Forsaking (Vampire Assassin League Book 26) (6 page)

“Oh, come on. It’s obvious.”

“Is it?”

“Enough. Okay, Mister Bramwell Stark? I’m calling your bluff. Vampires do not use cell phones.”

“You play poker?” he asked.

“Poker? That’s out of the blue. Poker?”

“You used the term bluff.”

“Oh. Yeah. I know how to play poker.”

“You any good?”

“I’m not bad. Why?”

“I’m thinking we could spend some time on a game. I’ve got a big table out there. A fresh deck of cards. Poker chips...”

“Just show me the way out of here, okay?”

“Oh. I think you’re going to need to earn it.”

Bram lifted his head, speared her gaze with his, and thoroughly enjoyed the loud ringing in his ears as he waited for her answer.

The game was Five Card Stud. Her choice. First card dealt face down. That one was called the hole card. The next three were face up. Bets placed on each one. Last one was dealt face down. She usually liked Draw poker, but Stud was the best option when facing a master.

Like Bramwell Stark.

She’d been silent as he’d brought several decks of cards from a saddlebag over in his barrel/tack area. He’d stacked the cards at one edge of the table. He had five decks, each wrapped with a faded red and blue ribbon. She hid the gasp as he opened a pack, cracking the wax seal. He was using Rambler cards. Printed by the National Card Company, mid-1880s if she didn’t miss her guess. Looked real. If so, they were fairly rare. There had been a partial set in the antique shop her mother used to run. Every card had value.

And Bram was using them for a poker game.

Unbelievable.

He divvied up chips next. She’d watched silently as he’d opened the bag at his hip and dumped out chips. They were imprinted with a Dobb Lake casino logo. She’d stayed expressionless as he divided the chips into stacks of ten. Fourteen each. Then he slid her stacks across the table to her. That’s when she got a good look at them.

They were using $10,000 chips.

Holy shit
. He’d just given her $1.4 million. The guy was carrying around $2.8 million in negotiable chips. In a leather bag strapped to his hip.

The easy-going Marielle would have been open-mouthed in awe. The gambling Marielle hid any reaction. She picked one of her chips up and studied it as he started shuffling. He did it well. Efficiently. Easily. Gracefully. He wasn’t watching his hands. He had his hat brim just high enough she caught a gleam coming off his eyes as he watched her.

That’s when he’d asked her game preference. She gave it to him. Cut the deck, and put in her ante.

One chip. Ten grand.

Bram was impressive. Every move was slightly unnerving. But she was really good at hiding emotion. Always had been. That came in useful. Besides, she hadn’t exaggerated. She was good. If she needed a room and meal, and hadn’t much money, she could earn it at cards. Easily.

She’d learned poker as a kid. Her mother had been a free spirit. Wild. Trusting. Open. Beautiful. At least, before cancer got her at the age of thirty-six. Mom had gone through several boyfriends before then. One of them had been a dealer in Tokyo in what he’d called his misspent youth. He’d taught Marielle how to shuffle. Deal. Play.

And bluff.

She really needed the last when facing Bramwell. Good thing she was tall. Her height put them on equal terms once settled into a big chair with carved wooden arms and a high back that felt like a small cage. Marielle shook off the fancy. She was going to need all her skills in this game. Especially the hard-to-define ones: Intuition. Gut instinct. Third-eye.

Her hole card was the three of hearts. Her second card was an ace. Same suit. That was a good start. He had a two of spades showing. He lifted his hat brim, touched a glance on her, and then looked down. Her heart rate picked up. She had to work at calming it.

“Any bet?”

“Ten grand,” she replied, sliding a chip in.

He mirrored the move and then dealt her a three of clubs. He gave himself the ten of spades. He had a possible flush. She had a pair.

“Ten grand.” She slid another chip in.

He did the same.

Her next card was another three. This time a diamond. She had three of a kind.
Nice
. Her heart rate was problematic. It sped up again. Marielle fought the flush before it became noticeable as he dealt himself a five of spades.

