Playboy

by Katy Evans

  “Morning. How about you?”

  “Evening,” he says. “We had an interesting night.”

  “I already know not to ask. What happens in Vegas . . .”

  “Rarely stays here . . .” He walks with me. “Need anything?”

  “I just had breakfast.” I groan. The man didn’t offer to feed me.

  “Then you’re all set for your salon appointments.” He holds up his phone and I can see my email address in his contact list. “Mr. Carmichael asked me to schedule a few appointments for you. Feel free to keep the ones you want. Skip the ones you don’t.”

  I’m surprised. Cullen thinks of everything. A sliver of awe settles in my brain. I’m starting to feel pampered, and very spoiled.

  “I appreciate your help, Mike.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” He pauses, gives me a quick sweep and says, “Any chance you have a sister?”

  I laugh. “Best friends. And they’re all married.”

  “Win some, lose some.” He nods in the general vicinity of the poker room. “He’s playing a cash game. Have fun, Miss Watson.”

  “Wy—” But he’s already walking away, draping his arm around an older woman who’s gushing about her latest slot win.

  There’s something about the casino ambience that gets my heart pumping. Thud, thud, thud. Or maybe it’s the fact that I am heading straight for the poker room and feel nervous about seeing him.

  There’s something about Cullen that unsettles me.

  Me and my heartbeat.

  Me and my hormones.

  I spot him at a table at the far end. Yep. Even my pulse seems to skip. He’s playing with two others, his dark head bent as he quickly checks his cards. I stifle an unexpected shiver and mentally decree to myself Thou shall not openly ogle this man! as I head forward.

  He’s dressed in a white button shirt and blue jeans. Despite myself, somehow my eyes suck up every detail of the way he’s sitting, relaxed, gaze focused. He tosses in a few chips.

  He’s a conundrum, not only because he’s so hard to read, but because he’s a little bit surprising and it’s hard to peg him. You’d think he only cares about gambling. Winning bets. But he’s been nothing but nice to me too. I opened up last night, and he listened. And he seemed . . . affected by what he heard.

  I head to the table as he’s raking his chips. I feel a prick on the back of my neck, and I chase my breath into my throat when I realize he’s looking at me. I’m affected in ways that alternately thrill and frighten me.

  “A gambling god left some chips on my nightstand so I thought I’d check and see if he could recommend a good game.” I greet him playfully.

  He rakes me up and down with his eyes in a way that makes every cell in my body heat up like a boiler room. “So you’re ready to play?” His low, deep voice feathers seductively over my skin. “Some require more privacy than we’ve got at the moment.”

  He stands and opens a chair for me, motioning for my chips to be changed to smaller denominations.

  I take my seat and watch Cullen coil his large, rocklike body back in the chair next to mine.

  “If you give way to your nervousness you’ll never master the game,” he tells me, eyeing me intensely.

  I smile and nod, but my mind flutters in anxiety. The cards intimidate me. The other men seated around the table intimidate me. I try to sit still as we place our bets, and the dealer deals. My eyes widen as I look at my cards.

  “Treat the cards like you treat the men in your life.” He folds his hand. “Do that and I’ll back your games for as long as you like.”

  “Excuse me?” I glance at him, scowling.

  “Play it, baby. I’ll explain later.”

  “No explanation needed,” I tell him, loving that, this time, he can’t read me.

  He reaches for my wrist. My stomach churns with anxiety and frustration as his hand engulfs mine. Despite my fears, I feel a heat creep up my cheeks as he holds my hand in his and slowly guides the cards back to the felt. His hand, guiding mine. “Fold.”

  “Okay.”

  “Two-seven offsuit is the worst starting hand in Hold’em.”

  “Got it.”

  His lips are an inch away from my ear. “The next two should be better.”

  “Now I see why they call you Playboy,” a grumpy fellow says as he rubs the felt with his index finger. “Check.”

  Cullen ignores him, absorbs me. “Need help?”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  “There’s something else I wish you had.” His silver gaze delivers more promises than an insurance commercial.

