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“My friend.”
“Oh.” I nibble on my lip, thoughts scattering. “Why is that again?”
“It’s a game he and I play.” His gaze lowers to my mouth. “But right now, I’d rather play with you.”
The limo slows, and as we pass through the gates of a sprawling estate, I let out a breath of relief. “Looks like we’re here.”
Ford sighs as I move off his lap. “Playing hard to get only makes me want you more.”
“I’m not playing hard to get.”
His lips curve into a mischievous grin. “Saying it’s not a game to you is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. How do you expect a man to resist?”
“I don’t expect anything from you, Mr. Stryker, except for you to hold up your end of the bargain.” My tone is harsh, but my anger is self-directed for feeling any amount of attraction to him. The men in the Brotherhood have twisted me into a sexually confused pretzel.
“Don’t worry, my queen. You’ll get your weekend with Sebastian.”
The limo comes to a stop in front of a lit up Renaissance style estate the size of most government capitol buildings. The chauffeur opens the door, and Ford and I dart through the rain to the front entrance, where a doorman allows us entry. The interior is no less stunning than Zodiac Estate, with immaculate marble flooring, two-story columns, and a grand double staircase situated under a domed chandelier. The symmetry is breathtaking.
A line of guests passes through an archway on the left. Ford extends his arm, revealing a chivalrous side of his character I wouldn’t have guessed existed, and we follow the stream of people into a room with a cathedral ceiling. A massive stone fireplace sets the place aglow, while oversized windows offer an alluring view of the moonlit sea.
Most intriguing are the kidney-shaped tables positioned strategically around the room, their tops covered in black felt and mahogany trim.
“What’s going on here?” I ask as guests begin claiming the vacant seats.
Ford settles his palm on the small of my back. “It’s a private gambling shindig.”
“Is this even legal?”
Ford’s eyes twinkle. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
I’m taking in the scene when a guy waves in our direction. He’s seated at a table on the far side of the humongous room, a brunette bombshell decorating his lap. As we approach, the dark-haired stranger rises from his seat and sets the woman on her feet. All evidence points to him being Ford’s so-called friend.
The man that my virginal presence is supposed to make jealous.
“Who’s your gorgeous date?” The man’s startling blue eyes linger on me like an obscene caress, a flirtatious grin creasing the edges.
“Novalee Van Buren,” Ford says. “I’d like to introduce you to Axel Ivermann.”
“So this is the queen everyone’s heard so much about.” The other man offers his hand, and when I slide my palm along his, he lifts it to his lips, brushing a lingering kiss there. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sweetheart.”
“You as well,” I say, my proper upbringing rearing its ugly head, though inwardly, I cringe, finding the endearment inappropriate and condescending.
The woman next to him clears her throat, and Axel drapes an arm around her shoulders. “My apologies. This is Dedra. She just landed a modeling gig for some hotshot clothing designer.”
“Alejandro Von Jean.” She stares down her nose at me. “You might have heard of him.”
“I have. I’m a fan of his work.”
“Novalee is a designer herself,” Ford speaks up. “She’s debuting next month at the Fashion Festival in Los Angeles.”
Growing uncomfortable with the one-upmanship, I gesture at the table Axel and his date were seated at. “I take it you guys are playing tonight?”
“Of course.”
“Shall we sit?” I ask, hoping to get the evening moving along so we can end it that much faster.
Ford treats me to a smile full of debauchery that has no business coming to fruition among mixed company. Before I can protest, he grabs me around the waist.
