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Wetoasted.Iwaited untilDamondrank his before tasting mine.Itwas an old habit.IfIdidn’t serve the alcohol myself or left a drink unattended, then my companion needed to be the poison taster, especially if he was twice my size and could easily overpower me while my defenses were down.Yes, my paranoia was out of control.Yearsof lectures about the safety of theAmbaniclan had rubbed off.Itwas drilled into our heads that people wanted what we had.
Thebubbles tickled my throat from the long sip.Iset the glass down on the blackjack table but feltDamon’sscorching hot gaze crawling over my skin as if watching me was his greatest pleasure in life.Itwas the same during the short drive to the hotel and on the plane.
Thedealer asked us to place our bets, forcingDamonto retreat.Hereluctantly turned his attention to the table, taking another sip of his drink.Ifollowed his example, my mind wandering.
Weplayed numerous hands, and before long,Icaught ontoDamon'sskillful strategies.Iwasn't the only one counting cards.Damonknew the number of decks in play and which cards had been dealt, staying or hitting on the dealt hands accordingly.
Neverin a million years didIexpectDamonMaxwellto have a dark side.Orperhaps this side always existed, but he only allowed me a glimpse of it.
Ileaned over and whispered, "Iwasn't expecting this from the golden boy ofNewYork.”
"Ihave no idea what you're talking about,"Damonreplied innocently.
Ipointedly eyed his mounting pile of chips.
"It’scalled beginner's luck."
Itwasn't. “Sure.”Iraised my glass. “Toyour hidden talents.”
Heclinked our flutes. “Toourmany skills.”
Thetrepidation whereDamonwas concerned lessened a little with his playfulness.Oureyes locked, the electricity intensifying even during a good-humored moment.
Damonsat back in his chair the same way he did everything else, shoulders relaxed, one hand on the blackjack table like he owned the place.Othermen at the table felt innately threatened and unconsciously mimicked the pose, desperate to master the auraDamonpossessed without trying.Hiscommanding presence filled the room and drew attention, especially from women.
FemmeFatalereturned and placed a hand onDamon’sshoulder with a sultry, “CanIget you something else, hun?”Thequestion left little to the imagination whether she was offering a drink, a phone number, a quickie in the bathroom, or a combination of all three.Shedidn’t bother asking anyone else at the table for their drink orders.
Damongave her a flippant, “No, thanks,” before pulling my chair closer and grabbing my waist untilIwas practically sitting on his lap.Thesubtle letdown was evident in his actions since she could no longer stand between us and hit on him with her back to me.Itdidn’t stop her from leaving a napkin with her phone number.Sheplaced it next toDamon’schips, and when an older gentleman at our table covered his mouth and nose to sneeze,Damonextended the napkin to him, letting his snot ruin the heart drawn next toFemmeFatale’snumber.
Werethis an isolated incident, it would’ve been fine.Butseveral other servers tried their luck withDamon, causing my traitorous ears to perk for his answer.Someof them didn’t even work for the hotel.Womenflat-out askedDamonif he wanted a drink or to join them at the bar.
Curiosityfinally got the better of me. “Dothese women know who you are?”Photographymight not be allowed near the casino tables, but people would’ve still discreetly taken pictures ofDamonif they recognized him.
“No,”Damonreplied curtly.
Ifrowned because he was telling the truth.Peoplein our city were familiar withDamon’sface because he was from the area.Manymight be familiar with the name nationwide, butIdoubted they’d recognize him in person.Theoretically, only a select few could pick out a philanthropicCEOfrom a crowd.
“Sowomen are obsessed with you regardless of celebrity status.”Thisshouldn’t have been news to me.
Damonappeared uncomfortable with the question and tried to downplay his effect on women. “Theyare just trolling for tips.”
“Someof those women aren’t even servers,”Ipointed out when another discreetly folded a cocktail napkin and slid it toDamon.Heimmediately brushed it off the table as if it were contaminated, the tissue falling dramatically on the ground.Thesly woman looked hurt.
“Ithas nothing to do with me.”
“Exceptfor how you look and dress and your body.”Ilet my finger slice vertically through the air, motioning at all of him.
“Exactly.Womenbecome infatuated with an outer package because of what they thinkIcan give them.Thosefeelings aren’t real.Theydon’t know anything about me.”Damonleveled me, needing me to understand an important distinction.
Itdawned on me why the topic made him tense.Damonwas referring toRose.Hewouldn’t speak poorly of her in front of me, but he wanted me to identify her feelings as superficial.Iblocked the thought with great effort and diverted my attention to the table.
Timeslowed asDamonplayed in synchrony with me.Hemirrored my choices, andIrealized he intentionally lost or won so it would work out in my favor.Theunspoken connection grew stronger with each hand.
Justwhen we were on a roll,Damonsuggested, “Let’sgo to the next table."
Igave him an inquisitive look.
Helowered his voice to state, “We’vewon too many hands at this table.”
