Buy the bauble,” he told her. “Making money’s a fine way to pass the time, but enjoying it’s better. Now tell me when you’re coming to see me. My Anna wants to meet you.”

“I may be coming East—on business—in the next few weeks.”

“That’s fine then. You plan to come here, spend some time, meet the rest of the family, or those I can gather up. Children scatter on you. It’s a crime. My wife pines for them.”

“I will come. I miss you.”

“You’ve a sweet heart, Darcy.”

“Daniel … do you …” It had to be delicately put, she thought, but it had to be put. “Mac mentioned, that is, he seemed to think you might have the idea that we’d suit each other. That you were, well, planting seeds along those lines.”

“Planting seeds, is it! Planting seeds. Ha! The boy needs a cuff on the ear. Did I say a word? I ask you.”

“Well, not exactly, but—”

“Where do they get this idea that I’m scheming behind their backs? I didn’t drop you into his lap, did I?”

“No, but—”

“Not that it doesn’t take a push to get these young people to do their duty—and to see what’s best for them. Dawdle around is what they do. My wife deserves babies to bounce on her knees in her twilight years, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just that—”

“Damn right I do—she does,” he corrected quickly. “Boy’s going to be thirty in another month or so, and is he settling down to make a family? He is not,” Daniel rolled on before Darcy could speak. “And what’s so wrong with giving him a bit of a nudge, I’d like to know, if you suit him?”

“Do I?” she murmured. “Do I suit him?”

“I’m saying so, and who’d know better?” He huffed, then his voice shifted, became sly and persuasive. “He’s a good-looking young man, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Strong stock, a good brain. There’s a kind heart in him, too, and a fine sense of responsibility. He’s a steady one, stands for his friends and his family. A woman couldn’t do better than my Robbie.”

“No, I don’t see how she could.”

“We’re not talking about she,” Daniel said with some impatience. “We’re talking about you. You’ve
got a spark for him now, don’t you, Darcy girl?”

She thought of the fireworks exploding over the city the night before. Her spark for Mac was every bit as huge and bright and volatile. “Daniel, I’m so desperately in love with him.”

“Well now.”

“Please.” She winced at the booming pleasure in his voice. “I’m trusting you with that because I need to tell someone.”

“Why aren’t you telling him?”

“Because I don’t want to scare him off.” There, she’d said it, she thought, biting her lip. It was no more than a plot.

“So … you’re giving him some time to woo you, and come around to thinking it was his idea.”

Now she winced. “It’s not really that devious. It’s just—”

“What the devil’s wrong with devious? Devious gets the job done, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Her lips trembled into a smile. How could she help it? “He cares for me, I know he does, but I think part of it comes from that fine sense of responsibility. I’m willing to wait until he doesn’t feel responsible.”

“Don’t wait too long.”

“I’m hoping I won’t have to.” She smiled. “I have some ideas.”