Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(39)

Ben laughs. “I feel the old in my cracking bones about twenty times a day, and that won’t change no matter what you call me.” He glances at me and gives me a nod. “If you need me, skip the ‘sir’ and just shout ‘Ben.’?”

“Thank you, Ben,” I say, laughing now myself. “Very nice of you. And I’m Skye. I appreciate your help.”

“Hello, Skye.” He inclines his head. “And goodbye, Skye.” He glances at Jason and pauses before exiting. “She seems way too sweet for you.” He opens the door.

“She is,” Jason calls after him as he enters the hallway, but as the door shuts and we are sealed inside, the mood becomes instantly intense, the lightness of moments before now gone. “You are.”

“I’m not sweet,” I say, thinking of some of the places life has forced me to go that no one needs to know about. “More polite, like Ben. And cautious. I’m not a ‘weekend in Vegas’ kind of girl. I’m not your type.”

He closes the small space between us, stopping a reach from touching me. “My only type until now has been the queen in a deck of cards, who lies down for me at my bidding and without questions. Any woman more complicated than that simply distracts from my real love.”

“Poker,” I supply.

“That’s right. But you, Skye, are layers of complexity that I find myself wanting to peel away one by one—and do so slowly enough to savor every damn moment.”

Afraid he just might have the power to do that and more, I’m quick to deter that idea. “I think you should stick to making me one of those queens for the weekend.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “I should.” Before I can decipher his meaning one way or the other, he glances at his watch. “But right now”—he links the fingers of his hand with mine, the act somehow sexier than anything he’s done to this point—“we need to go.” He starts backing up, taking me with him, his greener-than-green eyes never leaving mine. “Ladies first,” he says, opening the door. “Sweet thang.”

Our fingers slide away and I shake my head, exiting into the hallway and calling out, “I’m not sweet.”

Then his arm is around my shoulder and he’s aligned our hips and legs, setting us in motion down the hallway. “Sweet enough to make me want to kiss you again, and tough enough that I know I have to earn it. And, I have no doubt, sweet enough to win over a jury and a judge, but tough enough to rough up your opposing counsel.”

“Now you really are trying to seduce me,” I say, as he’s hit on a hot topic for me and no doubt knows it.

“Is it working?”

“Yes, actually. But if you win today—”

“Oh, come on, baby. I’m going to win.”

“Just like that?” I ask, forgetting where I was going with this. “You say ‘win’ and you do it?”

“You can’t win by expecting to lose.”

Someone else used to say that to me, and I both loved and respected him—only to turn around and hate him later. It’s not a memory I want to connect to Jason, so I shove it away, listening to what he’s now saying.

“This is a one-night event, so we play for a win. We have preliminary play and then the main event, with only a short break.”

“Is it normally longer?”

“It depends on the event,” he says. “But we’re going to be there late. Once we get downstairs, I’ll ensure you’re in the VIP seating area.”

“I don’t need VIP anything.”

“You’re with me this weekend, baby,” he says. “You get VIP everything. And be glad that means any kind of seating. If this wasn’t for this TV show, it would be a red rope and no seating at all for about five hours.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s hard to enjoy.”

“Thus, why they’ve used the TV shows to try and make poker more of a spectator sport.”

“And you’re a regular part of this show?”

“Me and five others. Though I signed on for a series of episodes, I don’t plan to do it again. My parents love being able to watch me play.”

“Why do I get the impression you don’t love it?”

“I love poker. I don’t love the politics that come with the TV show.”

“Politics are everywhere, it seems,” I say. “So will it be only you six playing?”

“No. There will be a dozen tables that’ll be played down to one final table.”

“Are you six the final table?”

“Only if we win our spots—but that’s the idea of the show. To watch how a group of top-ranked poker players manage to stay on top.”

“Talk about pressure,” I say. “What if you don’t get a spot at the table?”

“Then you get the ‘joy’ of your failure being televised and featured. Which gives you damn good motivation to win.” We round the corner to the elevator and his arm slides away as he punches the button. “Do you have your phone? I’d like to key in my number and Landon’s, in case you need them while I’m playing.”

I unzip my purse where it’s still hanging at my hip and hand my phone to him. “I’m not calling Landon for anything.”