“Wow. Who knew commoners were such a big deal.”
“Only for the heirs to the throne. Us lower-down royals can marry as we please. My brother Phillip married an American too, a friend of Gabriel’s wife. Emma married a British rock star, Jackson Walker.”
“Go, Emma! Jackson is fi-i-ne.” I clear my throat at his hard look. “I mean, if you’re into that whole British bad-boy thing. Barf, right? Give me a straitlaced goody-goody any day.”
“Goody-goody,” he echoes.
“Math nerds preferred,” I quip and then slap a hand over my mouth. “I did not mean you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re the exception to the rule. The one math guy who isn’t a nerd.”
He lifts a palm. “Moving on.”
Oops! I offended him accidentally. “You’re very manly in a nonnerdy way,” I assure him and quickly move to another topic. “Definitely look up your cousins, uncle, and aunt while you’re here. That’s so sad that you have this whole family you’ve never met.”
“Not exactly sad. I mean, I never met them, so I never knew what I was missing. Silvia says my cousins are gruff and growly.”
“Ooh, I like gruff and growly.”
“Do you now?” he growls in a deep voice.
A hot shiver races through me, my belly quivering. Ah, hell. Now he knows how to get to me. I swallow hard as he lifts my arm, murmuring, “Goose bumps.” He stills, stroking a finger down my forearm, and those goose bumps aren’t going anywhere. He lifts heated eyes to mine. “Interesting.”
Our eyes lock for a long hypnotic moment. My breath stalls, my pulse scrambling. The attraction crackles in the air between us. This is not one-sided. Self-preservation kicks in, and I pull my arm free from his grip, resuming our walk at a quick pace. I just need to get safely home and away from Adrian.
He keeps up with me as I babble about the best restaurants and bars in every possible direction. I’m flustered and hot and not going to do a thing about it. Avoid temptation! I’m only up for casual hookups, and he is not a candidate. Or is he? I stop babbling as I consider this. Maybe it would be casual since he’s leaving on Thursday.
But we’re friends. Well, we were. A sharp pang of regret makes my chest ache. I lost him and Silvia for so long because of my own protective defenses. My sweet memories of Adrian saw me through so many dark times. Tough Sara who takes care of herself. Never depending on anyone—independent, strong, alone.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I manage. “If you want authentic Cuban food, that’s the best place.” I point across the street. I’m back on our food tour of Brooklyn that he never asked for.
By the time we get back to my apartment building, I’ve run out of steam. I cannot say one more word about food, and I’m exhausted from trying to keep myself distracted by his sexy presence as he quietly listens by my side.
I stop in front of my building’s door, suddenly awkward over how to say goodbye. Usually this part is a relief for me with a guy and a real quick thing. Maybe I don’t want to say goodbye.
He steps close with a smile that lights up his gorgeous face. His voice is warm honey, and I’m melting all over again. “It was really good to see you again, Sara.”
I can barely breathe. “You too.” I lift my hands at an awkward angle, unsure if we’re going for a hug or a handshake.
He takes my hand, lifting it to his lips, and brushes a kiss across my knuckles. I flush with heat, my heart skips a beat, and my stomach flutters. I. Am. Toast. This is so not me. Then again, I’ve never experienced anything sweet like this from a guy. Not since…him.
“See you tomorrow at the game.” He holds his hand out, palm up, and wiggles his fingers. “Give me your phone, and I’ll add my number.”
I fish it out of my purse, unlock it, tap over to contacts, and hand it over. He taps rapidly, his lips curving up in a small smile before he hands it back.
I look at the screen. Instead of Adrian, he added himself as “My Hero.” I stare at it for a long moment. I was right. He does have a hero complex. That’s why he’s been so protective. It’s his thing. I shouldn’t get carried away with dreamy fantasies that he cares about me.
I meet his eyes. “Seriously?”
He grins. “Remember when I saved you from the sharks?”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. I can’t believe he remembers as much about me as I do about him.
“Sharks? What sharks?”
