by Nora Roberts
With his arm still around her shoulder, Gabe reached for his wallet. “Fifty on number three. To win.”
Clutching her own ticket, she frowned. “Who’s number three?”
“Couldn’t say.” He slipped the ticket into his pocket.
“You just bet a number, just a number?”
“A hunch. Want to make a side bet on who comes in first? Your tip or my hunch?”
“Another ten,” she shot back.
“And you said you weren’t much of a gambler.”
He got her back to the rail just as the horses entered the starting gate. Foolish it might have been, but her heart was thudding, her palms damp. At the clang of the bell she strained forward, dazzled by the blur of color.
No misty workout now, but a crowd of muscled bodies fighting for position, their riders a burr on their backs. In seconds they reached full stride, with front-runners hugging the rail. The sound was overwhelming, thunder in front, roaring in back. Then they were at the turn.
“Number three’s got it,” Gabe said in her ear.
Kelsey shook him off. “They’ve barely started.”
She could hear jockeys screaming, threats or encouragement, while their whips flashed. Down the stretch, the wire in sight, and Kelsey had forgotten the bet entirely. Every emotion was caught up in the race itself, the showmanship of it, the drama of speed. She saw a horse coming from behind, straining, digging in. Hardly aware of the decision, she began to root for him, thrilled by that flash of courage and heart.
He nipped the leader on the outside and took the wire by half a length.
“Oh, did you see him!” She threw her head back and laughed. “He was beautiful.”
Gabe hadn’t seen the finish, but he’d seen her. The polite mask had melted away with excitement, revealing the passion and energy of the woman beneath. He wanted that woman more than he’d ever wanted a winning hand.
Lips pursed, Naomi considered the look in Gabe’s eyes. That was something she’d have to think about. “Your horse finished fifth,” she told Kelsey.
“It doesn’t matter.” Kelsey drew a deep breath. She could still smell the glamour. “It was worth it. Did you see how he came up like that? It was almost out of nowhere.”
“Number three,” Gabe said, and waited until her eyes met his. “My hunch paid off.”
“That was number three?” She turned toward the winner’s circle, torn between annoyance at losing to him, and her enjoyment of watching the horse win. “This must be your lucky day.”
“You could be right.”
“So.” She slid her eyes up to his and smiled. “Who do you like in the next race?”
Sometime during the afternoon she devoured a hot dog and washed it down with a watered-down soft drink. She felt a surprising stab of pride, very personal, when Virginia’s Pride dominated his field. It was so obvious, she thought, even to her untrained eye, that there wasn’t another horse in the race to compare with him.
Another, less identifiable emotion pricked her when Gabe’s horse crossed the wire first.
As dusk fell, the grandstands were littered with losing tickets, cigarette butts, and shattered hopes.
“Can I interest you two ladies in some dinner?”
“Oh.” Distracted, Naomi buttoned up her jacket. She was already looking for Moses. “I’m going to be at least another hour here. Why don’t you take Kelsey?”
Instinctively, Kelsey sidestepped. “I don’t mind waiting for you.”
“No, go ahead. Have fun. I’ll see you at home in a couple of hours.”
“Really, I—” But Naomi was already hurrying away. “I appreciate the offer, Gabe, but—”
“You’re too well mannered to refuse.” He took her arm.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then you’re too hungry. A single hot dog doesn’t fuel all that energy. And I can help you count your winnings.”
“I don’t think that’s going to strain anyone’s math.” In any case, she was hungry. She let him guide her through the parking lot to a bottle-green Jaguar. “Nice car.”
“She’s fast.”
He was right. Kelsey leaned back and enjoyed the ride through the pearling twilight. She’d always liked to drive fast, top down, radio blasting. Wade had lectured her countless times as he’d stuck to the heart of the speed limit. Sensible, she thought now. Responsible.
But he’d never understood that now and again she had to cut loose, do something, anything, full out. He’d preached moderation, and she had agreed—except when she couldn’t. An impulsive spending spree, a speeding ticket, a last-minute urge to fly to the Bahamas. Those quicksilver changes in her had been the cause of most of their domestic quarrels.
Small stuff, she’d always thought. Incorrectly, she realized now. What had her impulsive surprise visit to Atlanta gotten her?
Freedom, she reminded herself, and determinedly closed the book on it.
When she began to pay attention to the scenery again, she realized they were nearly at Bluemont. “I thought we were going to have dinner.”
“We are. Do you like seafood?”
“Yes. Is there a restaurant out here?”
“One or two. But we’re eating in. I called home earlier. How does grilled swordfish strike you?”
“That’s fine.” She straightened in her seat, listening to the alarm bells in her head. “How did you know I’d be coming to dinner?”
“I had a hunch.” He cruised down the road, zipped through the iron gates and up the drive. “You can take a look at the house before we eat.”
His gardener had been busy. Beds had been tidied for spring so perennials could flaunt their new growth. A few brave daffodils had already bloomed, their bright yellow heads nodding charmingly.
Funny, she’d never have picked Gabe as the daffodil type.
