In photos there is always an untamed quality about Jared Rush, as if he were a man more suited to rambling mountain ranges and wide-open spaces than to the bristling skyscrapers and concrete jungle of Manhattan.
In person he is the mountain. The power of his presence alone seems to diminish everything else in the room.
Including Daniel, whose entire demeanor seems to deflate by the second. “Unfortunately, my luck did take a bad turn. But I was having a great night at first. Isn’t that right, Mel?”
I jolt at the mention of my name. “Um, yes.”
Until that moment, I think I had myself convinced I was invisible in the room. At least, invisible to Jared Rush.
Now I feel the weight of his stare as if his dark eyes are boring right through me. He appraises me from across the room, his gaze seeming to take an hour as it moves over every inch of me. I feel it like a stroke of a hand, an illicit caress of his eyes that speeds the breath in my lungs and makes me wish I had stayed outside.
Maybe Daniel noticed the shift in the other man’s focus, too. His grasp on my fingers tightens possessively, and he moves his body partially in front of mine.
“Come in and sit,” Rush offers now, less invitation than command. “There’s no reason for you and your pretty date to stand there all night.”
“I’m not Daniel’s date, I’m his girlfriend.”
The words leap off my tongue before I can hold them back.
Why on earth do I feel compelled to clarify anything to him?
Who I am is no business of Jared Rush’s. Neither is my relationship with Daniel. But some instinctual reflex makes me feel it’s important to draw that line, even if I get the sense this man is accustomed to not only blurring established lines but obliterating them.
“This is Melanie Laurent,” Daniel says as we approach the sofa and take our seats on the two chairs opposite it.
Now that we’re directly across from him, Rush seems in no hurry to release me from the grasp of his stare. “Ms. Laurent, a pleasure.”
I only nod, eager for this conversation, and the rest of the night, to be finished.
Daniel clears his throat. “Look, Jared. This is not how I expected things to go. I don’t know if Gibson explained the situation to you, but—”
“He did. I invited you to come to my home tonight and play a private game among my friends. You had some bad hands, you ran through your credit, which was sizable, and now you’ve come to ask me for more. Correct me if I’m missing something.”
Daniel shifts on the chair. “I realize this is a rather awkward situation.”
“Not for me.” Rush’s deep drawl is indifferent, impossible to read. “It’s awkward for you, maybe. Awkward for your girlfriend, I have no doubt.”
“All I’m asking for is a chance to win some of my money back.”
“Using more of my money to do so.”
Rush leans forward to snuff his cigar in the heavy crystal ashtray on the cocktail table in front of him, fragrant smoke curling up from the bowl. A glass of whisky sits next to an opened bottle of expensive Scottish single-malt. He picks up the glass and drains it in one shot.
He has elegant fingers. An artist’s fingers on large, strong hands that look too powerful for wielding paintbrushes. He catches me watching his movements as he sets the glass down and for an unnerving second, our gazes meet and hold.
I glance away first, my face awash in an uncomfortable heat.
“I’m not in the habit of trusting anyone,” he says. “Least of all when it comes to my money. That’s why you won’t ever see me at the table. I enjoy hosting private games—and other diversions—for friends. But we’re not friends, Mr. Hathaway. Until several weeks ago, you were only a name on a business card.”
“We’re colleagues now,” Daniel adds. “I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize our relationship or the project.”
“That’s reassuring. Some men’s honor is worth a lot less than seventy-five thousand dollars.” Rush reaches for the phone lying next to the bottle of Macallan. “I’ll call Gibson in to join us. After you and he authorize a bank transfer for tomorrow morning to cover the current debt, I’ll extend you another twenty-five to get back into the game.”
“Um.” Daniel clears his throat again, and I can practically feel his mounting panic beside me. “A bank transfer’s going to be a bit of a problem.”
“A problem? You either have it or you don’t.”
I brave another look at Rush as his low voice vibrates into my bones. I was wrong to think he didn’t seem at place in the cutthroat environs of Manhattan. Right now, while his handsome face is held with utter calm, there is no mistaking the danger in the man.
“I’ll, ah, I’ll need to rearrange some finances, that’s all,” Daniel hedges. “I can have everything cleared for you in a couple of days.”
“A couple of days.” It’s not a question, and a person would have to be deaf not to hear the threat in that calm reply. “Are you saying you came to play tonight knowing you couldn’t cover your losses?”
“I have some of it now.” Daniel clasps his hands between his spread knees as if in prayer. I hope to hell he’s praying, because I have no idea how he intends to get out of this. “I swear to you, I’m good for it.”
“The same way you’re good for the ninety-grand marker you skipped out on in Vegas last week?”
“What?” It’s not Daniel who balks in reply. It’s me. Shocked, I swing a stunned look at him. “What’s he talking about? Is it true?”
But I don’t have to ask. The truth is written all over his face.
The fact that he doesn’t
