An Offer He Cant Refuse - By Christie Ridgway Page 0,47

to bounce, so it's about the soft touch and not brute strength. Whoever loses the fifth point will rotate out and one of the waiting players will rotate in. Those that are waiting have bar duty."

Tea's hand went up. "I'm good with ice trays. I can be permanent bartender."

Excellent, Johnny thought. Up on the terrace she'd be out of sight. Off his mind.

"Nonsense," Doug replied. "Johnny didn't bring a beautiful woman all the way here to keep her in a corner."

Yes, Johnny did. Or at least he thought it was the smarter place for her. For him. But he grinned at her. "Don't tell me you don't have a soft touch, Contessa."

Which meant they were partners for the first round. They were facing off against Doug and Phillip, though, just the people he wanted to pump for info. He considered how to bring up the subject as they moved into position. Tea walked past him and his head automatically turned, a hound dog following the scent. God, she had a primo ass.

She glanced over her shoulder. "What?"

He'd lost his train of thought again. "I - " Damn it! He was supposed to be planning how to bring up Giovanni. Then he closed his eyes. Double damn it. With Tea six feet to his left, how the hell could he get away with a casual inquiry of a decades-old murder? He'd already told her it didn't bother him.

"I'll serve," Phillip called out.

Johnny took his racket in a firm grip. No problem, he told himself. It was more than fifty-fifty that they'd bump Tea out at the fifth point, leaving her on ice-cube watch.

Their host's shallow lob dropped on the line between her and Johnny. She lunged for it, and he watched, hypnotized by the way her skirt fluttered with the movement, lifting to reveal her round butt cheeks cupped by tight little shorts.

She missed the ball.

He didn't. Because he was still ogling her body, it caught him full on the mouth.

And because his lip was bleeding, the one who got icecube watch was him.

Megan rotated into the game, leaving him with neighbor Clark. Johnny held a cold glass of rum and coconut juice against his mouth and tried making small talk without moving his lips.

His mangled "what is it you do" must have come out "ut is it uu do" because Clark stared at him with a puzzled expression instead of answering.

Johnny tried again. "Ur jod?" Your job? Close.

"Your job," the other man said, snapping his fingers. "That's how I know you."

"Hm?" Now Johnny was puzzled.

"The World Series of Poker. Champion. Two years running. You're not just Johnny. You're Johnny Magee."

Oh, shit. Like most everyone else who played cards seriously, he went into tournament play with a disguise of sorts. Ball cap and smoky sunglasses to keep his expression as indecipherable as possible. Poker tells weren't only written on the face, but there was a reason that the eyes were called the windows to the soul.

"My God, I recorded your play at the final table last year. I've watched that round a dozen times," Clark crowed. "Damn, and here you are. A professional poker champion."

"You are?" said a new voice. Tea's voice.

Talk about the eyes being the windows to the soul. There was no doubt her soul was surprised... and suspicious.

He quickly shook his head. "No' po. Hoddy." When that sounded completely mangled, even to his own ears, he took the glass away from his mouth. "Not pro," he enunciated. "Hobby."

Megan was calling from the tennis court, forcing Clark to leave the terrace and take his turn. Forcing Johnny to face Tea, alone.

My father cautioned me against gamblers a long time ago. She'd said that to him, the very first time they'd spoken.

"Hobby," he said again, wincing as he tasted blood welling again.

Her eyes went from suspicious to concerned and she grabbed up a napkin, then stepped close to hold it against his mouth. "I didn't realize it was this bad."

It was good, was what it was, with her exotic face turned up to his, and her stellar breasts dressed in SweeTART green just a breath away. His free hand moved down to cup her ass, all by itself.

"Kiss it better," he whispered.

Her lashes swept down, feathers against the skin of her cheek that glowed in the lights that suddenly switched on as the evening darkened. "Is this the simple part?"

"Yes," he said. Whatever she wants to call it. Simple. Necessary. Now.

She went on tiptoe, the curve of her butt snuggling