The Winning Hand (7 page)

“Of course. Right away.”

“It must be so exciting living here. It’s like a world to itself. You like it, don’t you?”

“Very much. I was born with a pair of dice in one hand and a deck of cards in the other. My mother and father met over a blackjack table. She was working as a dealer on a cruise ship, and he wanted her
the minute he saw her.”

“A shipboard romance.” It made her sigh. “She was beautiful.”

“Yes, she is beautiful.”

“And he would have been dark and handsome, and maybe a little dangerous.”

“More than a little. My mother likes to gamble.”

“And they both won.” Her lips tipped up, deepening the dip in the center. “You have a big family.”

“Unwieldy.”

“Only children are always jealous of big, unwieldy families. You’re never lonely, I bet.”

“No.” She had been, he thought. There was no doubt of it. “Loneliness isn’t an option.” He nodded approval to the label as the sommelier offered the bottle of champagne.

Thrilled by the ritual, Darcy studied every step, the elegant spin of the white cloth, the subtle movement of the sommelier’s hands, the muffled pop of cork. At Mac’s signal, a small amount was poured into Darcy’s glass for tasting.

“It’s wonderful. Like drinking gold.”

That earned her a pleased smile from the sommelier, who finished pouring with a flourish before nestling the bottle in a silver bucket of ice.

“Now.” Mac tapped his glass lightly against hers. “You talked with my uncle.”

“Yes. I didn’t realize, not until I’d made the call. Then I did—Caine MacGregor, Boston. I know I started to stutter.” She winced. “He was very patient with me.” A laugh bubbled up and was partially swallowed. “The former attorney general of the United States is my lawyer. It’s so odd. He said he would take care of things—my birth certificate, the red tape. He didn’t seem to think it would take very long.”

“MacGregors have a way of moving things along.”

“I’ve read so much about your family.” Darcy accepted the leather-bound menu absently. “Your grandfather’s a legend.”

“He loves hearing that. What he is, is a character. You’d like him.”

“Really? What kind of a character?”

How did one describe Daniel MacGregor? Mac wondered. “An outrageous one. Big, loud, bold. A Scotsman who built an empire on grit and sweat and shrewdness. He sneaks cigars—or my grandmother lets him believe he’s sneaking them. He’ll skin you at poker. Nobody bluffs better. He has an amazing heart, strong and soft. For him, family comes first and last and always.”

“You love him.”

“Very much.” Because he thought she’d enjoy it, he told her of how a young, brash Daniel had come to Boston looking for a wife, had set his eyes on Anna Whitfield and, tumbling into love, had wooed and won her.

“She must have been terribly brave, becoming a doctor. There were so many obstacles for a woman.”

“She’s amazing.”

“And you have brothers? Sisters?”

“One brother, two sisters, assorted cousins, nephews, nieces. When we get together it’s … an asylum,” he decided, making her laugh.

“And you wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

She opened her menu. “I always wondered what it would be like to— Oh my. Look at all this. How does anyone decide what to order?”

“What do you like?”

She looked up, gold eyes sparkling. “Everything.”

She sampled all she could manage. Tureen of duck, wild greens, little salmon puffs topped with caviar. Unable to resist, Mac scooped up some of his own stuffed lobster and held the fork to her lips. Her eyes closed, a quiet moan rippled in her throat, her lips rubbed gently together. And his blood flashed hot.

He’d never known a woman so open to sensual pleasure, or so obviously new to it. She’d be a treasure in bed, absorbing, lingering over every touch, every taste, every movement.

He could imagine it clearly—much too clearly—the little sighs and murmurs, the awakenings.

She gave one of those little sighs now as her long lids opened slowly over dreamy eyes. “It’s wonderful. Everything’s wonderful.”

It was all flowing through her, mind and body, soft lights, strong flavors, the froth of wine and the look of him. She found herself leaning forward. “You’re so attractive. You have such a strong face. I love looking at it.”

From another woman it would have been an invitation. From her, Mac reminded himself, it was a combination of wine and naiveté. “Where do you come from?”

“Kansas.” She smiled. “That’s not what you meant, is it? I have no finesse,” she confessed. “And when I relax, I tend to say things that pop into my head. I’m usually nervous around men. I never know what to say.”

He arched a brow. “Obviously I don’t make you nervous. That’s my ego you hear thudding at your feet.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Women are always going to fantasize about men like you. But you don’t make me nervous, because I know you don’t think of me that way.”

“Don’t I?”

“Men don’t.” She gestured with her glass before sipping. “Men aren’t quickly attracted to women who aren’t particularly physically appealing. Willowy blondes,” she continued, eyeing his plate and wondering how to ask for another bite. “Sultry brunettes, glamorous redheads. Attention focuses on them, it’s only natural. And strongly attractive men are drawn to strongly attractive women. At least
initially.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I like to watch people, and how they circle toward each other.”

“Maybe you haven’t looked closely enough. I find you very appealing, physically.” He watched her blink in surprise as he slid a little closer. “Fresh,” he murmured, giving in to the urge to cup a hand at the back of her slender neck. “And lovely.”

He saw her gaze flit down to his mouth and return, startled, to his eyes. He heard the little rush of breath shudder through her lips. It was tempting, very tempting, to close the slight distance, to complete the circle she’d spoken of. But she trembled under his hand, a trapped bird not entirely sure of her wings.

“There,” he said quietly. “That shut you up. Nervous now?”

