Snowbound Weekend & Gambler's Love

by Amii Lorin

  "Something bothers you?"

  Vichy smiled uncertainly. "I suddenly find myself hoping you consider me a lady."

  Amusement twitching his lips, Ben lifted his stemmed wineglass that still contained an inch of the ruby burgundy he'd ordered, and tilted it toward her.

  "A very special lady," he murmured assuringly.

  By mutual if silent agreement, their conversation was kept to generalities for the remainder of the meal.

  Over coffee and liqueur Ben broke the tacit agreement to remain impersonal. Raising his tiny glass, he studied its contents for a moment before, glancing up at her, he touched his glass to hers. He took a sip, then waited, brows arched, until she had followed suit. Vichy nearly choked with his murmured words.

  "Amaretto, the drink of lovers." His smile invited—all kinds of things. "And we will be. That's another promise."

  "Don't bet on it, gambler," Vichy advised angrily. She was furious, yet, underneath that fury, excitement sizzled, scaring her.

  "I am betting on it," Ben said imperturbably. "Heavily."

  "Ben—"

  "Drink your coffee." His eyes roamed over the deserted room. "I think the hostess is trying to tell us something. She's positively glaring at us."

  It was raining when they left the restaurant, not a downpour, but a steady rain Vichy's father would have called a land rain.

  "I like to ride in the rain," Vichy announced after they had settled into the car. "But I hate driving in it." She shuddered, remembering the deluge she'd struggled through on her way east.

  "Well, sit back and enjoy it," Ben invited expansively. "I don't mind driving through it."

  Made drowsy by all the food she'd consumed, Vichy dismissed the uneasiness Ben's last promise had aroused and snuggled into the velour upholstery. Assuring herself he could do nothing about fulfilling his outrageous promise without her compliance, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be lulled by the swish of the windshield wipers.

  "Vichy."

  Ben's soft, gentle tone roused her out of a half-sleep. Sitting up quickly, Vichy blinked against the glare of light illuminating the hotel forecourt.

  "I'm sorry, Ben." Vichy had to pause to smother a yawn behind her hand. "I'm not used to so much food at such a late hour. It sends me right to sleep," she avowed, conveniently forgetting her wakefulness of the night before.

  "Apology accepted," Ben smiled warmly, "but entirely unnecessary. You work hard, you get tired. You owe no one an apology for that." He hesitated, then underlined darkly, confusingly, "Most especially me."

  The ensuing activity of leaving the car prevented Vichy from inquiring into his meaning. But why him especially? she asked herself, wondering. She put the question to him as he escorted her to her room.

  "Why, because I've witnessed the amount of energy you put into each performance," Ben explained glibly. But, as the seconds of quiet lengthened, Vichy had no option but to accept his answer at face value. Shrugging off the certainty that he was being less than truthful, Vichy let the matter rest.

  As they approached her room, Vichy slipped her key from her purse to have ready in case she had to make a quick escape. Her forethought was wasted, for Ben, aware of her every move, simply took the key from her fingers and unlocked the door, allowing it to swing open before turning to face her with mocking eyes.

  "Are you going to offer your mouth?" he taunted. "Or must I play the kiss thief again?"

  "Ben, I—"

  "Okay," he sighed deeply. "Have it your way." All the harsh angles and planes of his face settled into iron determination as he lowered his head toward hers.

  "But, if I have to steal it, I may as well make it worth the effort."

  His lips touched hers and the effort he put forth was shattering. Never in her life had Vichy been kissed quite like Ben was kissing her now. There was no slow build-up to possession. His mouth attacked, devoured, vanquished. His tongue raked hungrily for every drop of sweetness. His arms crushed her softness into submission to the hardness of his body.

  Knowing herself beaten before she could launch an offensive, Vichy surrendered to his superior forces. At her first sign of the white flag, Ben's tactics switched to a new field of battle.

  Bringing into play every sensual weapon he possessed, he proceeded to annihilate her faintest hope of resistance.

