Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(11)

“Stop manhandling me,” I hiss, shoving at his chest, immensely disturbed by how much my hands want to linger there.

“Stop trying to call for help.”

“That’s what people who need help do.” When they’re in so deep that they’re in trouble.

“You don’t need help.”

The very fact that I’m noticing the green of his eyes and the wicked curve of his mouth says he’s wrong. “I disagree. You could murder me right now and I’d have no way to stop you.”

“Molly would be pissed, and I don’t get the impression I want her pissed at me. And do you make a habit of arguing with people you fear are about to do you bodily harm?”

This hits a nerve. A really deep, raw nerve I try to retract, but it’s there, bleeding into my mind, and I roughly shove it aside. “No,” I whisper. “No. I don’t.”

His eyes narrow and I see the awareness in them. I’ve shown my hand, a hand I show no one. “Sex and money are my vices, sweetheart,” he admits almost proudly. “Not violence.” His fingers tangle in my hair, and he lowers his mouth close to mine. Too close, yet not close enough. “I’d kiss you long before I’d hurt you.”

My stomach does a somersault and I tell myself it’s panic, not excitement. “No.” I try to sound authoritative. “You will not kiss me.”

“No,” he agrees. “Not unless you ask me to.”

I blanch. Is he serious? “Ask you? I’m not one of your groupies, like Molly.” I shove at his chest, and this time it’s forceful.

He dares to laugh, a rich, deeply amused, masculine rumble. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He sets me away from him and I tumble backward onto the mattress, grabbing the blanket to keep from landing flat on my back, which I am certain is not a position a woman can win in—not with this man.

Grabbing the phone, he tosses it behind him. It hits the floor with a thud.

I growl low in my throat. “If you broke my phone, I’m going to be furious. I’m on a budget, and I’m a hardworking girl. Not some rich, spoiled playboy poker player.”

He looks as amused as his laughter had sounded moments before. “Rich and spoiled,” he repeats. “Hmmm. Considering I grew up in the slums of New York, I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. I worked damn hard to get where I am today.”

I all but flinch. Somehow, some way, this stranger has hit another nerve. Or maybe he’s hit a craving, my desire to pull myself out of the eternal struggle to survive. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, and judging by his expression I’ve surprised both of us with my spontaneous apology.

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes. And I don’t know why I’m apologizing when you bulldozed your way into my home, but I am. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you didn’t work hard to get there. And if you got rich after being poor, from your own work, then, well, that’s admirable.”

He looks baffled. I feel baffled. I’m attracted to, and now feeling admiration for, a complete stranger who’s accosted me in my own house. But the truth is, I don’t feel like I’m in danger from Trouble. He didn’t touch me inappropriately when he’s had the opportunity to do so, nor has he hurt me. And after seeing how fan-struck she was, I think Molly has most likely called everyone she knows to tell them he’s here, so Trouble knows she could be trouble.

Jason scrubs a hand over his jaw, giving the ceiling the kind of inspection that has me looking to see what he sees that I don’t, and then he squats down in front of me, his hands on the mattress at my hips. “Tell me you aren’t involved,” he demands.

“Why would you believe me if I did?”

“I read people, sweetheart. How do you think I win at poker?”

Like a good attorney does in a courtroom, I think. And I am going to be a good attorney. “I’m not involved,” I assure him.

Seconds tick by, and his stare is intense—eternal it seems—before he finally says, “Stephanie, the woman who owned the unit.” He hesitates, then adds, “She’s going to make it look like I cheated in a very high profile cash game, which would be career-ending for me. And aside from the fact that it’s regulated by the gaming commission, this is a card room in California, my home state.”

“What is a card room?”

“They can’t operate as full casinos. They offer card play only. Some are large operations that operate like a casino and even call themselves casinos when they are not. Others are anything from a couple of tables to a private country club environment. All of the well-established rooms host tournaments, many televised.”

“You said the event she is setting you up for is high profile?”

“A tournament and televised, but among the reasons she picked this event are the location and the owner of club. He’s not a man you want to cross.”

My mouth goes dry. “Or you’re killed?” I ask, shocked at the intimate details of the blackmail he’s shared with me.

“He’s rumored to have mob ties. Now if that’s true or not, I can’t say, but my gut instinct, says he does.”

“And you want to live in this world?”

“I don’t live in a world ruled by the mob. I play poker. I collect my winnings. I go home, which is not in Vegas. No one bothers me and I don’t bother them.”