“Twenty grand.” She slid two chips into the pot.

He picked up two chips, clicked them together between his forefinger and middle finger like castanets, and then leaned forward to place them atop the pile. He didn’t place them flat. He balanced them on their edges. All without looking like he expended one bit of effort.
Wow
. That move was as impressive as when he’d holstered his gun.

He didn’t say anything before dealing her last card. Face down. He was easily as proficient as her teacher, Yoshihisa had been. Her card landed with a short edge kissing the last card. Marielle lifted an edge with reverence. No bending of these cards. She had the eight of hearts. That left her with three of a kind. It was a good hand. He’d need to have two fives, two tens, or two spades hidden in order to beat her.

“Bet?” he asked.

“Ten grand,” she said and slid in another chip. Her move knocked one of his chips over. The other remained standing on its edge, although it rolled an inch first.

“Met. And raised. Twenty.”

She watched him pick up three chips. He maneuvered them in his hand as he moved, splitting his fingers apart with a chip between each digit. They were reassembled into a stack with the same hand as he placed them beside the upright one. Marielle considered the stack of chips for a long moment before looking back at him.

“Want to make things interesting?” He tipped his chin up to ask it. It didn’t help. The shadow from the hat brim reached his upper lip.

“Oh. I’m thinking it’s already into that territory, handsome. But I am intrigued. What do you have in mind?”

He sounded strange when he answered. He also stuttered the first word. That was entertaining. She didn’t know what caused it. It couldn’t be what she’d called him. That was patently ridiculous. Anyone who looked like him had to get called handsome a lot.

An awful lot.

“Win-winner gets to ask a question. Loser has to answer. No subjects barred.”

“That’s rather...intense. Maybe we should just play strip poker?”

He choked. Then he flushed. And then he tipped his chin down, hiding his face. Well. That decided one thing. His hat had to go. It might be cool as hell, but it was an unfair advantage.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what that entails.”

“You’ve never played strip poker? Yeah. Right. Like I believe that.”

“You gonna tell me or not?”

“Well...fine. Strip poker is exactly what it sounds like, Bram. Loser gives up a piece of clothing. Their choice. Oh. I’m still in, by the way.”

Marielle slid two more chips into the pot. She was looking at the equivalent of one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. On a card game. The remaining upright chip fell. It circled a bit before landing beside his fingers.

“How about a combination of the two? Winner gets the pot, a truth...and one piece of clothing. But I think we should change it a bit. Why can’t the winner choose the clothing item?”

He flicked the chip back in with a middle finger. Nonchalantly. Unconcernedly. Marielle worked at containing her reaction. The stripping idea was tickling her innards with excitement. The truth thing was doing even more, since it came with a frightening edge. She didn’t let anyone get close enough to know secrets. But she shouldn’t worry too much. She really was a good player. Yoshi used to call her his best pupil.

“You’re on,” she finally replied.

He gave a choked sound. She couldn’t tell for certain since he was still hiding behind the hat. And then she wondered if she’d heard it wrong since his voice didn’t have any inflection in it. Not one.

“You raising or calling?” he asked finally.

“Calling. Three of a kind.” She turned over her hidden cards.

He turned his last dealt card over. It was the six of spades. Marielle nearly gasped before catching the impulse.
If he had a flush...?
And then he turned over the hole card. Queen of hearts.

“Your win,” he told her.

Marielle caught a triumphant smile, stood slightly in order to scoop the pot toward her, and then started stacking the chips beside her original ones. She watched them for a few moments before looking up at him. And her mouth said words she hadn’t cleared.

“I want the shirt,” she said.

“You want the tie, too?” he asked.

“Hmm. Your choice. I’ve got nothing against the male revue look.”

“The what?”

“You don’t know what that means, either? A male revue guy is a paid dancer. They strip their clothes off on stage, dancing to music. Usually in front of a big crowd while people stuff money into waistbands and g-strings while they do so.”

