I raise an eyebrow. “A super tiny espresso maker?”
“Ha!” He claims the seat across from me. “Is this the first poker marathon you’ve attended?”
“Yes.” I tear my eyes from his, and stare at the box, a petite pristine white bow on top. “You don’t need to do this.”
“I know,” he says, smiling. “I want to. Open it.”
I’ve never been one to rip open presents. I enjoy the unwrapping, the peeling away of the layers, the unveiling almost as much as I enjoy the actual gift. Besides, I’ve learned the hard way that too frequently men give you things to feel good about themselves. A way to feel like they are courting you instead of purchasing a fantasy. Or worse, buying a GWP.
I search Dylan’s face for selfish motivations but all I see is kindness and anticipation.
“You’re killing me,” he says, looking like a kid waiting in front of a decorated tree piled high with presents on Christmas morning. “Open it already.”
I bite back a smile. “Okay, boss man.”
“Dylan,” he says. “Boss man’s my brother.”
I pull the lid from the box, unfold the tissue paper. Inside is a delicate diamond necklace. “It’s beautiful!” I pull the pretty pendant in the shape of a horseshoe from the box, and dangle it in front of me. The dim lighting in the bar catches the sparkle of the diamonds like they’re on fire.
“I think so too.” Dylan beams and springs from his chair. “I read your bio, saw your pic and this feeling hit me, hard.” He thumps one hand on his chest. “Right here. You, Evelyn Berlinger, you are my lucky charm. It seems only fitting my lucky charm has one of her own.” He takes the necklace from me and pauses, his hands just inches from my neck. “May I?”
Tingles zip down my spine and I nod.
He gathers my long hair with care, lifts it off my back, and places it over my shoulder. Its length trails down onto my breast. His breath is warm on my skin and it’s all I can do not to fan myself.
He loops the necklace in front of my throat, the diamond charm landing possessively on my breastbone. The chain is delicate and cool in contrast to his elegant warm hands. He secures the clasp, brushing the little hairs on the back of my neck. The skin pebbles on the backs of my arms and my nipples grow hard, practically poking through my lace bra.
The waiter drops off our drinks. Thank God, because I am in desperate need of something to cool me down right now. Unlike most of my clients, Dylan McAlister is hotter than sin. Also unlike most of my clients, Dylan isn’t thinking about himself.
“Thank you,” I say, completely rattled. I can’t recall a time when a guy went was so generous to me. “This is so kind.”
“It looks great on you,” he says. “I wanted my lucky charm to be taken care of tonight.”
“Lucky charm wants to help you tonight as much as possible. Make that easier for me,” I say, reluctantly retreating from the dopamine hit and returning to the business arena. “Tell me more about you. Things that aren’t on your profile.”
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
I size him up. Those cheekbones. Those eyes. Those lips that beg to be bitten. “You look like the kind of guy who would rush into a burning building to save people. You’ve got the classic ‘hero’ look.”
“Are you flirting with me, Ms. Berlinger?” He smiles, a smattering of crinkle wrinkles etched around his blue eyes, making him even sexier, if that’s possible.
I shrug. “Just calling it how I see it.”
“Aha. A straight shooter. I’m in trouble now.” He shakes his head and sits down. “I’ve never run into a burning building. But you’ve obviously heard about the frog.”
“The frog?”
“It was just that one time and yet, like a fairytale curse, the legend follows me wherever I go.” He sighs theatrically and drums his fingers on the table.
“Wow. Sorry to hear that. Did you… kiss a frog?” I shove back a giggle.
“Gross,” he says, and shakes his head.
“Did you think the amphibian incident would escape my scrutiny?”
“Nope. It didn’t escape my biology teacher’s either.”
“Did you… I’m going out on a limb here, rescue a frog?”
“Yes. Biology class, freshman year in high school, but it feels like yesterday. Would you want to get pithed by a panicky, pimply high school kid?”
“Your lab partner?”
“Nope. Suzie Ashurst was cool as ice tea on a Sunday afternoon. Sadly, I was the panicky kid. I was the pimply pither who, at the last minute, couldn’t go through with it.”
