The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,124

a low voice mocked behind me. My head snapped toward the door. Sam stood there, wearing a pale gray suit with a burgundy Hermes pocket square poking out of his blazer. A gorgeous sin in Italian loafers. He looked ready for a date. Ready for me, his skin gold and warm, his eyes gray and cold.

He knew I was going to come here the minute he challenged me to do so, and I fell right into his trap.

I looked away, ignoring him and turning my attention back to the dealer. I remembered what he told me all those years ago.

“I wouldn’t bet with me.”

“Why?”

“I always win.”

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the warm excitement that came with seeing him, and my insides didn’t turn into baby food as they usually had. Something about him felt daring, quiet, and on edge tonight. Like the old Sam, the one who didn’t want me. I felt like he was on the brink of showing me very publicly how much I abused his patience. I shifted from one foot to the other on my high heels.

“She can play, under one condition.” Sam sauntered deeper into the room behind me, his voice drawing closer, and I was aware of the curious glances thrown my way.

I refused to turn around and give him the audience he demanded.

“Usually when a man gives you his word, it doesn’t come with stipulations,” I muttered, feeling the color rising in my cheeks.

“I’m not a man. I’m a monster.” He stopped beside me, not removing his gaze from my face for a second. “Look at me, Nix.”

I didn’t.

I looked anywhere but at him.

“I will let you play, if we play each other,” he finished.

“It’s blackjack. I won’t be playing against you. I’ll be playing against the dealer.” I turned around, facing him.

Men whistled and chuckled, enjoying their front-row seat to our exchange. They obviously weren’t used to seeing anyone stand up to Sam Brennan, let alone a dainty woman in a dress.

Sam smiled calmly. “We play high stakes here, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

“My Spidey senses tell me I’m good for it,” I deadpanned, making everyone in the room erupt into rowdy laughter. Did he really just try to financially intimidate me? I had more money than all the men in this room combined.

“A million dollars a hand. Five hands. Sound acceptable?” I asked, my voice prim and proper, offering him my hand for a shake.

The place exploded with hoots, laughter, and shrieks. The men were on fire. Everyone looked at Sam expectantly, knowing he was not a man to bow out of a challenge.

Sam glanced at my outstretched hand, hands still in his pockets, his posture lazy. He was in no hurry to answer.

He obviously savored this moment. Our first public exchange in the ten years since we’d known each other.

“You mean five million dollars a hand.” He smirked.

“Dang!”

“Oh my!”

“Bryan, you gotta come here.”

Our audience grew as more men yelled and gasped to each other, people trickling from nearby rooms, craning their necks as the thick circle of bodies around us grew bigger and tighter. I felt the ring of men around me, like it was squeezing my neck. Cigarettes were put down, drinks were left unattended, everyone waited to hear my reply.

“Famous last words.” I hitched one shoulder up, raising my untouched hand an inch, hysteria clogging up my throat. Just because I had this kind of money didn’t mean I wanted to see twenty-five million dollars flushed down the drain in half an hour.

I felt my armpits dampen and started second-guessing my coming here.

Why did I want to push him so much?

“And if I win…” he raised his palm up to stop me “…you marry me.”

The dealer looked between us, dropping the stack of cards in his hand in shock. The middle-aged man who propositioned me rubbed his hands together.

“This is gonna be a story to tell my grandchildren.”

I stared at Sam silently, stone-cold sober, searching for mockery in his eyes. I found none, but I still couldn’t believe my ears.

“It’s not funny.” My voice came out gravelly, crawling its way out my throat.

“I’m not laughing,” he countered softly, his eyes never leaving mine, delivering the final blow. “Oh. And no prenup.”

“Ohhhh!”

Men bent backward, slapping their foreheads dramatically. I was lucky I was propped against the table because every muscle in my body ceased to work.

I wondered if it was another stop in his destination to full domination over Boston, marrying into the richest family with