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I didn’t understand my reaction to him. The only thing I did know was that I couldn’t let him see it—or I would be completely at the mercy of it, and him. But the more I tried to control my physical responses, the harder they became to hide. And the more difficult I found it to keep my mind on the game.
I should have bet on that hand. I knew the probability he had a better one was fractionally greater than mine, given the way he had betted during the blinds, but if I never tested him, never lost, he would begin to suspect I had a system. The problem was, I had been avoiding going head to head with him all night, the fear of exposing the strange currents gripping my body too great to risk it.
But as soon as I’d folded again, and saw his jaw tense, the rush of exhilaration at frustrating him was like a drug, intoxicating me. As a result I had been incapable of stopping myself from lifting my head and staring directly at him.
He remained calm, the tensing of his jaw easing, and then his lips curved in a sensual smile that fed the rush of adrenaline.
I ripped my gaze away before he could see more. But I knew it was already too late. The giddy longing must have been written all over my face.
My breathing stopped. It just stopped. I had to fight for the next breath, but as I forced my lungs to function in an even rhythm again, my nipples became so hard they felt as if they were going to poke right through my dress.
I listened to the play continue around me, as Allegri finished off Galanti. The motor-racing entrepreneur subsided with good grace, throwing his pair of aces down with a hollow laugh when Allegri turned over his winning hand—a two to match the pair of twos already on the table.
‘Damn it, Dante, one of these days, I swear your luck will run out,’ Galanti said.
‘Keep dreaming, Alexi,’ Allegri said as he began methodically stacking the pile of chips he’d won.
Galanti cast a look my way as he knocked back the last of his whisky. ‘Ma
ybe Miss Spencer has your number?’ Standing to leave the table, he offered me his hand. ‘You’ve been an impressive and beautiful opponent, Edie,’ he said with deliberate familiarity, the look in his eyes flirtatious.
‘Thank you, Mr Galanti,’ I said. As we shook hands, I tried to figure out why I had no reaction to this man and yet was finding it so hard to control the one I had to Allegri.
‘Good luck,’ Galanti said. ‘Maybe we could meet afterwards for a drink?’ he added. ‘I’m going to try my luck at the roulette table next, so I’ll be around to celebrate with you when you beat this bastard.’
The vote of confidence surprised me, but the invitation surprised me more—I made an effort to make myself invisible whenever I was around men. Both Jude and I had learned instinctively to shy away from male attention, thanks to the endless stream of lovers my mother had brought into our lives as teenagers.
The decision to decline Galanti’s invitation was instant and unequivocal. But as I opened my mouth to cry off, Allegri spoke.
‘Get lost, Alexi. Miss Spencer is out of bounds—she’s all mine now.’
Galanti laughed and left, apparently unaware of the subtle edge in Allegri’s voice. But I’d heard it, along with the hint of possessiveness.
She’s all mine now.
What was that supposed to mean?
I made the mistake of looking at him again, and my blood pressure spiked on cue. He was watching me, the way he had been all night. But, instead of frustration, all I saw now was satisfaction, and challenge, daring me to react to his outrageous remark.
He finished shuffling the cards, his strong wrists and capable fingers flexing in practised motion, never taking his gaze off me.
The tension in the room increased as the door closed behind Galanti, leaving us alone in the plush salon. The huge mullioned window gave us a spectacular view of the bay, the boats moored in the marina adding a sprinkle of lights to the dark sea, but the overwhelmingly masculine space, luxuriously furnished in leather and mahogany in accents of green and brown, suddenly seemed dangerous... And exciting.
Allegri had dismissed the serving staff over an hour ago. At the time it had seemed a generous gesture—it had been past midnight. But now we were alone together I was wondering if he had planned it.
For the first time, the strange melting sensation at my core and the panic it caused was joined by a spark of anger at his proprietary comment to Galanti.
I’d spent the last year of my life being bullied and belittled by Carsoni and his hired muscle—I didn’t like it.
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t make decisions for me, Mr Allegri,’ I said, in as placid a voice as I could muster while I was burning up with indignation.
‘And what decision would that be?’ he asked, cutting the pack one-handed.
‘The decision to have a drink with Mr Galanti,’ I huffed, indignation getting the better of me.
‘As you had already decided to give him the brush-off,’ he said, ‘I hardly think I took the decision away from you.’
He cut the cards again, and smiled that sensual smile—which did diabolical things to my heart rate. The arrogant comment rattled me, but it infuriated me more, loosening my tongue.
