Chapter 6
6
Ashley
H e’s arrogant and sure of himself, certainly. The Irishman is straight out of a movie with a thick brogue, dark hair, and a cocky air that makes me want to scream his name while in bed.
But you’re not in bed with this man , the voice in my head whispers. Focus, Ashley, focus. You could save your entire ballet company with this haul.
It’s true because Mr. O’Lachlan and I are the last ones seated. The other men have since been eliminated, and they stand at the small bar, watching from a distance. The Degas won’t let them come forward for fear of cheating. Then again, they don’t know that I was actually here yesterday afternoon ... and that I snuck out with bits and pieces of their prize chandelier.
But that’s neither here nor there. Right now, I just need to get through this damned hand in order to enjoy the fruits of my labor. The pile of chips in the center of the table is mountainous, with chips of all colors sliding off the edges. There are tens, twenties, fifties, and even discs denoting one hundred, five hundred, one thousand, and ten thousand dollars. Can you imagine that? Ten thousand dollars represented by an orange and black striped chip with the name “Degas” imprinted in script on it. It blows my mind.
But I have a strong hand, composed of two queens and a five of spades. The flop, turn and river reveal a two of hearts, a seven of clubs, a five of hearts, a queen and a king. Yay, full house! I highly doubt that Patrick O’Lachlan can beat my hand, and smirk while pushing the remainder of my chips into the center pile.
“I’m all in,” I say sweetly while winking at him. “The ball’s in your court, Irishman.”
His expression doesn’t change at my taunting tone, even if a muscle does slightly flicker at the corner of his eyes. But he’s suave to the end.
“Let’s see,” the man murmurs, talking to himself. “What do I want to do?” That piercing blue gaze is focused on the cards in his hand, but something tells me that he’s not seeing anything. Is it the fact that he’s so calm and cool despite the intense pressure? Is it the fact that he doesn’t appear to sweat, even under the stress of the moment? I decide to see if I can bait the Ice Man, and hop off my stool, making sure that my boobies bounce enticingly with the movement.
“Take your time but not too long,” I hum in a sing-song voice with another teasing smile his way. “The Degas has rules about continuous play, you know.”
His blue eyes are fixed to the inner curves of my breasts, and I giggle internally. I know I’ve already won because what man can focus when faced with my Double Ds? They’ve served me well during my lifetime, and I giggle again while twisting my hips ever so slightly. My girls sway again, the fabric slipping so that the edge of my pink areola is almost revealed. Almost , but not quite, and I laugh internally again. Meanwhile, Patrick’s blue gaze sharpens, but then he places his cards face down.
“I’ll meet your wager, Miss Finnegan. Ashley, I think you said your name was? How much do I need to match her ante?”
The dealer responds immediately.
“More than a million, sir. One point two million, to be precise.”
Patrick takes his time counting the number of chips, and then pushes them forwards to join the mountainous pile in the middle. But he doesn’t stop there.
“In fact, I’ll raise Miss Finnegan another cool mill. What do you say, Ashley? Are you ready to continue this party?”
I pause, shocked.
“You know I can’t,” I sputter. “Everything I have is already in the circle. This is against the rules!”
Patrick shares a glance with the dealer before he shakes his head.
“No, it’s not against the rules,” he speaks in a silky tone. “Weren’t you listening at the beginning? This isn’t classic Texas Hold’em. This is Degas Texas Hold’em, where anything can happen.”
I stare at him.
“What? What does that even mean?”
The alpha male shrugs, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mobile mouth again.
“It means that anything can happen, like I just said. So what will you bet, Miss Finnegan? Do you own property perhaps? A home in Hawaii? A condo in Florida? Perhaps even a car, or some blue chips stocks?”
I stare at him in shock because I own nothing, and somehow, I think this man already knows it. I came to Vegas with little more than the clothes on my back, hoping to start a new life and maybe build my bank account in the process. How the hell did I get into this predicament?
I shoot my opponent a venomous glance. I swear, I could punch that handsome face right now, and then maybe tie his dick around a pole. Or fasten a brick to that monster cock and let it drag him down to the bottom of the ocean where he drowns and dies. Patrick O’Lachlan deserves it!
But the Irishman keeps smirking at me before tapping the face of his watch with an index finger.
“Tik tok, Miss Finnegan. Like you said earlier, the Degas enforces the rule of continuous play. Don’t make us wait.”
I sputter, incensed that my words have been turned against me. Then again, Patrick O’Lachlan is obviously intelligent, cunning, and devious. He’s on par with the devil himself because what the hell do I do now? How did this asshole corner me?
The dealer clears his throat, turning an expectant gaze to me.
“Miss Finnegan, if you will? Will you see Mr. O’Lachlan’s raise?”
My mind spins as I stare hatefully at the grinning Irishman. I swear, this man deserves to burn a fiery death in Hell because I don’t have anything worth close to a million dollars and he knows it. But then, inspiration strikes.
“You said I could bet anything of value, right?”
“Yes,” Patrick says in a soft tone, azure eyes gleaming. “Do you have access to sunken treasure perhaps? Gold coins found at the bottom of the Atlantic? Mark my words, but we won’t accept shitty heirlooms, Miss Finnegan. Sentimental value means nothing to me, and nothing to this casino either. So tell me, sweetheart: what do you have to offer?”
Red literally fills my vision as my fists clench at my sides. I could strangle this man. I’ll curve my bare hands around that bronzed neck and squeeze the life out of him with all my might as he chokes and gasps. It’ll be satisfying.
But then the voice in my head intervenes.
Stop, Ashley , it whispers. Don’t let this man get under your skin. Betraying emotion is the worst thing a poker player can do.
As a result, instead of committing homicide, I lift my chin and summon all of my dignity.
“I bet my curves,” I announce in a queenly voice, blue eyes bright. “I’m sure that’s worth a million right there.”
Patrick’s answering grin makes me shiver ... and with horror, I realize I’ve played right into the billionaire’s trap.