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"There are lots of variations of the game, sometimes the cards are up, sometimes hidden, sometimes a mix of both," he continued as he watched her, "but usually they're hidden and we're going to start with the basics of that. We'll look at each other's hands as you learn so I can explain it better."
Emma nodded her head in agreement.
"The object of the game is to have the best hand, and therefore win the pot."
"I thought there was supposed to be skill to poker. If the best hand dealt wins, where does skill come into it?"
"Nice question, sweetheart. There is skill involved and you'll learn the hows and whys of it as we go."
She looked at him with suspicion as if he were holding something back she needed to know.
"Don't look at me that way. I'm not trying to pull the wool over your eyes."
"Go on."
He turned over the five cards in front of her and the five cards in front of him. She had a pair of three's and nothing else. He had nothing. "If you didn't have that pair of three's, I would win with a single high card. My jack is higher than your highest card which is a ten. But since you do have a pair, you win. A pair of anything beats any single high card." He looked up to see if she was following him. "Understand?"
"Yes," she answered with a roll of her eyes.
He chuckled and moved her glass of whiskey in front of her. He picked up his glass and took a sip, savoring the flavor of the aged bourbon on his palate. "Take a sip and we'll keep going."
She picked up the glass and took a tiny sip.
She looked back at him to find him silently studying her lips. Each time he looked at her in that way, Emma felt the pull between them grow stronger. She didn't know if it was his nearness or the whiskey, or both, but her senses were in such a spin she was almost dizzy with it.
They watched each other in silence until he seemed to shake himself and he looked back at the cards. "Right. So, two pair of anything beats one pair."
Her eyes landed on his index finger tapping one of the cards. The sip of whiskey was warming her insides and she smiled at him. "Yes, sir." Emma was shocked to hear the tease in her voice.
"Three of a kind beats two pair, pretty girl."
Her eyes flew to his.
"Don't look at me like that. You know you're pretty."
Her stomach jangled with excitement and a tiny glow of warmth from his compliment seared through her, but her eyes nervously dropped from his.
His hand shot to her face and lifted her chin and her eyes flew to his. "You're pretty." His eyes ran over her face. "From your pink lips to your silky hair, everything about you is pretty. I can't believe your husband didn't tell you so all the time."
Luke felt her creamy skin under his fingers and knew a moment of guilt for being glad the other man was dead. But that's the way it was and nothing he could do could change it. He was glad the other man didn't walk the earth anymore. If he had, Emma wouldn't be sitting in his kitchen, blushing like fire, and about to lose badly at poker. His eyes fastened on her lips. "A straight beats three of a kind." He ran his fingers over her lips. "You know what a straight is?"
When she shook her head, her skin moved over his fingers and heat slid down his spine. He forced himself to concentrate. "A straight is five cards in a row in numerical order, doesn't matter what suit."
He continued speaking at her silence. "A flush beats a straight. A flush is five cards, same suit, doesn't matter the numbers." She had a faraway look in her eye and Luke dropped his hand from her face and picked up her glass and she took a sip at his bidding.
He tried to hurry to get through the basics of the hands. "Full house comes next. Three of a kind and a pair."
She remained silent and he knew the alcohol was burning through her system and she probably hadn't retained anything since three of a kind. "You following?"
She nodded her head in agreement.
"Four of a kind beats a full house. Straight flush comes next and is five cards in sequence, same suit. The royal straight flush is the highest, five cards all in the same suit." He ran through the remaining hands and knew there wasn't a chance in hell of her remembering even half of it.
Chapter Eight
Emma sat on her chair, a tiny, euphoric warmth beating in her veins as she listened to the slow cadence of Luke's deep voice. The whiskey tasted like the nastiest stuff on earth, but the heady feeling it generated seemed well worth the disgusting taste.
She'd lost the gist of the rules a long time ago, but she'd pretended to pay attention and refused to admit she had not a single clue how to play this complicated game.
She kept repeating in her head the one rule that she did understand. Don't bet what you can't stand to lose. That should be simple enough. If she followed that axiom, she should get through this without a scrape.
She watched as Luke dealt them each a new hand, face down. He picked his cards up, and glanced at them, but didn't move them around.
"Go on," he told her.
Emma picked up the hand she'd been dealt and tried to concentrate on what he had told her. She had a pair of fives. One was black and one was red. Did that matter? She moved the red five and slipped it beside the black five so they would be together.
She looked up at him and waited to see what came next.
He laid down his cards. "I don't have squat. You?"
She smiled and showed him her fives.
"Very good."
He dealt several more hands in that manner until she became a little more familiar with the game.
Then the game started for real, he shuffled the deck, and told her to ante up.
"Ante up?" She was sure she hadn't heard him use that term as of yet.
"Twenty-five matchsticks." He quickly counted out the matchsticks from his pile and she did the same. "That's your ante." He took what was left of the matchsticks from both their piles and put them back in the box.
"Of course," she played along.
Next, he dealt her five cards again. Likewise, he dealt himself the same. "Take a look at your cards, without me seeing them this time, and make your bet."
She took a peak at her cards. "I don't have much."
"Then don't bet all your matchsticks."
She pushed out five and he moved them to the center and pushed his five matchsticks out to meet hers. "I just called your bet."
As Emma studied her cards, he explained about drawing more cards, and he could almost see her concentrating on trying to make the best hand she could. She threw away two cards and he dealt her two more. Almost immediately, she began wriggling on her seat as she looked up at him. This was going to be like taking candy from a baby.
Luke threw down three cards and dealt himself three more. "Your bet," he said to her. "You can either bet five more or double it to ten more, but since we only have so many matchsticks, I'd stick with five if I were you."
Emma pushed out five more and so did Luke.
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They flipped their cards over and Emma won that round handily.
They played several more and each time, Luke let her win almost every hand. He came out on top just enough so she wouldn't get suspicious.
And then he went in for the kill.
He systematically won enough hands in a row that he held almost all the matchsticks, and dealt the cards once again. Emma anted up, and he could tell she thought she had him.
"It's not fair! Why do I have to be out of matchsticks now?" she wailed.
Luke rubbed his chin thoughtfully and pretended to think it through. "When you're playing this game, at a time like this, you have to figure your options and know how good your hand is."
"My options?"
"Well, usually in poker, an IOU is acceptable tender. But you gotta be really certain you have a winning hand, or else you'll find yourself in the hole and owing more than you can pay, or betting something you never should have."
Emma looked at her hand again and tried to concentrate. "I know my hand is a winner."
"You know it, sweetheart?" he asked her with a gleam in his eye and a half-smile on his lips.
Emma stuck her tongue out at him in playful retaliation. "I know it, Luke."
"Well, you have to come up with something else for the wager, sweetheart, because you're out of matchsticks."
"I don't have anything else." She looked deep in thought for a moment and then straightened in her seat. "How about if I lose the hand, I'll bake you cookies tomorrow? I bake the best cookies!"
"Do you?" He couldn't keep his eyes off her. She was flushed and excited from the game, and there was a glitter of happiness coming from her eyes.
"I do indeed," she boasted softly.
"If you say so," he drawled. "But I'm too fat already. Think of something else."
Emma looked at him with skepticism. He didn't have an ounce of fat on him. His body was lean and muscular, his sinewy strength a beacon that had been calling her continually for days. Maybe he just didn't like sweets. She'd never seen him eat any cake or pie or the like.
