Dealing Her Final Card(6)
To save her little sister, Bree would play cards with the devil himself.
With an intake of breath, she lifted her chin, ignoring Vladimir as she looked around the table. “It is for this first game only that I offer my body. If I lose, the winner will get me, along with all the money in the pot. But if I win—” when I win, she amended silently “—I will only bet money. Until I possess the entire amount of my sister’s debt.”
As she spoke, her heart started to resume a normal beat. Bluffing, playing card games, was home to her. She’d learned poker when her father had pulled her up to their table in Anchorage and taught her at the tender age of four. By six, shortly after her mother had died two months after giving birth to Josie, Bree was a child prodigy accompanying her father to games—and, when he saw how much money she could make, his partner in crime.
Leaning forward, she looked at each man in turn, ignoring the death stares of the women behind them. “What is your answer?”
“We are here to play poker,” another man complained. “Not for hookers.”
Bree twirled her long blond hair slowly around one of her slender fingers and looked through her lashes at the Silicon Valley tycoon. “You don’t recognize me, do you, Mr. McNamara?”
“Should I?”
She gave him a smile. “I guess not. But you knew my father, Black Jack Dalton.” She paused. “Have you enjoyed the painting you paid him to steal from the archives of the Getty Museum in Los Angeles? When did you learn it was a fake?”
The Silicon Valley tycoon stiffened.
“And Mr. Vanderwald—” she turned to the gray-haired, overweight man sitting beside her boss “—twelve years ago you were nearly wiped out, weren’t you? Investing in an Alaskan oil well that never existed.”
The Belgian land developer scowled. “How the devil did you—”
“You thought my father conned you. But it was my idea. It was me,” she whispered, lowering her eyelashes as she ran her hand down the softly worn leather of her black motorcycle jacket. “It was all me.”
“You,” the fat man breathed, staring at her.
She was doing well. Then, from the corner of her eye, she felt Vladimir’s sardonic gaze. It hit her cheek and the side of her neck like a blast of ice. Her heart skidded with the effort it took to ignore him. He was the one man who’d ever really known her. The mark she’d stupidly let see behind her mask. She felt his hatred. Felt his scorn.
Fine. She felt the same about him. Let him hate her. His hatred bounced off the thickening ice of her scorn for him. She’d thought he was so perfect and noble. She’d killed herself trying to be worthy. But when he’d learned the truth about her past, he’d deserted her, without giving her a chance to explain.
So much for his honor. So much for his love.
Bree’s lips twisted. Turning away, she gave the rest of the men a sensual smile. “Win this first hand, and you’ll have me at your mercy. You’ll get your revenge. Humiliate me completely. Take my body, and make your last memory of me one of your own pleasure.” She gave a soft sigh, allowing her lips to part. “My skills at cards are nothing compared to what I can do to you in bed. I’ve learned the art of seduction. You have no idea,” she whispered, “what I can do to you. A single hour with me will change your life.”
Her act was one hundred percent fraud, of course. She, know the art of seduction? What a joke. She’d have no clue what she’d do with a man in bed. Since Vladimir, she’d been very careful never to let any man close to her. At twenty-eight, she was a virgin. But she did know how to bluff.
The men were riveted.
“I’m in,” Greg Hudson croaked.
“And me.”
“I accept.”
“Yes.”
As the men at the table agreed, Bree would have been frightened by all the looks of lust and desire and rage, if she hadn’t frozen her heart against emotion.
But the last set of ice-blue eyes held no lust. No desire for domination. Just pure, cold understanding. As if Vladimir alone could see through all her tricks to the scared woman beneath.
“As you wish,” he said softly. He gave a cold smile. “Let’s play.”
His low, sensual voice slid through her body. When she looked into Vladimir’s eyes, fear pierced her armor. Pierced her heart. She wanted to leap up and run from his knowing gaze, to keep running and never stop. It took every ounce of her willpower to remain in the chair.
Clutching her jacket around her for warmth, she wrenched her gaze away, gripping the black leather so no one could see that her hands were shaking. “Then let’s begin.”