  His mouth moving, his tongue teasing, his hands restlessly caressing, he lit a spark that ignited a sexual explosion, the effects of which singed to life every inch of her quivering body.

  Without thought, without caution, Vichy's arms circled his waist convulsively as she arched herself to him, moaning a protest when his mouth slid from hers.

  "Vichy," he groaned, the tip of his tongue exploring the corner of her mouth before trailing across her cheek to her ear. "Do you know what you're doing to me?"

  "Yes," she admitted. Held so very closely against him, she could hardly deny the evidence of his arousal.

  "Then invite me into your room," he urged unsteadily. "I can't make love to you here."

  Every one of Vichy's inflamed senses froze. What was she doing? Was she out of her mind? She was not that kind of woman, was she? Cold, shivering with reaction, she struggled to free herself.

  "You can't make love to me anywhere," she cried in a strangled croak. "Ben, please," she begged. "I can't."

  His arms dropped away from her and he stepped back, his face a study in disgust.

  "Why did you respond like that?" he demanded coldly.

  "I—I—" What could she say? How could she defend an action she didn't understand?

  "Don't strain yourself," Ben almost snarled. In an abrupt movement he turned to walk away from her, but he didn't walk away, or even move, for long seconds.

  Barely breathing, Vichy watched him, a soft sigh easing out of her when she saw the tautness in his back slowly relax. When he turned back to face her, all sign of his blazing anger was gone.

  "I don't think I've ever wanted a woman quite as badly as I want you," he said softly. "Fair warning, Vichy. You might as well know I intend having you—and soon." His eyes narrowed on her suddenly trembling, kiss-bruised lips, and he smiled. "You, beautiful, are every bit as aroused as I am. I'm not the only one who will have trouble getting to sleep." His smile taunted pitilessly. "I won't say good night, because we both know it won't be." With that he turned and walked away, his long stride widening the distance between them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Over three hours later Vichy ruefully acknowledged the truth of Ben's parting barb. It was not a good night; in fact, it was a very bad night.

  Vichy ached in places that had not felt the stirring of life for a very long time. Her body throbbed with a demand for release, making rest impossible. Her mind darted around like an animal in a cage seeking sleep-inducing, tranquil thoughts in vain.

  Her mouth still savored the taste of Ben, her skin still tingled from his touch, and her body still felt his imprint. And most discomforting of all was the realization that she wanted him with near desperation.

  This is beyond sense, she thought wildly, in an effort to calm her churning emotions. Frantically, she sought excuses for her own out-of-character behavior. I've been alone too long. I'm tired. I'm losing my mind.

  Nothing worked. Near dawn, exhausted both physically and mentally, Vichy faced the unpalatable truth her mind had been dodging since Ben had walked away from her.

  He had said he'd never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted her. Vichy knew what he meant, for the truth she'd been so studiously avoiding was that her own desire equaled his.

  She had loved Brad with all her heart and mind and yet, not even at the zenith of their lovemaking, had he had the power to bring her to this degree of awareness of herself as well as of him. That Ben so very obviously possessed that power shook her to her foundations.

  Vichy moaned and buried her face in the mangled bed pillow. There had been several altogether different types of men interested in her over the years—a constructio
nal engineer, a successful businessman, a live-wire from the advertising field, even her agent had made a play for her attention. She had liked all of them, and in the case of the engineer and her agent, very much. Yet none of them had ever dented the barrier of reserve she'd erected around herself after Brad's betrayal.

  Now, this stranger, another gambler, had, within a few minutes' embrace, not only dented that barrier but shattered it completely.

  What was it, Vichy wondered despairingly, that drew her to this reckless type of man? Unconscious rebellion against her own protected, moralistic upbringing? An unrecognized urge deep within her to throw caution to the winds and either soar or crash with the careless toss of a pair of dice or the turn of a card? Latent idiocy?

  Vichy did not know nor could she be sure that Ben was as obsessed with gambling as Brad had been. Her thoughts revolved unceasingly as the room emerged from blackness to pearl-gray predawn and no rational answer presented itself.

