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Charlie had given up hope of his luck turning, at poker or anything else. The only bright spot on the horizon was that eventually this outing would be over, and Smithson could beat his chest and feel superior because he’d triumphed over a table full of drunks.

Though in Charlie’s case, it wasn’t cocktails clouding his judgment.

A solid half of his attention had jumped back to the last time he’d played cards.

When he caught a whiff of Jean’s perfume, he assumed it was an olfactory hallucination, brought on by how intensely he was concentrating on the past. But then there she was, climbing into the seat beside him.

He leaped up to help her push the tall chair back under the table, since he doubted her feet would reach the floor.

“You here to watch the master at work?” Smithson spun one of his chips.

“I’m here to wipe the floor with a bunch of amateurs,” Jean corrected.

“Yeah, okay.” Smithson’s laugh died out when she stared back at him without smiling. “You don’t have any chips.”

“She can have mine.” Charlie made a snowplow with his hands, pushing his meager stash over to Jean.

“Tapping out, Two Buck? Can’t stand the heat?”

Charlie scratched the back of his head, considering how to respond to Smithson’s taunting. “Yes and no,” he finally settled on.

“What does that even mean, dude?”

“It means he’s done, and the reason is none of your business, because I’m here to take his place.” Jean propped her chin on her knuckles. “Unless you’re afraid to lose to a girl?”

“Like that’s going to happen,” Smithson muttered, nodding at the dealer. “Let’s do this.”

Charlie edged around the table, looking for a vantage point with a clear view of Jean’s face.

“Hold up.” Smithson set down his cards, twisting to glare at Charlie. “Are you trying to see my hand?”

“He doesn’t cheat,” Jean said without looking up from her cards. “Not at poker, anyway.”

That was… a perplexing remark, but Charlie decided to be grateful she’d stuck up for him and wonder about the rest later.

He drifted a short distance from the table, creeping back once the game started.

If he couldn’t look at Jean’s face, he could at least stand behind her.

The contrast between the slender whiteness of her neck and the dark line of her hair reminded him of a delicious black and white cookie.

He wanted to bite her there. Very gently, so it was more of a nibble, because the human spine was much less resilient than a snake’s.

It was one of her ticklish spots, a fact Jean always adamantly denied even while twitching and squirming if he so much as blew on her neck…

“You want to sit on her lap, Chuck?”

“I’m fine here.”

Smithson snorted into his drink. “Guess you’re good at being arm candy.”

The line of Jean’s shoulders tightened, though Charlie doubted anyone else had noticed the microscopic movement.

“Am I bothering you?” he asked in a low voice, bending closer to her.

“Hmm?” She rearranged three of her cards, for no reason Charlie could ascertain. “Oh. I barely noticed you there.”

Jean rubbed the end of her nose. She did that sometimes if she was holding in a joke or a surprise or any other type of secret. It was one of her tells—not that Charlie would ever tell her that.

So he stayed where he was, and the game continued.

After a few minutes, it occurred to Charlie that he wasn’t nervous, despite the dirty looks from Smithson.

His faith in Jean was that strong. She would either win or do something so fabulous, the outcome of the game was irrelevant.

He tried to follow the ins and outs of who played which card and when but found his attention wandering.

Had there ever been anything as enticing as the hint of Jean’s tattoo peeking over her shoulder in back, offering that teasing glimpse of flowers and feathers?

Should he get another tattoo? Something bolder and less hidden?

Would Jean be willing to draw it for him—or on him?

“I win,” Jean announced, scooping more chips into her growing pile. “Again.”

Smithson looked significantly less cocky. “I had a bad hand.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself.” She thanked the waiter who had just dropped off a fresh drink. “Ready to cut your losses?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Jean tipped her head to one side, considering. “I think I’d rather keep dominating you, actually.”

Charlie imagined a whistling sound effect from an old Western, or a movie samurai wielding her sword. Jean had the instincts of an apex predator, scenting weaknesses and setting traps with deadly speed and accuracy. Some of the other guys started to rib Smithson, which only riled him up more.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked Jean. Charlie wondered if he’d finally put it together.

She kept her eyes on her cards. “I didn’t.”

“I’ll tell you what it’s not.” Smithson paused for effect. “Adriana Asebedo.”

“How clever of you to notice,” Jean replied, sipping her drink. “If only you paid that much attention to the game.”

“You think if you fight his battles for him, he’ll choose you?” Smithson jerked a thumb at Charlie.

“This isn’t a battle.” Jean made a tutting sound with her tongue. “It’s a beating.”

“We’ll see about that,” Smithson said, over the hastily smothered laughter of his crew. “You’re on a hot streak now, but my luck always turns.”

Either Smithson was wrong about his luck or it was no match for Jean’s skill, because he kept losing. Finally the other beverage bros got bored and headed upstairs to smoke cigars, giving Smithson the excuse he needed to fold.

“FYI, Two Buck, a real man doesn’t get his sidepiece to do his dirty work,” Smithson said, tossing down his cards.

“I love statements that start with ‘a real man’ or ‘a real woman.’ They’re always so progressive,” Jean mused.

“And she’s not my sidepiece,” Charlie added.

“Call it what you want, bro. You might be hitting that, but I don’t see you telling your daddy she’s your woman.” He jerked a thumb at Jean, and Charlie had the urge to bend that digit backward until Smithson apologized.

The anger was so strong, he was shaking with it. “I would never call her my woman—”

“Oops,” Smithson sneered, as Jean pushed away from the table, hiding her face from Charlie.

Before he could explain that he only meant no one could own another person—least of all a free spirit like Jean—she was gone.