  “Remember. Luck swings from one second to the next. This could be your turn,” he says.

  I nod and wait for the next cards. Fucking determined to “master” it, as he says.

  The unwelcome sexual tension stretches tighter between us. I feel rebellious but it’s hard to part with the money, even if it’s money I got specifically to bet.

  We play a few hands. He’s winning. I’m losing. Until . . .

  I check my cards.

  Aces. Yes!

  Cullen doesn’t know what I have and furrows his brow as soon as I raise. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm . . .” He drags his fingers up and down his jaw, studying me. “I’m in.”

  He doesn’t fold?

  I jerk to look at him and hope he sees it as a warning. He’s amused.

  “You should’ve folded.” I sigh. “I’m not above beating you at your own game.”

  “Do it, darlin’.”

  “Can you two cut out the narration?” It’s the grumpy fellow again.

  The flop is full of spades—three-nine-ten—and as far as I can see, I’m still good to go.

  Just bet, Wynn! Be reckless!

  Grumpy Gambler is all-in.

  “Be sure,” Cullen whispers to me.

  I glance into the stoic dealer’s face but she has nothing for me. She’ll be as surprised as I am when the next cards fall.

  I’ve watched Cullen play enough now to know I’m still a contender. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  A lot is on the line but I’m not talking about cards. I’m thinking about Cullen. Because while poker is a very complicated game, our game mystifies me.

  Cullen studies me intently and while his tongue snakes across his lips as he stares down at my chest, he’s not thinking about sex. Not now.

  He’s thinking about what I’m holding, what I don’t want him to have.

  The win.

  And suddenly, I’m not interested in the ace on the turn or the one that comes down on the river.

  Suddenly, I do want to give him the win. I need to give him everything.

  As if he knows an inner war is being fought, he tosses in his cards, allowing one to flip over to show the Jack of hearts.

  He smirks. I play.

  Three games later, I’ve won five thousand dollars and I can’t bet anymore. It’s too nerve-wracking. I’ve always lived a comfortable life, thanks to my parents. At the gallery, I deal in art, which is always in thousands. But I’ve always been conservative with money and careful on what I spend. I’ve always wanted to have savings but somehow I can never manage because the gallery always demands another painting, more money invested in store inventory.

  I’m not wired to spend money so carelessly like this. I excuse myself and wish him luck, taking my chips and pocketing them as I start to leave. He’s next to me in a second.

  “Stay with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m convinced you’re lucky. Stay by my side,” he says as he whips his jacket off his shoulders and covers me with it.

  “You weren’t even playing well just now. I won more than you did.”

  “That sweater’s see-through. I’ve taken care of it.” He lowers his eyes meaningfully down to my chest.

  I tug his designer jacket—huge on my frame—tighter around me. Compared to the waitresses walking by, I could be a nun. Why would
a little nipple be distracting?

  And why am I flushing?

  “Any guy would be lucky to have you by his side. I’m feeling lucky today. You game, Wynn?”

  I narrow my eyes, mentally devouring that look of pure male ownership in his gaze. I wonder if he truly thinks I’m lucky or just wants me around to torture me. “What is it that makes you want me here?” I ask.

  “Insanity.”

  I laugh, and the smile he gives me makes my whole body shiver.

  “I seem to crave your company. Only God knows why.”

  Gulp.

  “Ah, Wynn. Nobody makes me want to lick my teeth like you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it.”

  I think about it for a moment, and Cullen frowns.

  “Be quick about it, will you?” he growls under his breath, finally getting me to nod. He puts his hand on the small of my back as he leads me back to the poker room.

  My body responds, though I don’t want it to.

  “Why are you putting your hands on me, Cullen?”

  I’m deeply affected and deeply troubled by those hands.

  “You like it when I touch you. Not anyone else. Why?” he asks.

  “I don’t like it when you touch me, I merely don’t dislike it. And I don’t want to be touched. I’m turned off men.”

