Billionaires Dollar Series

“Nor forgiven me, it seems.” His voice grows gruffer. “I told you, I was doing you a favor.”

“Play a game with me and I will.” I split the deck in two with a flourish. This, I know how to do, courtesy of my brother. I begin to shuffle with practiced moves.

Nick watches me work in silence. “We have no chips,” he says. “No stakes at all. That’s hardly poker.”

“We could raise them,” I say. “Make it more… interesting, if playing for my forgiveness isn’t interesting enough for you.”

The harsh line of his jaw works. “You’re not suggesting what I think you are.”

“Sure I am.”

“Strip poker?”

My heart is beating wildly against my ribs, but my hands remain steady. “Yes. A heads-up game, either five-card draw or Texas hold ’em. Come on. You owe me one, remember?”

He takes a deep sip of his brandy. Silence is heavy between us. “Fine,” he says finally. “Five-card draw.”

“All right.” I shuffle the cards one last time before dealing five cards to each of us. He’s wearing a pair of dark trousers and a gray sweater-two major articles of clothing, then.

“We’re evenly matched,” I comment.

His eyes drift over my form in one impassive sweep. Carefully controlled, with none of the heat I’d seen yesterday.

“So it would seem.” His voice has deepened. “You’re welcome to start the betting.”

“You’re that sure of yourself?”

“Perhaps.”

I smile down at the two cards I’ve flipped. Two tens. Not bad. “My sweater is my ante.”

“So is mine.”

I don’t exchange any of my cards before the river is dealt. He does, however, the back of his hand coming into view as he reaches for another card.

“Let’s see, then…” I deal out the river and we both turn our hands. I have three tens, and he has a pair.

“Whoops,” I drawl. “Seems like I won the first round.”

Nick’s eyes narrow at the cards, as if he’s expecting them to change. But they don’t, the evidence of my victory clear between us. A log in the fireplace snaps loudly behind him.

“So you did,” he agrees darkly. Large hands reach down to grip the hem of his sweater, pulling it off. He’s not wearing anything underneath. Just sun-darkened skin and a rough smattering of hair on his chest. Sculpted shoulders. A strong, taut abdomen.

It’s the body of a man who works with it, who has strength because strength matters, and none of the superficial ab muscles that comes from crunches in a gym. What does he do to look like that?

I’m taking too long in responding. “Good,” I say inanely. “Your time to start.”

“I suppose my ante’s my pants now,” he says. There’s dark amusement in his voice. “Your brother better stay in his room, or he’ll kill me for this.”

The master bedroom is on another floor. There’s zero risk of them coming out here, and the staff has all left. Even so, his words knot something inside of me.NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

“My ante’s the same.” I finger the hem of my soft sweater. I’m not wearing a T-shirt beneath it either-preferring the soft feel of cashmere against my skin. “You’re not cold over there, are you?”

The gaze he shoots me is withering. “Deal, Blair.”

“So bossy.” I hand him the five cards needed. “Perhaps you need a bit more brandy to loosen up.”

He shakes his head at me, but to my surprise he does what I suggested, tossing back what’s left in his glass. “You’ll eat your words tonight.”

“I will?”

“Yes,” he growls. “There was a reason I didn’t let you join our poker game all those years ago.”

A shiver runs down my back. He might talk a big game, and he certainly has a reputation, but I’ve never felt anything but safe around Nick. Even when he’s tested my patience to its very limits.

This time, my one-pair is no match for his two-pair. “Damn,” I say morosely, sitting back on my knees. “I guess we’re even now.”

“So we are.” His gaze strays from my eyes to my neck as he speaks. The butterflies in my stomach erupt into a frenzy as I make a show of pulling off my own sweater. He looked at you yesterday, I remind myself. He’s not as cool as he pretends to be.

I toss it aside and shake my hair out. It falls around my shoulders, the ends tickling along my back. “Well,” I tease. “I guess we’re both playing as skins now.”

He reaches for the cards. “We’re not evenly matched, though.”

“You have one more item of clothing than me.” He inclines his head toward me, even as his eyes stay focused on the cards in front of him.

Ah. My bra.

Before I let myself consider it, I reach back and undo the clasp with wan hands. The straps slide off my arms and I toss it off to the side.

“There,” I say. “Now we’re even.”

“Fucking hell, Blair.” I glance once and then away, my hand tightening around my cards. They bend in my grip.

“I won’t let you claim that I won unfairly.” She reaches for her cards with a level of nonchalance I can’t relate to at the moment. “What? Did you think I was joking when I agreed to strip poker?”

The better question is, why on earth had I agreed to this?

And at the same time… seeing the expanse of her skin, honey and wheat and gold, how could I not have?

Her nipples are just as I’d imagined they’d looked yesterday, after she’d disappeared in that black bikini of hers. Rosy and pink. Blonde hair hangs down her shoulders, framing a face that is lit by a teasing smile. She knows exactly what she’s doing, sitting topless opposite me like this.

It’s revenge. She saw me looking yesterday, and now she’s torturing me with it. Why did the damn woman insist on hating me like this?

You’d rather she hated you, my inner voice reminds me. You can’t disappoint her that way.

“Your turn to start,” she says. The warmth of her voice has dropped an octave.

Does she do this kind of thing often? I don’t think so, not from what I’ve seen of her in the last few weeks. Crying over her brother’s baby news and baking us brownies and talking to staff like they’re her best friends in the whole damn world.