does he imagine I might get him to do? I try to stay on track. ‘A gun?’
‘Never happened yet. Least not to me. But two words, John Lennon. Lots of fans are really mixed up and get into that “if I can’t have you, no one can” mindset. It’s fucking scary.’
‘God, it must be,’ I shift in my beanbag. I had been quite resentful of the security guard interrupting our tête-à-tête but now I’m glad to have him here. I quickly return to the deck and deal again. Scott picks up his hand and stares at me over his cards. I swallow hard. I’ve worked out that if I don’t look at him or think about who I’m actually playing with, I manage quite well. The moment I catch his eye I find I’m floored.
He is absolutely bloody gorgeous.
Besides his strength, and height, and dirty grin and soul-searing eyes, he has broad shoulders that reduce to a neat stomach, slim hips and the cutest bum. Anyone who has ever read a copy of Heat magazine knows that his weight and level of fitness tend to fluctuate depending on how much boozing he’s doing at the time, but right now I’d put money on him having stomach muscles taut enough to climb up. He is wearing a pale grey T-shirt and some battered, low-slung jeans that threaten to slip – that is part of the allure – no socks or shoes. I’m not normally a feet sort of girl. I couldn’t tell you what Adam’s feet look like because I avoid them as much as humanly possible, but Scott’s are large, neat and tanned and his nails are smooth and shaped. I want to swoop down and kiss them. I throw down my first card and he reaches to pick up; his hand brushes up against mine, directly, this time. Flesh to flesh, not just the cuff of my top. His touch burns. I actually flinch. Shaking, I lunge about for a bottle of water which I plan to throw over myself.
‘It’s hot in here,’ I comment pathetically.
Scott stares at me and holds my gaze. ‘Isn’t it,’ he murmurs. I know, know, know that he’s a practised seducer. He is sort of Don Juan, Casanova and James Bond all at once. Of course, he will have looked at hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women in exactly the same way as he’s looking at me now. And I know, know, know that should make him less desirable –
But it doesn’t.
‘Have you ever played strip poker?’ he asks, flashing me his famous flirty-flirty grin.
‘No. And I don’t think I’ve ever been asked to, least not since I was about thirteen,’ I laugh, nervously.
What a daft, obvious thing to suggest. How ridiculous. Like I’m going to fall for that. I have a boyfriend; it’s inappropriate to even imagine that I might consider it. A live-in boyfriend. We are practically married.
Practically.
We’re not married, are we? We’re not even engaged. And this flirtation with Scott is just a bit of fun, it doesn’t mean anything. It isn’t going anywhere. Anyone would do the same. Kill for the chance to. No one is going to get hurt by this bit of fun. Playing strip poker would just be a bit more fun; a lot more, maybe. It’s not serious. Besides, he’s bare-footed, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, add in boxers (assuming he’s not commando); that’s just three items of clothes. I’m wearing pumps, a vest top, a skirt, a zip-up top, knickers, bra, belt, earrings and about a dozen bangles – plus I’m pretty damn good at cards.
‘It’s a laugh,’ he says with another filthy, bold, irresistible smile. He speaks with great certainty and a hint of challenge, and his words slosh my common sense clean away. I’m high on his presence and the crazy red room; even though I haven’t been drinking I feel as drunk as a sailor.
‘OK, deal.’
11. Fern
We are evenly matched but I stupidly lose my advantage every time I consider the possibility of seeing Scott Taylor in his undies. It is a real possibility because he’s not afraid of showing his crown jewels (there are a number of websites that prove my point here – by displaying photos of him flashing his bits), plus he often shows his ass to the press if they’ve irritated him. My distraction makes me careless and hasty in my betting decisions. He seems to be able to keep a clear head and plays a ruthless game. Before