Page 94 of Goldflame

Four minutes and forty-seven seconds later, I push open the basement door. Aurelia hasn’t moved. The defiance in her posture reminds me of a cornered wildcat—beautiful, dangerous, and utterly captivating.

“You mind explaining why you just sabotaged that?” She throws the question at me like a knife.

I close the door, taking measured steps toward the poker table. “We obtained the necessary intelligence. Continuing served no strategic purpose.”

“We were just getting to the good part!” Her frustration vibrates between us. “Ramos was about to tell me exactly how to access the Lake Washington property. Like the entry codes and?—”

“Unnecessary details.” I settle into the chair across from her. “We have a location and a time. The rest can be determined through other means.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s not why you stopped it, is it?”

Perceptive, as always. I adjust the cuffs of my shirt, permitting myself three seconds to formulate a response that will give her enough truth to let it go.

“You were overplaying your hand,” I say finally, reaching for the deck of cards. “You need guidance.”

“My technique was working perfectly.” She leans forward, and I maintain eye contact rather than allowingmy gaze to drift lower. “Those men were putty in my hands.”

“Those men were seconds away from making physical advances.” I shuffle the cards. “Additionally, your poker skills are horrendous.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, irritation temporarily replacing her suspicion. Excellent.

“I was losing on purpose,” she says.

“Were you?” I arrange the cards, dealing two hands. “Perhaps we should test that. A private game, just the two of us. Unless you’re afraid of a challenge?”

There it is—the flash of competitive determination that’s always defined her. “Fine,” she says, snatching up her cards. “What are the stakes?”

“The same as before. The loser removes an article of clothing.”

“Hardly seems fair, considering my current state.”

“Your first lesson in strategy—wear more clothing if you’re going to play strip poker.”

She rolls her eyes.

The first hand proceeds exactly as expected. Aurelia attempts a bluff with nothing stronger than a pair of threes, her giveaway tic—that slight furrow of concentration—appearing precisely 4.3 seconds after she examines her cards.

“Call,” I say, laying down my straight.

“Dammit.” She glares at my cards as if they’ve personally betrayed her. Standing, she shimmies out of her jeans with a slowness that suggests she’s attempting to unsettle me.

It’s working more effectively than I care to admit.

She sits again, now only in a black bra and panties. “Happy?” she challenges.

I deal the next hand without responding, focusing on maintaining my composure. This was perhaps not the most strategic approach. The sight of her nearly naked across the table is… distracting.

To my surprise, she wins the second hand—a flush that beats my three of a kind.

“Your jacket,” she demands, eyes mischievous.

I remove it, folding it over the back of my chair.

“That’s so not fair,” she protests. “You should have to remove your shirt too.”

“That would be two articles of clothing. The rules specified one per loss.”

“The rules are stupid.”

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