by Alice Ward
I didn’t want to play. I wanted to get up and go after that ponytailed enigmatic woman.
Resisting the urge to turn around and see if I could spy her, I instead made a silent deal with myself and focused my stare on the cards.
King of spades, seven of diamonds.
I tapped the table. “Hit me.”
Howie gaped. “Hit on seventeen? You haven’t lost enough money already?”
I frowned. “I haven’t even touched my second stack.”
His lips fluttered with a harshly exhaled breath. “You must have a lot of faith in that new restaurant you’re backing.” His mouth pulled into a tight line of disapproval and a single bead of sweat trailed down his temple from his bald head. Blackjack was one of the few things Howie took really seriously. Even Jeeves looked uncertain, disregarding his strict dealer training to do what the player bid despite his better judgment.
Narrowing my eyes first at my friend then at the friendly employee, I tapped my forefinger twice on the felt tabletop. My third card was dealt without argument.
A four of diamonds joined the king and seven.
“Twenty-one.” I pushed my chair back without waiting to snatch up my winnings. “I’ll be back.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Howie stuck his arm out in front of my midsection to stop me. “You were lucky enough to have your spot held when you went to take a piss a minute ago, but you can’t keep coming and going without giving up your chair. Even you aren’t that important, Driscoll.”
He was only half kidding. I shrugged, turned back toward the table, and grabbed my pile of chips. “Fair enough,” I conceded, flipping a chip to Jeeves as a tip. “See you later, then.”
“You’re hot for that girl who tried to run you over, aren’t you?” Howie needled, his large teeth showing again.
I dropped a chip in front of him too. “Next hand’s on me.”
“Owen.” He sounded serious again, stunning enough in itself but particularly so as he actually turned his body away from the table to face me straight on. “She’s not through The Club.”
I stiffened, my hands curling into fists. “Yeah, I know.”
His eyes narrowed as if inspecting some insect he’d never seen before. “You only date through The Club.”
Even though my chest tightened, I forced a smirk onto my face and repeated, “Yeah, I know.”
Howie poised his chin on his thumb and considered me warily. “Is this some kind of challenge for you? Has the ever-rotating pool of beautiful women available to you become stale?”
Rather than providing a snappy-tongued response like I ordinarily would have, I gave his question some genuine thought. He had a point. I, by no means, had a shortage of female companions in my life, and I never did expand my dating conquests beyond those who frequented the elite club of which Howie and I were both members. Yet, there was no thrill in it. The same women, discernable from each other only by their hair colors and dress labels, offered themselves up to my whims while talking about triathlon training or puppy rescues in an attempt to demonstrate how unique they were compared to the rest. There was safety in routine, though, which was why I understood Howie’s hesitation to encourage my pursuit of the clumsy, spectacled anomaly who gracelessly slammed into me and spilled my drink and wiped my pants. She was the antithesis of a Club girl, and she was dangerous.
But I was feeling reckless.
“There’s something about her,” I told him. “I need to know what it is.”
“You’ve never been a romantic fatalist before. I’ve seen you turn down the most gorgeous, exotic women before without explanation.” He leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice. “I know you don’t care to have the rapidly revolving door we both know you could, but if you need to blow off some steam we can hit The Club tonight. No risk, big fun.”
I smiled and shook my head, my attention taken away by a Santa carrying a Mrs. Claus over his shoulder through the casino. “Bet big. I’ve got a good feeling about your next hand.” Then, I gave him a telltale wink and walked away.
To be honest, I wasn’t even sure she was still in the casino. She’d seemed so embarrassed that I wouldn’t have been surprised if she darted out right away. I kept my spirits up and my eyes peeled anyway. Something about her had me transfixed, and if she’d disappeared into the streets of the Big Easy, I was prepared to hunt. But I was going to scour Harrah’s first.
