And while yes, I am warmer than moments before, I find myself smiling inside not at his flirtation but at Jason and Ben’s relationship, and how clear it’s becoming that Jason simply doesn’t know a stranger.
“The bags, sir?” Ben inquires.
Jason doesn’t immediately respond, the question sparking a hot charge of anticipation of where I will end up tonight, and I feel it straight to my toes. With obvious reluctance, Jason says, “Just leave them here in the hallway. We need to get downstairs.” Ben complies and Jason closes the space between himself and the other man, shaking Ben’s hand and palming him a bill. “Thank you, sir,” Jason says, circling back to the other man’s taunting joke. “Now do you feel as old as you make me feel?”
Ben laughs. “I feel the old in my cracking bones about twenty times a day, and that won’t change no matter what you call me.” He glances at me and gives me a nod. “If you need me, skip the ‘sir’ and just shout ‘Ben.’ ”
“Thank you, Ben,” I say, laughing now myself. “Very nice of you. And I’m Skye. I appreciate your help.”
“Hello, Skye.” He inclines his head. “And goodbye, Skye.” He glances at Jason and pauses before exiting. “She seems way too sweet for you.” He opens the door.
“She is,” Jason calls after him as he enters the hallway, but as the door shuts and we are sealed inside, the mood becomes instantly intense, the lightness of moments before now gone. “You are.”
“I’m not sweet,” I say, thinking of some of the places life has forced me to go that no one needs to know about. “More polite, like Ben. And cautious. I’m not a ‘weekend in Vegas’ kind of girl. I’m not your type.”
He closes the small space between us, stopping a reach from touching me. “My only type until now has been the queen in a deck of cards, who lies down for me at my bidding and without questions. Any woman more complicated than that simply distracts from my real love.”
“Poker,” I supply.
“That’s right. But you, Skye, are layers of complexity that I find myself wanting to peel away one by one—and do so slowly enough to savor every damn moment.”
Afraid he just might have the power to do that and more, I’m quick to deter that idea. “I think you should stick to making me one of those queens for the weekend.”
“You’re right,” he agrees. “I should.” Before I can decipher his meaning one way or the other, he glances at his watch. “But right now”—he links the fingers of his hand with mine, the act somehow sexier than anything he’s done to this point—“we need to go.” He starts backing up, taking me with him, his greener-than-green eyes never leaving mine. “Ladies first,” he says, opening the door. “Sweet thang.”
Our fingers slide away and I shake my head, exiting into the hallway and calling out, “I’m not sweet.”
Then his arm is around my shoulder and he’s aligned our hips and legs, setting us in motion down the hallway. “Sweet enough to make me want to kiss you again, and tough enough that I know I have to earn it. And, I have no doubt, sweet enough to win over a jury and a judge, but tough enough to rough up your opposing counsel.”
“Now you really are trying to seduce me,” I say, as he’s hit on a hot topic for me and no doubt knows it.
“Is it working?”
“Yes, actually. But if you win today—”
“Oh, come on, baby. I’m going to win.”
“Just like that?” I ask, forgetting where I was going with this. “You say ‘win’ and you do it?”
“You can’t win by expecting to lose.”
Someone else used to say that to me, and I both loved and respected him—only to turn around and hate him later. It’s not a memory I want to connect to Jason, so I shove it away, listening to what he’s now saying.
“This is a one-night event, so we play for a win. We have preliminary play and then the main event, with only a short break.”
“Is it normally longer?”
“It depends on the event,” he says. “But we’re going to be there late. Once we get downstairs, I’ll ensure you’re in the VIP seating area.”
“I don’t need VIP anything.”
“You’re with me this weekend, baby,” he says. “You get VIP everything. And be glad that means any kind of seating. If this wasn’t for this TV show, it would be a red rope and no seating at all for about five hours.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s hard to enjoy.”
“Thus, why they’ve used the TV shows to try and make poker more of a spectator sport.”