She could only move her head in short, rapid nods. She could all but feel his mouth on hers. It would be firm and hot and so clever. The fingers at the back of her neck had stroked some wild nerve to life. She could feel it careen through her, bumping her pulse to light speed.

The dawning awareness in her eyes, the flicker of panic behind it had his fingers tightening briefly on her nape. “You shouldn’t dare a gambler, Darcy.” He gave her neck what he hoped was a friendly squeeze before easing back. “Dessert?”

“Dessert?”

“Would you like some?”

“I don’t think I could.” Not with her stomach muscles in knots and her fingers too unsteady to hold a fork.

He smiled slowly. “Want to try your luck?” When she swallowed, he added, “At the tables.”

“Oh. Yes. I think I would.”

“What should I play?” she asked him when they walked into the noise and lights of the casino.

“Lady’s choice.”

“Well.” She bit her lip, tried to keep her mind off the fact that he had his hand at the small of her back. It did no good to tell herself she had no business thinking of him that way. “Maybe blackjack. It’s just adding up numbers, really.”

He ran his tongue around his teeth. “That’s part of it. Five-dollar table,” he decided. “Until you get your rhythm.” He led her toward a vacant chair in front of a dealer he knew to be both patient and personable with novices. “How much do you want to start with.”

“Twenty?”

“Twenty thousand’s a little steep for a beginner.”

Her mouth dropped open, then curved on a laugh. “I meant dollars. Twenty dollars.”

“Dollars,” Mac said weakly. “Fine—if you think you can stand the excitement.”

When he reached for his wallet, she shook her head. “No, I have it.” She pulled a twenty out of her bag. “It feels more like mine this way.”

“It is yours,” he reminded her. “And at twenty, not a hell of a lot’s going to be mine again.”

“I might win.” She slid onto a stool beside a portly man in a checked jacket. “Are you winning?” she asked him.

He tipped a beer to his lips and winked at her. “I’m up about fifty, but this guy.” He gestured toward the dealer. “He’s tough.”

“You keep coming back to my table, Mr. Renoke,” the dealer said cheerfully. “Must be my good looks.”

Renoke snorted, then tapped his cards. “Give me a little one, pal.”

The dealer turned up a four. “Your wish, my command.”

“There you go.” Renoke waved a finger over the cards to indicate he’d hold with nineteen. When the dealer held on eighteen, Renoke patted Darcy’s shoulder. “Looks like you brought me some fresh
luck.”

“I hope so. I’d like to play,” she added.

“Changing twenty,” the dealer announced and shoved the bill into a slot with a clear plastic box. Darcy neatly stacked her four five-dollar chips. “Bets?”

“Put a chip on the outline there,” Mac instructed.

The cards moved quickly, slipping out of the shoe and snapping lightly on felt. She was dealt a six and an eight, with the dealer showing ten.

“What do I do now?”

“Take a hit.”

She tilted her head, looked up at Mac. “But I’m beating him, and a ten would put me over, wouldn’t it?”

“Odds are his down card is over two. Play the odds.”

“Oh. I’ll take a hit.” She pulled a ten, then frowned. “I lost.”

“But you lost correctly,” the dealer told her with a grin.

She lost correctly twice more and, with brows knit in concentration, slid her last chip into place. And hit blackjack. “I didn’t even have to do anything.” She wiggled more comfortably on the stool and sent Mac an apologetic look. “I think I’ll play incorrectly for a while, just to see what happens.”

“It’s your game.”

With some surprise, he watched her play against all logic and build her little stack of chips up to ten, dwindle them down to three, then build them back up again. She chatted with Renoke, learned about his two sons in college and neatly stacked her chips.

A twenty-dollar stake, he mused, and she was up to two hundred. The woman was a marvel.

He caught the eye of a dealer at another table, a subtle signal of trouble on the brew. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured to Darcy, giving her shoulder a light squeeze.

It wasn’t hard to spot where the trouble was centered. The man in the first chair was down to three
hundred-dollar chips. Mac judged him to be roughly forty, a little worse for liquor, and a poor loser.

“Look, you can’t deal cleaner than that, you ought to be fired.” The man jabbed a finger at the dealer while other players eased out of their chairs and looked for calmer water. “I can’t win more than one hand out of ten. And that little bitch who was dealer before you’s no better. I want some damn action here.” He thumped his fist on the table.

“Problem?” Mac stepped up to the table.

“Back off. This is none of your damn business.”

“It’s my business.” A subtle signal had his floor man, already moving toward the table, stopping. “I’m Blade, and this is my place.”

“Yeah?” The man lifted his glass, gulped. “Well, your place is lousy. Your dealers think they’re slick, but I can spot them.” He slammed his glass down. “Bled me for three grand already. I know when I’m being taken.”

Mac’s voice remained low, his eyes cool. “If you want to lodge a complaint, you’re welcome to do so. In my office.”

“I don’t have to go to your stinking office.” In one violent gesture, he knocked his glass from the table. “I want some satisfaction here.”

Mac held up a hand to hold off the two security guards who were moving rapidly in his direction. “You’re not going to get it. I suggest you cash in and take your business elsewhere.”

“You’re kicking me out?” The man shoved away from the table. On his feet he wasn’t steady, but he was big, burly, and his fists were clenched. “You can’t kick me out.”

Ready violence flashed into Mac’s eyes in a quick, icy flare. “Want to bet?”

Rage had the man trembling, visibly. But drunk or not, he recognized the cold fury staring him down. “The hell with it.” He snatched up his chips, sneered. “I should’ve known better than to trust some Indian dive.”