Page 33 of New Orleans Rush

His throat turned scratchy. He undid the top button of his shirt. “Thank you for thinking about us. About the show.”

“My pleasure.” Her low tone matched his.

They stared at each other, an electric charge vibrating between them.

For a moment, his brothers disappeared. His worries vanished. Her gray gaze slid down his body, and his blood trumpeted. He craved this consuming connection, to feel like they were the only two people in the world. If her rapt attention was any indication, she was as eager as he was to pick up where they’d left off.

“Time for you two to get gone.” He spoke to his brothers but kept his focus on Beatrice. “We’ll start the new act and music Saturday.”

“I’ll work on promoting it,” she said, sliding closer to his side.

“This is gonna be a blast.” Axel smacked the door jam on his way out. “Look out New Orleans!”

Fox dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a gold ring and watch. He dropped them on the makeup table. “Use these at Saturday’s poker game. And make sure you win big. I’ve got the music covered.”

Half his attention still on Beatrice, Huxley didn’t miss how her head jolted, like she’d been slapped, or the slight heave of her belly in her tight bodysuit. Her gaze was fixed on Fox’s loot—spoils he’d likely picked from a pickpocket’s pocket. The risky stunt would normally send Huxley into a rage, but he couldn’t focus on much besides Beatrice’s glassy eyes.

The poker game. Gambling. He expected this to be a trigger for her. He’d just hoped to get to know her better, build a foundation, before explaining the games.

His insides twisted.

Fox left, taking the warmth in the room with him.

“It’s not what you think.” Huxley spoke too fast, the way a guilty person spewed untruths. She was looking everywhere else but at him. His words flowed into the tense silence. “It’s a game between fellow magicians. We’re allowed to cheat. We do it for bragging rights more than to win, but I need the cash to fix the building. It’s not an addiction for me. Not like your father.”

The more he went on, the more her shoulders curved forward. He was talking himself into a sinkhole and didn’t know how to stop. “Beatrice, please. It’s just a stupid game. It’s not a big deal.”

She flinched, and he regretted his words instantly.

“It shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is for me.” She met his imploring gaze, her usually rainstorm eyes drizzly and somber. “I won’t date a man who gambles, and I know we haven’t known each other long, but hooking up with you would be too intense to be casual.”

Her admission of their undeniable attraction lodged in his throat. He’d joined the poker match nine years ago, because his father had played. It was another way to keep Max Marlow’s legacy alive. To feel close to the man. It was fun and challenging and sharpened his sleight of hand. It paid the bills now, but it didn’t make him see sunshine on a partly cloudy day. It was a pastime. Nothing more. One that was coming between him and a woman who’d painted the word smile on her steering wheel.

“There’s been a blight complaint against the theater. If I don’t get it up to code in a month, I could lose it. Your suggestions to increase attendance have been great, and more appreciated than you know, but it won’t be enough. I need to play.”

“The fact that you need these wins is too much for me. I can’t have that in my life.” She picked a stray feather from her hip and released it. His hope hovered with the plumage, until it hit the floor. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get changed and head home. I told my friend I wouldn’t be too late.”

Right. Her friend. She was seconds from agreeing to a night of abandon with him, but his obligations had once again derailed his life. Angry with himself and his situation, he turned to leave, but paused. He couldn’t let her go, couldn’t walk out the door without leaving it open a crack. “I’m sorry for saying it isn’t a big deal. It is. It was insensitive of me.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He swallowed roughly. “You were right about something else, too.”

“About what?” Her breathy voice was hesitant.

One foot out the door, he said, “Nothing between us would be casual.”

13

Huxley used to enjoy his weekly poker games. He’d get off on pulling the wool over his associates’ eyes or calling them out when catching a false shuffle or sloppy deck stacking. He’d head home with a piece of jewelry or two, a stack of bills and an easy contentment, then pawn what he could to pay his brothers. It kept Edna on the payroll, so she could doze in the ticket booth and terrify potential vandals. The rest of his winnings would cover his rent and get siphoned back into the building. The gambling had been his mainstay, a moment away from his worries and a way to keep afloat.

Tonight was the second game since meeting Beatrice, and he resented every puff of Oliphant’s cigar, every bat of Ms. Terious’s gold eyelashes. The only place he wanted to be was with a woman who had quit him cold turkey.

The past ten days he had rehearsed and performed with Beatrice, but her natural brightness had dimmed. She still laughed with Axel and poked fun at Fox until both men were putty in her hands. With him, her interactions had felt muted, like an invisible fog separated them. She hadn’t tried to dance with him or tease his surliness. When their routine had her touching his arm or back, she’d break contact at first chance.

She’d steal glances at him, though, lingering past discretion, her brow lifted in longing. Frustration and hunger would pool in his gut.

They both wanted each other. They both kept away. Him, out of respect for the hell her father had put her through. Her, out of fear. He understood the why of it and had given up hope they could surmount their differences. That didn’t make inhaling her watermelon scent easy to bear.