She could tell he was angry. Or something close. He’d pulled his tie loose and started unbuttoning his shirt, but finished by yanking it apart, spilling buttons into the room. He shoved it from his shoulders and started wadding the material. Marielle didn’t catch this gasp. She didn’t even try. Bramwell Stark was one ripped male. And then some. She’d never seen pecs like his. Not in real life anyway. All kinds of shoulder and arm muscle went into play as he chucked the balled-up shirt behind him. His belly rippled with the move, too.
Holy crap
. She’d never seen abs like his, either. Talk about definition. Her indrawn breath wasn’t the only issue. Her nipples tightened, her lower belly twisted, and her upper thighs began to twinge with a series of discordant motions.

“There is no way you’re a—I mean. No. Way.”

“You want to phrase that as a question so I can answer it?” he asked.

“Okay. How did you get so cut?”

“Cut?”

“Ripped. You know, built.”

“Built? You mean...muscled?” he asked.

“Yeah. That.”

“I rode herd. Punched cows. Roped steers. Broke range ponies in. Spent long hours in a saddle. Months at a time.”

“You’re a real cowboy?”

“Was.”

“Was? What do you do now? Gamble?”

“I’m a vampire now.”

“Oh, come on. You’re still pushing the undead thing? Despite the skepticism you have to hear coming out of my mouth?”

“Yep.”

“All right. Prove it.”

“That...might not be such a good idea.”

He lifted his chin, finally giving her a complete and perfect view of his face. Her heart stalled. Her jaw dropped. Her breath froze. Words failed her. Any descriptor seemed lame. His hair was black. Shoulder-length. At least some of it was, since she could see some strands. The color matched the fringe of lashes around incredibly dark eyes. She’d been dead-on about the smoldering part. His look created all kinds of havoc to meet up with what was already happening through her body. Her gaze shifted, dropping her focus to his strong chin, and full lips framed by the slightest shadow of whiskers. There was no denying it. Bramwell Stark was handsome enough to stop traffic. The upper body she’d made him put on display was complete overkill.

Marielle eased a breath out. “Chicken?” she finally asked.

“No. Just cautious.”

“Cautious?”

“Control issues.”

Oh. That sounded fascinating. Scary. And really cool.
Oh, boy
. Her heart wasn’t the only thing reacting. Each beat was thumped. Heavy. Shivers coursed her skin, alternately chilling and warming. Her belly was getting seized and then released by some unknown force. Through it, she kept eye contact with him, blinking slowly and evenly. She’d been trained by one of the best. She denied reaction of any kind.

Period.

She finally nodded. “Fine. And that was a bit unfair. You answered a lot of questions. Maybe you’d better start dealing.” She punctuated her words with a chip toss into the center of the table.

His hole card for this round was a two of clubs. The first reveal card was a seven. Also clubs. She had the jack of diamonds. She bet a chip. He met it. His next card was the ace of clubs. Hers was the nine of spades. She bet another chip. He met the price again. His fourth card was the ten of clubs. Hers was the jack of hearts. She had a pair of jacks showing. He had a four-card flush.

Her last card was hidden. Her reaction would have been perfect...except for her heart rate. It sped up slightly again. He watched her fingers as she lifted and dropped three chips together, making a clicking sound. He knew she was debating the odds, thinking of upping the pot. Bram looked down at his stack to keep from reading any further clues from her. She didn’t know how her heart dragged his into rhythm with it. Nor how each pent breath had the same effect on his. This mating thing was almost cheating.

He lifted his last card by an edge and dropped it again. King of clubs. He had a flush. She’d have to have two nines or two jacks hidden to beat him. Full house or four-of-a-kind. Nothing less. She upped the pot by thirty thousand. He waited long moments before meeting her bet and then increasing it by another three. If she wanted to stay in, it would cost. Or she could fold. He watched her slide three chips in before he looked toward her. That was a major mistake. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a slight flush along the edge of her jaw. It was just above her jugular...

