Montana Wildfire (22 page)

Jake decided it was time to cheat.

"So, princess," he said as he started shuffling, "where the hell'd you learn to play poker?"

Amanda grinned. "My father taught me."

"That figures." Jake shuddered to think what
else
that man had taught his daughter. The veneer of "lady" was chipping away more every minute. Not a good sign. It would be better, safer, if they kept to their original parts; her the indignant society princess, him the untamed savage. The problem was, the more he got to know this woman, the more he thought he might—
might—
have misjudged her.

"My father was an excellent card player, Mr. Chandler," she elaborated, her upper-crust accent now locked firmly in place. "While poker was one of his many specialties, he excelled at bridge. Have you ever played bridge?"

One steely gaze slitted.
"Contact
bridge, Miss Lennox?"

"Yes."

"Not with cards, no." One corner of his mouth kicked up as his attention dipped to the base of her throat. Her pulse was fast and hard. Jake took perverse satisfaction in that. It was nice to know he was getting under her skin. At least he was winning at
something
tonight, even if it wasn't cards. And speaking of cards...

He resumed shuffling, then dealt out a hand of five card draw, nothing wild, pair or better to open, jacks or better to win, progressive. A nasty game, one that could take forever to play through, especially with only two people. However, since he was dealing Amanda's cards from the top of the deck, and his own from the bottom, Jake felt confident that a victory wasn't too far off.

He anted with his sparrow feather. She tossed in a hankie she'd dug out of her skirt pocket. The scrap of cloth was made up of crisp white cotton and frothy white lace. It was also monogrammed, he noted; her initial landed topside. The intricately stitched
A
was staring him right in the face, like a challenge itching to be met.

It defied rhyme or reason, it certainly defied logic, but Jake had a sudden, overpowering urge to win that hankie. Instinct said that she was the one who'd labored over those perfect, tiny stitches. In the cloud of smoke shifting around his face, Jake pictured her golden head bent to the task, her brow furrowed in concentration, her hands plying the needle with the same casual skill his brought to wielding a knife. He suspected the embroidery wasn't a labor of love; she didn't seem the type to enjoy such a dreary task. Still, it was hers, it was personal, and... dammit, he wanted it! To hell with the corset. The lady could asphyxiate herself trying to ride and breathe tomorrow, with his blessing. Tonight, he wanted that damn hankie.

Amanda leaned forward and frowned. Now what, she wondered, had put that hot silver glint in Jake's eyes? She didn't know, wasn't even sure she wanted to find out. "I
said
one hair ribbon to you, Mr. Chandler."

"Jake," he replied sharply. "When I'm thinking dirty thoughts about you, call me Jake."

Amanda's mouth snapped shut. Her spine went rigid. Well, that certainly put her in her place, now didn't it? Despite her resolve not to, she wondered what dirty thoughts Jake was entertaining. Just as swiftly, she decided she would be better off never finding out.

It didn't take Amanda long to realize that there was something about this hand of poker that made it different from the previous ones. Jake was playing differently. Betting differently. Recklessly. She could feel the determination in him, could almost smell it in the piney, tobacco-scented air.

Until now he hadn't really been trying, she suspected. Now he was playing to win. When he ran out of the clothes he was wearing, he started betting those in his saddlebag. It was against the rules, but she allowed it. At the rate he'd been losing, the man was in for a long, chilly winter.

Amanda glanced at her cards. It was time to draw. She had the option of discarding three out of five equally unpromising cards. She should think about retreating gracefully. In other words, she should fold.

Frowning thoughtfully, she took stock of all she'd bet so far. Her hair ribbon, two stockings, her pantaloons, and her corset covering. All except the corset covering could be removed somewhat inconspicuously. The next thing to go, if she stayed in the game, would be her blouse. Followed by her chemise. Followed by her skirt. Followed by her... corset.

Her corset!

That corset's coming off. Tonight.

Jake's words shot though Amanda's mind like a bullet. Her thoughtful frown turned into an irritated scowl. So
that's
what he was up to, why he'd suggested the game of
strip
poker. The rat wanted her corset! Amanda didn't know why she hadn't realized it sooner. It all seemed glaringly obvious to her now. In hindsight, didn't everything?

