Desire. Cindy Jacks

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ amounts of rum restored Bacchus to his senses. The yacht had an ample supply, and he was grateful. Rum also made Pan’s hours of poker instruction more bearable.

      “You’re sure you can remember all this, sire?” Pan planted his haunches on the dense carpet.

      “If I could, as a youth, turn fermented grapes into the beauty that is wine, I can surely master one insignificant card game.” Still, this insignificant card game stood between him and his beautiful Ariana. Best to keep practicing though a diligent student Bacchus had never been.

      “I miss the days when we could unleash the maenads on an enemy and be done with it.”

      “As do I, but I no longer have those sort of resources at my command. So, I must work with what I’ve got. Thanks for bringing some of my special brew. How did you sneak this out of the palace?”

      He stamped a hoof as his lips twisted into a sly grin. “I have my ways, sire.”

      “After a nip of this, my gaming skill won’t really matter. They’ll hardly be able to hold their cards, much less best me. I’ll wrest her from his clutches one way or another.”

      “This woman is that extraordinary?”

      “She’s extra extraordinary, Panny. She doesn’t deserve to be used as a common whore. Not that there’s anything wrong with prostitution, mind you, but it should be a lady’s choice to profit from her skills, not something forced upon her.”

      “Of course, sire.”

      Bacchus smoothed a burgundy dress shirt over his muscular abdomen. “How’s this one?”

      Pan brushed a bit of lint off his lord’s shoulder. “You always look smashing in anything wine-colored.”

      Bacchus secured the cuffs with a pair of diamond links. “It’s going to be a late night. Don’t wait up.”

      “Summon me if you need me, sire.”

      Bacchus bid Pan good night and trotted up to the game room.

      Santos smiled, more a baring of fangs than a greeting. “Mr. Sabazios. How are you this evening? Please, have a seat.”

      “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”

      “Good. Thanks.” He wiped his mustache and sat across the table from Bacchus. “You had a good night then?”

      “I did. Thanks.”

      “You found your visitor…adequate, no?”

      “Sr. Santos, I’m loath to admit this, but I’d had a lot to drink last night, and I’m afraid…well, let’s just say I was inadequate.” Bacchus glanced at Ariana and hoped his lie had helped ease whatever predicament had distressed her this morning. Though she gave no reaction, the other men at the table snickered. Not that Bacchus cared what they thought of him and his manhood.

      “Que maricon, qué le dije.” The soulless man sneered.

      Santos smoked his cigar. A gleam flashed in his otherwise guarded eyes. In Spanish, he ordered Ariana to get Mr. Sabazios a drink.

      “Vino blanco, por favor, como la ultima vez. Gracias,” Bacchus said. If their intention had been to cut him out of the conversation, they had another thing coming.

      Santos licked his lips, fixing his gaze on Bacchus. “You speak Spanish?”

      “I do. I also speak French, Portuguese, Russian, Greek—both ancient and modern—Hindi, Babylonian, Latin—though no one really speaks Latin any more, do they?”

      A chuckle from Santos flashed another predatory smile. “Is there any language you don’t speak?”

      Bacchus scratched his chin, shrugging. “Well, I’ve never quite gotten the hang of Mandarin Chinese. Or Szechuan for that matter.”

      Santos raised one eyebrow.

      Around the table, men exchanged looks and chatted amongst themselves, but none spoke directly to Bacchus. He felt their contempt of him beneath a current of desire to take him for all he was worth.

      Soon enough, the game was underway, and all pretense of friendly chitchat dropped. Though the players cloaked their hostilities in joking tones, they were serious about winning. Too bad for them.

      Bacchus had an ace up his sleeve. Or more accurately, a flask in his breast pocket, which he extracted. So far, he had struggled to break even, but this lackluster luck was about to change. He asked Ariana to set everyone up with shot glasses. “Gentleman, have any of you had the pleasure of traveling to Athens, Greece?”

      The middle-aged man in a cowboy hat snorted. “No, but I been to Athens, Georgia.”

      The rest of the men chuckled.

      “More’s the pity.” Bacchus proceeded to pass the flask to Ariana. “However, I’ve brought with me my family’s private brew. The finest ouzo in the Universe.” This was, in fact, true. The ouzo was Olympian stock. What he’d failed to mention was this particular recipe used ambrosia—food of the gods―in its distillation, which gave the concoction quite a kick. More than a few shots could kill a human, but one little drink should incapacitate the players enough to dilute their skills and allow Bacchus to claim his victory. “Since you all have been so kind as to include me in your game of chance, I’d like to return the hospitality. Who’d like to take a shot with me?”

      Tito twisted his mouth in an expression of distaste. “Ouzo? Is that some chick drink or something?”

      Bacchus shook his head. “I assure you it’s quite potent. But if you think you can’t hold your liquor and play cards at the same time, by all means, don’t partake on my account.”

      “Bring it, fancy man.” The cowboy licked his lips.

      Ariana went around the table and poured shots for everyone.

      Santos waved her away.

      “In the words of my uncle, who’s an avid seaman, ‘Through the lips and over the gums, watch out stomach here it comes.’” Bacchus made a show of tossing back his portion as the other men uttered words like, “cheers,” and “salud.” Though his liver was surely up to the task of handling ouzo of the gods, the whole point was to keep his mind clearer than those of his opponents. Pan’s magic made the liquor evaporate in Bacchus’s mouth. He pretended to swallow, feigned a grimace, and sucked in an exaggerated breath. “Smooth, isn’t it, gentlemen?”

      They coughed and sputtered, trying to play off what must’ve felt like a river of fire racing down their throats.

      “Very smooth,” Jean-Claude croaked.

      Within minutes, the cowboy fled toward the bathroom. He’d been drinking whiskey all night. Tough break for him. All but Santos struggled to focus on their cards. Eyes glazed over, they became giddy.

      One by one, the men gambled away their chips. Hand after hand, Bacchus and Santos grew richer until they were the only men at the table still playing.

      “I’d СКАЧАТЬ