A black art either misunderstood or avoided by most firms.
As Australia’s largest city, Sydney beckoned and men like Jarryd are going to have to wait until I’ve rebuilt my reputation, life and bank balance.
“You come with impeccable references.” Jarryd’s warm breath hovered before kissing my hand and then both cheeks. He didn’t look European, but I suspected his charm wasn’t faked. “I’m not used to getting a personal phone call suggesting my table would benefit from such an esteemed guest.”
“Thank you.” I suspected Jarryd only wanted to probe my connection to Norman Hastings, but he was seriously wasting his time. I’ve survived too many painful and expensive lessons recently and have learned to keep my friends close and divorce my enemies.
“Our mutual friend asked me to make sure you are well looked after.”
“He is very kind,” I replied innocently and ignored Jarryd’s snort. Understandable. Few people within the industry would describe Norman as kind—the man owned more bars and restaurants across Australian cities than most women owned shoes. I’m not a fool and know the press labelled him racing personality, and the casinos called him a whale. To me, he’s a long-time friend but while Norman agreed to unlock the doors, I still had to force them open. Now, I’m going to have to play each game like it’s my last to prove I deserve my place in each room.
I reclaimed my hand and Jarryd gave up on getting further insights into Norman, the enigma. “Is there anything I can get for you? Wine? Food? Coffee?”
“Thank you, but water will be fine.”
“Certainly, sparkling or still?”
Let the games begin, I thought, asking “Sparkling with three thin slices of lime, if possible.”
“Certainly, and ice?”
“Three cubes, please,” I sighed as if my demand came as natural as breathing. It’s become part of my playing persona to let other players wonder about the significance of three—a meaningless tidbit I can have fun with later.
“It’s my pleasure to welcome a player of your reputation.” Jarryd hadn’t waited for his staff to pour and hand over my glass, holding on as if he needed more information. Except I always assume anything and everything I say will be fed as intel back to the other players. Trust as a commodity, yeah, right. Years ago, I came to realize that relying on trust could only disappoint.
“And which reputation are you referring to?” If anyone pull of a little girl innocent voice while dressed for kink, I knew I could and maybe extract information from the sexy Jarryd at the same time, “At cards or with men?”
Jarryd had the decency to blush before relinquishing my drink and introducing me around. I had tried to relax behind my dark glasses and self-imposed work uniform. Norman had assured me the Melbourne and Sydney private gambling scenes had little cross-over. Hopefully no one would recognize me or blow my cover.
Hiding behind my striking black leather outfit, I knew how to put on a show for the male audience, finessed from five years of playing high stakes private games in Melbourne. Walk in as if I owned the room. If they can’t see my eyes, they’ll drink in what they can. My legs, breasts and the tiny waist they’ll want to crush.
Read the room, read the table, put my sexuality away and then play the person.
“Have you played much?” Edmund or Col asked when we started—tonight I’d been too busy watching body language to remember names.
“Enough to get an invite,” I easily battered away. Norman had warned me about Jarryd’s games; whale gamblers who wanted to enjoy life and had the money to spend on luxuries. High end gamblers needed placating and pampering. The room was crowded with the ten players, Jarryd, one waiter, two hostesses and a chef who was making use of the hidden kitchen. The bar held enough liquor to keep a navy mess happy and enough food to feed most families for a week.
“Sugar, if you need a hand reading your cards, you just let me know. We can’t have a woman looking as sweet as you go out in the first hand—okay honey.”
I’d smiled sweetly at Carlos the Chauvinist. My personal nickname for the wanna-be alpha who just became targeted as my last victim. Based on the level of arrogance and designer suits, no one here would miss their wallet, and not even Jarryd had seen me play at my best.
“You are so sweet; I’ll keep you in mind.” I’d kept my breathing even and smile in place. No prey needed to know his fate until it after it happened.
From the start, Jarryd’s game had a certain style and opulence. Safe behind my mask, the thrill of the game came as much from stroking each player’s ego as winning at cards. Each man brandishing expensive watches and cufflinks, manicured nails and even styled eyebrows. I’d been around enough in Melbourne to identify the designers behind the suit tailoring. Their competitive banter showed off tastes in wine, food and probably women were extravagant to the extreme. Just a bunch of good corporate executives wanting to hand over money which would never be missed.
Executives playing at being professional poker players. Babes waiting to be slaughtered.