His canines tingled. That became the prelude to a whole lot of unrelenting reaction. He sucked on his fangs as they grew, pricking his tongue. And that was even more stupid. The taste sent sensation racing through him. It seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. Bram tightened his belly against the onslaught, then his thighs and buttocks. That lifted him slightly from the chair seat. Nothing worked much. His groin got a direct hit. The area infused with blood, warming rapidly.
Oh. Hell
. Tingling might have been manageable. This felt like sparks were flicking around. He started hardening.

In these tight pants?

Lack of control wasn’t just an issue. It was about to be an embarrassment.

“You want to meet my raise?” she asked from what sounded like very close range.

He glanced up. She’d shoved five chips into the pot, adding fifty grand. Her expression was unreadable but her heart was having difficulty keeping that illusion. Each beat came hard. Rapid. He met her bet with a shove of chips, looking awkward despite how he checked it. And then he called her.

“Oh. You first, handsome.”

Bram turned over his king. Her heart missed a beat. His matched it.

“Don’t tell me you have a flush. Okay? Just don’t.”

“Apologies in advance. I have a flush.” Bram turned over his hole card.

She made a sound beneath her breath and turned over a four of diamonds and one of hearts. She’d had two pair. Not bad. Not good enough...but not bad. Bram would have smiled if he wasn’t expending so much effort on handling things elsewhere on his frame.

“Fine. Looks like you have the win. What do you want?”

“The pant things,” he replied.

What was he thinking?
He’d meant to say headband. The last thing he needed was to view any of her bare skin. At least, not until he had this reaction tamped. Or at least reined back.

“The leggings? Oh. I don’t think so, cowboy.”

“Why not?”

“Is that your question?”

“No.” He sucked harder on his fangs and looked down at his lap. He’d been optimistic. These pants of his weren’t just embarrassingly tight. They were painful. Everything was defined. And displayed. He didn’t have an issue with control. He was having an all-out crisis with it.

“Since you’re a novice at this, and since we’re playing it...a bit incorrectly, I’ll explain. I can’t give you the pants without taking off my shoes. I have socks, too. Those need to come off, too.”

“Take off...the shoes then.”

“How about one shoe?”

“One shoe? What kind of ploy is this?”

“That’s how you play strip poker, Bram Stark. One piece of clothing per hand. You want the leggings? You’re going to have to win four more hands first.”

“Four?”

“Two shoes. Two socks. Four wins.”

That didn’t sound fair...

Wait
.

He did a quick mental calculation. Five wins to get to her leggings. She couldn’t have much past that. If he separated his spurs, boots, socks, added the gun, gun belt, belt. Denims. Underwear briefs. Heck. It sounded like he had the advantage.

“I’ll take a shoe then.”

She slanted back in the chair in order to place one lower leg atop the table. His first impression had been so wrong, he nearly groaned. She had very shapely legs. Watching her undo the laces on her athletic shoe was torturous. It got worse as she pulled the shoe off. Bram’s entire form tried to lunge toward her. He grabbed the chair arms and stopped the move. It took an act of will. And every muscle at his disposal.

She didn’t act the least bit affected as she dropped the shoe somewhere beside her. It landed with a thud. Then she put her leg back down, reassumed her exact same position, only this time she linked her fingers together as she regarded him. Her breathing wasn’t unaffected, however. Nor was her pulse. Both were coming quick and sharp. She was very good at bluffing. If she wasn’t his mate, he wouldn’t have known. But, if she wasn’t his mate, he’d never be in this position.

“You ready to deal now?”

Bram eased the stricture he’d placed on his upper body. Watched as she glanced at his belly and then back at him. She might be noticing how his muscles moved and bunched and clenched. He instantly dismissed that idea before something worse happened. Her gaze returned to the approximate area of his nose. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“I get a question answered.”