“And you’re a regular part of this show?”
“Me and five others. Though I signed on for a series of episodes, I don’t plan to do it again. My parents love being able to watch me play.”
“Why do I get the impression you don’t love it?”
“I love poker. I don’t love the politics that come with the TV show.”
“Politics are everywhere, it seems,” I say. “So will it be only you six playing?”
“No. There will be a dozen tables that’ll be played down to one final table.”
“Are you six the final table?”
“Only if we win our spots—but that’s the idea of the show. To watch how a group of top-ranked poker players manage to stay on top.”
“Talk about pressure,” I say. “What if you don’t get a spot at the table?”
“Then you get the ‘joy’ of your failure being televised and featured. Which gives you damn good motivation to win.” We round the corner to the elevator and his arm slides away as he punches the button. “Do you have your phone? I’d like to key in my number and Landon’s, in case you need them while I’m playing.”
I unzip my purse where it’s still hanging at my hip and hand my phone to him. “I’m not calling Landon for anything.”
He glances up at me, his eyes filled with amusement. “He’s an ass, baby, but he’s efficient. If for any reason you have a problem here in the hotel while I’m playing, he’ll handle it.” He hands me back my phone. “Just remember that if you do call me or text me, I can’t look at my phone when I’m in an active cycle. They usually run twenty to thirty minutes.”
I zip my cell back into my purse, and at the sound of the elevator’s ding I jerk around to face it, that clawing, claustrophobic feeling overwhelming me. I desperately need to conquer this stupid weakness.
“I got you,” Jason promises, his arm sliding around my shoulders again as he walks us inside and selects the lobby floor button. “Focus on me,” he instructs as the doors shut and he faces me, stepping into me, our legs pressed together, his hands going to my face and tilting it to his. “How long has this been an issue?”
“I don’t even know when it happened.” We start moving and I shut my eyes.
“Look at me,” he orders, and somehow I do, and somehow he consumes me rather than the slight sway of the car. “You didn’t clarify. Is it small spaces or heights? Or just elevators?”
“Claustrophobia,” I admit.
“So heights are okay?”
“Not really,” I say. “I really don’t like to talk about this.”
“What happens in Vegas,” he reminds me. “Talk to me, baby.”
Baby. Why does him calling me that always make me feel warm all over? “Because I feel trapped in elevators. And this whole thing makes me feel really silly.”
“Don’t say that, Skye. We all have our thing created by another thing.”
Afraid he’ll ask what that other thing is, I quickly ask, “Do you have a thing?”
“Control. I don’t like losing it. As in, ever.”
Obviously there’s a story there for him, just as there is for me. But ultimately, I think of how blackmail must feel for someone like him.
“And,” he adds, “I’d say that control is really at the root of claustrophobia, now isn’t it?”
“It’s not a thought I’ve really considered.” But thinking back to all the ways I’m motivated to have control over my life, which I’d never had as a ch
ild, it actually makes sense and it’s ridiculously obvious.
The car dings, and he strokes a lock of hair behind my ear, a tender, unexpected gesture that does funny things to my belly. “And the ride is over.”
I barely remember it at all. There was just Jason, who really is an escape in ways that are proving unexpected in the best of ways. The doors open, and once again he laces the fingers of one hand with mine and leads me into the lobby, where we’re immediately accosted by fans. “And so it begins,” he murmurs softly, releasing me to shake a man’s hand.
I mostly observe, watching as he signs several autographs, proving as friendly and charming with what morphs into a good seven people as he’d been with Ben. And during the entire encounter, I don’t miss how he finds ways to touch me, and I’m again struck by a sense of something happening between us. It’s as if a tiny seed has been planted, with potential that was never expected.
When we finally break from the fans, he puts his arm around my waist to guide me into the casino. “Now we really have to step it up and get to the tournament area,” he says, hurrying us to a center walkway and quickly forward.
