“I can tell you one thing about Vegas Sarah.” He shifted so that he was walking just behind her, one hand resting lightly against her back, as the foot traffic increased toward the center of the casino.
“What’s that?” she tossed back over her shoulder.
He must have bent his head down to whisper so closely in her ear.
“I thought she must’ve been drunk to make that bet.”
Her laugh rang out over the bells and whistles and constant murmurs of conversation surrounding them.
A quick stop at the floor manager’s office resulted in a call to Le Cirque, the most exclusive of nearly a dozen eating establishments at the Bellagio, ensuring them a table as soon as they arrived. Sarah sped through the menu after the server placed it in front of her, raising one hand in the air to keep the man at the table.
“I’ll have the wild salmon carpaccio to start, the beef tenderloin, rare, and feel free to drop off the dessert menu in advance.”
Both men at the table stared at her.
“What can I say? Gambling makes me hungry.” She shrugged and handed the menu back to the server. No reaction from either of them. She looked from one to the other. “Did I forget to mention the champagne?”
J.D. rattled off his own order, and the server left their table with an admiring glance back at Sarah.
“Jesus, Sarah,” J.D. said. “You hold your liquor like a sailor.”
She queried him with a look.
“The champagne on the flight. What was it, a martini on the rocks in the casino? Now champagne? I’m surprised you weren’t under the table, instead of ruling it. What do you weigh? A buck ten soaking wet?”
She grimaced. Having always wished for her older sister’s curves, she’d resigned herself to the fact that at least clothes hung well on her slim frame.
“Never ask a lady what she weighs, Damico.”
“Still, you must have the tolerance of a Saturday night brawler.”
“Thank you,” she said as the waiter returned with the champagne. When the cork popped, he filled her glass with shimmering golden liquid that foamed briefly to the brim, and then filled J.D.’s. Lifting the delicate flute, she toasted J.D. and sipped before answering. “Don’t believe everything you see, my amateur friend. The cocktail at the table was a fake.”
“What?”
“I set it up with the waitress beforehand. I ordered a vodka rocks, and she brought me water over ice.” J.D.’s laugh was short and disbelieving. “It suits me to let my opponent hope that my judgment is slipping with each round I order.”
She raised her flute to her lips and let the champagne slide over her tongue, savoring its delicate bite.
“Now, this I have earned.” With a satisfied sigh, she leaned back against the rich leather and let the pleasurable tension of the past few hours flow out of her muscles. Now that she had the width of a table between them and the casual flow of light conversation, it was easier than she’d expected to relax with J.D. Besides, despite her original decision to avoid him as much as possible for the weekend and enjoy Vegas on her own, she was having far too much fun not to want to share it with someone.
And if she occasionally indulged herself by picturing that someone naked when he was talking to her, who needed to know?
“So tell me, Sarah Bearah, how did a nice girl like you turn into a card shark?”
“It’s a long story.”
He lifted a hand to the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the wide lake in front of the Bellagio, where a sweep of spotlit fountains jetted water in an arcing dance to the rhythms of a symphony they could faintly hear.
“Beautiful view. Beautiful woman. Beautiful wine.” He clinked his glass lightly against hers. “I’m in no rush.”
She ignored the flush of warmth that swept over her skin at his offhand compliment. Settling in, she spun him a tale. Over appetizers, she described the boyfriend in college whose Friday night devotion to his card game with “the boys” annoyed her enough to send her to the library in search of blackjack and poker strategy manuals. His eventual fit of pique over the fact that a girl, and one he was sleeping with no less, could consistently take his money in seven-card stud or Black Mariah spelled the death of their relationship. She was left with a bruised heart—she’d just wanted to understand his obsession, not drive him away—and a growing appreciation for the fun of checking and raising on a down and dirty pair of aces.
By the time their entrées arrived, she was hip deep in the story. She waved her steak knife freely as she told him about her first trip to Vegas. The trip had been taken after the drama school graduation of Maxie, the baby of the Tyler family, an event the young woman had been determined to celebrate with pomp and circumstance. All four siblings had gone, Tyler insisting on joining his sisters to “keep them from calling home for bail money.”
In between watching Maxie storm the town in feather boas and elbow-length gloves one night and fringed flapper dresses and six-inch-long cigarette holders the next, Sarah had decided to dip her toes in the grown-up pool of poker with a raise limit higher than a quarter. And that was when she discovered her gift: she could treat a poker hand with a hundred bucks riding on it as if it were a fifty-cent hand back in college.
She played smart, she didn’t get emotional and she took big gambles without flinching when the moment seemed right. She didn’t always win, but she won far more often than she lost. And when she did lose, she shrugged off her losses and enjoyed the pool. And, that one time, the tattoo parlor.
Only, things had gotten a little out of hand on her most recent trip to Sin City.
“Casinos are very good at keeping track of their clients, and they want to keep you happy. Keep you playing.” She nodded yes to more champagne as their server cleared their dinner plates, and ran a fingertip down the list of desserts propped in front of her. “My line of credit kept getting raised, and I was introduced to higher and higher limit poker tables. When I sat at a table where the pot was double my annual salary, I decided it was time to take a break. Raspberry tart or the classic crème-filled éclair?”