  “I have this theory . . .”

  “Spare me.”

  “Hear me out.”

  I look at him.

  “You’re sexually attracted to me.”

  I swallow. “So? Aside from our bet, that doesn’t mean I’d ever do something about it.”

  “No, but I would.”

  “Really? You’d put your life at the risk of my wrath just to add me, another notch, to your bedpost.”

  “The risk is half the fun.”

  I part scoff and part laugh. “You’re serious?”

  He’s stroking two fingers over my bare hand, round and round.

  I whisper, “I haven’t had sex in while. Sometimes I wonder if I can get turned on.”

  “I’ll turn you on.”

  As he sits me down on the chair, he leans forward and grazes his lips across my nape. The touch triggers a shiver. As does his promise. I suppress it, telling myself this is all for our silly little bet—and I need to win because my pride depends on it.

  A few hands later, after he pockets fifty thousand, we head out to walk down the Strip. We’re having fun. Stop to have chips at a small snack store. It’s easy to like him. He’s a mystery, but no doubt a good person too. I don’t need to have sex with the guy. If I have sex with him and get attached, it might break my heart. When I’m with him, I have no thoughts of Emmett.

  And I can’t let go of him, the one person that can take my pain away. Not yet.

  * * *

  That afternoon, after lunch at a café at the Bellagio, we’re back at the tables. I watch a few hands until Mike appears behind us.

  “Did you forget?” He’s looking at me.

  Cullen glances up at him and folds his hand.

  “She has a hair appointment,” Mike explains to him when Cullen only raises an eyebrow in annoyance. “With Gigi.”

  “Gigi?” I like the name.

  Cullen rolls his eyes. I’m guessing he knows “Gigi” even before he says, “Wasn’t anyone else available?”

  “I can ask,” Mike hastily assures as he pulls out his phone, scurrying to accommodate Cullen’s every wish.

  “Don’t,” I say, rising. “I’m sure Gigi is fine.” I smirk down at Cullen. Now I’m curious. With a name like Gigi, I can guess why Cullen doesn’t want me to meet her.

  “See you soon.” I turn around.

  “Later,” he promises, patting my butt and watching me until I leave the poker room. I swear I’m blushing and am glad he can’t notice how red I get.

  He’s sweet to say I can have anything and I wonder what he means until I get to the salon and find they have a menu with pretty much everything. From waxing to hair color to manis and pedis and massages and oh my, I’ve died and gone to heaven. There’s even a Brazilian and I think about it. I’m more interested in the one-hour wax and hand massage because I love those.

  Alessandra would weep. I overhear one of the stylists motion to Gigi. “That’s her.”

  Gigi is petite, curvy, blonde, and big-breasted. She looks the part of a gambler’s girl and I don’t know why but I’m not surprised and I’m also not the least bit intimidated. Maybe she had a thing with Cullen. I can see that but I know deep down that, right now, he still wants me.

  “Why am I not surprised?” she says rudely.

  “I’m Wynn.” I stick out my hand.

  “Gigi.” She shakes. I get the feeling it was an effort. “This way.”

  I follow her to the back and remind myself that this isn’t Alessandra’s place and I can’t expect great salon services with a side of genuine friendship.

  For the next hour, I’m turned one way or another as Gigi works on my dead ends, the ends that were trimmed the week before but now look “hideous and unmanageable.” I’m shuffled off to a massage and then led to a large dressing room, which comes as a surprise until a seamstress steps inside with a tape measure.

  “Oh, hi. I’m Wynn.”

  “Delia.” She places her tiny hand in mine.

  “I know my sizes,” I whisper, thinking I can save her the trouble.

  “Strict orders. You’re with Cullen Carmichael, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has a way of spoiling everyone around him. Doesn’t he?”

  I wonder if I can probe. I don’t wonder long. “We’re good friends but I’ve never met his other girlfriends.”

  “Other girlfriends?” She peers over her shoulder then whispers, “The only person Cullen sends here is his mother. Gigi takes care of her. I assumed she would’ve mentioned it.”

