Reese's Wild Wager. Barbara McCauley

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СКАЧАТЬ muscle jumped in Reese’s jaw. “You’re on.”

      “Fine.”

      “Fine.”

      They marched to the table and sat down opposite one another. Reese scooped up the scattered cards and started to shuffle them. It had been a long time since he’d played Go Fish or Crazy Eights. He hoped like hell he could remember.

      “So what’s it gonna be, Syd?”

      She sat straight in her chair, her hands laced primly on the table. “How ’bout five card stud, one-eyed jacks wild?”

      Reese nearly dropped the deck of cards in his hand. “You want to play poker?”

      “What did you think we’d play? Gin rummy?” She lifted one brow. “My father taught me to count with a deck of cards when I was two. When the other kids were playing Chutes and Ladders, I learned how to double down with an eleven in blackjack.” She smiled, held her cool eyes steady with his. “Now deal the cards, Sinclair. I’m about to kick your behind.”

      One hour and ten hands later, to Sydney’s delight—and Reese’s annoyance—her stack of chips was twice the size of his. It was a glorious sight, Sydney thought. Each tall, neat column of red, white and blue signifying her victory.

      And Reese’s defeat.

      Of course, she hadn’t officially won yet, but it was just a matter of time—a short matter of time, based on the past three hands. At the rate he was losing, she should be able to put him out of his misery in the next hand or two.

      She still couldn’t believe she’d let him goad her into this. At twenty-six, she liked to pride herself on being a mature woman, in control at all times, one who had a solid handle on her emotions. A woman who used logic and practicality to make decisions, not childish grammar-school antics of one-upmanship.

      But he’d looked at her with such arrogance, such smug amusement, she’d simply accepted the challenge, as much to her surprise as his.

      Glancing over the cards she held, she watched him study the hand she’d dealt him. Those incredible eyes of his were narrowed with concentration, and one shock of thick, dark hair tumbled over his furrowed forehead. Absently, he brushed his thumb back and forth over the strong line of his chiseled jaw; the quiet rasp of thumbnail against the shadow of his beard was the only sound in the office.

      She’d never had the opportunity to stare so openly at a man before. It was not only rude, it was extremely forward. In this situation, though, she considered it a necessity. After all, this was poker. The most important rule of the game, her father had taught her when she was a child, was to closely assess an opponent. Every movement, every blink, every twitch, was to be noted, then analyzed. If her father had taught her nothing else before he’d left when she was twelve, she had learned to be observant. If she ever saw him again, she just might have to thank him for that one thing. But seeing her father again was one bet she’d never take. He’d called a few times, sent a couple of birthday cards, but he’d never come back once to see her after he’d walked out fourteen years ago.

      Knowing what an extremely difficult woman her mother had been to live with, Sydney could understand the lack of visits. What she couldn’t understand, what she couldn’t forgive, was him leaving her alone with her mother, who had no one else to take out her bitterness on except her daughter.

      But that was water under the bridge, Sydney thought with a sigh. She was twenty-six now and in a few short weeks she’d have the business she’d dreamed of for so many years. The past would be behind her, including the humiliation of Bobby and Lorna.

      Sydney Taylor was going to be a new woman. She was going to be the woman everyone thought she was: confident, self-assured, poised. A woman who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought or said about her.

      All the things she wasn’t, but desperately wanted to be.

      Realizing that she’d lost focus of the game while her mind wandered, Sydney snapped her attention back to Reese. She’d learned that when he touched his finger to the cleft in his chin he had at least a pair, when he scratched his neck just under his left ear, he probably had three of a kind or better. When he brushed his jaw with his thumb, as he was doing now, odds were he was bluffing.

      And so she watched him. Closely. Strictly for the game, of course.

      She’d never noticed the scar just under that firm mouth of his, or the slight bump at the bridge of what she would consider an otherwise perfect nose. He wore his hair combed back, and the ends just brushed the collar of his blue flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his forearms muscled and sprinkled lightly with the same dark hair that peeked from the vee of his shirt.

      No question about it, he was an amazing specimen of masculinity. He wasn’t her type, of course. After Bobby, she’d sworn off smooth-talking, shallow playboys who had more muscle than brain. While she could certainly appreciate Reese Sinclair’s blatant maleness, she had no intention of being a victim of it, as were most of the women in town.

      But then, Sydney knew she wasn’t Reese’s type, either. He went for the bubbleheads, the women who giggled at every joke and endlessly batted their eyelashes. She’d seen Heather Wilkins hanging on his arm last month at the pumpkin festival in town, then Laurie Bomgarden had been snuggling with him a week ago at the Women’s Auxiliary’s annual fall charity drive. Sydney doubted that Heather and Laurie’s IQs combined was equal to the current outside temperature. And considering it was only the beginning of November, she was being generous.

      But who Reese Sinclair spent his free time with was of no concern to her. Her only concern was beating the pants off that arrogant butt of his that the women of Bloomfield were so crazy about.

      She glanced at the “Best Butt in a Pair of Blue Jeans” award he’d hung on the wall in his office. The conceit of the man, she thought with a sniff. Maybe they’d give her an award when she kicked that butt in poker.

      “You vote for me, Syd?”

      “What?” Realizing that she’d been caught staring at the award, Sydney snapped her gaze back to the table. Reese was watching her, and the amusement she saw in his eyes made her stiffen.

      With a grin, he nodded toward the wall. “Did you vote for me?”

      “Certainly not.”

      It was a bald-faced lie. She’d considered it her civic duty to vote when the ballot box went around for the annual “best butt” election. The contest had been close this year, between Lucian and Reese and the sheriff, Matt Stoker. It had been a difficult choice, but in the end—she almost smiled at her own pun—she’d voted for Reese.

      And she’d die before she told him that.

      “Who’d you vote for, then?”

      She straightened the cards in her hand, lining them up perfectly. “What makes you think I voted for anyone?”

      “Sydney Taylor miss an opportunity to express her opinion on something?” He settled back in his chair and regarded her with a curious gaze. “So why didn’t you vote for me? Don’t you think I deserved it?”

      She was becoming increasingly flustered by this rather personal topic of conversation. “I wouldn’t know if you deserved it or not. I’ve СКАЧАТЬ