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.”
At Greg Hudson’s nod, Chris the dealer dealt the cards. Ignoring the spiteful whispers and daggered glances of the trophy girls, Bree stared at her cards, facedown on the table.
She couldn’t let herself think what would happen if she lost. Couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to let any of these angry, fat, ugly men take their revenge on her virginal body through rough sex.
But even more awful would be having Vladimir win. Giving her virginity to the man who’d once broken her completely? She couldn’t survive it. Not from him.
Just win, she ordered herself. All she had to do was take this first hand, and her virginity would no longer be on offer. It would be a long night of poker trying to win a hundred thousand dollars. But this was the most important hand.
Closing her eyes, she silently prayed. Then she picked up the cards. Careful not to let any of the players see them, she looked at them.
It took every ounce of her skill not to gasp.
Three kings. She had three kings, along with a four and a queen. Three kings. She nearly wept with relief. It was as if fate had decided she was gambling for the right reasons and deserved to win.
Unless it was more than fate …
She looked up through her lashes toward the young dealer. Could he be helping her? Chris was about Josie’s age, and he’d come twice to their apartment for dinner. He wasn’t exactly a close friend, but he’d spoken many times with irritation about Greg Hudson’s poor management skills. “You would do a better job of running this resort, Bree,” he’d grumbled, and she’d agreed with a smile. “But who wouldn’t?”
Now, catching her eye, the young dealer gave her a wink and a smile.
Sucking in her breath, Bree looked away before anyone noticed. Her eyes accidentally fell on Vladimir’s. His eyebrows lowered, and she gulped, looking back down at her cards, hastily making her expression blank. Had he seen? Could he guess?
The dealer turned to his left. “Your Highness?”
Because of his placement at the table, Vladimir was the first one required to add a bet to the pile of chips already in the middle of the table from the ante. “Raise.”
Raise? Bree looked up in surprise. He was looking straight at her as he said, “Five thousand.”
Texas Big-Hat cursed and threw his cards on the table. “Fold.”
“Call,” Silicon Valley said, matching Vladimir’s bet.
“Call,” Mr. Vanderwald puffed, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead.
“Call,” Greg Hudson said.
All eyes turned to Bree.
“She’s already all in,” Greg Hudson said dismissively. “There’s nothing more she can wager.”
He was right, she thought with a pang. She couldn’t match Vladimir’s raise, and that meant even if she won the hand, she couldn’t win anything beyond the twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of chips currently in the center. What a waste of three kings …
Bree suddenly smiled. “I call.”
“Call?” Greg Hudson hooted. “You have an extra five thousand dollars hidden in the back pocket of those jeans?”
She stretched back her shoulders and felt the eyes of the men linger on the shape of her breasts beneath her black T-shirt. “I can match the bet in other ways. Instead of just an hour in bed, I’ll offer an entire night.” She tilted back her head, allowing her long blond hair to tumble provocatively down her shoulders. “Many chances. Multiple positions. As fast or slow or hard as you like it, all night long, and each time better than the last. Against the wall. Bent over the bed. In my mouth.”
She felt like a total fool. She hoped she sounded like a woman who knew what she was talking about, not a scared virgin whose idea of lovemaking was vague at best, based only on movies and novels. But as she looked at each man at the table they seemed captivated. She exhaled. Her mask was holding. She was convincing them. Even Chris the dealer looked entranced.
Vladimir alone seemed completely unaffected. Bored, even. His lips twisted with scorn. And his eyes—
His blue eyes saw straight through her. A hot blush burned her cheeks as she said to him, “Do you agree my bet is commensurate with your five thousand dollar raise?”
“No,” Vladimir said coldly. “That is not a call.”
Her heart sank. “You …”
He gave her a calm smile. “That is an additional raise.”
“A … a raise?” she echoed uncertainly.
“Obviously. Let us say … your added services are equivalent to an additional five thousand dollars? Yes. A full night with you would surely be worth that.” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Would you not agree?”
“Five thousand more?” Greg Hudson’s voice hit a false note. Catching himself, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair and snickered, “Fine with me. I’m half raised already.”
“Good,” Vladimir said softly, never looking away from Bree. “So we are in agreement.”
Bree’s brow furrowed as she tried to read his expression. What on earth was he doing?
Trying to help her? Or giving her more rope to hang herself with?
Repressing her inner tumult, she stared him down. In for a penny … She lifted her chin. “If it’s worth five more, then why not ten more?”
The corners of Vladimir’s mouth lifted. “Yes, indeed. Why not?” He looked around the table. “Miss Dalton has raised the wager by ten thousand dollars.”
To her shock, one by one the men agreed to her supposed “raise,” except for the Belgian, who folded with an unintelligible curse.
And just like that—oh, merciful heavens—there was suddenly a pile of chips at the center of the table worth seventy-five thousand dollars.
She looked at each man as they discarded cards and got new ones from the dealer.
Don’t play the hand, her father had always said. Play the man.
She forced herself to look across the table at Vladimir. His face was inscrutable as he discarded a card and got a new one. When she’d played him ten years ago, he’d had a tight style of play. He did not bluff, he did not overbet—the exact opposite of Bree’s strategy.
He lifted his eyes