When we reach what appears to be a conference center set up with bleachers and about a dozen tables in the center, there are people milling around everywhere, but not many in their seats. “The event won’t start for an hour,” Jason says, signaling one of the officials. “It won’t fill up for another thirty minutes or so.”
And within ten of those minutes I’m wearing a badge, and any number of people have greeted Jason while offering me surprised looks that confirm that he really doesn’t bring guests to his tournaments. And it’s not an unpleasant realization, either.
“I’ll walk you to your seat,” Jason offers, at the same moment that an incredibly tall man in jeans and a cowboy hat steps in front of us.
“Who’s the pretty lady?” he asks.
“Skye,” Jason says. “And fair warning: she isn’t going to take your shit, Cowboy.”
“Well, damn,” the man says. “I like my women willing to take my shit.”
“Skye,” Jason says, his hand resting on my lower back. “This is Parker Woods, otherwise known as Cowboy, and one of the featured players in the show.”
“Nice to meet you, Skye,” he says, giving me a curious look before he smiles and simply disappears.
“Everyone is going to treat me like I’m a species from outer space, aren’t they?”
“I told you,” Jason explains, stepping in front of me, his hand now at my waist. “I don’t bring women to these things.”
“Why?”
“It didn’t fit my narrative of ‘fuck and goodbye.’ ” He softens his voice. “Neither do you, Skye, and I can’t seem to find a problem with that.” There’s an announcement for the players. “Let’s get you to your seat.”
“Go focus on your game and show,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Go play.”
“All right.” But he doesn’t move, those green eyes of his probing mine, a lock of light brown hair brushing his brow and begging for my fingers to tame it, and if it weren’t for the prying eyes, I’d give myself the freedom to do just that.
“I’ll be tied up for about an hour doing small segments meant to be inserted in the show at the right times, and then playing the first cycle. You can leave and come back, as long as you have your badge. There’s a Starbucks in the casino, and a bakery.”
“Can I stay and watch you film your intros?”
“You can if you want, but I doubt you’ll be able to hear much.”
“I do want,” I say. “I’d choose watching you over Starbucks in a heartbeat.”
There is a flicker of something in his eyes, and I think this pleases him, but I can’t be sure. “If you head down to the left,” he says, motioning to a barrier wall, “you should be in about the right position to stand and watch.”
“I’ll head that way, then.”
“All right then,” he says softly. “I’ll see you soon, baby.”
He turns and walks away, and I find myself watching him, and watching how other people watch him. There is just something about this man that has nothing to do with the sexy endearment I seem to like, and his good looks. An air of confidence and control, which I now know he values, for certain. But there is more. Charm and intelligence radiates from him. And I’m reeling just a bit at how I’ve gone from shoving him out of my door to wanting him close, and, it seems, closer yet.
Whatever is or isn’t happening between Jason and me, though, right now isn’t the time to analyze it or let my mind go to blackmail and storage units. Not when Jason’s already crossed the barriers to the players’ area. The crowd is already starting to grow, with numerous people gathering at the spot where I want to watch him film. And I do want to watch him. I’m excited to see this tournament and him in action.
Hurrying forward, eager to enjoy my first-ever poker tournament with one of its stars, I make my way in that direction, watching as Jason has several officials escort him toward a group of cameras in front of the tables. I take a few more steps and suddenly a big body is in front of mine, halting me abruptly. When I tilt my chin up to find Jason’s manager, Daniel, standing there, I know it’s intentional.
“Why did I know you’d be here?” he asks, his gray tie now missing, his gray pinstriped suit still in place from hours before.
“I’m glad you knew,” I say. “Because I sure didn’t expect to be here.”
His too blue eyes narrow on me, glistening like freshly sharpened blades on a knife. “Let’s go talk,” he says. “In private.”
“This is as private as I’m getting with you.” I’m pretty sure that with his good looks and arrogance, he doesn’t hear that too often, but I bet plenty of women regret not saying it later.
“If you didn’t have something to hide, you wouldn’t say that.”