It turned out my heft of determination was unnecessary. Only a couple of minutes later I spotted her, glasses braced at the tip of her nose and expression forcibly somber. She was engaged in conversation with a brunette dressed to the nines who bore a close resemblance to the type of women I usually went out with, but she seemed to be wishing the purpled female away with a hard, unmoving stare. I loitered back to avoid interrupting. It didn’t occur to me until later she might’ve appreciated the interruption.
The dressed-up woman was speaking. “If you’d rather hang out pushing germ-infested buttons and losing your money, I’m not going to stop you. Just—”
“Eleven tomorrow,” interjected my interest, the words tight beneath the honeyed tone. “Right.”
She had spunk. I grinned in appreciation and watched the attitude in heels stalk away, then hung back for a minute longer to avoid appearing like I’d been eavesdropping. I wasn’t nervous to approach her, but the electric tingle of excitement was sparking in streaks through my limbs. She was a rare find, this one.
Just as I drew near, I saw her stiffen. She spun herself on the stool with fire in her eyes and practically shouted, “I said I’m not go—!”
Realization dawned on her face, and the pink I had seen earlier in her cheeks returned with vehemence. She stared at me, mouth still open and lashes craning to caress her brows. It was the first time she made eye contact with me, and I was startled by the intricacies of her features.
She was beautiful, though very much uncharacteristically so. Her face was rounded at the cheekbones and soft at the chin rather than surgically sharp or defined like most women I knew. The lips parted in a silent gasp were slender and unenhanced with a deep divot above the top lip, hidden in the shadow of her crested upturned nose. Her eyes, however, were the most enchanting characteristic. Marbled with mossy green and mocha brown, they were large enough to swallow me whole, almost doll-like in their extreme facial proportion. I was so preoccupied by those orbs, in fact, I failed to take in a proper analysis of her figure like I ordinarily would have.
“Sorry,” she fumbled for the third time that evening. Somehow, the word didn’t sound the same now that I was watching it spill from her lips. It was gentler, more endearing. “I thought you were my cousin.”
“No harm done.”
She froze, and again her lashes separated in opposite directions like the lowers and the uppers were desperate to escape one another. “Oh, no, are you the guy I bumped into?”
“That’s me,” I admitted, offering her a smile and my hand. “Owen Driscoll.”
Her gaze dropped to my hand, then shot back up to me quizzically. My smile became a snarky grin, and I almost jibed her about not knowing what a handshake was before she slid her palm into mine. “Tabby,” she returned cautiously.
I quirked a brow. Tabby. Like a cat. Interesting. “You don’t seem sure about that.”
She lifted her chin. “The only thing I’m not sure about is why you came over here.”
Little spitfire.
“You caught my interest.” I explored her face with my eyes. “It’s not every day a woman tries to tackle me in the middle of a casino, much less engages in a softcore hand job.”
I expected her to be pissed, maybe slap my face and run away. But she surprised me and snickered, a single beat low in the back of her throat, and crossed one leg over the other. I permitted myself a split-second glance at the appendage and was thrilled to see its shapeliness even through her jeans. “You’ve got a really cocky air about you, you know.”
“Cocky or confident?”
; Without a flinch, she leaned forward, crossed her arms over her knees, and repeated, “Cocky.”
I couldn’t stop staring at her to the point that I knew I was toeing the border between rude and creepy, but I couldn’t help it. Her eyes were utterly intoxicating, her skin was refreshingly unblemished by tanning lotion and makeup, and her mouth formed words the way Mozart wrote symphonies. Each of her features alone would’ve been unremarkable, perhaps even disorienting, but together they created a vision of immeasurable perfection.
“So, let’s cut to the chase,” she bluntly said. “You came over here to make fun of me, right? Or to yell at me for not watching where I was going?”
Or to bend you over that stool, pull down those jeans. Sink deep inside your body…
I ran a hand through my hair as my balls tightened at the thought. “No,” I chuckled.
She squinted at me suspiciously. “You’re not hoping to sell me something, are you?”
Again, I laughed, and I shook my head in a steady back and forth. “I’m not in the business of selling,” I assured her. “If there’s anything you need, though, I can most definitely make it happen.”
