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Cal didn’t argue. He studied the two cards. Neither were marked in any way that he could discern. There was no way to know if MacDonald wanted him to choose a particular card.
His gaze drifted to the card on the right. The one that would have been dealt to him. It might be smarter to take the one on the left, MacDonald’s card, but that right card called to him. Cal was a man who believed in luck. But he believed even more in intuition. It had kept him alive. And his intuition told him to take the card on the right.
He placed his finger on it and slid it before him, not turning it over.
MacDonald did the same with the remaining card.
Cal looked at MacDonald. The man nodded. Together they turned their cards over. MacDonald had a three, and Cal wanted to curse. And then the crowd erupted in cheers, and he looked at his own cards.
An ace. He had an ace.
“Twenty-one!” Bridget squealed in his ear. “You did it!”
Cal didn’t think. He pulled her into his lap and kissed her. She froze at first, just long enough for him to remember that she wasn’t his. Not really.
And then she kissed him back.
He ended it abruptly, not wanting her to kiss him for show, and she ducked her head, cheeks pink with embarrassment. She scrambled off his lap.
“Tomorrow night at my house,” MacDonald said, holding a hand out. Cal stood and took it. MacDonald leaned close. “I’ll meet you here at noon and take you meself. I don’t like my residence to be public knowledge.”
Cal tried to turn his thoughts away from the game as MacDonald and Aoife finally departed. He shooed the last of the patrons out the door, swept, cleared tables, lifted chairs, but nothing could quell the thirst vingt-et-un had wakened.
He had a bit of coin in his pocket. Sure and Donnelly had explained how thin the pub profits were after rent and expenses were subtracted. It hadn’t surprised Cal. It wasn’t as though Baron or his agents had set the place up to turn a profit.
Maybe Cal could help with that. He’d borrow a bit of what they’d taken in tonight and find another game. He could double or triple their earnings.
He’d just pocketed the extra blunt when Bridget came in from the kitchens, where she’d been washing dishes. She smiled at him, having no idea he had stolen money burning in his pocket.
She was so pretty, and he couldn’t help think of how she’d looked splayed on the pub table. That was another reason he needed a card game. He couldn’t lie beside her and not touch her tonight. How much torment could one man endure? He’d earned a game of cards. He wouldn’t drink. He’d play one game. Maybe two. He deserved that much.
“What’s wrong?” Her smile faded.
“Not a thing,” Cal lied, his voice utterly convincing. He was an excellent liar.
“Oh. You had a strange look on your face.”
“I was just thinking how pretty you look.” Another lie, but only a partial one.
She looked down at her dress, now wrinkled and with damp spots where dishwater had splashed it. “Hardly.”
“Let’s go home,” he said, walking to the coat rack and helping her into her coat.
He pulled his own on and offered his arm.
She took it.
It was a short walk but long enough for Cal to think of an excuse to leave her when they reached the house. He felt the familiar sense of shame creeping over him—shame at lying, shame at what he was about to do. But shame had rarely stopped him before. He opened the door then the one to their chambers, and she lit the lamps then shrugged out of her coat.
When he didn’t do likewise, she raised a brow.
“I need a bit of air,” he said. “I won’t be late.”
He turned back toward the door and pulled it open.
“Callahan, don’t.”
***
