Playing the odds (2 page)

Because the cards and people always changed, Serena was never bored. She had chosen the job to meet people—not the cut-out-of-the-same-affluent-cloth people she'd met in college, but a variety. In that she'd accomplished her goal. At the moment she had a Texan, two New Yorkers, a Korean and a Georgian at her table, all of whom she'd identified by their accents. This was as much a pan of the game for her as the cards she slid onto the baize. One she never tired of.

Serena dealt the second card around, peeked at her hole card, and was satisfied with an eighteen. The first New Yorker took a hit, counted his cards, and gave a disgusted grunt. With a shake of the head he indicated that he'd stand. The Korean busted on twenty-two, then rose from the table with a mutter. The second New Yorker, a sleek blonde in a narrow black dinner dress, held with a nine and a queen.

"I'll take one," the man from Georgia drawled. He counted eighteen, gave Serena a thoughtful look, and held.

The man from Texas took his time. He had fourteen and didn't like the eight Serena had showing. Considering the possibilities, he stroked his chin, swilled some bourbon, then motioned Serena to hit him. She did, a tad too hard with a nine.

"Sweetheart," he said as he leaned on the table, "you're just too pretty to take a man's money that way."

"Sorry." With a smile she turned over her hole card. "Eighteen," she announced before she settled the betting.

Serena saw the hundred-dollar bill on the table before she realized someone had taken the Korean's vacant stool. Glancing up, she met a pair of green eyes—cool, depthless, direct. She stared, trapped in that instant of contact into seeing nothing else. Cool green, with amber rimming the iris. Something like ice skidded down her spine. Forcing herself to blink, Serena looked at the man.

He had the lean face of an aristocrat, but this was no prince. Serena sensed it instantly. Perhaps it was the long, unsmiling mouth, or the rough sweep of black brows. Or perhaps it was simply the inner warning that went off in her brain. A ruler yes, but not royalty. This was the type of man who planned ruthless coups and succeeded. His hair flowed over his ears thick and black and down to the collar of a white silk shirt. The skin stretched taut over the long bones of his face was as tanned as Dale's, but Serena didn't think he worked on the tone like her supervisor. This man faced the elements without a thought for fashion.

He didn't slouch like the Texan or lounge indolently like the man from Georgia, but rather sat like a sleek, patient cat, always coiled to spring. It wasn't until one rough brow rose slightly in question that Serena realized she'd been staring.

"Change a hundred," she said briskly, annoyed with herself. With deft movements she slipped the bill into the slot of the table, then counted out chips. When the bets were placed, she dealt the cards.

The man from New York glanced at the ten Serena had showing and hit on fourteen. He broke. The new player held on fifteen with a wordless gesture of his hand. She broke the other New Yorker and the Georgian before the Texan held on nineteen. Serena turned over a three to go with her ten, dealt herself a deuce, then broke with twenty-three. The man with the dangerous face drew out a thin cigar and continued to play silently. Serena already knew he was a gambler.

His name was Justin Blade. His ancestors had ridden swift ponies and hunted with bow and arrow. Serena had been right about the aristocracy, though his bloodline wasn't royal. Part of his heritage came from simple French immigrants and a dash from Welsh miners. The rest was Comanche.

He hadn't known a reservation, and though he had brushed with poverty in his youth, he was well accustomed to the feel of silk against his skin. Accustomed enough so that like the very wealthy, he rarely noticed it. His first stake had been won in the backroom of a pool hall when he'd been fifteen. In the twenty years since, he'd played more elegant games. He was, as Serena had sensed, a gambler. And he was already figuring the odds.

Justin had entered the casino with the notion of passing a few hours with a mild game. A man could relax with small stakes when he could afford to lose. Then he'd seen her. His eyes had passed over other women in sleek dinner dress, the gleam of gold and sparkle of jewels, and came to rest on the blonde in the mannish tuxedo. She had a slender neck which her hairstyle and the ruffled shirtfront accentuated, and a carriage that shouted breeding. But what was more, what he had sensed in the loins, was a blatant sexuality that required no movement, no words on her part. She was a woman a man would beg for.