“Both.” J.D. was leaning back, one hand cupped around the wide bowl of a brandy snifter, warming the amber liquid with the heat of his palm. “So that was why—”
“The slots, yes. And I’ve never played at the Bellagio before, so I figured I’d be safe. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Fiorentino, the floor manager—” she answered his tilt of the head “—just made the move here from the MGM Grand. He spotted me on one of his stroll-throughs of the casino and, well, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” She grinned.
Their server chose that moment to inform them that Mr. Fiorentino wanted to welcome Ms. Tyler and her guest to the Bellagio by comping their meal. Along with any other celebrating they would care to do that evening at the hotel’s other venues.
“See what I mean? Plus, he thinks I saved his pug’s life when all I did was put him on a diet.” She shook her head as J.D. ordered both desserts. “What can I say? I have no willpower. Not when it comes to poker. Or pie. You know I’m going to eat both of those, don’t you? I’m going to burst right out of this dress.”
J.D. leaned forward and linked his fingers loosely with hers. Bringing her hand up to his mouth, he brushed a kiss onto her knuckles and kept her hand in his as he spoke.
“Every man in the room would consider his evening complete.”
She’d never been so aware of her fingers before, feeling each one resting against J.D.’s warm skin, her thumb pressed pad-to-pad with his and moving back and forth languidly in the dim light.
Looking at him seemed impossibly risky. She watched their hands instead, enjoying the contrast of her paler fingers against his darker golden ones. Her competent, strong hand looked delicate when cradled against the wide palm and long fingers of J.D’s.
The mood no longer felt casual.
Or friendly.
Raising her eyes to meet his hooded gaze, she felt his hand grip hers.
“J.D. Do yo
u think—” she began.
The arrival of dessert interrupted the moment. Between extra plates and dessert spoons, it was easy enough to disengage her hand from his. She sat up and scrubbed her palm surreptitiously against her thigh in a vain effort to stop it from tingling.
“Do I think what?”
It was annoying how he never dropped the thread of a conversation, even when you wanted it dropped.
Talking about this thing between them, this shudder of pleasure she felt every time he touched her, and the fact that she could feel his gaze like a long, slow stroke across her skin—talking about that could not possibly be a good idea. The charm he was using on her was as much a reflex to him as breathing. She was much better off pretending her reaction to him was just as superficial.
With a philosophical shrug, she dug her spoon into the raspberry tart and changed the words she’d been about to speak.
“I was just going to ask if you thought it was too late to cancel our dessert order. But it is too late,” she said in between melting bites of crème-filled pastry and tangy fruit, adding under her breath, “too late for any number of things.”
If he heard her, he ignored it. Then reached across the table to swipe a finger at the corner of her lips.
“I don’t believe in skipping dessert,” he said. Without thinking, she darted her tongue to the corner of her mouth and licked the spot where he’d touched her. His eyes narrowed. “You should always save room,” he brought the dab of chocolate-frosted pastry to his own mouth, “for something sweet.”
She forced a laugh. Tried to sound blasé. “What a line, Damico. Do you find that usually works best on really dim women?”
He captured her hand in his own and gently curled her fingers into her palm, leaving one finger extended to be dragged through the espresso-chocolate glaze drizzled artfully on one plate.
“I think you’re sweet,” he said and lifted her hand. She watched, fascinated, as his mouth, that sculpted heavy mouth, opened and he sucked the tip of her finger. She felt the scrape of his tongue against her skin like a charge of electricity, and fought down the need to squirm in her seat. He was slow to pull her fingertip from his mouth, but then he grinned at her and delivered a wink. “Now that’s a line.”
She laughed again, sharp and hard this time. Jesus, did the man always have to tease her about sex? A woman could only take so much of that kind of thing without needing to throw someone on the floor and have her way with him.
“I gotta pee,” she announced and popped up from her seat. If she didn’t step back from the erotic tension at this table, she was about thirty seconds from needing to fan herself. While panting. Hard.
She didn’t just need to splash some cold water on her face. She ought to pour a pitcher of it down her dress.
* * *
J.D. watched Sarah walk away from the table. The gleam in his eyes probably would have scared her if she’d turned around and caught it. When he saw her stumble, catch herself with a hand on the back of another diner’s striped armchair, and then continue on more slowly, flapping that hand near her face, that gleam slid into a wicked grin.
Well, well. How unexpected.
Not only her reaction. His own was more of a surprise.
He wasn’t sure at what point in the evening his mood had changed from irritation and exasperation at this mercurial roller coaster of a woman, into this building need to lick and taste her all over.
She would walk like she was strutting across a river on a bridge made of the backs of her old lovers. And then forget to breathe when he sucked the tip of her finger. She’d risk thousands on a hand of poker while holding nothing but a pair of face cards. And then be afraid to risk standing too close to him in the middle of the crowded casino floor.
He’d wanted her the minute he saw her in that excuse for a dress she was wearing. Of course he had. That wasn’t exactly his brain doing the thinking. But he’d never expected to find her fascinating.
She was Sarah. Just Sarah. The girl he’d known since he was too young to know that girls were the best thing going.