Patience.
Humble.
Patience.
Still in the bathroom, a quick check of my phone, two minutes before the dealer would start without me. Or would he? A full audience of players wanted to see me play the last hand. Wiping the cold water from my face, it will take another five minutes to reapply my mask and adjust my hair. A long enough delay that the dealer would feel compelled to let it slide, while Scott’s blood started to simmer.
My eyes are still clear and determined. It’s been a while since I’ve played a full table with a fixed buy in. I can always rely on the slight redness around my eyes as the first sign of tiredness and rash decisions. Not tonight, or at least not yet.
Tonight, has been a good re-entry into the world. All men are marks, except for Jarryd. Norman suggested Jarryd could help build credibility with invitations to the right games. For Jarryd alone, my smile was genuine, hiding my desperate need to build a bankroll, and build it quickly.
“Well played,” Col or Edmund had offered after I folded early in the first hand. Idiot—all I’d proven was being willing to walk away from bad cards.
“Thank you. You too.” It didn’t hurt to be nice.
By the end of the second hand, I’d decided the pecking order of the other players and how I’d take them out. Starting with the weakest wouldn’t build any respect but the strongest would set me up as the collective target for the rest of the table. Number seven fell for my flirting simper, trusted my fake tell and handed over his stack. Then number four fell for what he described as a lucky hand. Luck played no part in it.
Carlos the Chauvinist took out players nine and ten. Pulling wings off butterflies?
My ability to read players has won me fortunes—unfortunately lost by my ex. I knew early on that only a truly lucky hand would beat me. The sexy Scott and chauvinist were second and third—the order didn’t matter. Except self-destruction did.
High end games like this didn’t attract the drunks. At least not on a regular basis, it took a serious bank balance to throw it away with the bottle. But that’s what Scott Alexander proceeded to do. As much as I wanted to win, needed to clean up, even I wanted to reach out and extract the glass from his hand.
But as the hours passed, Scott became more engrossed with his glass than the cards. What a shame, he’d proven harder to read than most and I had wanted to see what he’d bring if we went one-on-one. His nails weren’t as manicured as the other players, skin a faded tan. What was his story?
Five hands. Had turned the game around. When Carlos went all in, I would have bet serious money Scott’s night was over. Carlos had a subtle yet predictable move. I’d folded early to get out of the way, but Scott looked hell bent on handing over his chips and calling it a night.
After an eternity of decision making and several prompts from the dealer and even Jarryd, Scott folded.
Fuck, that turned me on. A man who could push but know his limits. I got out of his way wh
ile he wiped Carlos out with a reverse trap. Actually, I needed to think unsexy thoughts and get rid of the flush that had to be showing through my makeup.
Five hands had turned the game and created flutters where my heart used to live.
Scott Alexander. I wondered what else he could do with those broad fingers. No nails to scratch, but would they be firm and probing or soft and flaccid?
“And then there were two.” Damn it, I didn’t mean to purr, any more than I intended to lick my lips every time he caught me looking at him. Instinctive and like a bitch on heat. Except, he wouldn’t know the difference between the sensuality I put on show for the others and what came naturally for him.
This older man, full of swagger and self-loathing had gotten under my skin.
One last touch up to my lipstick and I needed to go out, rejoin the table and finish the job. Jarryd or Scott? Both sexy as fuck. One in control and the other broken but trying to rebuild.
No time for complications, which only made my interest undesirably and unexpected. Which was why I was still hiding in the bathroom rather than out in the room facing my new complication.
Scott.
Not the smart choice, but my body had chosen. The mind, the presence and of course, the man. The suit couldn’t hide what used to be of his natural tan or that his muscles were more from lifestyle than a gym.
Yes, now we were two and the fun could begin.
To hell with playing nicely and not mixing business with pleasure. After all, some rules, like men, were meant to be broken.
Will Scott hold the high card, or will GG bring him down? Get Reckless Gamble today.
Table of Contents
The Deal
Regret
Blinded by Denial
Just Once
Craving More
Price of Honesty
Demands and Desires
Together with you
Contact me
What to read next?
Sneak Peek: Seducing the Band in Lockdown
Sneak peek: The Bad Kitty
Sneak peek: Reckless Gamble
Hard Bargain: a Billionaire Suspense Romance (City Sinners Book 3) Page 28
