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Thank God, Sam thought, eyes burning, body alternately hot and cold. He was done. It was over. Let them go home now and figure out what they were going to do. “Johann—”
“Be quiet,” he snapped.
She flushed, bit her tongue, knowing the man called Bartolo watched and listened to everything. She knew Bartolo had watched her tonight, too, had felt his gaze rest on her repeatedly, and each of his inspections grew longer, heavier, more personal until she thought she’d scream for relief. He made her feel strange.
He made her feel alone. And hopelessly vulnerable.
It wasn’t a way she wanted to feel. Not now, not ever.
But now Bartolo smiled lazily as he lay down his own cards. “You were on a winning streak for a while.”
“I nearly had you,” Johann agreed, signaling for another round of drinks.
Sam’s hands tightened on her knee, convulsively squeezing her kneecap. No more liquor, she prayed, no more liquor tonight. Let’s just go, Johann. Let’s leave here…
“So close,” Bartolo said.
Sam hated Bartolo then, realizing for the first time that he had been expertly baiting Johann tonight, egging him on. But for what purpose? He’d already stripped Johann of everything—house, wealth, respect. What else was there to take?
Johann nodded. “So close.” He paused, studied the other man. “One more hand?” he proposed, taking the bait.
The air bottled inside Sam’s chest and her nails dug into her hands. Damn Bartolo, and damn Johann. Johann couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t possibly think he’d win, not playing Bartolo, and certainly not after drinking. “Johann.”
“Shut up,” Johann said without looking at her.
She flushed with fresh shame but she wasn’t going to shut up, wasn’t going to let this slaughter continue. Bartolo was amoral. But she knew what was right, and this wasn’t right. “Come home with me now, Johann. Please.”
“I told you to shut up,” Johann snapped.
The heat scorched her face. It was humiliating being here, humiliating running after a man, begging a man to stop, think, pay attention. But she’d do what she had to do. She’d do anything for little Gabriela.
“Johann,” she pleaded softly.
Johann ignored her. But Bartolo looked at her, a long measured look that went straight through her. A look that said he was merciless and proud, hard and unforgiving. Ruthless. Savage.
Bloodthirsty.
She leaned forward, touched Johann’s shoulder. “Johann, I beg you—”
Johann reached up, shoved her hand off. “Go home before I ask that hotel security walk you out.”
“You can’t continue,” she whispered, face, body, skin aflame. She was mortified, and terrified. The future had never seemed as dark as it did that moment.
Johann looked up, nodded at the plain suited security guard standing just inside the VIP room’s door. “Could you please see the baroness out?” he asked, even as he took the fresh cocktail from the waitress. “She is ready to go home.”
All eyes but Johann’s were on her but she didn’t move, didn’t even flinch despite the plainclothes security guard at her elbow. “This isn’t right,” she said out loud.
But no one answered her and she felt Bartolo’s eyes. His gaze burned, seared. Punished.
The guard bent his head, murmured, “Madame, please.”
Madame, please leave without making a scene. Madame, go home while your husband loses everything and everyone…
Furiously, reluctantly, Sam stood, her gown’s white jersey fabric falling in long elegant folds. “If you can’t think of me, Johann, can you please think of Gabby?”
He didn’t answer her. He didn’t look as if he’d heard her. Instead he was drinking hard, throwing back his cocktail even as the dealer was dealing a new hand.
Escorted by hotel security, Sam walked silently through the casino overwhelmed by the clink and bells and whistles of the one-arm bandits edging the casino floor. She hated casinos, hated the noise, the garish colors and lights, the artificial glamour that seduced so many.
Fortunately the security didn’t touch her, push her or rush her. There was no hurry. She, like the hotel staff, knew what happened now was beyond her control. No one would stop a gambler, not even a compulsive gambler. Monte Carlo had been built on the backs of those with deep pockets and a dearth of self-restraint.