  “Well, he probably plays at other casinos. Maybe he sends his girlfriends there.”

  She spins me around, tosses the tape over my shoulders then pulls it tight. She leans in again. “I’m telling you, Cullen Carmichael spoils his mom and that’s it. All the young women here are dying to get at him, if you know what I mean, but he never even follows up on offers for a repeat. Some of them say it’s because he won’t sleep where he plays but then there’s you and now they’re rethinking that . . .”

  “Then I’m special.” I’m obviously joking, but Delia doesn’t seem to think of it as a joke.

  “I believe it,” she says, spinning me around once more. “All finished. Now, let’s go shop. Want to?”

  An hour later, I’m exhausted. As soon as I entered the casino’s boutique, all eyes were on me. The manager ushered me to a large dressing room while snapping out instructions to anyone who would listen.

  This boutique is high-end, like a place you’d find on Rodeo Drive. I like that they seem to know me, maybe even realize Cullen’s comps are at my disposal, but I would also like to browse the racks, thumb through the shirts, try on the slinky dresses, slip on the ripped tees.

  I’d like to play.

  They’re there to work.

  They see me as a commission check, a way to make the rent.

  I see the afternoon turning into a chaotic blur of activity.

  A waiter brings wine and a decadent cheese tray. Outfits are hung on the right, cocktail dresses on the left. Swimsuits are thrown in a pile on a chair. Handbags and shoes are quickly stacked on two benches. After all that, someone says, “Would you have preferred to do this in your suite? We can take it upstairs if you’re more comfortable.”

  “Are you kidding?” I check out a silvery dress in the mirror, one that is too short for my liking but reminds me of him. “I’ll take this one.”

  It’s said with such finality that the manager nearly trips over her own feet as she rushes to drape me with a matching necklace. Her assistants scramble, too, pushing rings on my fingers, bracelets up my arm.

  “This out
fit is perfect!” She clasps her hands together. “You’ll knock him off his feet when he sees you.” Before I can say anything, she yanks the curtain back and yells, “Lingerie. We need lots and lots of lingerie!”

  At that precise moment, a text:

  Cullen: What are you doing?

  Me: Trying on clothes.

  Cullen: Are you having fun?

  I smile and shiver a little.

  It’s so Pretty Woman-ish and I wonder if these women see me as that. As a mistress more than a friend.

  Me: I am. But I need you to rescue me now. I think I’ve shopped enough to last me a lifetime.

  I lower the phone.

  “Um . . . my . . . friend, Cullen . . . he’s meeting me here so maybe we could do lingerie later?”

  The saleslady looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. She jabs her finger to indicate Cullen. He’s leaning against the wall, tucking his phone in his jacket, and he looks . . . delicious.

  I start.

  Oh. My. Gosh.

  Since when has he been standing there?

  “She’ll do the lingerie now,” he says, his hooded eyes daring me to defy him. “And she looks good in white, black, and translucent, maybe with a hint of soft pink.”

  “Yes, sir.” She darts off.

  I can’t do anything more than watch . . .

  Watch as he strides forward.

  Watch as those cut muscles bunch under his shirt.

  Watch as he takes my hand.

  Watch as he leads me back to the dressing room.

  Watch as he looks wordlessly down at me, and I look wordlessly up at him. The whole world fades. How does he do that?

  “You were already here when you texted me,” I accuse.

  “I was,” he says, his eyes flickering with amusement. He runs a lone finger over the low-cut silver dress. “Any reason you chose this one?”

  “You don’t like it?” I step back and twirl around to show him. “I think it makes my . . .”

  “Your ass is perfect no matter what you wear.”

  “My cleavage,” I say, holding my shoulders back. “That’s what I was going to say.”

  “Yeah, that cleavage has been a source of many dirty thoughts.”

  “But you were unimpressed,” I remind him saucily. “I believe you said, ‘zoning out’ if my memory serves me right.”