I inhale bubbly water, and burst out coughing and laughing at the same time. One hand flies to my face trying to contain the seltzer that sprays out of my nose.
“Uh-oh.” Dylan bites back a smile. “The curse of the frog rescue story strikes again. Are you okay? Or do I need to give you mouth to mouth?” He waggles his eyebrows.
I stop snorting, my cheeks turning warm, and I stifle giggles. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Albeit a little wet.” He grabs a napkin and pats my wet face. My wet lips. My wet chest right above the dress where it takes a V turn down my cleavage.
“Sorry.” My face might be flushed from laughing but that doesn’t explain why the V between my legs is also warm, throbbing, and wet. “You crack me up.”
“We’re going to do just fine together, you and I,” he says, removing his hand – dare I hope reluctantly – and regards me with something more than affection, his blue eyes twinkling.
We sip on our bubby water that I miraculously manage to keep inside this time, and chat like we’ve known each other forever.
“Cubs or White Sox?” he asks.
“Don’t care as long as Chicago makes it to the playoffs,” I say. “Dallas Cowboys or the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders?”
“That depends on what activity you have in mind.”
“Point taken.”
“Why is Chicago called the Windy City?” he asks.
“You did not include ‘pop quiz’ in your instructions.”
“You read that?”
“Of course I read that.”
“Geez, no one reads anything I write.”
My nose scrunches. “I call bullshit.”
He laughs.
“And Chicago’s called the Windy City because the politicians talk B.S. all the time,” I say.
“Get out! I thought it was the winds gusting off the lake.”
It’s a dance without a dance floor. And so it goes for another twenty minutes. Dylan’s funny. Self-deprecating. Kind-hearted. Gorgeous. The more time I spend with him the more I like him. The more time I spend with him the more I want to spend.
“You’re smart, Evelyn,” he says inside the elevator as we ascend to the Penthouse. His gaze slides from my face down to my breasts, then back up.
His lips are so full, his cheekbones high and strong, and the glimpse of groomed chest hair revealed by the two undone buttons might be my undoing. Good God, this man is hot. “Call me Evie.” I avert my eyes and fiddle with my hair, pushing strands behind my ear so I don’t spontaneously combust right here, right now in the elevator.
“Evie, it is. Ready to meet an intimate crowd of my worthy adversaries, dearest enemies, and ruthless hosts? I’ve got to warn you. They’re not the nicest people in the world. I should have put that in the instructions, but God forbid that goes public, these assholes will never let me hear the end of it.”
“I’m not sharing anything you tell me with anyone.”
“Good,” he says. “I’m not kidding. Gamblers are a weird lot. Case in point. The Fast Food King plays tonight. I grew up down the road from him in Dallas. He’s got this disturbing habit of licking his lips when he sees a pretty girl. If he stares at you and licks his lips, run for the hills, darling. His next move will be trying to get in your pants.”
“The Fast Food King will fail because I’m wearing a dress.”
“The heiress will take one lo
ok at you all gorgeous in that dress and get jealous,” He eyes me appreciatively. “She’ll toss pointed shade in your direction and speed text her plastic surgeon for an emergency appointment.”
“The heiress can stand in line behind the rest of the chicks who throw shade at me.”
“Ha! You’re not going to sleep, the room’s cold, you’ll be breathing recycled air,” he says leaning closer to me. “The internet connection is blocked, the food is impossibly healthy, and you might die of boredom.”
“Perfect.” I look up into his gorgeous face and shiver. “Sounds like my average Friday night.”
“God, I like you.” He takes my hand, squeezes it, and intertwines his fingers with mine. My stomach flip-flops and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if he kisses me. What if the elevator grinds to a halt, we are stuck between floors, he just leans in, puts a hand behind my head, pulls me to him and kisses me. Lips soft on mine at first, until he becomes more insistent, tangling fingers in my hair, his tongue exploring my mouth.
