I nod in reply and cling tight to Damien. I know, I think. I know.
Chapter Twelve
It’s late when we get back from the bar, but the cool night air and Damien’s terraced stone patio are too enticing to resist. It looks out over a manicured lawn leading down to a private dock and the smooth surface of the lake. The sky is clear and the moon is full. It reflects off the sails and hulls of the various boats dotting the shore, adding a wash of muted color to what would otherwise be a gray tableau.
Jamie immediately flops down on the huge daybed. The waitress had suggested flavored vodka in response to Jamie’s query as to what would be fun, and now she is in a whipped cream vodka induced fog. I glance at Damien, then head into the house to get sparkling waters for all of us. When I return, Jamie’s humming “Come Josephine, In My Flying Machine” and staring up at the stars as Damien looks on, bemused, from where he sits on the nearby love seat.
I meet Damien’s eyes. “She loves Titanic,” I say, by way of explanation.
“I hope this doesn’t mean you’re drowning,” he says to Jamie.
She just smiles and slowly shakes her head back and forth. “No, I’m in a happy place. This is so nice. Y’all are so nice.” She pushes herself up on her elbows. “Maybe we should go clubbing.”
“Great idea,” Damien says, as I gape. “But I’ve got a better one. How about we stay in?”
She cocks a finger at him. “Yes. Yes.” She looks at me. “He’s so smart. And gorgeous, too,” she adds in the world’s loudest stage whisper.
“I know,” I say, half-embarrassed for my friend and half-amused by her.
She squints at Damien. “I bet I can totally whoop your ass at poker,” she says.
Damien grins at me. “Who am I to decline a challenge like that?”
“She’s good,” I warn. She and Ollie and I spent a lot of long nights playing poker. “Of course she’s better when she’s sober.”
Jamie’s grin is lopsided. “Maybe I am sober. Maybe this is all just one big bluff.”
After four hands of five card draw, it’s starting to look like maybe Jamie really is sober. I’m losing spectacularly, Damien isn’t doing much better, and Jamie has a huge pile of chips in front of her.
“You should know that all of my illusions are shattered,” I tell him. “I don’t know if I can stay with a man who loses at poker.”
“But I do it with such charm,” he says.
Jamie lifts her hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “I’m just that awesome,” she says. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”
Damien leans back on the small love seat that he and I are sharing, his feet kicked out in front of him and his cards face down on the small glass table. “You both do realize that poker is a game that develops over time. It’s not about just a few hands.”
Jamie and I exchange glances before she looks back at Damien. “In other words, you’re sizing me up.”
I raise my brows. “He better not be,” I say archly.
We all laugh, but Jamie tosses down her cards, then flops backward onto the chaise. “Yeah, well, then the joke’s on you, because I think I have to pass out now.”
I wait, expecting her to say something else, but all I hear is a soft snore.
“Jamie?” I say stupidly.
“She’s out,” Damien says.
“It’s the whipped cream vodka,” I say. “That stuff’s dangerous.”
“Shall I move her inside?”
I consider getting a blanket and letting her sleep outside, but decide she’ll be better off with a mattress and real sheets and no sun blasting on her face first thing in the morning. “Can you lift her?”
“She’s tiny,” he says. “I think I can manage.” He picks her up easily, and she tilts toward him, curled up like a little girl against his chest. I hold the door open for him, and she wakes up just long enough to smile sleepily at him. I expect her to say something flirtatious and trademark Jamie. Instead, my heart squeezes when I hear her soft, “You’re so good for her. You know that, right?”
“She’s good for me,” Damien replies, squeezing my heart a little bit more.
“That’s what I mean,” Jamie says—and then she’s out again. Lost in her whipped cream haze.
I pause in the doorway before shutting her door, looking back fondly. As much of a wreck as Jamie can be, she’s still my best friend, and it’s times like this that I remember why.
“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild,” Damien says as I follow him to the master suite. “How much whipped cream vodka did you have?”
“Too sweet for me,” I admit. “But I ordered quite a few shots of Macallan.”
“Did you? That can increase a bar tab pretty quickly.”
I step close to him, relishing the way the air thickens with our proximity. “Well, maybe you can win it back at poker.”
“That’s an interesting wager,” he says. “I propose a small amendment.”
I cock my head. “Negotiating, Mr. Stark?”
“Always.” He takes another step toward me. He’s right there, so close that my breasts will brush against his chest if I do nothing more than take a deep breath. He leans forward until his lips are near my ear. We still do not touch, but his breath when he speaks sends shivers down my spine. “Strip poker, Ms. Fairchild.”
The heat in his voice matches the fire in his eyes, and I start to melt a bit. But this opportunity is too delicious to squander and I match his gaze inch for inch, my lips curving into a smile when I see the bulge of his erection beneath his jeans. I lift my eyes slowly to meet his and find them smoldering. He cocks his head as if to say, oh, yes.
I swallow. “All right, Mr. Stark,” I say, then turn and head toward our bedroom. I pause in the doorway and smile. “Prepare to get naked.”
My threat, however, turns out to be hollow, and twenty minutes later I have lost my flip-flops, the light sweater I was wearing to ward off the chill from the lake, and my T-shirt. I’m left wearing a short pink skirt, a pale purple thong, and a matching demi-cup bra that is cut so low that my very erect nipples are straining against the decorative lace that lines the top of each minuscule cup.
Damien is still fully dressed.
“Are you sure you don’t cheat?” I ask.
“As a rule, no. In order to see you naked, I would be sorely tempted.”