Rebels and Lovers (28 page)

She cut the cards, shuffled again.

Game four took longer, the orbit and gate stacks showing high cards when he needed low. She longed to know what cards he was holding, but then he might read approval or disapproval in her face. This had to be his game, his way.

He had to start losing.

He won.

“Damn,” he said, one eyebrow arched. His surprise sounded genuine. “One more to go.”

She shuffled the cards, very aware now that they were more than plastic-coated symbols. They were the
Rider;
they were her life and her dreams. She cut the deck, shuffling again, her mind and heart racing. Years ago she’d learned how to cheat at just about any card game, especially if she sat as dealer or banker. She could palm a card or three, hold them back or never use them altogether. If she managed that now, it would throw him off. It would guarantee her a win.

It would gain her the
Rider
, free and clear.

She fanned the cards across the table with her right hand, then folded them up again with her left. The table was slick, not cloth as in the casinos. Even easier to slip a few cards out.

Devin was taking a long pull on his beer. “Empty,”
he said. He reached for her bottle. “Yours too. I’ll get us two cold ones. To celebrate,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “For whoever wins.”

“Thanks,” she said, feathering the cards through her fingers as she watched him rise.

Then he was out the door, his boot steps heading for the galley.

She fanned the cards on the table again in a wide half-moon, her breath suddenly fast. He’d left her alone with the cards. She could set their order so that one or two shuffles when he came back would look legitimate but in reality she’d control the flow. Or she could simply take out a few key cards, hold them back. There were ways, methods …

The
Rider
would be hers.

He’d never know. The chances of someone winning five hands in a max of ten moves were so rare. He’d never know.

It would be so easy.

She scooped up the cards, their edges cutting into her skin as she held the deck tightly in her fingers. It would be so easy.

And it would be so wrong.

If it were Orvis or Frinks, she’d do it. No question. But this was Devin Guthrie. Forget that he owned her ship and, in essence, owned her. This was Devin—who risked his life to save his nephew, who pushed Barty ahead to safety in the tunnel, and who came back for her when the striper and the Takan clerk tried to trap her in a scam.

This was Devin, who was, she sensed, a loner by his own choice. Yet he’d asked for her friendship.

She put the deck of cards in the middle of the table, then folded her hands in front of her because they were shaking. She wanted her ship back, badly.

But not that way.

Devin returned, placing a tall bottle on her left. “I peeked in on Barty. His readouts are all good.” He took his seat, his own beer on his right.

“He’s a fighter,” she said, pushing the stack of cards toward him. “Count them.”

“Hmm?” He frowned.

“Count them. You left the room. Make sure that’s a complete deck.”

He picked up the stack, tapped the edges on the tabletop, his gaze on her. Then he slid them back in her direction. “I trust you.”

Her heart lodged in her throat at his words. Her eyes threatened to mist. How could three simple words have such power? Maybe because trust, right along with love, were casualties from her marriage to Kiler. She knew how rare and precious they were.

Damn you, Devin Guthrie
.

She gave the cards one more shuffle, then, fingers trembling slightly, dealt the final hand.

The orbit and dock stacks’ top cards were mid-range, which, damn it, created an easy setup that opened a number of workable options. Fate taunted her. But the gate card was a high card, and suddenly she knew, by the way his mouth tightened slightly, that Fate wasn’t taking sides and it was anyone’s game.

He played his first two cards—one high, one low, being cautious. She was only the bank, so she had no choice in which cards she put down in answer to his move. But she prayed they were low cards, boxing him in further if he indeed had a poor hand.

One low, one high. It was still anyone’s game.

He had eight moves left in which to win. She was eight moves away from ownership of the
Rider
. She had to remind herself that it was his skill being tested,
not hers. She was simply an observer. But that didn’t stop her throat from going dry.

She took a sip of her beer as he pulled out a card and put it in line with the dock stack. Okay, she saw a pattern, or the beginnings of one. The next card he played should be high, if that was the pattern.

He played a low card.

What was he doing? She almost asked him that, then realized that neither of them had spoken for more than ten minutes. Was he nervous? For the first time, she considered the possibility. He’d invested considerable funds in her ship. What would happen if he lost it, and in a card game? J.M. would probably deem it irrational and unacceptable. Likely Jonathan would agree. Would this be one more thing to put Devin at odds with his family?

He’s turning out to be something of a rebel
. The thought surprised her and amused her. Not just Devin “Perfect and In Control” Guthrie.

Because, somehow, the moniker no longer fit the man seated across from her, hand fisted against his mouth as he concentrated.

Then there were two moves left and, from the line of his cards and the spread of the three stacks, there was no way he was going to make it. A thrill of joy shot through her, followed by a twinge of regret. Devin’s family was going to make him pay in hell’s hard work for losing the ship.

Maybe there was some way they could hide the truth. She could pretend she was working off the debt. Something that—

He pulled a card from those in his hand and put it under the gate stack.

Her heart stopped. It was high on high. Suddenly the numbers shifted. So did her luck.

He was watching her over the rims of his glasses. “This is it.”

She turned over the next three cards from the stacks in order: orbit, gate, dock. A high card would win at this point. Her gaze raked the cards in the spread. There were a lot of high cards out already, and he’d just played one. His last? She didn’t know but had to suspect, yes, it was. Which meant he had only low cards left, and he would lose, and she—

He played the next card.

It was high.