Tabby settled back, leaning her elbow on the lip of the slot machine she’d been playing. I noticed an orange drink — probably a screwdriver, judging by the glass — a few inches behind her arm and opened my mouth to warn her she was about to spill it, but she spoke first. “Okay, Owen Driscoll, I’ll bite… what can I do for you today?”
The left corner of my mouth tugged up into a smirk as my gaze fell to her lips. “I can think of a few things.”
Her lips parted, and I could see the pulse thrum in her throat. Good. I was affecting her the same way she was affecting me. “I’m all ears.”
Her moxie alone was enough to make the decision to leave the blackjack table worth it. My pants started to feel unusually snug, and I took a step toward her. “Be careful, Miss Tabby,” I said, lowering my voice to a soft murmur. “Don’t take me for a politer man than I am.”
It was difficult to be sure, but I could’ve sworn I heard a quick breath slip between what I imagined were pillow-soft lips. The wool fabric of my trousers strained further. I was sorely tempted to reach out and touch the space where the breath had emerged with the tip of my finger, but I curled my hand into a loose fist instead and practiced the hellish art of restraint.
She seemed lost for words for a long second before mustering up a coherent sentence. “What, um, what do you do?”
I threw my head back with unexpected laughter at her drastic change of tack, and the metaphorical ice broke. Our exchange instantly felt comfortable, easy, and enjoyable. “I’m an investor,” I said with a careless shrug, still guffawing a bit to myself.
“The fun kind of investor or the boring kind?” she pressed. She appeared to have regained a measure of composure.
“Is there such a thing as a fun investor?” I joked, tilting my head. She nodded, and I clarified, “Well, I invest in restaurants. Mostly in the New Orleans area, and mostly flagships for new chefs who’ve gained just enough recognition to justify opening a place of their own.”
To my surprise, her marble eyes lit up into brilliant sparkles of thrill. “Really? That’s amazing!” Her enthusiasm was undeniably genuine, and it was more infectious than I’d expected. My work immediately seemed ten times more interesting than it had at the beginning of our conversation.
“It’s not without its perks,” I conceded. “Free drinks anywhere on Bourbon only excites for so long though.” My close relationships with so many restaurant and bar owners in the city tended to be a point of attraction for many women. Something about beverages and food “on the house” was impressive.
“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant,” she responded, her ponytail swinging from one side to the other as she shook her head. “No, I was referring to the experiences you get for doing what you do. I travel for work, and one of my favorite parts is trying all the weird and wonderful dishes across the country. I imagine you get to do a lot of that.”
The surprises kept coming. I held up a finger to indicate I’d be just a moment, turned around, and snagged an empty stool from the nearest machine behind me. Pulling it close enough to smell her flowery, sugary aroma but keeping it distant enough so as not to encroach on her personal space, I slid myself onto the cracked leather cushion. She waited patiently for me to settle myself, and I was pleased to see she was not averse to continuing our chat.
“What is it that has you traveling all around America, then, and has presumably brought you here?” I didn’t ask obligatorily. I truly wanted to know. Tabby was as intriguing to me as my English Lit professor had hoped I would find his class. I chuckled to myself. I had yet to encounter a time in my career that the ability to recite Chaucer was to my benefit.
“I’m a freelance photographer,” she said, smiling a little self-consciously. I wondered if she had been met with enough unsavory responses to her chosen vocation that she’d adopted the expression. “I have gigs with travel websites, anything from articles to blogs to review sites. When luck’s in my favor, I land a gig directly with an establishment to do the photography for their marketing campaigns.”
A lightbulb pinged on in my head, but I didn’t share it yet. I wanted to test the water first. “And what are you planning to photograph in New Orleans?”
“Nothing. I’m here to be a bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding.” Waving a hand haphazardly toward the casino entrance, she added, “She was talking to me right before you appeared. That’s why I thought you were her and almost bit your head off.”