But this Sarah was some other creature entirely. And he didn’t believe for a minute that this was some kind of temporary facade thrown up for a couple of fun-filled days by an otherwise soberly stern woman. Unlike the abandoned Beatrice, Sarah didn’t have a false bone in her body. Las Vegas might be the only place where she indulged in this side of her personality, but Sarah was far too confident in the role for it not to be anchored deep in her bones.
He hadn’t been able to tell if her attempts to turn their sexually tense moments into lighter conversation were because she wasn’t interested or because she was too interested. Not until he saw the flush that spread from her face down to her chest when he licked her fingertip and that stumble as she walked away from him.
And if this was what she was like after a couple hours of high-stakes poker, he knew exactly what he wanted to do next. He was pretty sure he’d end up regretting his choice to leave his camera back in his room.
This was a big town.
There had to be a salsa night going on at a club somewhere nearby.
* * *
She protested. She dragged her feet. She pretended she wasn’t interested all the way to the concierge desk where he made his inquiry.
Of course they could find a Latin music night, sir. Right across the street, in fact, at the nightclub in one of their sister hotels. And the concierge would be happy to call ahead and put their names on the VIP list.
“You can’t dance,” she argued and waved a hand at his leg. “You’re not even out of physical therapy. And you’ve been limping since before the restaurant.”
He leaned over and spoke into her ear so that the concierge wouldn’t hear.
“Then I’ll just watch you. I’ll enjoy that immensely.”
In the end, she gave in because she wanted to. Because she’d risked it all at the card table and won. Because the music spilling out of the club was hot and fast. And because the thought of J.D. watching her from across the room with those eyes that stripped the clothes right off her body made heat blossom in her belly.
Besides, she was still stuffed from dinner. The sensible thing to do would be to work some of that food off with a little dancing.
Right. This was the sensible thing.
Keep dreaming, girl.
Inside the club, women in high heels and short dresses with flippy skirts were steered and spun around the dance floor by men, old and young, who pulled them close and pushed them away. Even before she had a chance to sit at the tiny table they were directed to at the edge of the dance floor, a darkly handsome man who introduced himself as Diego asked her to dance.
J.D.’s half-smile was just enough of a challenge for her to say yes.
She felt his eyes like heat on her back as she and Diego walked hand in hand to the dance floor. It didn’t take long for Diego to notice where her eyes were inexorably drawn, no matter how smoothly she twisted and shimmied.
He pulled her close until their bodies were pressed together from shoulders to knees.
“Mira, you are dancing for him, yes?”
She couldn’t help but nod.
“Then we should give him a show,” he said and bent her back over his arm, running his free hand between her breasts and down the center of her torso before arcing her back up against him again, “don’t you think?”
His smile was slow and easy. After a moment, she matched it with one of her own and snaked a hand up the back of this stranger’s neck to tangle in the damp hair curling at the nape of his neck.
“Yes. I don’t want him getting too comfortable, after all.” She winked.
Her dance partner threw his head back and laughed, teeth glinting in a wicked smile as he spun her out. He pulled her to him until her bottom was cradled by his hips, and she let her moves be guided by the shifting of his weight behind her. His hands clutched her hips, pulling the fabric of her short dress even higher over her thighs. Facing
the edge of the dance floor, she lifted her eyes just high enough to watch J.D. watching her.
He leaned back in his tiny chair, looking supremely relaxed except for the intensity of his gaze, which never left her. He had crossed one arm over his chest and was resting his chin in the V between the thumb and palm of his other hand, his index finger pressed against the side of his face, his fingers curled in front of his mouth. He locked gazes with her and then slid his eyes slowly down her body.
She felt it like he’d put his hands on her. The heat and pressure of it slid over her breasts, made them ache a little, hardening her nipples until she knew that if she looked down at her dress, she would see the peaks visible beneath the thin fabric. She sucked in her stomach with a sharp breath as his gaze scraped past her abdomen and lower, circling her thighs. Still dancing in tandem with Diego, she stepped forward and back and felt her thighs brush against each other, featherlight, like J.D.’s hands were between her legs.
Jesus. She was going to have an orgasm right here on the dance floor.
And then there was just the music and J.D.’s eyes and Diego’s hands and the slow build of sex and sweat and so much pure energy that she was surprised she didn’t throw off sparks when she spun.
Long strands of her hair clung damply to her arms, her cheeks. She lifted her arms and ran her palms up the back of her neck until she’d corralled the waterfall spill of her hair into a tangled pile on top of her head. For a moment, she felt cooler until she looked at J.D. over her upraised arms and caught the tip of his tongue sliding across his heavy lower lip. It felt it like a soft sucking kiss on the nape of her neck.
Looking at him over Diego’s shoulder, she ran her hand down her partner’s muscled back and curved her fingers under his belt to pull him closer. She kept her eyes on J.D. the entire time, imagining that it was his hard body she was pressed up against, his hands raking down the naked column of her spine.
When the music slammed to a halt, she was arced over her partner’s arm in a dip that had the ends of her hair brushing the floor. She flowed up again until she was standing next to Diego and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Calling His Bluff Page 8
