be one other thing.
Gorgeous.
It’s not in a pretty-boy way, it’s more like this dark, off-limits, dangerous sort of way. The both of them have dark hair, cut clean, with chiseled jaws, fierce looks, hulking shoulders and arms, and muscled chests. Tattoo ink peeks out around the edges of their sleeves and from their shirt collars, and they sip the whiskey in front of them with cool, calculated smoothness.
Eamon’s got these piercing blue eyes, which happen to be lancing right into me at this very moment. Clay’s the one with the dark, brooding eyes and the swath of beard across his jaw. And it’s those eyes—both of theirs—that I feel burning right through me, and I shiver under that heated, unblinking look.
And once again, that shiver goes to dark, forbidden places.
There’s a crash as Patrick lurches to his feet, his chair knocking backwards.
“Fuck this!” he screeches, his voice breaking as he stumbles slightly on his feet. “No, fuck this. The deal’s off.”
He’s fuming mad, and believe me, I know how Patrick can get when he’s drunk and mad. But across the table, Eamon and Clay don’t even bat an eye. They don’t flinch, they don’t move. Actually, all they do is slowly and almost imperceivably start to smile.
“The deal isn’t off.”
Eamon’s whiskey-and-leather growl rumbles through the room, colored by his Irish brogue accent.
“You lost, and now it’s time to pay up.”
I shiver.
It’s time to pay up.
See, because it’s not money Patrick is about to lose. He ran out of cash twenty minutes ago. It’s not his watch either—also in the pot—or the keys to his Porsche.
…It’s me.
Because five minutes ago, right before the last hand was dealt, my sore-loser, douchebag of a fiancé decided that after losing literally everything else he walked into the game with, he had one more bartering chip: me. He put me into the pot.
Patrick and I aren’t a “couple” or “engaged” in really anything but name. It’s an arrangement, made due to my “family connections” to one of the crime families in Chicago and with Patrick being Terry’s nephew. But an “arrangement” is exactly what it is. The creep has never touched me. Trust me, I’ve made damn sure of that. He’s certainly tried, but I’ve made it clear that nothing is happening until the wedding.
…Which, in a perfect world, I can put off basically indefinitely, because I loathe the man I’m “supposed to” marry.
“You lost, boy-o,” Clay grunts, his thick, deep voice rumbling through the room. “So, run along.” He smiles thinly. “Unless there’s more things that belong to you that we could…” his eyes slide back to me, dragging slowly over every inch of me and making me shiver under the heat and the power in those eyes.
“Take from you.”
Patrick swears viciously, and I watch his hand dart to the gun he keeps tucked in a holster in the small of his back. Except, this time, there’s no gun there. There’re no guns anywhere in the room, since the rules are that they get checked before a game.
“Run along, little boy,” Eamon says darkly before his eyes move to me, drinking me in like I’m a slow, tall glass of something strong.
I swallow, heat flushing through my cheeks.
Patrick moves away from the table, muttering and swearing. Now there are two players left—each of them dark, dominant, wicked as sin, and gorgeous as hell. And after one more hand, one of them is going to have me. The idea is so wrong, and in any other situation, it’d be a nauseating thought. But not when I’m face to face with the both of them, and with that power behind both of their eyes.
One of these men is going to claim me.
I bite back the whimper as I tremble in my skimpy green party dress, teetering on my glossy green stilettos.
One of these rough, older, sinfully sexy and totally dangerous and off-limits crime kingpins is going to have me, in just one more hand of a freaking poker game.
Patrick is still fuming, muttering to himself as he scrolls viciously through his phone, when the dealer meekly clears his throat.
“Uh, last hand, gentlemen—”
“No.”
Eamon smiles thinly, his eyes looking at no one else but me as he shakes his head.
“No more hands.”
The dealer frowns. “Gentlemen, it’s a winner take all ga—”
“Fine,” Clay snarls darkly, impatience darkening his face. And from the hungry look in his eyes, I have an idea what he’s impatient about.
“Deal.”
The dealer nods and quickly passes out the cards, all while Patrick paces the room