"What's the problem, princess? Either you've got a pair or you don't."
"I don't."
His pause was just long enough to make her squirm. "Wanna bet?"
Amanda didn't have to look to know where Jake's gaze was lingering. She could feel it smoldering over her breasts like a lover's fingers. Her heartbeat and respiration responded. Instead of commenting on his lewd remark, she let it pass and instead answered his original question. "I'm afraid I can't open, Mr. Chandler."
"Pity, Miss Lennox. I can."
She wasn't surprised. He'd had enough to open for the last three hands, but not the pair of jacks or better required to win. Was it her imagination, or had his poker game undergone a drastic improvement?
Jake bet his saddle blanket. With her heart in her throat, Amanda called him by betting her blouse.
He discarded one, then picked up the deck. His gaze fixed on her expectantly. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice rich with a meaning that sent her imagination soaring.
Amanda felt a warm shiver splash down her spine, washing lower, as she forced her trembling fingers to remove the two tens and set them aside, face down on the grass between them. It was a gamble, yes—all poker hands were—but a possible flush was worth the risk. It was higher than three of a kind, which was the most she could hope for by keeping the tens.
"Two, please," she said. Her voice low and silky, she specified, "Cards, Mr. Chandler. Two cards."
"That's it?" One inky brow tipped challengingly high. "Just two? You're sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Positive?"
"Yes," she sighed, and glanced at him. It was a mistake. One she realized too late.
He'd spread his lanky body over the grass, and was laying on his side, his head propped on the palm of one hand, his long black hair curtaining his steely forearm. His other hand was poised near his waist, the fingers ready and waiting to deal Amanda her cards. Her gaze, all on its own, strayed past those cards, past that hand. His thin white underdrawers were a vivid contrast to the darkening night and his tight copper skin. The fabric wasn't as opaque as she thought it should be. Of course, she'd never seen a man's undergarments before. Maybe they were supposed to be almost transparent?
Swallowing hard, Amanda glanced away. Her cheeks were flaming, her heart pounding furiously. She'd stopped breathing some time ago. Her palms felt moist, her fingers trembly, and... well, there were other symptoms—hot, vivid symptoms—that she thought it best not to explore or to dwell upon.
Fool, fool, fool! Why did you look?!
How could I not?
"It's not too late. You can change your mind and draw three, princess. I won't hold it against you."
A loaded remark, if ever there was one. Her gaze snapped to his. His eyes sparkled wickedly, saying he knew exactly what lascivious thoughts were spinning through her head, corrupting her senses... and that he liked being the inspiration for them just fine. "Two, please," she repeated firmly.
Jake shrugged tightly and dealt her two cards, himself one.
Amanda knew in a glance she should have folded. While the queen of hearts was an admirable contribution to her flush, the four of clubs was not. Damn! Now she had the unsavory choice of bluffing or folding. She didn't bluff well, never had. Unfortunately, folding meant she would lose her shirt. Quite literally. Amanda now knew what the expression "between a rock and a hard place" meant. Not an elegant phrase by any means, but then, it wasn't an elegant feeling.
Jake bet his empty saddlebag. Amanda bet her skirt. He saw her bet with his knife, and raised her with his horse—all he had left. She called him with her corset; stripping down any more than that in front of a man was out of the question. Since Jake had bet everything he owned—and when Amanda thought everything, she meant everything—she didn't dare contemplate what would happen if she won.
"Well, Mister Chandler? What do you have?"
"Read 'em and weep." Grinning, Jake laid his cards out on the moonlit grass. He did so slowly, as though to prolong her agony. Or his. "Three kings."
Amanda gulped. "Does an 'almost' flush count?"
"Nope. With a good little white lady like yourself 'almost' never counts." His grin broadened, and his eyes shimmered wickedly. "What've you got?"
"You said I didn't have to show you my hand if I lost."
"Lady, if you lost you're going to be showing me a hell of a lot more than your hand." His attention shifted to her hankie—still lying between them like a limp, sacrificial lamb—then rose once more. An inky brow cocked, but he was already aware of the answer to his next question. "Well? Did you lose?"
She shrugged.