She sucked in a hard breath, part of her astounded at what she’d just seen, at his skill. But the rest of her felt deep-space chilled. The
Rider
. Her ship. It
was
her ship and, damn it, she deserved to win! She deserved to own the ship that had been the sole focus of her life for the past two years. Her sanity. Her lifeline.

And she’d just lost her best chance at getting it.

She reached for her beer and, forcing a smile, raised it in acknowledgment. “Congratulations. That was … amazing.” She took a long swig, wishing now the bottle held something stronger. Lashto brandy, maybe. Not that she could afford it.

Devin took a sip of his beer, then put it down. “I know you’re disappointed.”

She shrugged. “It was only a silly game. A way to pass the time tonight.” And time had passed—almost two hours. “We both should get some sleep.” Her day officially started in another five. She pushed herself to her feet.

He rose also, then tugged the empty beer bottle from her grasp. “Makaiden.” His voice was low, almost gentle. “You owe me a dance.”

No, she couldn’t do that. Not after everything today—the shock of Devin buying her ship, of being
pursued through Pisstown, detonating cargobots, and then Barty collapsing. No, she could not let herself lean into Devin’s arms, because if she let herself get that close to him, she honestly didn’t know if she’d punch him or, God help her, kiss him, seeking solace because he was warm and male and solid. And she felt, literally, adrift. “Look, it’s late—”

“Not lessons, not tonight. Just one dance.” He stepped closer. “To celebrate.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.” He held his hand out toward her in such an elegant gesture it made her laugh nervously.

“Devin, look at me.” She swept one hand down her front. “I’m in an old shirt and sweatpants.”

“And I’m not about to win any gentleman’s fashion award.”

She almost debated that. His half-open shirt offered a peek at a muscled chest sprinkled lightly with dark hair. His face had a slight beard shadow; his hair was tousled. If a man could ever pull off sexy and vulnerable at the same time, it was Devin Guthrie.

“There’s no music.”

He tapped at his Rada on the table, next to the stack of cards. The soft, lilting notes of a piano filled the small room.

“This is silly,” she protested.

“I think, after the past few days, we both could use a good dose of silly.” He held his hand out again. “One dance.”

Damning her rapidly evaporating willpower, she stepped—not without a huge dose of trepidation—into his embrace.

Devin circled Makaiden’s waist with one arm, then enfolded her hand in his. He put his lips near her ear and, for a moment, lost himself in the sweet scent of her soft hair. But no, no, that wouldn’t do. She was wary, suspicious.

He didn’t blame her. He’d done just about everything wrong since he found her. And this likely was one more thing on the list.

But his life was crumbling around him. His father was behind some kind of mad and dangerous scheme, his family’s home had been threatened, and Barty, his friend and mentor, was ill. In two and a half days they would come out of jumpspace and head for Port Chalo. He had no idea what they’d find there, but he suspected more trouble.

And this time, escape might not be so easy.

So he needed to dance with Makaiden. He needed her in his arms, he needed the heat of her body against his.

“It’s not difficult, really,” he told her. He could feel her breath against his neck, and the desire to pull her more tightly against himself warred with the knowledge that that would only drive her away. And he would lose the only thing of real value to ever come into his life.

“I’ll step forward with my left foot, you step backward with your right. Try not to think about it too much. Just listen to the music.”

“You
try not to step on my toes, okay?” Her voice
was small against his chest but held a note of defiance. “I’m barefoot.”

“Wait.” He pulled back reluctantly. “I can fix that.” He released her hand, sat on a nearby chair, and quickly pulled off his boots, then padded back to her in his socks.

“You could still do some damage,” she said as he drew her back against him.

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” He watched her face as he spoke. There was a double meaning to his words. He hoped she understood.

She lowered her lashes but made no comment.

“Now,” he began, because it was late and he didn’t want the silence to grow between them. “Listen to the beat of the music. One, two, three. For you, right foot, left, then together. Right, left, together.”

“Going backward?”

“Going backward.”

She sighed, then, under her breath, “Right, left, together.”

He chuckled, waited for a few notes to pass, then swayed her gently backward. “Right, left, together,” he repeated with her, moving lightly against her at first. Then, as she seemed to fall into the cadence, he turned her mid-step. She made a small stumble but caught herself. He pulled her back to him and they again moved as one, closer this time.

He needed that.

The melody rose and fell smoothly—it was a classical tune he’d heard since childhood, clear, simple, and elegant. Nothing at all like the woman in his arms who was alternately amazing and frustrating, mischievous and intense, forthright and damnably secretive. By the fourth turn around the passenger cabin’s small main room, he felt her relax. She was following the music,
but she was also synchronizing with him, her body strong and lithe, yet fluid.

In the part of his mind where his fantasies lived, they weren’t in the cabin’s main room but in his bed, her body moving in time to his, her breath stuttering against his skin as his hands caressed her curves. The heat between them simmered slowly, building with every brush of a fingertip, until his mouth covered hers with a kiss that finally let him taste her, a kiss that let him groan her name in need, in desire. And she—

“Devin. No.” Makaiden pulled her face back from his. Her hands splayed against his chest.

He was suddenly aware of the silence in the room—the music had stopped—and that they were no longer dancing. The rising heat in his body and the tightening in his groin told him they’d stopped dancing a while ago, though their bodies had never stopped touching. The rapidness of their breathing told him they’d started doing something else.

Her face was flushed but her lips were still parted. He knew then that not all of his fantasies had been in his imagination. They’d touched. They’d kissed. God, yes, they’d kissed. And he wanted more of that, more of her. But now she was backing away from him, slipping out of his embrace.