He tilts his head. “Your poker face could use some work. Admit it, at one point way-a-y back I was your hero.”
“That was a lifetime ago,” I say softly.
“Seems we’ve got some catching up to do.” He salutes me, and for some reason it makes me smile. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I let myself into the building and up to my apartment. The moment I step inside, I ache with loneliness. Ridiculous. I’ve lived here alone for three weeks now, ever since Chloe moved into her dorm. It’s not like I was going to invite him up. Still, I kind of almost miss him. And then, in a rare impulsive move, I pull out my phone and text him.
You were my hero that summer. Sorry. Sometimes old memories bring up good and bad. This is true, though not the main reason I was cagey. I’m just not used to letting anyone in.
No problem. I can be your shark instead. Card shark.
I smile. So who will save me from you?
No chance. You’re already a goner.
I stare at the words. I know he’s joking, but it hits a little too close to home. What if I am a goner? I’ve never had such an intense physical response to a guy before. I’ve never melted before either.
I play it cool, my thumbs flying over the keypad. I’m a card shark too, and it’s a shark-eat-shark world.
Chomp.
I laugh out loud. Chomp.
I text back: We should play a game just the two of us for old times’ sake. It seems I’m not so good at keeping my distance. Adrian is irresistible.
My cabana has more room. I got a suite in SoHo. Not too long a commute for you.
I smile at the cabana reference. We spent a lot of time playing poker in his cabana. His hotel room is a whole nother level of temptation. I need to be smart. I need to keep my distance.
Maybe.
Chicken.
How many things did I do as a kid because he called me chicken? I shake my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. The boy knew how to get to me. The man is dealing with a different sort of woman. The kind who protects her vulnerable self at all costs.
I text a quick bye. Goodnight, Adrian.
Goodnight, Sara, and happy belated twenty-fifth.
I stare at the phone, once again thrown. He’s reminding me we’re both twenty-five now, and we had a pact. I drop my phone facedown on my futon like it’s burning hot.
Chill. It’s just the shock of him showing up on your doorstep that has you unsettled. Even so, I put my pajamas on so I won’t be tempted to hop on the train and show up at his hotel.
Chapter Five
Adrian
Sara’s game tonight is in a corner lot Victorian mansion in Brooklyn. I didn’t know they had mansions in Brooklyn. I thought it was all apartment buildings like in Manhattan. We drove over here together with my guard, and she’s early at seven to set up for the eight o’clock game. She says they can run late, sometimes until three in the morning if someone’s on a hot streak. Fine by me, I’m a night owl.
She’s wearing a pale green blazer, a white blouse, a matching green pencil skirt, and beige heels. She looks fantastic, the clothes accentuating her hourglass shape, but not how I expected her to look for a poker game. She brought a small black wheeled suitcase with her poker stuff inside.
I follow her up the steps of a wide front porch, and we’re let in a few moments later by a plump blonde woman in a floral dress. “Welcome, Miss Sara.”
“Good to see you again, Ms. Kay,” Sara says warmly. “This is Prince Adrian Rourke.”
/> Ms. Kay bows her head and curtsies. “Prince Adrian, welcome.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you, Ms. Kay.” I gesture behind me. “This is Jack, my guard. He travels with me everywhere as a precaution. Palace rules.”
“Oh! Hello,” she says to Jack.
Jack inclines his head. He’s not one for conversation or smiles.
Sara steps inside, and we follow her in. There’s a curved staircase on our right with a carved wooden handrail, white paneled walls running the length of the staircase. Red and gold carpet cover everything. Very elegant and fitting for a Victorian-era mansion.
“Are we in the parlor again?” Sara asks Ms. Kay.
“Yes, right this way.”
We travel down the front hallway past a library on our left to a large parlor the size of two rooms. There’s two white carved columns in the center of the space on opposite sides, probably support beams. The parlor has high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, large floor-to-ceiling windows, and crown molding. The furniture is antique. On one side is a seating area with red velvet chairs set in front of a fireplace and, on the other side, a large oval mahogany table with more red velvet chairs. Ten chairs. This must be where they play.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Ms. Kay says.