But the door slides open, rudely interrupting my fantasy, and he gestures. “Shall we?” We walk down the hallway, our shoulders grazing and I’m a little high from his touch. It feels like I’ve known him forever. It feels like I want to know him longer than that. He raises his hand to knock on the last door at the end of the hallway and pauses. “Last chance to fold, Lucky Charm. Call it a night before you even start. I won’t even ask for my money back. I haven’t had a chance to tell the frog story in a few years. That was cathartic. Kind of like therapy.”
“Hell, no, I’m not leaving.” I’m standing on a tall cliff ready to dive off into choppy, white-capped waters far below. “I’m all in.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He leans in, and kisses me on the lips. Finally. Yes. He’s kissing me and his lips are soft, but firm. There’s a hint of tongue and all the breath leaves my body in one spectacular whoosh.
And I’m diving…
5. Baby Teeth
BABY TEETH
Dylan McAlister, tycoon, former church baby, gorgeous player, kisses me in the hallway of the penthouse floor in this five-star hotel. It’s a soft kiss, a sweet kiss, but the heat’s been building between us since the moment I met him in the hotel bar.
A pretty woman opens the door, interrupting our moment. “Oops, sorry,” she says.
Dylan reluctantly pulls away from me. “No worries.”
“Great to see you, Mr. McAlister.” She flashes us a toothy, million-dollar smile.
Breathe, Evie, breathe, I remind myself, and we walk inside. Technically, Dylan and I met on an arranged engagement about forty minutes ago. This is a work gig. I’m not here on a real date. I’ve known him for under an hour. And yet I feel like I’ve known him forever.
We enter the sleek penthouse suite – a confident, comfortable couple – that move in vaunted circles such as these with ease. A pristine poker table is set up at the far end of the living room. Mostly men gather around it, chatting in that passive aggressive way white collar rivals do when they’re revved up and ready to rumble, albeit in a civilized way. Right before they draw blood.
I recognize a few of the players from newspapers and magazines. The middle-aged man with the lean face and hawk nose owns Chicago’s professional soccer team. His fortune was built from great granddaddy’s newspaper empire. He parlayed those millions into an even larger domain. The beefy, red-faced short guy stars in TV commercials for his string of popular fast food restaurants across the Tri-State area. He has to be the Fast Food King with the lizard tongue Dylan warned me about. The sole, elegant, thirty-something woman standing next to the table has a few million followers on Instagram. Dylan wasn’t kidding. She’s the heiress to an elegant department store chain.
Yikes. This is a far cry from a 25th high school reunion at a VFW in the suburbs. This crowd is big money, big attitude, and I’m just a rental date wearing a borrowed dress.
“I need to be polite, civilized,” Dylan says. “Go say hi to the crew before things get ugly. Before I figure out who are the Christians and who are the lions. It seems to change with every game. You need anything?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m great.”
He leans in, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers, “Cast your lucky charm spell for me, Evie. I need this to be a good game.” He pulls away and looks at me as if for a blessing. “A very good game.”
I rub my hands together theatrically and blow on them.
He winks at me, turns, and heads to the table.
“McAlister,” the beefy guy says. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it. Thought you were still at church. Praying.”
“I’ve been praying for you non-stop, Glenn,” he says, taking off his jacket and draping it on the back of the chair. “Please stop all your sinning. It’s exhausting.”
“Prayer can be a dirty job,” the heiress says. She shoots me a jealous look and regards Dylan with more than business in her eyes. “But someone has to do it.”
No, no, department store heiress. You can just shut that shit down right now because I’ll be covering all Dylan’s dirty business needs tonight.
A bartender mixes cocktails at a bar set up in the corner of the suite overlooking downtown Chicago. A handful of waitresses circulate, taking orders and refilling glasses. I need to kill some adrenaline and movement always does that for me. Sadly, I don’t think jogging around the room in heels will help me blend in. I make my way to the bar and order a drink.
“Evelyn,” a woman says, touching my shoulder lightly.
I swivel and lay eyes on a pretty redhead in her thirties. Her dress fits her like a glove and looks like it cost more than the one I borrowed from Amelia.