  One thing she did know. She would have to be mad to get within fifty feet of him again. He could hurt her badly. And if she saw more of him, she would be inviting the pain, for one concrete truth stood boldly unsinged in the ashes of her burned-out thoughts. It had been hours since he'd taken his leave, and she still wanted him.

  Against all reason, against all sensible judgment, she still ached to be enfolded in his strong arms, still yearned to be drawn close to his hard body, still hungered for the taste of his marauding mouth. And with that urgency still burning along her nerve endings and through her veins, Vichy finally slipped into a deep, dreamfree sleep.

  Vichy had never been overwild about Wednesday, coming, as it did, in the middle of the week. It had always been the day to get through. Friday, she had always maintained, she could do standing on her head, but Wednesday was a drag. This particular Wednesday was worse than most.

  Three hours of sleep definitely did not leave one bright of eye and dewy-skinned, Vichy concluded as she deftly camouflaged her face with cosmetics.

  During the process of preparing herself to venture outside the relatively safe confines of her room, Vichy raked her mind as to how she was going to accomplish her objective of avoiding Bennett Larkin.

  Lord, just thinking his name had the effect of a feather-light massage with icy fingers. Vichy shivered, and, repressing a sigh, examined the finished product of her labors in the mirror above the room's single dresser.

  With blatant bravado, she had chosen a pair of narrow-legged, camel's hair wool slacks and topped them with a champagne-colored cashmere V-neck sweater. The thin, soft wool outlined her perfect figure. Chocolate brown leather high-heeled boots enhanced her long legs.

  Even in a place where lovely women were the norm, eyes followed Vichy as she made her way to the coffee shop where she'd breakfasted every morning since her arrival at the hotel. As she sat in the same section each day, she invariably was served by the same waiter, and this morning he was quick to comment on her appearance.

  "Morning, Ms. Parks." His bright young eyes made a detailed inventory of her entire person before he quipped, "You look good enough to be listed on the menu under desserts."

  "Thank you," Vichy smilingly returned his boyish grin. "I think."

  Even though the waiter was about her sister Bette's age, his obvious admiration bolstered her spirits and she left the coffee shop with a much lighter tread then when she'd entered.

  Rehearsal, and the usual give-and-take that ensued over it, ate up the hours till her first set. Being cloistered with the musicians prevented any contact with other people, which suited Vichy. In her mind other people represented one person: Ben Larkin.

  After making, a wobbly start, Vichy settled down and the rest of the set went smoothly. During her breaks she hid out in her tiny dressing room, endeavoring to convince herself she was not nervously anticipating the last set.

  After a day that seemed at least seventy-five hours long, the time for her last set did arrive, and with it the man who had claimed the major part of her thoughts through every one of those hours.

  Torn as she was by the conflicting urges to run to him and run for her life, Vichy somehow managed to render every one of her numbers without faltering.

  Then the last song was finished, and, while aloud she said her thank yous and automatically rattled off her usual chatter to her audience, silently she shouted down the voice that suggested she take the coward's way and flee.

  She had only three more days of her engagement to get through; then she could run to the safety of her home. Surely she could handle him, and her own traitorous emotions, for a few days, couldn't she? Of course she could!

  Looking like a gift from the gods in gray trousers, navy blazer, and a muted shrimp-colored shirt, Ben stood waiting at the table she now thought of as his.

  "You're very sexy tonight, both in voice and dress," he complimented softly when she came to a stop in front of him. "If the intention was to turn me on, it worked." Ben ignored her sharp indrawn breath and went on dryly. "But, first things first. I haven't eaten since early this morning and I'm famished. Run along and get rid of your makeup so we can get out of here."

  Tell him now, the warning voice whispered from the deep recess of her mind. Tell him you're too tired to go out. Tell him you're not feeling well. Tell him you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Tell him anything, but tell him now.

  Vichy knew very well that she should heed the advice of that tiny voice of alarm. Then why, she asked her reflected image in the makeup mirror, did I so meekly obey him? For obey him she had. At her slight hesitation, Ben had simply said "Go," and she had. I was right earlier, she decided as she wiped cold cream off her face. It must be a case of latent idiocy.