"Your bet, princess." Jake took one last deep pull off his cigarette, then flicked it away. Neither noticed the fiery red arc it made through the night. "Well?"

"I'm thinking," Amanda evaded, nibbling her lower lip as she studied her cards. Two of hearts, ten of diamonds, six of hearts, ten of clubs, eight of hearts. In other words, a disorganized mess. Too bad twos weren't wild. Still, she did have three fresh cards coming, and there was a chance, just a small one, that this hand would come together for her yet.

"What's the problem, princess? Either you've got a pair or you don't."

"I don't."

His pause was just long enough to make her squirm. "Wanna bet?"

Amanda didn't have to look to know where Jake's gaze was lingering. She could feel it smoldering over her breasts like a lover's fingers. Her heartbeat and respiration responded. Instead of commenting on his lewd remark, she let it pass and instead answered his original question. "I'm afraid I can't open, Mr. Chandler."

"Pity, Miss Lennox. I can."

She wasn't surprised. He'd had enough to open for the last three hands, but not the pair of jacks or better required to win. Was it her imagination, or had his poker game undergone a drastic improvement?

Jake bet his saddle blanket. With her heart in her throat, Amanda called him by betting her blouse.

He discarded one, then picked up the deck. His gaze fixed on her expectantly. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice rich with a meaning that sent her imagination soaring.

Amanda felt a warm shiver splash down her spine, washing lower, as she forced her trembling fingers to remove the two tens and set them aside, face down on the grass between them. It was a gamble, yes—all poker hands were—but a possible flush was worth the risk. It was higher than three of a kind, which was the most she could hope for by keeping the tens.

"Two, please," she said. Her voice low and silky, she specified, "Cards, Mr. Chandler. Two
cards."

"That's it?" One inky brow tipped challengingly high. "Just two? You're sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Positive?"

"Yes," she sighed, and glanced at him. It was a mistake. One she realized too late.

He'd spread his lanky body over the grass, and was laying on his side, his head propped on the palm of one hand, his long black hair curtaining his steely forearm. His other hand was poised near his waist, the fingers ready and waiting to deal Amanda her cards. Her gaze, all on its own, strayed past those cards, past that hand. His thin white underdrawers were a vivid contrast to the darkening night and his tight copper skin. The fabric wasn't as opaque as she thought it should be. Of course, she'd never seen a man's undergarments before. Maybe they were
supposed
to be almost transparent?

Swallowing hard, Amanda glanced away. Her cheeks were flaming, her heart pounding furiously. She'd stopped breathing some time ago. Her palms felt moist, her fingers trembly, and... well, there were other symptoms—hot, vivid symptoms—that she thought it best not to explore or to dwell upon.

Fool, fool, fool! Why did you look?!

How could I
not?

"It's not too late. You can change your mind and draw three, princess. I won't hold it against you."

A loaded remark, if ever there was one. Her gaze snapped to his. His eyes sparkled wickedly, saying he knew exactly what lascivious thoughts were spinning through her head, corrupting her senses... and that he liked being the inspiration for them just fine.
"Two,
please," she repeated firmly.

Jake shrugged tightly and dealt her two cards, himself one.

Amanda knew in a glance she should have folded. While the queen of hearts was an admirable contribution to her flush, the four of clubs was not. Damn! Now she had the unsavory choice of bluffing or folding. She didn't bluff well, never had. Unfortunately, folding meant she would lose her shirt. Quite literally. Amanda now knew what the expression "between a rock and a hard place" meant. Not an elegant phrase by any means, but then, it wasn't an elegant feeling.

Jake bet his empty saddlebag. Amanda bet her skirt. He saw her bet with his knife, and raised her with his horse—all he had left. She called him with her corset; stripping down any more than that in front of a man was out of the question. Since Jake had bet everything he owned—and when Amanda thought everything, she meant
everything—
she didn't dare contemplate what would happen if she
won.

"Well, Mister Chandler? What do you have?"