“My name’s Annie,” she says, smiling warmly, holding out her hand with its neatly polished nails. “Dylan asked that I introduce myself. If you need anything while you’re here, all you have to do is ask.” She shakes my hand, her palm cool.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Is this your first time attending a game?”
I nod and sip on a bubby water with a lime.
“You’re in for a nail biter,” she says. “An excruciatingly slow, exhausting nail biter. We brewed the extra strong coffee. You can always take a nap in the adjoining room if you need to lay your head down for a few minutes.”
“People do that?”
“People do whatever they have to gain an advantage or to win at a high stakes underground poker tournament. Make yourself at home.”
I have plenty of time over the course of the next twenty-four hours to learn about the game. Players draw at the beginning to pick seats. It’s a cash contest. The buy-in is fifty thousand, the lowest chip five thousand. Pretty masseuses massage players’ tight shoulders and necks. Coffee is practically main-lined.
The room’s kept chilly. Annie tells me it’s done to help the players stay awake. I don’t see any non-legal drugs but there are three bedrooms and multiple bathrooms in the back of the suite. Drugs aren’t my thing, but I’m also not a cop and I’m not keeping track of anyone other than Dylan tonight.
About that. The look on his face is neutral but I find myself tuning into this man and I’m not all that happy about what he’s feeling. When the sun cracks on the horizon, he’s holding tight to five stacks of chips. By late afternoon his vibe is shaky and he’s down to three. When the sun sets almost twenty-four hours after we walked into this penthouse, the confidence he exuded earlier bleeds through the cracks in his façade onto the sole stack standing.
At the end of the marathon game, Dylan wins more than he loses. According to my calculations, he leaves the tournament thirty thousand ahead, including the money he spent on me. He’s not broke but he’s not balls-out champion either. That honor goes to Glenn. He’s sweaty and beaming, brimming with bravado as he tips the dealer and staff generously. I don’t look at him because I don’t want to see him look at me while he licks his lips.
The bartender and waitresses close up shop. Ser
vers collect the remaining glasses, transfer food from silver platters to plastic containers. Players wander out of the suite – some content, some pissy. All wiped.
Dylan smiles at the dealer, makes small talk, and tips her. He walks over to me, face strained, like an overworked coffee pot on its last legs at a Sunday church breakfast. “Ready, Evie?” he asks, his voice cracking.
“Yes.” I was not his lucky charm tonight, and for that I feel like an asshole. Technically, I have no control over this and yet for some reason it feels like I let him down. I want to make it up to him, collect him in my arms, kiss all his worry away. Promise things will go better the next game.
“Evie, what do you think?” Annie asks. She’s still immaculate, and looks like she just slept an uninterrupted eight hours. Not like she’d been up for twenty-four.
“Pretty much what you said. A nail biter, slow speed chase,” I say. “And somehow it was still exhilarating.”
“Exactly,” she says, squeezing my arm. “I’m so glad I got a chance to meet you.”
“You too.”
“See you soon, Dylan?” Annie asks.
“You got it,” he says.
We exit the suite and hang with the small crowd of players and their support crew loosely clustered in the hallway waiting for the elevator. “How are you?” I ask, rubbing Dylan’s arm.
“Crap,” he says under his breath. “But I have to look like sunshine just spanked my ass and I liked it so much I invited it back for more.”
“That good,” I say.
But Dylan suddenly hangs back when the elevator arrives. “Go ahead,” he says to the others. “I need a private moment with my girl.” He turns to me, his eyelids heavy. He manages a quirk of a smile and nuzzles my neck. He brushes his lips against me as if he’s talking dirty. “Buy me time,” he whispers and nips at my ear.
The scruff of his beard scrapes against my sensitive skin and the pulsing between my legs returns. Adrenaline. Hormones. This man. God knows what perks me up. Who needs caffeine? Who needs sleep? I suspect I’d wake up happy every morning if I took a daily dose of Dylan McAlister.
PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan) Page 5