“A wedding isn’t a wedding without family drama,” I mused with a wink.
Tabby rolled her eyes and a smile played on her mouth. “For Grace, life isn’t life without family drama.” She laughed, but there was a flavor of bitterness under the lilting notes.
She was extraordinary. Quick-witted and full of spark, yet her job and fashion sense reeked of a whimsical spirit my life had sorely lacked. As if that wasn’t plenty enough to rope me in, her unorthodox looks had me salivating.
I was itching for more. I wanted to take her out, to find out what it felt like to curl my arm around her waist and walk side by side into one of my many restaurants. I wanted to figure out what buttons to push to bring out her spunk like launched missiles. I wanted to show her the NOLA nightlife and see how she glowed beneath neon lights. I wanted to take her everywhere.
Including The Blackjack Club.
CHAPTER THREE
Tabby
I was more than a little interested in the suave man before me, as much as I hated to admit it because it would’ve been so much less humbling to just try and forget about the whole drink-on-pants scenario. Whether he was intelligent or not, I didn’t yet know, but he was definitely quick on the verbal draw. He was also either an incredibly good actor or he genuinely cared more about me as a person than he did about me in the sheets — a rare trait in attractive men, in my experience.
And speaking of attractive men...
He was. Oh god, he was. I’d been too embarrassed to look at him properly when I’d run into him before, but now with him sitting in front of me on a gambler’s stool I had the no-holds-barred close-up, and it was a thing of the gods. A coif of smooth chestnut hair fell over a smoother forehead, which melted into a sharp brow that shadowed eyes of the palest aquamarine. His jaw went on for days, adjoining an aristocratic chin in the front and angling up toward his ears in the back. The mouth above that jaw was thin but shapely, and it didn’t escape my notice that his glistening pink tongue slipped out to stroke the crease between his lips each time I spoke. This investor may have had innocent intentions in conversing with me, but he was utterly drenched in raw, wicked sexuality that had my inner thighs tingling.
Maybe I was the one only interested in sex. It wasn’t my style, but there was a first time for everything, and Owen Driscoll had all the makings of a divine first one-night stand.
“So, Miss Tabby…” His
voice was dangerously suggestive and sinfully alluring, like a velvet-swathed razor. “Is it safe to assume you’re a betting woman?”
I glanced to the machine on which I was casually resting my arm. The money I’d put in was waiting patiently in the balance bar. Ordinarily, I would’ve been unable to resist the glowing SPIN button and would’ve carried on the chat while clenching my teeth and hoping for a jackpot hit. Owen had managed to break my questionable gambling tendencies merely with his presence.
“I am,” I admitted, “but I don’t think I’d use the word safe so close to the word betting in my case.”
“Oh? Do you have a tendency to get carried away?” He crooked his head and lifted a brow as a corner of his tempting mouth tilted upward.
“It’s an inherited trait,” I said, shrugging. “My dad had as serious a gambling addiction as it gets. Paycheck, car, house… if he could use it to feed his addiction, he would. Luckily, the worst thing I’ve ever gambled away was my food budget for out-of-town gigs. I guess I’ve got more willpower than he did.”
Owen’s expression changed, and I immediately wondered if my admittance of my vice had scared him off. I didn’t realize he was looking at me with concern rather than judgment until he asked, “Has he gotten back on his feet? He isn’t homeless, is he?”
His concern was endearing and something inside me melted a little.
“He kicked the habit when my mom kicked him out. She ended up being more important to him than the rush. They’re fine now, albeit living in a house half the size of the first and sharing a station wagon.” I chewed on one of my cheeks and averted my eyes as a mild ripple of embarrassment misted over me. Who could’ve imagined that avoiding dinner with Grace’s friends would have resulted in me telling a perfect stranger about my parents and their troubles? Weirder than that was he actually seemed to give a damn. What an unusual man. In the interest of lightening the mood, I pushed my glasses farther up my nose and joked, “Why, you want to buy him a house?”
