you’ve got some serious wheels turning in that head of yours,” Del commented. “Not that it’s not an entirely gorgeous head, but if I were Rennie, I’d be a little scared.”
He’d leaned back to watch her, the frank curiosity on his face more than a little alarming. She needed to defray that, pronto. Flirt, Nina, flirt.
Gwen traced a pattern on the tabletop with one fingertip and sent him a look of promise. “Who cares about Rennie or whoever? You’re here and I’m here, that’s all that matters.”
The amusement was back in his smile as he leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table, putting him disconcertingly near. “I suppose. You’re holding out on me, though,” he added conversationally.
Alarm surged through her. “What—what do you mean?”
A beat went by. “Your name. You know mine, I don’t know yours.”
“Oh.” She almost sighed with relief. “Nina.”
“Nice name. So what brings you to Vegas, Nina?”
“A couple days off. I wanted to get out of town.”
He watched her for a moment, his mouth curving in a way that suggested he could see more than she wanted. “Searching for people named Rennie?”
Gwen flushed. “No. I just wanted a break.”
“From what?”
“Oh, life.” That much was true. She thought of the restlessness that had plagued her of late. “You know, you get tired of being stuck at home.”
“Where’s home?”
“San Francisco.”
Genuine pleasure slid over his features. “No kidding? That’s my stomping grounds.”
“Really? Small world. What are you here for?”
“I’m doing a series on poker. I’m a sportswriter for the Globe.”
“You’re a journalist?” Gwen asked faintly. That was all she needed—a curious reporter around.
Again he gave her that look. “I don’t think I’d dignify it with that word necessarily. Let’s just say I can bang out twenty column inches on the Giants versus the Dodgers by deadline.”
“You don’t sound thrilled with it.” The waitress set their drinks down in front of them.
Del shrugged. “It’s a living. What about you?”
Gwen swirled her brandy glass to buy time. Lying wasn’t in her nature. Then again, the last thing she wanted to do was give any personal details to a reporter, especially to a reporter who was entirely too interested in her earlier gaffes already. Even if he was a sportswriter. “I’m an accountant,” she told him. It wasn’t really a lie. She did the books at Chastain Philatelic Investments. She just did a whole lot more.
“Seriously?” He grinned, sending a little flutter through her midsection. He was so close, she realized suddenly. Close enough to whisper. Close enough to kiss.
Gwen blinked. “Yes, seriously. Why, what did you think I did?”
“I don’t know. But I could have guessed a couple dozen possible occupations for you and none of them would have included accounting.”
She could just imagine. “So, what occupations were in your couple dozen?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said offhandedly, “neurosurgeon, astrophysicist, president of the World Bank…”
“You know, if you’d have said lingerie model, I’d have had to belt you.” She reached out a hand to mime slapping him. He caught it in his and held it to his face.
Heat bloomed through her. Sensation piled on sensation, the rough stubble of his day’s growth of beard, the strength of his fingers on hers, the slight calluses on his palm.
It lasted only a second or two and drove every thought out of her head except the desire for more.
Del released her hand, changing his hold to bring her fingers to his lips. Warm and soft enough to make her melt. “Whatever you do, I’m sure you’re very, very good,” he murmured.
Eyes wide, Gwen sat stock-still, forcing herself to breathe. “I…excuse me for a minute,” she managed to say and stood up on knees that trembled only a little.
DEL SAT WATCHING HER WALK away and waiting for the drumming in his head to stop. He hadn’t been able to resist the impulse to touch her. The sudden urge to have her had surprised him, though. He considered himself a civilized man, but there was nothing civilized about this overwhelming need to drive himself into her deep and hard.
Colorful fish circled lazily in the aquarium beyond. He’d sat down at the blackjack table for a change of pace, to kill a couple of hours, not to hook up with a woman. Then Nina had sat down, fragrant, silky and looking hot enough to melt wax.
It wasn’t completely outside his experience to have a woman hit on him, but it certainly wasn’t his normal style to bite. He’d learned from personal experience—in his relationships and in his professional life—that the easy pickings were generally not the way to satisfaction, they were just…easy.
There was something about her, though, more than the looks. The combination of the promise in that wide mouth and the sharp intelligence in those eyes had captured his attention utterly. But something else was going on, something more than blackjack, more than sexual jousting. What about the consternation over his name? And why had she pumped him so hard about his friends?
And how was it that he didn’t really give a damn about any of it, so long as he could have her?
He watched her cross the room toward him again, in her low-cut jeans and skimpy, fire-engine-red T-shirt. The confidence was back in her swagger, in the toss of her head. For a moment earlier she’d seemed like a high school girl, completely undone by his move. It seemed incongruous for a woman who looked the way Nina did, a woman who’d probably been romanced every way possible.
“Welcome back,” he said as she sat.
“Thanks. I’m happy to be here.”
He grinned and raised his beer. “Well, here’s to being here.” Her eyes watched him over the rim of her glass, the deep aqua of the Caribbean. Her scent drifted across to him, something that whispered of dark nights and forbidden passion. “So, how’d you get so good at blackjack?” he asked.
“My grandfather’s got a weekly game. Blackjack, poker, whatever. I usually sit in with them.”
“Win much?”
She shrugged. “I walk away with my share of pots.”
“That’s because you’ve got a genetic advantage.” He propped his chin in his hand. “They probably can’t concentrate a lick with someone who looks like you at the table, and on top of that you’re smart.”
He