“If you weren’t an asshole, I wouldn’t say that,” I snap back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I try to step around him but he moves with me.
“Whatever game you and Stephanie are playing—”
“Game?” I ask, everything about this man reminding me of why I don’t like the word or experience, while Jason all but made me forget the same. “Games are for poker players, which I am not. And neither are you, so step aside.”
“Prove you don’t like games. Stop playing them and just tell me what the hell you and Stephanie want.”
Tell him, not Jason. I don’t know why that hits me in all kinds of wrong ways, but it does. “I don’t know Stephanie. I don’t know you. I know Jason.”
“You’re going to know me, sweetheart. A whole lot better than I’ll let you know Jason. Mark my word, because it’s golden. Watch yourself. I am.” He steps around me.
I suck in air that can finally find my lungs. He doesn’t trust me, and the problem with that is he’s going to say that to Jason. Over and over again. And Jason knows him. Jason barely knows me. He won’t know me, but I don’t want Daniel to turn us into enemies. He’s doing nothing but putting Jason on edge, and pushing him toward actions better not served.
Trying to shake the encounter off, I walk down the stairs and make my way to the barrier, squeezing in between several people. I find Jason instantly, lined up with the other five players, and despite the cameras and the people around him, his eyes lift, seeming to seek me out and then find me. The distance between us does nothing to disconnect the charge between us, and suddenly, I decide that I will not leave this weekend unchanged by this man.
Someone calls his name, and his eyes linger on me a moment longer before turning away. As I watch him filming, for some reason Daniel’s words repeat in my head: Prove you don’t like games. Stop playing them and just tell me what the hell you and Stephanie want. Why is that statement bothering me so much? Aside from him acting as if he’s in control of Jason’s life, instead of Jason. But that could be the whole manager thing he does for Jason. He’s supposed to take the
burden from him. Or maybe I’m just looking too hard at this. Maybe he’s just an arrogant, good-looking man in a suit who’s an asshole. Maybe I’m finally seeing a spade as a spade.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO HEAR what Jason and the other men are saying while they film, but I enjoy watching him and the other five players. Even without vocals, they’re an interesting mix. One in a suit. One in sweats. Four in jeans. My gaze lingers on Cowboy and I really don’t know why. But I also get the impression he rubs Jason the wrong way, though I’m not quite sure why on that point either, especially since he laughs and interacts with everyone in the group.
“Hi.”
At the greeting, I turn to find a pretty blond woman, around her early thirties, wearing a low-cut emerald-green tank, standing next to me. “Hi.”
“Did I see you with Jason?”
“Yes,” I confirm cautiously, dread filling me with the fear that claws are about to come out. “I’m his guest.”
She holds out her hand. “I’m Mandy. I’m Ricky D’s sister.”
I shake her hand. “I’m Skye, and I’m sorry. I don’t know Ricky D.”
She points at a tall man in jeans with tattooed arms standing next to Jason. “He’s one of the players.” She laughs. “You don’t know poker, so you definitely aren’t a groupie.”
“Oh, I am,” I say. “Even of the chocolate variety, I will find it, admire it, and on a rough day, I might even lick it.”
She laughs. “The question is, then, is Red Bull your chocolate?”
“Chocolate is sacred and secret, as is Red Bull.”
She laughs harder while an announcement is made regarding the tournament. “Time for the play,” she says, once it’s over. “Where are you sitting?” I show her my badge. “Oh, good,” she replies. “You’re in the family section. I’m right by you. We can chat.”
I’m not certain how I feel about that, but I don’t seem to have a choice. In a matter of minutes the tables are filled with players, though play has not begun, the waitresses are working the floor, and Mandy and I are seated in the front row, side by side. I’m also pleased to find that Jason is at a table so close that I’m almost certain will allow me to watch his hands unfold. And much to my pleasure, he knows the minute I’m in his line of sight, his gaze meeting mine, and then flicking to Mandy.
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