"Read 'em and weep." Grinning, Jake laid his cards out on the moonlit grass. He did so slowly, as though to prolong her agony. Or his. "Three kings."

Amanda gulped. "Does an 'almost' flush count?"

"Nope. With a good little white lady like yourself 'almost'
never
counts." His grin broadened, and his eyes shimmered wickedly. "What've you got?"

"You said I didn't have to show you my hand if I lost."

"Lady, if you lost you're going to be showing me a hell of a lot more than your hand." His attention shifted to her hankie—still lying between them like a limp, sacrificial lamb—then rose once more. An inky brow cocked, but he was already aware of the answer to his next question. "Well? Did you lose?"

She shrugged.

"Amanda..."

"All right! Yes, Mr. Chandler, as a matter of fact I lost my shirt. Do you want it this second, or could you wait while I go behind those pine trees to take it off?"

At some point, Jake had picked up her hanky. Amanda's gaze snagged on his fingers. Was he conscious of the way he was caressing the white-on-white monogram?
She
certainly was. Very conscious of it.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "I think you've missed the point of the game, princess."

"And what point is that?"

"They don't call it
strip
poker for nothing." His gaze lifted, and burned into hers. "I want to watch."

Amanda was glad she was already sitting, for the way his words drove through her buckled her knees. "How... vulgar."

"Yup." Jake laid back, his inky head cradled in his palms. Her hanky made a crisp splash of white atop his dark chest. The scrap of cloth was covering his heart. He said lazily, "Strip, Miss Lennox. I want my winnings."

Jake didn't think she would do it. Oh, he hoped she would—hell, yes—but he doubted it. What he
did
expect was for her to try and fast-talk him out of it. That, he was prepared for. He knew exactly what he was going to say when she started crying—the way any properly raised white lady worth her salt would do if found in a similar situation.

Oddly enough, Amanda Lennox didn't look like she was going to cry. Nor did she appear overly intimidated when she pushed to her feet and glared down at him.

What her stance lacked in meekness it made up for in the way of pride. Her chin was tilted in that haughty way of hers that never ceased to...
annoy
him. He thought that if her spine got any stiffer it would snap. Her shoulders were squared, her jaw hard, her expression set with quiet fury. Her green eyes snapped with defiance as she lifted her fingers—trembling only slightly—to the top button of her blouse.

It was Jake's turn to be glad he wasn't standing. Christ, she was really going to do it. He'd thought he would be able to go through with this, he really did. But now that the moment was at hand, he couldn't. His restraint was shot; raw and chafed. If she finished unbuttoning that blouse...

"Don't." He was on his feet in a heartbeat. His silent steps cleared the space between them in two. She gasped when he ensnared her slender wrist in his fist, but Jake didn't care. Scaring her right now was the least of his problems. Amanda had managed to work the top three buttons free. The wedge of tempting white flesh she'd revealed was killing him. Another button and he'd be lost. His voice went husky and gruff. "Just give me the damn corset and we'll call it even, okay?"

She kept her gaze trained on the hand he'd coiled about her wrist. Her tone was edged with suspicion. "But I have to take off the shirt to get to it."

"Yeah, you do, don't you? Dammit!" Jake inhaled sharply and glanced around. He scratched the underside of his chin with his free hand, his gaze fixing on the trees she'd mentioned earlier. He nodded briskly toward them. "Go ahead. I promise not to peek." Silently he added,
Hell, I don't trust myself that much. And with damn good reason!

While Amanda was confused, she certainly wasn't stupid. Jake was offering her a graceful way out of this mess, and she wasn't about to waste time asking questions. Nodding, she slipped her hand from the shackle of his calloused fingers. Clutching her collar together, she limped toward the cover of pine trees before Jake changed his mind. She was halfway there when his voice called out from behind, stopping her cold.

"You realize you could have won, don't you, princess?"

"I could have?" She nibbled her lower lip. "How?"

"I was... out of funds. You could have bet your chemise in perfect safety, thereby forcing me out of the game."

"Really?" Her head was spinning, and her knees felt weak and shaky. She could have
won?

"Yup. I guess the next obvious question is... why didn't you?"