The front door was flanked by beveled glass panels etched in geometric designs. With the light inside glowing through them, they glinted like diamonds. She remembered now that his jockeys’ silks had resembled diamonds as well. A dramatic red and white.
“How did you pick your colors, the silks?”
“A straight flush, diamonds, eight through king.” He opened the door. “A hand of cards. I drew the ten and jack against the odds. People will tell you that’s how I came into this place. Winning a hand of cards.”
“Did you?”
“More or less.”
She stepped inside into a tiled atrium, all open space, dizzying ceilings with arched skylights. The copper rail that circled the second floor followed a gently curving staircase. Huge terra-cotta pots hung suspended, spilling out greenery.
“Quite an entrance,” she managed.
“I don’t like to be closed in. I’ll get you a drink.”
“All right.” She followed him through a wide arch into a living area. This too opened into another room through archways. Glass doors invited the night inside; lamps, already lit, softened it.
There was a fire crackling in a hearth of river stone. A table was set in front of it. For two, she noted. A white cloth, candles. Champagne chilled in a bucket beside it.
“Did you also have a hunch that Naomi wouldn’t be joining us?”
“She usually goes into conference with Moses after a day at the track.” He opened the bottle with a quick, celebrational pop. “Do you want to look around, or would you rather have dinner right away?”
“I’ll look around, since I’m here.” She accepted the glass, noting there was no matching flute by the second plate. “You’re not celebrating?”
“Sure I am. I don’t drink. Why don’t we start upstairs and work down?”
He led her out, up the curving stairs. She counted four bedrooms before they climbed a short flight into the master suite. This was a split-level affair, the bedroom three tiled steps above the sitting area. A stone fireplace would warm the foot of the lake-sized platform bed, and the skylight would invite a restless sleeper to watch the moon.
Like the res
t of the house, it was a mix of the classic and the modern. A Chippendale table held an abstract bronze-and-copper sculpture. A Persian carpet glowed on the floor beneath a free-form coffee table of polished teak.
Meissen vases beside modern art. The art, the painting, drew her. Even from across the room, Kelsey recognized it as a work by the same artist who had done those in her mother’s home.
So much passion, she thought as she studied the frenetic brushstrokes, the violent juxtaposition of primary colors. “Not a very restful piece for a bedroom.”
“It seemed to belong here.”
“N. C.,” she murmured. “Did Naomi paint this?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know she painted?”
“No, no one mentioned it. She’s very talented. I know several art dealers who would be begging at her door.”
“She wouldn’t thank you for it. Her art’s personal.”
“All art’s personal.” She turned away from it. “Has she always painted?”
“No. You should ask her about it sometime. She’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“I’ll have to decide what that is first.” Sipping her champagne, she wandered the room. “I don’t know what that dignified Cape Cod looked like, but I doubt it could have measured up to this.” More at ease, she turned back. “Did you horrify the neighborhood by having it razed?”
“Appalled everyone within twenty miles.”
“And enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Damn right. What’s the use of having a reputation if you can’t live up to it?”
“And what is your reputation?”
“Slippery, darling, very slippery. Anyone would tell you that being alone with me in my bedroom’s the first step to perdition.”
“It’s a long way from the first step to the last fall.”
“Not as far as you might think.”
With a shrug, she tossed back the rest of her drink. “Tell me about the card game.”
“Over dinner.” He held out a hand. “I’m a sucker for atmosphere, and a lot closer to that last fall than most.”
Intrigued, she put her hand in his. “That doesn’t sound very slippery to me, Slater.”
“I’m just getting started.”
Downstairs he refilled her glass. Some invisible servant had already set two silver-domed plates on the table, lit the candles, and switched on music. They sat down to Gershwin.
“The card game?”
“All right. How much do you know about poker?”
“I know what beats what. I think.” She took a bite of the delicately grilled fish and closed her eyes. “This definitely beats the track cooking all to hell.”
“I’ll tell the cook you said so. Anyway, about five years ago I was in a game, a marathon. Big stakes, heavy hitters.”
“Around here?”
“Not around here, here. In the dignified Cape Cod.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t gambling illegal in this state?”
“Call a cop. Do you want to hear this or not?”
“I do. So you were in a big, illegal poker game. Then what?”
“Cunningham was having a run of bad luck. Not just during the game, but for several months. His horses were breaking down. He hadn’t had any finish in the money for more than a year. He had a pile of outstanding debts. He figured, like most do when they’re on a downswing, that all he needed was one big score.”
“Hence the poker game.”
“Exactly. I had interest in a horse, and he’d been running well. So I was”—he smiled devilishly—“flush. I wanted a farm like this, always had. I went into the game thinking that if I didn’t lose my stake I might finesse enough for another horse. Work my way up.”
“Sounds sensible, in a skewed sort of way.” Reckless was how it sounded, she thought. Admirably reckless. “Obviously you won more than a horse.”
“I couldn’t lose. It was one of those sweet moments when everything falls in your lap. If he had three of a kind, I had a full house. He had a straight, I had a flush. His trouble really started when he couldn’t let it go. He was down about sixty, sixty-five.”