Justin watched her hands as she dealt. They were exquisite—narrow, long-fingered, with delicate blue veins just under the surface of creamy skin. Her nails were oval and perfect, with the gleam of clear polish. They were hands suited to fragile teacups and French pastries. The kind of hands a man burned to have on his skin.

Lifting his eyes from them, Justin looked directly into hers. With the faintest of frowns, Serena stared back. Why was it, she wondered, that this dark, silent man brought her both discomfort and curiosity? He hadn't spoken a word since he'd sat down—not to her nor to any of the others at her table. Though he'd been winning with professional consistency, he didn't appear to gain any pleasure from it He didn't appear to be paying any attention to the game if it came to that, she told herself. All he did was stare at her with that same calm, watchful expression.

"Fifteen," Serena said coolly, indicating the cards in front of him. Justin nodded for the hit and took a six without the slightest change of expression.

"Damn if you don't have the luck, son," the Texan stated jovially. Glancing at his own meager pile of chips, he gave a quick grimace. "Glad somebody does." He wheezed as Serena dealt him the card that eased him out at twenty-two.

Turning over twenty for the house, she collected chips, then slid two twenty-five dollar markers to Justin. His fingertips covered hers over them. The touch was light, but potent enough to have her eyes flashing up to his. Watching her steadily, he made no move to take his hand from hers. There was no pressure, no flirtatious squeeze, but Serena felt the response shoot through her as though their bodies rather than their fingers had pressed together. Calling on all her control, she slowly brought her hand back to her side.

"New dealer," she said calmly, noting with relief that her shift at that station was finished. "Have a nice evening." She moved to the next station, swearing to herself she wouldn't look back. Of course she did, and found her eyes pinned to his.

Infuriated, she allowed herself a slight toss of her head. Her expression became challenging. For the first time that evening she saw the long mouth curve in a slow smile—a smile that barely shifted the angles and planes on his face. Justin inclined his head, as if accepting the challenge. Serena turned her back on him.

"Good evening," she said in a clear voice to the new set of players.

The moon was still high, cutting a swath of light across the black water. From the rail Serena could see the white tips of waves as the ship moved in a fast sea. It was after two A.M., and the deck was deserted. She liked this time of the morning, while the passengers slept, before the crew began its early shift. She was alone with the sea and the wind and could imagine herself in any era she chose.

She breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of salt spray and night. They'd be in Nassau just past dawn, and while in port the casino would be closed. She would have the morning free to do as she chose. She preferred the night.

Her mind drifted back to her working hours, to the silent gambler who'd sat at her table, winning and watching. She thought he was a man women would be drawn to but wasn't surprised that he'd been alone. A solitary man, Serena mused, and strangely compelling. Attractive, she admitted as she leaned farther out to let the wind whip at her face. Attractive in a dangerous sort of way. But then, it was in her blood to look on danger as a challenge. Risks could be calculated, percentages measured, and yet… And yet Serena didn't think the man would follow the neat path of theory.

"Night suits you."

Serena's hands tightened on the rail. Though she'd never heard him speak, though she hadn't even heard his approach, she knew who stood behind her. It took all her effort not to gasp and whirl. While her heart hammered she turned to watch him come out of the shadows. Wanting her voice to be steady, she gave herself a moment while he stopped to stand beside her at the rail.

"Did your luck hold?" she asked.

Justin kept his eyes on her face. "Apparently."

She tried, and failed, to place his origin through his accent. His voice was deep and smooth and without inflection. "You're very good," she stated. "We don't often get a professional in the casino." There seemed to be a quick flash of humour in his eyes before he drew out a slim cigar and lit it. Smoke stung the air, then vanished in the wind. Serena relaxed her fingers on the rail, one at a time. "Are you enjoying your trip?"

"More than I anticipated." He took a slow, thoughtful drag on the cigar. "Are you?"

Serena smiled. "It's my job."

Justin leaned back against the rail, resting his hand beside hers. "That's not an answer, Serena," he pointed out.

Since there was a name tag on her lapel, she only lifted a brow at his use of her name. "I enjoy it, Mr.—"

"Blade," he said softly as he ran a fingertip down her jawline. "Justin Blade. Remember it."

Serena refused to back up though the lightning response of her body to his touch surprised her. Instead, she regarded him steadily. "I've a good memory."

