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She wanted to be his, if only for a moment.
But with all his accolades and his “American Dream Success” stories, this man probably had a perfect life. That meant he expected a polished girlfriend and wife, and the expectation of flawlessness was an area she knew too well.
The perfect daughter.
The perfect sister.
The perfect image of dark-skinned beauty.
More than likely, he would spend their entire relationship trying to mold her into something she wasn’t, somethinghewanted, and she’d spent too many years learning to love the woman she was to let that happen.
“All right, Mrs. Saraci.” He took a sip of his whiskey sour. “Let’s begin.”
* * *
The game started innocently enough.
About an hour and a couple more drinks in, she found herself on her knees on the chair, bent over, her forehead pressed against the tabletop. Lucas’ fingers played in the flat-ironed strands of her hair as he taunted her with words she only half heard. Between the drinks, and the fact that room service had yet to arrive with their meals, they tiptoed the line between tipsy and drunk as hell.
So far, she’d won three hundred dollars, his watch, the return of her phone, and him agreeing to sit across from her shirtless.
He won back half of the three hundred dollars, the return of his watch, and for her to agree to be his date for a physician’s ball later that year. Now, her hotel room key was up for grabs.
“You have to show your hand, Mrs. Saraci.”
She had a straight—six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. It was a strong hand, and one she was certain would beat whatever he was holding, but she’d agreed to the wager because shewantedhim to have her room key. Whether that meant a one-night stand or them sharing a bed where she would shamelessly curl into his warmth all night—perhaps even nuzzle—she didn’t care.
Lucas tapped the table. “Cards, my dove.”
“Fine.” She raised her head, sighed, and laid her cards on the table. “A straight, my emu.”
His eyes widened. “A straight? I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I’m better at this than I appear.”
“Raina, you’ve been kicking my ass for the better part of an hour. On the contrary, you appear very good at this.” He tapped his cards against his palm. “A straight, huh?”
“Yep. Your turn, my ostrich.”
“Maybe the next thing I’ll wager is a better nickname.”
“What if I call you,” she smoothed his tie, which had ended up around her neck at some point, “my penguin? It’s distinguished.”
He smiled.
Then she learned why he didn’t do it more. The world wouldn’t be able to handle a Lucas Saraci who smiled often. Maybe her next wager would be him agreeing to do a photoshoot with her before she retired at the end of the year.
Twelve years was enough, and she hoped her mother was satisfied. She’d gone into modeling at her mother’s insistence because, as her mother had put it, the world needed to see more girls and women with her complexion.
Over the years, she’d seen Duckie Thot, Leomie Anderson, Khoudia Diop, and Lupita Nyong’o rise to become highly-circulating names in the modeling industry, both high-fashion and retail. As far as she was concerned, they would carry the mantle with grace.
“My penguin,” she tapped the tip of her fingernail on the tabletop, “the room is waiting.”
“Give me a better nickname,” he said. “Then I’ll show you my cards.”
“What’s the capital of Belgium?”
He frowned. “Why are you giving me a geography quiz?”
