“Of course.” Not really, but who gave a fig?
He dealt himself an eighteen, and her an eight. The difference was ten. She tried to steady herself as she pushed her remaining markers forward, but she detected a slight tremble in her hand.
His eyebrows drew together. “Have I taken all your markers?”
She nodded. The air in the room intensified. Fingernails dug crescent moons into sweat-slicked palms. The time had arrived.
“There’s but one deal left. It would be a shame to forfeit it.” How utterly privileged he sounded. “Whatever shall we wager?”
Was he toying with her? He knew bloody well what her wager was. He was here for it, after all. “Whatever you wish.”
Abruptly, he sat forward in his chair. Reactively, Isabel startled back in hers. “Do you have permission?”
She nodded, albeit slowly. What an odd question. Why else would she be here?
“And it’s yours to stake?”
It?She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. “To whom else woulditbelong?”
He steepled his fingers before him. “I’ll require a witness.”
“A witness?” What fresh depravity would she be subjected to on this night?
“I don’t want you reneging.”
Isabel bristled. “I assure you I shall see this night through to your satisfaction.”
A look of puzzlement clouded his face. “Odd way of putting it.” He combined his and her markers into a tidy pile, around £30,000 in the world outside these four walls. “Shall we make this interesting?” He pushed the pile forward.
She shrugged. She’d reached the limit of her tolerance with this farce.
“The eighth deal is the Clack.” He went on to explain how it worked: The first card he placed down would be “one.” If that card was an ace, he won. If it wasn’t, he dealt the next card, the “two.” If that card was a two, he won. If not, he dealt on in that manner until he reached “thirteen,” its corresponding card a king. If ever the number he called matched the number of the card, he took all. If not, she won. “Understood?”
She nodded.
“One,” he called. A three appeared. “Two.” A knave.
And so it went, number by number, Isabel’s heart doubling its rate of beats with the appearance of each new card, even as another part of her separated from her body and watched from a distance. When this game ended, a new one—the real one—would begin.
She must lose, towin.
But she didn’t want to lose. She simply couldn’t imagine what it would be like to share a bed with this devastating man.
To have his touch on her body.
To feel the press of his weight.
Would he extinguish the candles?
He didn’t seem the type.
He reached twelve, and still he hadn’t won. It was time for the final card. He met her eye. “Thirteen.”
He flipped the card. A . . .
King.
Every last molecule in the room froze. Isabel’s moment of reckoning had arrived. A wicked smile curled about the wolf’s lips, and he sat back in his chair. Her breath caught in her chest.Devastating.