With a trace of a smile he nodded. "Yes, that's why you're a good dealer. How long have you been doing it?"

"A year." Though he removed his fingertip, her blood didn't cool.

Surprised, Justin took a last drag on his cigar, then crushed it under his foot "I would have thought longer from the way you handle the cards." Taking her hand from the rail, he studied the back, then turned it over to look at the palm. Soft, he thought, and steady. An interesting combination. "What did you do before?"

Even as her brain told her retreat would be wise, Serena allowed her hand to remain in his. She sensed strength and skill in the touch, though she wasn't certain of the aspect of either. "I studied."

"What?"

"Whatever interested me. What do you do?"

"Whatever interests me."

She laughed, a low sultry sound that whispered along his skin. "Somehow I think you mean that quite literally, Mr. Blade." She started to remove her hand, but his fingers closed over it.

"I do," he murmured. "It's Justin, Serena." His eyes skimmed the deserted deck, then the dark, endless sea. "This isn't the place for formality."

Common sense told her to tread carefully; instinct drove her to provoke. "There are rules for the crew when dealing with passengers, Mr. Blade," she said coolly. "I need my hand."

When he smiled, the moonlight glittered in his eyes, like a cat's. "So do I." Lifting it, he pressed his lips deep in the centre of her palm. Serena felt the aftershock of the kiss in every pore. "I take what I need," he murmured against her flesh.

Her breathing had quickened without her being aware of it. On the dark, empty deck he was barely more than a shadow with a voice that might have been pressed through honey, and dangerous eyes. Feeling her body yearning toward him, Serena restrained it with a quick flash of temper.

"Not this time. I'm going in, it's late."

Keeping her hand firmly in his, Justin reached up to pull the pins from her hair. As it tumbled over her shoulders, he tossed them into the sea. Stunned by his audacity, Serena glared at him. "Late," he agreed, combing his fingers from the crown to the tips of the thick, blond mane. "But you're a woman for the dark hours. I thought so the moment I saw you." With a movement that was too quick and too smooth to be measured, he had Serena trapped between his body and the rail. Her hair flew toward the sea, pulled by the wind, her skin pure as marble in the moonlight. Justin discovered the need was stronger that he had realized.

"Do you know what I thought?" Serena demanded, struggling to keep her words from jerking. "I thought you were rude and annoying."

He laughed, a rich quick sound of amusement. "It seems we were both right. Should I tell you it very nearly distracted me from my game, wondering how you tasted."

Serena became very still. The only movement came from the rich strands of gold that danced around her face. Then her chin rose; her eyes darkened with challenge. "A pity," she said quietly as she curled her hand into a fist. Passenger or no passenger, she determined, she was going to give him a good swift punch, just the way her brothers had taught her.

"It's rare for anything or anyone to interfere with my concentration." As he spoke he leaned closer. Serena tensed her muscles. "You have the eyes of a witch. I'm a superstitious man."

"Arrogant," Serena corrected steadily. "But I doubt superstitious."

She saw the smile in his eyes only as his face dominated her vision. "Don't you believe in luck, Serena?"

"Yes." And a good right jab, she added silently. She felt his fingers slide beneath her blowing hair to cup the base of her neck. His mouth lowered toward hers. Somehow the warm flutter of his breath caused her lips to part and her concentration to waver.

One hand still held hers, and he circled the palm with a finger as if to remind her of the feel of his lips on her flesh. Fighting the growing weakness, Serena drew back, aiming for his vulnerable, unsuspecting stomach.

Less than an inch away from her target, her fist was captured in a hard grip. Frustrated, she struggled, only to hear his quiet laugh again. "Your eyes give you away," he told her, holding her still. "You'll have to work on it."

"If you don't let me go, I'll…" The threat trailed off as his lips brushed hers. It wasn't a kiss, but a temptation. Her tongue came out to moisten her lips as if in anticipation of something darkly sweet and strictly forbidden.

"What?" he whispered, touching his mouth to hers again with a lightness that had the blood pounding in his head. He wanted to crush and devour almost as much as he wanted to savour. Her lips were damp and she smelled faintly of the sea and summer. When she didn't answer, Justin traced the shape of her mouth with his tongue, committing it to memory while he absorbed the flavour and waited.