  But, surely, if I play it cool, keep the emotional temperature low, it will be safe to share a meal with him? The blue eyes in the mirror stared back at her reproachfully. But I want to see him. She defied those eyes. I can control the physical thing, she assured herself before swinging away from the mirror.

  Oh, sure, that tiny voice mocked persistently.

  Ben was waiting for her, leaning indolently against the wall across from the dressing room. As she closed the small distance between them, Vichy felt her pulses leap at the slow, lazy-eyed glance he sent roaming over her body.

  "I grow hungrier and hungrier," he murmured, reaching out to clasp her hand as he straightened to his full height. "But, for the moment, I'll have to satisfy myself with food."

  Vichy could not even pretend she'd misunderstood his meaning, for just looking at him aroused her own sexual appetite. She was playing with fire, she knew it, yet, when he started to move, tugging on her hand, she followed him without protest.

  As it had been the night before, his car was waiting for him. Unlike the night before, as if deliberately avoiding an intimate atmosphere, he took her to a brightly lit all-night diner. The food was plain, but very good, and Ben ate like he was indeed very hungry. Surprisingly, after her first forkful, Vichy found her own appetite whetted, and managed to eat almost as much as Ben.

  After the table had been cleared and their coffee cups refilled. Ben slid a long flat box from his pocket.

  "I have something for you," he said warmly, sliding it across the table to her. "A little Thanksgiving gift."

  "But gifts are not given for Thanksgiving!" Vichy exclaimed softly, eyeing the box warily.

  "That depends on what you're thankful for," he smiled enigmatically. "Open it. I assure you it won't bite you."

  Handling the case gingerly, as if it might do just that, Vichy lifted the hinged lid, a small gasp parting her lips at the sight of the exquisitely wrought gold bracelet nestled inside. The word expensive was, figuratively, written all over it.

  "But, Ben"—Vichy lifted shocked eyes to his—"I can't accept this. It must have cost an enormous amount of money." She started to push the case back toward him and his hand shot out to cover hers.

  "Its cost is none of your business," he chided, his fingers snaking the shimmering a
dornment from its bed of satin. "Besides," he went on teasingly, clasping the bracelet around her slender wrist. "The dice were hot for me early this evening. This bauble is by way of a celebration of my run of luck."

  Vichy's supper was suddenly a heavy weight in her stomach. How many times had she heard similar words from Brad? True, Ben's voice had not contained the note of feverish excitement Brad's had always held, but, then, Ben was older, more mature, than Brad had been.

  Fighting the sickness of despair rising inside, Vichy's trembling fingers tried to undo the bracelet's clasp. Brad had always exacted payment for his winnings gifts. Payments that, at the time, she'd always been eager to meet. Did Ben expect the same type of payment?

  Ben's covering hand stilled her fingers' fumbling action, and as if he could monitor her anguished thoughts, he said, almost harshly, "The damned thing has no strings on it, Vichy."

  "Ben, I—" The words dried on her lips as, glancing up, she caught the grim expression on his face. Was it possible she'd hurt his feelings? Had she offended him?

  "I won't be able to meet you tomorrow night," Ben's smoothly controlled voice scattered her questioning thoughts.

  "Why?" Vichy could have bitten her tongue. Her tone held a wealth of possessiveness she had no right to feel. Yet, the query seemed to please Ben, for the harsh angles of his face relaxed into a heart-melting, sweet smile.

  "Because I promised Chad I'd be home for Thanksgiving," he explained. Leaning back against the plastic-covered booth seat, he nodded at the waitress when she stopped at the booth to ask if they'd like more coffee. "He has been staying with my brother, Mike, and his family," he went on when the waitress had completed the service. "He's content there, but he expects to see me when he wakes up tomorrow morning." He flicked a glance at the slim gold watch on his lightly haired wrist and grinned. "Or, I should say, this morning."

  "Of course he does," Vichy murmured in understanding. Then, smiling wistfully, she asked, "Will there be the traditional groaning board at your brother's home?"