Angels shouldn’t be so tormented, he thought, finding his chair suddenly uncomfortable, just as his body felt too hard and tight.
He imagined kissing her full mouth until it softened beneath his, saw her lying naked in his bed, her slender limbs stretched out beneath him, her delicate gold necklace the only thing she wore.
But his blond Joan of Arc was on a mission, and she was oblivious to all but Johann as she spoke to him, her voice but a murmur of soft sound. Cristiano couldn’t hear what she said to Johann van Bergen, but the baron made no effort to lower his voice. “Go,” Johann told her, tone cold, blunt. “Go back home where you’re supposed to be.”
But she didn’t go. She continued to crouch at Johann’s side, whispering urgent words only the baron could hear, words that only angered him further. “I don’t need a mother,” he said, slapping his cards down. “I already had one. And I don’t need you. You’ve done nothing for me.”
Two dark pink blotches stained her cheeks. Silently she regarded him, face flushed, chin lifted, painful dignity. Then without another word, she slipped off her cloak, handed it to the gentleman at the door and took a chair, sitting behind Johann.
During the next hour and a half Cristiano watched her. He liked watching her. She’d been beautiful six months ago but she was even more stunning tonight. He’d have her. Soon. Very soon. Even if she was another man’s wife.
Cristiano folded his cards, tossed them onto the table and leaned back, content to use the time to watch his woman. Because she was his. She was everything he wanted—young, sleek, sexy and unavailable. The unavailable aspect he found especially seductive.
It was good to feel tempted. Seduced. It felt good to want something, someone. It made him feel, period, and God knows, he didn’t feel much of anything anymore.
Lashes lowered, he watched Baroness van Bergen now as again she whispered more urgent words to her husband. But her husband was ignoring her.
Foolish man, Cristiano thought derisively. Foolish man to marry such a woman and then ignore her. Because there was beauty, and then there was beauty, and Johann’s young blond wife wasn’t your run-of-the-mill beauty, but something finer. Rarer.
Cristiano called Johann’s bluff, forcing the baron to show his cards. Nothing.
It was all Cristiano could do to hide his contempt. Johann was gambling his life away. What a fool. A gambling man understood risks, and took them. A gambling man understood wins and losses. But Johann wasn’t a true gambler, he didn’t understand risk, and he didn’t understand loss.
But Cristiano did. He knew what it was to win, and he knew what it was to lose and he didn’t like losing. So he didn’t. Not anymore. Hadn’t lost in so long that he’d almost, almost, forgotten the bitter taste.
Almost.
But not quite.
And that faint but bitter taste of loss still burned his tongue as it burned his heart and made him take. Risk. And win.
It was conquering. It was plundering. It was—he reached for the cards just dealt him—revenge.
Sam sat behind Johann, her gaze fixed on his new hand of cards, seeing what he was seeing, wondering if he was as nervous as she. He had terrible cards. Absolutely nothing in his hand and yet he was sitting there playing as if he held only aces in his hand.
God, Johann, what are you doing?
What are you thinking? Playing?
Stomach in knots, hands folded on her knee, Sam drew a deep breath, her white jersey dress with the gold spaghetti straps pulling tightly across her shoulders.
The villa was gone.
The bank account emptied.
There was nothing left to wager.
With a cry of disgust, Johann tossed his cards onto the table, showing what he had. Nothing. Three sevens.
Sam bit the inside of her cheek to hide her shame. Three sevens. He’d bet and lost their home with his three sevens. God forgive him. Where was his common sense? His survival instinct? What kind of fool was he?
“I’m out,” he said, sitting back, running his hand across his darkly tanned face. Johann, an Austrian baron, playboy and fixture on the Monte Carlo scene, diligently maintained his deep tan by sunbathing daily on the pool terrace, usually with a stiff cocktail at his side. “I’ve nothing else, Bartolo.”