The Mysterious Stranger (The Confidence Game 3)

“Dealer takes two,” he said, dealing himself two cards to replace the two he threw out.

She watched his face carefully. There were a hundred ways she could read his micro expressions, those tiny movements of his brows, forehead, the skin around his eyes, nose, and the corners of his lips, except unlike Earl, Wayne and Bernie, Zeke was an expert at schooling them and he was doing that now because this was poker and you had to respect the game and your opponents.

She stared at him, looking for any sign that he was pleased with his hand, that he thought he could win, and all she saw was a man so dear to her, so supportive and constant, forgiving and loving that her throat got tight and her shoulders tensed, and she no longer wanted to beat him, just crawl into his lap and have him play with her hair.

She shouldn’t be having those kinds of thoughts about Zeke and she couldn’t avoid them.

He raised his bet. He always backed his instincts and he never did anything by halves.

“Your move, Rosie,” he said, his smile so heartbreakingly genuine in this place of lies, his voice so deeply warm and amused it was fire in his eyes and an ache in her chest.

She trusted him with her life, but she could not read him, not here in this game, not out in that field with the goat. Something had shifted between them. It felt tenuous and fragile and dangerous. It made her uncertain with him where she’d always been sure.

There was nothing for it, she went all in, pushing her remaining chips to the center of the table. If he wanted to see her cards, he had to pay for them. If he wanted to change things up between them he had to give her some kind of a signal she could read.

He raised a brow and she couldn’t read that either. Was he impressed, surprised? Did he think she’d made a dumb play? If he folded she’d win, but she’d never know if he had the better hand and that would take the sweetness out of victory.

If he folded, he’d be giving up on her.

“Call.” He pushed the equivalent number of chips into the pile. He was paying to see her cards and she’d get to see his. She had four aces. He needed a flush to beat her. Not impossible. She fanned the cards down on the table and the spectators murmured approval.

He sang a line from “The Pretender,” the one about secrets being kept and being ready. Ready for what? She was as ready as she’d ever be to finish this game. Maybe other unspoken games between them too. He flipped his cards over and they landed faceup.

Four Jacks.

Aces beat Jacks.

She jumped to her feet, arms raised in triumph. He met both her palms with his, entwining their fingers. Earl swore. Some party pooper shushed the people who’d cheered. Chips spilled all over the floor.

“Let’s get out of here,” Zeke said.

He dragged her down a row of tables, around the knitting circle, past the folks still going strong with charades, and with a quick detour past a plate of sugar donuts, they burst through the doors into the cool of the night.

“I’ve got to know,” she said, trying to frame the words around a mouthful of delicious still-warm dough. “Were you palming cards?” His hands were so big he was a natural at it.

He made a rumbly noise that might’ve been a protest but was more likely about the donut. Either way it was a sex noise and she wanted to hear it again because it made her nipples tighten. She stopped eating her donut to stare at him as he took the last bite of his own, rolling his eyes up to show the whites.

“Oh my fucking God, that was good.” He smacked his lips. “You couldn’t tell?”

She shook her head and dandled her three-quarter donut in front of him. He could have it when he gave her the answer she wanted. If he made that noise again he could throw her on the ground and fuck her senseless and damn the consequences.

“You could’ve had a flush hidden in your palm. I want to know I won fair and square.”

Eyes on her hand, he made a cross over his heart. There were sugar crystals glittering on his lips, made her lick her own, made her want to suck his. She’d entered an alternative sugar-sparked reality, entranced with the joy in him, and she wasn’t quick enough to prevent his sneak attack.

He caught her around the waist and plucked the donut out of her hand with his mouth, his lips kissing her fingers. She tried to pull away at the last moment, competitive to the end, but he was big and fast and all over her and the donut was dust and she was gloriously trapped in his strong arms.

“Hi,” he said, his sweetened breath ghosting over her face, his voice gone growl low. “Thanks for the donut.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, looking up into his smile, feeling light as cotton candy and hot enough to imitate a phoenix and burn right up.

“I wouldn’t ever cheat on you, Aurora Rae.”

“You wouldn’t?” It came out like a question because she could not catch her breath.

“You’d kick my ass.” He rearranged his hold on her, both hands straight to her butt, making her groan. “You beat me fair and square. You always will.”

She’d had more questions, but they no longer mattered, because the two of them were outside alone, in this strange place under the starlight. Zeke sang the opening to “The Pretender” and moved them in tight circles, their bodies jammed together close enough to merge. Danger sparked along nerve endings and lust rushed her body like the richest high.