“Oh. That. Sorry. Go ahead.”

“What brought you out here?”

“To Nevada? Dobbin Creek? This tunnel?”

“Any. All.”

“I’m an artist.”

“Artist. I see.” He didn’t see anything, but he was careful not to phrase it as a question.

“My specialty is painting. Mostly pictures. Scenes. Portraits.”

“Sounds...interesting.”

“I’m really good, too. Unfortunately, that isn’t enough.”

“For what?”
Damn it!
He’d asked a second question. She didn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t paint what I want to.”

“Oh.”

“I really want to paint fantasy scenes. You know. Fairies. Werewolves. And yes, vampires. All kinds of cool creatures. I’m really good at it...but you’ve heard of starving artists, right?”

Her voice had a wistful tint. His heart gave a twinge. He didn’t reply. She didn’t seem to expect one.

“Well. Trust me. It’s true. The market is overstocked with artists. And now that there are computer art apps and laser printers, well. It’s hardly worth the effort. Few people will pay for an original. So. I do whatever jobs are paying. Or find another occupation. Lately, that has been painting signs. Wait. I can’t even say that. I’m not painting them. I’m refurbishing. I’m not fond of it. It’s like doing paint-by-number. But, that’s why I’m here. I was working on the sign above the Number Eight saloon. My scaffolding fell. I landed in the saloon, grabbed the boot rail to save myself...and
voila!
I found your trap door. And then I found you, the guy claiming to be a vampire.”

“No claim to it. I am a vampire.”

“Yeah. Right. Do you have any whiskey? Maybe if I get a bit soused, I’ll believe you.”

Bram thought a moment. “I might.”

“I was kidding, okay?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You say you’re a vampire? Okay then. Why are you up? I mean...” She lifted her wrist and checked her watch. “Will you look at that? It’s nearly six. In the morning. Doesn’t that mean you should be in that coffin back there?” She gestured to the other room.

“Not necessarily.”

“I thought vampires had to rest during the day. So they could roam around and feed all night.”

“We’re underground,” he replied.

“So?”

“It’s not light that’s a problem. It’s sunlight.”

“You mean, you’ll burn if the sunlight gets you?”

“It’s a bit worse.”

“So that’s true? I can kill a vampire with sunlight?”

“At first. I’m young still. Immunity comes with time.”

“Is that like vampire sunblock?”

She laughed. It was a luscious sound. His lower body jumped in response. Bram held onto the chair arms and shoved his ass back into the chair seat. The wooden structure vibrated with the effort, making a thumping noise as the chair legs hopped on rug-strewn floor. It was some time before he could reply. She’d probably watched him the entire time. He had to guess at it, however, since he didn’t dare look toward her again.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Uh...”

Okay was a catch-all phrase. Meant orderly. All right. Normal. It might be lingering at the periphery of his existence but it wasn’t anywhere near. This felt like he was besieged from within, forced to stifle urges and needs unlike any he’d faced before. He was all kinds of stimulated and aroused and needy. He needed to be with her. Meshed. Enwrapped...

Sheathed.

Whoa. Down boy
.

He’d been told of mating. He hadn’t been told the level of physical sensation he’d endure. The combination was massive. Dangerously so. It just kept increasing, despite the hold he maintained.

And she asked if he was okay?

“Is it the daylight thing? Or...the fact I don’t believe you?”

“Um. Neither.” Good. His voice still worked. Somewhat.

She chuckled, making his existence even more hellish. Bram fought another surge that came from within his own body. One of the chair arms creaked ominously.

“Maybe we should start another hand,” she offered.

“You know how to deal?”

“Oh. Please. Do I look that incompetent?”

“No.”

“Good. I’d really hate to have a battle of wits with a misogynistic vampire. Even a fake one.”

She stood, reached across the table, gathered the cards, sat back down, with a bit too much squirming in his opinion, and started shuffling. She looked capable and then some.

But she was also shaking.