Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [31]
Hours passed, and the chips kept mounting up. Sometimes she’d lose a little, but mostly she’d gain, and Mouser kept up a cheerful running commentary on how she was cheating them all. If only she knew how. For once things were going her way, and if she could just manage to hold on to her lead she’d be out of there by the next morning, with enough money to get into a hotel and get her life back.
“Too rich for me,” Mouser said, throwing down his cards. “I’ll let you two duke it out. Come on, Henry. It’s getting late, and I’ve got work tomorrow.”
Dillon hadn’t moved. “Since when do you work for a living, Mouser?” he drawled.
“Oh, I make an effort every now and then. Henry’s going to help me, aren’t you, Henry?”
Henry simply nodded, pushing back from the table.
“Aren’t you going to cash in your chips?” Jamie asked.
“Tell you what. I wanna see Killer get his comeuppance.” He leaned over and pushed his moderate pile of chips onto hers, then shoved Henry’s, as well, without asking him. “Kick his butt, Jamie. I figure any time he gets a beating it’s long overdue.”
The door closed behind them, leaving Jamie in the kitchen with the last person she would have chosen to be alone with.
She took a deep breath and a drink of her third beer. It was more than she usually drank, but since there seemed to be no chance in hell that she’d be driving, and Dillon was drinking a hell of a lot more than she was, she figured she could risk it. After all, she was trapped here no matter what—it didn’t make much difference if they were both awake and reasonably alert after midnight.
And she had nothing to worry about. She kept holding on to this absurd belief that some part of him wanted her, when common sense and experience had told her just the opposite. It didn’t matter that he made suggestive comments to gauge her reaction—that was just Dillon. He liked to stir up troubled waters, and Jamie’s were troubled, indeed.
She looked up at him. “I’m tired,” she said. “Why don’t we call it quits? Split the pot and I’ll go on up to bed.”
“I don’t think so.” He wasn’t even slurring after all that whiskey.
“Look, what are we playing for? A dollar a point, right? I have enough to get out of your hair tomorrow—you should be grateful I have the chance to leave you alone.”
“I never do what I should, or feel what I should. The hand is dealt—we’ll play it.”
She looked down at her cards. Good enough. They were back to playing five-card stud, and she had a straight, queen high. He’d have a hard time beating that, especially since both Mouser and Henry had had decent-enough cards to ante.
“All right,” she said coolly. “We’ll play it.”
“Double or nothing?”
She took another gulp of beer. She wasn’t a natural gambler—with so much riding on the outcome she should play it safe.
“Coward,” he said softly. “What are you afraid of, little girl?”
It came back to her, a flood of memories, his voice in her ear, his hands on her body in the front seat of that car, and she felt hot color wash over her. She pushed her entire pile of chips into the middle of the table without a word, then looked up at him with a stony expression.
He stubbed out his cigarette, a faint smile drifting over his mouth. That mouth. It was no wonder she was feeling unsettled, crazy, wanting to hide. It was bad enough that she was trapped and helpless, a thousand miles from home.
Trapped with Dillon Gaynor was her worst nightmare. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” he said softly.
She lay the cards out on the table, slowly, deliberately, savoring his inevitable discomfort and frustration.
He didn’t look the slightest bit frustrated as he glanced down at her cards. “Very nice,” he said in a lazy drawl. “But not nice enough.” He spread four kings on the table.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. There was no way he could have all four kings—the likelihood was just too damned improbable. Not when so much was riding on it. Not the money—she’d started with nothing and she’d end with nothing. But it felt like