Sara smiles. “I’m expecting food delivery in half an hour. I could use some help setting out the food. Otherwise, we’re good.”
“Whose house is this?” I ask Sara the moment Ms. Kay steps out. “Where is he?” I’m very curious to meet the guy. It looks like the place of an older man with a family. Definitely not a bachelor pad. Sara told me her players are all young wealthy Russian businessmen.
“It’s Ivan’s. We rotate spots to keep it interesting. I don’t know where he is. Maybe he’s upstairs getting ready, or he could be caught at work. He’ll be here.”
I follow her over to the card table. The top is green leather with brass cup holders and brass chip racks. Really nice. “You’d think he’d be here on time when it’s at his place.”
“He trusts me to set up. I’ve been here several times.”
“Is he any good?”
“Sure,” she says, setting a card shuffler on the table. “They’re all good.”
I watch as she sets up with her own special card decks and chips. Then she takes a small metal cashbox out and sets it discreetly on an end table in the corner.
“You take that cash home with you?” I ask. “The half mil from the buy-in?”
“It gets paid out, ultimately, to players tomorrow along with the additional bets I collect.”
I set my teeth, working to keep my voice even. “And you just walk home by yourself with all that cash in your suitcase?”
“I get a lift home through an app on my phone, easy peasy.” She levels me with an irritated look. “I’m not going to walk home in the dark at three a.m. Plus I have pepper spray.” At my dubious look, she adds in a low voice, “I can’t afford a guard, okay? And that would just draw more attention to me anyway.”
I still don’t like it, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m here to observe things as they are, not to interfere. I won’t press her on anything until after I get all the facts.
Jack takes a post in the corner of the room, and I direct him to the other side of the parlor. The last thing I want is for the players to think he’s feeding me information. I turn when I hear a masculine voice greeting Sara jovially.
He’s thirty at the most with short dark brown hair, wearing a navy blue suit. He smiles as he crosses to her. “What a welcome sight when I return from work,” he says with a heavy Russian accent, bending to kiss her cheek. “Sunny Sara.”
She smiles brightly. Sunny Sara. “Thanks, Ivan! Good to see you too.”
“If only I had you here every day when I return home,” he says warmly.
I stride toward them to cut off any further flirting.
Sara puts a hand on Ivan’s arm. “This is the alternate I told you about, Prince Adrian Rourke.”
“Welcome to my humble home, Your Highness,” Ivan returns with a bow of his head.
“Thank you.” I offer my hand, and he gives me a bone-crunching handshake. Not sure if that’s a friendly gesture or not. Handshakes can vary by culture, but something tells me it was a display of power.
“I will change now into something more comfortable,” he says and leaves.
“Sunny Sara,” I mimic as soon as he’s out of earshot.
“It’s what I do,” she says. “Everything’s light and fun with Sunny Sara. I’m the hostess with the mostess.”
“What does he do for a living?”
She checks her phone. “He mentioned some kind of importing/exporting with electronics once. They’re all successful businessmen.”
I lower my voice. “Everything legal in the import/export business?”
“I don’t ask questions.” She looks up from her phone. “Yuri’s going to be an hour late. You’re in for the first round.”
“Fine by me.”
“Have a seat. I’m going to get drinks ready.” Before she can do that, another man in his fifties with dark brown hair and light brown skin steps into the parlor. She greets him warmly before turning to me. “This is our dealer, Gustavo,” she says. “Gustavo, meet Prince Adrian.”
Gustavo bows his head briefly. “Nice to meet you. I’ve never had royalty at my table.”
I smile. “Pretty much like everyone else. Except once in a while I pull out my crown just to make sure all the jewels are still there.”
He laughs and heads over to the card table. Sara heads to the kitchen.
