Page 56 of Princess of Thieves

“Wouldn’t blame you if you were,” LJ says, chewing. “She was a pretty sight the other night.”

Will leans forward and narrows his eyes. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. The other night? Did you two...?” He points from me to LJ and back to me again.

Heat blossoms up my neck and all the way to my forehead, and it’s not just from the spicy wings.

“Can you blame me?” I say.

LJ, to his credit, reveals absolutely nothing, going stone-faced with an expressionlessness that a Buckingham Palace guard would envy. I, however, have much less chill.

Will looks LJ up and down. “I guess not,” he says. “Probably could have tempted me back in my experimental phase.” He shrugs.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” LJ says, “Don’t swing that way—not that I judge,” he adds quickly.

“Well, I just hope he treated you right,” Will says.

“Of course,” I say quickly, thinking of the almost faded bruises on my hips and shivering. I’ve changed, now, into some of my old clothes that were still here, and I peel back the waistband of my jeans to check on them—but to my surprise, there’s nothing there. Just skin. No marks.

Weird.

“Hey, fellas, it’s not a competition,” Tuck breaks in, ever the peacemaker. “I mean, I think we pretty explicitly agreed to that fact, right?”

“We did,” Rob confirms. He sits up, lowering his boot to the floor. “But you know what? You got me thinking. What do we say to a little wagering game? Just to liven up the night.”

“A game?” LJ arches a thick eyebrow.

“Sure,” Rob says, spreading his hands wide. “Why not? You really think we’re gonna do any detective work now? I mean, I’m three beers deep and contemplating a fourth. Tuck’s got us all stuffed like Cornish hens, and Will’s probably hard as a rock under this table thinking about Maren and her pretty little Southern Belle outfit.”

“Am not, you bastard,” Will retorts, but he does shift in his seat uncomfortably.

“So, I’m saying,” Rob continues, “I’m the fearless leader here, and I say we need a night off. Too much shit’s been going down—too intense. So what do you say?”

“I’m in,” Tuck says. “Why not?”

Will sighs. “Sure, fine, whatever.” He flips a hand in the air. “But I’m making another martini.”

“Just as long as it’s not one of those stupid board games,” LJ says. “I’m not eight years old.”

Rob gets to his feet and presses a button on the side of the table. With a low hiss of a hidden piston, the octagonal wood surface slides apart, revealing a few stacked decks of cards and neat rows of red, white, and blue chips tucked into cubbies for each of us.

“I was thinking poker,” Rob says. “That suit you, tough guy?”

LJ chuckles. “Sure.”

“Did anyone want to ask me?” I say. “Because I don’t even know how to play poker.”

“You can watch,” Rob says. “We’ll teach you.”

“It’s a thinking man’s game,” Will says, returning to the table with a fresh glass of gin and vermouth. He pops an olive into his mouth. “So I should have no problem beating these assholes.”

“Oh, please,” Tuck says. “You guys give me shit about being an egghead and then think you can beat me at poker?” He puffs out his chest. “I’m great at poker.”

“Yeah, online,” LJ snorts.

“I play against real people,” Tuck protests.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen,” Rob says. He’s grabbed a deck from the center of the table and started shuffling it in midair, at around hip level, without even looking at what he’s doing—which, I have to admit, is incredibly sexy. “Let the proof of the pudding be in the eating, shall we?”

No one objects, so Rob goes on, rapping a finger against the cards. “All right, pretty lady, here’s the drill,” he says. “Poker’s simple. You want the best five cards in your hand, and you want everyone else thinking you’ve got them whether you do or not. First thing’s the deal.” Rob continues, tossing a card to each of the guys. “Everyone gets two cards, keeps them to themselves. Then comes the flop”—he spins out three cards on the table—“which are for everyone to use to build their hand. After that, we get a turn and a river. Got it?”

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