“Hundred?”
Charmed, he took her hand, kissed it lavishly. “Thousand, darling. And he didn’t have it to lose. Not cash, anyway. So he upped the stakes, wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“And, of course, you tried your best to bring him to his senses.”
“I told him he was making a mistake. He said he wasn’t.” Gabe moved his shoulders. “Who am I to argue? There were only four of us left by then. We’d been at it for about fifteen hours. This was going to be the last hand. Five thousand to open, no limit on raises.”
“That was twenty thousand before you even got started?”
“And over a hundred and fifty by the time it got down to me and Cunningham.”
Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars on one hand?”
“He thought he had a winner, kept bumping the pot. I had the last raise, bumped it another fifty myself. I thought it might put him out of his misery. But he matched it.”
She lifted her glass and sipped slowly to wet her dry throat. She felt she could almost be there, sweaty-palmed and dry-mouthed with a small fortune riding on the turn of a card.
“That’s a quarter of a million dollars.”
He grinned. “You are a quick study. I felt sorry for him, but I’m not going to say I didn’t relish the moment when I laid down that straight flush to his three kings. He didn’t have the cash.” Gabe tipped more champagne into her glass. “He barely had the assets. So we made a deal. You could say Cunningham bet the farm and lost it.”
“You just kicked him out?”
Gabe inclined his head, studied her. “What would you have done?”
“I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “But I don’t think I could have thrown the man out of his own house.”
“Even after he’d gambled with money he didn’t have?”
“Even then.”
“So, you’re a soft touch. We made a deal,” Gabe said again, “that satisfied both of us. And, because I played against the odds, I got something I’d wanted my whole life.”
“That’s quite a story. I guess you met the unlucky Bill Cunningham at the track.”
“No, at least not initially. I used to work for him.”
“Here?” She set down her fork. “You used to work here?”
“I walked hots, shoveled manure, polished tack. For three years I was one of Cunningham’s boys. He had a fine line back then. Of course, he never gave a good goddamn about the horses. They were just money to him. He cared a lot less about the people who took care of them. Our rooms were like little cells, cramped, dingy. He didn’t believe in putting any of his capital into unnecessary improvements.”
“I don’t think it bothered you at all to take his house.”
“I didn’t lose any sleep over it. When I left here, I did some time at Three Willows. Now, that’s a farm. Chadwick had the touch. So does your mother. When I left—I was about seventeen then—I figured I’d come back one day, money dripping out of my pockets, and buy myself one place or the other.”
“And you did.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What did you do while you were away?”
“That’s another story.”
“Fair enough.” Relaxed with food and wine, she propped her chin on her fist. “I bet you hated that Cape Cod.”
“Every fucking inch of it.”
Laughing, she leaned back again and picked up her glass. “I think I’m starting to like you. I hope you didn’t make all that up.”
“I didn’t have to. Want dessert?”
“I can’t.” With a little moan, she pushed away from the table to wander the room. “When I first saw this house, I thought it looked arrogant and territorial. I think I was right.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “My point of no return.”
“What?”
>
“Nothing.” She shook her head and walked closer to the windows. “It must be quite a feeling to look out any window and see so much of your own.”
“What do you see out of yours?”
“A restaurant, a small shopping center with a terrible little boutique and a wonderful bakery. It’s practically next door to the Metro and I thought I wanted convenience.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, then turned her so that they were face-to-face. “But you don’t.”
“No.” The quick tremble caught her by surprise when he skimmed his hand up the side of her neck.
“What then?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He framed her face, letting his fingers dip into her hair. “I have.”
His mouth lowered to hers, soft at first, testing, hardly more than a nibble that gave them both the choice to step back. But she didn’t, not with his taste still vibrating on her lips and the low, drugging ache of unexpected need churning.
She didn’t step back, but forward, her arms winding recklessly around his neck, her mouth melding hotly with his.
So much to feel. She’d forgotten there was so much to feel. Or perhaps she’d never known. There was nothing civilized or tentative about this embrace. It was groping and wild, an explosion of sensation that mocked the gentle candlelight and soft music.
She stripped his mind clean. There was nothing left for him but naked sensation, the smell of her, the taste, which mixed together like some exotic drug. The feel of her straining against him, the sound of his quickened breathing as she dragged him greedily closer. The need for her, sharp and edgy as a knife, peeled away the layers of manners, behavior, and ethics he’d carefully crafted, and bared the reckless man beneath.
He needed to touch her. His hands streaked down, over, in a desperate race to possess. She arched under them, eager for more. Hurry, she wanted to beg him to hurry, not to let her think, not to let her reason.
Then he ran a hand over her face, combing her hair behind her ear. The image of him performing that same careless gesture for her mother only hours before flashed into her mind.
The horror, and the shame, were like two vicious, heavy blows. She shoved away, fighting for air. “Don’t.” She stumbled back when he reached for her. “Don’t touch me.” She could still taste him. Still want him. “How could you do this? How could I do this?”