I cross to the seating area by the fireplace and pull out my phone, checking on stuff back home. There’s several emails from Emma—my formerly silent investor—who’s now managing the casino in my place with Jackson. She’s aggravated, complaining she doesn’t hear about shit until after it’s gone south, and then there’s nothing she can do about it. Welcome to my world! I’m glad it’s not just me. She also says the restaurant didn’t keep enough inventory of lobster, which is really dumb because that’s one of Villroy’s major exports. The flowers she ordered never arrived, but she was charged for them anyway. And a male guest patted her ass when she stopped by a blackjack table to inquire if everyone was enjoying themselves. Jackson took that guy out before security could even get close.
Well, well, well. Not easy to take a walk in my shoes. I know it’s wrong, but I’m glad she’s not having an easy go of it. I was beginning to think it was me that was the problem, instead of it just being a really demanding job.
Sara and Ms. Kay return to the parlor with trays filled with shot glasses, vodka, and pickles. Interesting.
A short while later, the food arrives. I thought it would be some traditional Russian food, but instead she ordered dim sum, a cheese platter with olives and crackers, and individual dishes of meatballs. Ms. Kay arrives with caviar from the kitchen and some dark crackers.
“Do you vary the menu each game?” I ask Sara.
“Yes. It’s always a surprise, and I try to get light little appetizers. I don’t want anyone sluggish at the game. Just small bites to keep them alert and having a good time. These are from a foodie service. They stop at the best restaurants in the neighborhood and deliver.”
“What other kinds of foods do you get from a foodie service?”
“We have a lot of ethnicities here. Could be Caribbean, Russian, Jewish, Italian. We’ve got pretty much everything. I avoid pizza due to the heaviness factor.”
“And you stick to vodka. No beer or wine.”
She lifts a shoulder. “I tried beer, but they just prefer vodka. They like to toast a lot. Keep your glass in the air until the toast is completely done and drink it all at once. That’s the custom.”
“I’m aware. Is everyone hammered at the end of the night?”
“No. It’s a small shot, they eat between shots, and they’ve got a tolerance, I guess.”
“And you?”
She leans close
and whispers, “Sometimes I spit it back into my chaser drink of cranberry juice. Usually it’s just me or the occasional woman one of them brings along that have the chaser. The guys prefer their vodka straight up.”
“You really took the time to understand their culture, didn’t you?”
“There’s a huge Russian community in Brighton Beach, one of the Brooklyn neighborhoods. I was already familiar with their culture and, believe me, they let me know loud and clear when they like something or don’t.”
The rest of the guys arrive within minutes of each other, and Sara introduces me to them. They look a little starstruck, bowing and staring at me, so I try to put them at ease, thanking them for letting me join their game in Yuri’s absence. There’s Mikhail, Alexy, Roman, Kirill, Vlad, Sergei, and two Dmitris.
Then I’m temporarily lost, as the conversation is entirely in Russian. I wonder if Sara knows what they’re saying and how much she misses during the game that could indicate a problem she doesn’t know about. Ignorance is not bliss when it comes to high-stakes poker games.
I watch as they each greet Sara warmly, kissing her cheek and calling her Sunny Sara. She’s bright, warm, and friendly. They all want her. I’m not being paranoid. Guys know this kind of thing. She’s single and sexy, and there are no girlfriends here. It’s nine guys in their twenties and thirties, some in casual T-shirts and jeans, some in dress shirts and trousers, all surreptitiously checking her out, from her perky breasts to her narrow waist and the flare of hips clearly outlined by her outfit. Only I can check her out because I’m her hero. I look out for her while battling my own lust. That’s damn heroic all by itself.
Sara casually shifts to the corner with the cashbox. They’re in good spirits as they follow her, each handing over a wad of cash for their buy-in, which she accepts while chatting with them as if the money is beside the point.
I hand her my cash last. She doesn’t make conversation with me, just quietly tucks the cash inside, locks the box, and stashes it in her suitcase. The men are talking to each other like they’re old friends, occasionally slapping each other on the back. I’m curious how they make their money, but I play it cool. I’ll see how things play out.
Royal Shark (The Rourkes, Book 6) Page 6
