Page 13 of House of Cards

I’m lightheaded, my mouth cork-dry.

I’m regretting the three vodka-tonics I had as much as the audacity I dared to have. What does someone like that even do to people who count cards? Call the cops? Break my fucking knee caps?

A man gets up from a slot machine right in front of me. I can’t dodge fast enough and crash headlong into him.

I briefly consider apologizing, but when I look back over my shoulder,there he is again.

Rounding the corner, calm as ever.

Not running. Not rushing.

As if there’s no need to chase now that he’s caught my scent. Like he’ll just keep coming, catching up to me as I sleep.

Shit, shit, shit!

My pulse pounds in my ears, nearly drowning out the chiming, clattering slot machines. I turn a corner, then another. Another. Desperately hoping to lose him by doubling, then tripling back through the slot machines.

Just when I think I’ve lost him, I slam into a solid wall of man-flesh.

I bounce right off, and try to keep my momentum going by backtracking, but he’s too fast.

The floor manager snatches up my wrist and drags me right up against him.

“What makes you think running from someone like me is a good idea?” His deep, silky voice oozes authority and calm menace…and disrespect.

I’m struck mute.

Both by fear and panty-melting disbelief at the man who has no right looking and sounding this handsome as he takes me inwith an emotionless sweep of his dark eyes. There isn’t a single smudge on his glasses. Not one crease in his suit.

Heat radiates from his body, enveloping me in a scent that’s all expensive cologne and male skin.

My body betrays me with a shiver that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how tight he grips my wrist, how his height forces me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

God, how would those full lips of his feel against my?—

Wait, what the actual fuck?

This guy isn’t some dreamboat I can fantasize about at night when I can’t fall asleep.

He’s dangerous in a way I haven’t quite figured out yet.

Dear God, I hope I won’t get a chance to.

I struggle in his grip. “Is this where I beg, or do we just skip straight to the part where you break my kneecaps?”

“If I wanted to break you, kitten, I wouldn’t start with your kneecaps.”

“Kitten?”

My slap catches us both off guard, but he recovers first, fingers brushing against the splotch of red on his cheek. Then he slowly tilts his head, his lashes lowering as his lips curl into something faint, unreadable.

Not a smile.

Smiles aren’t supposed to be that menacing.

My pulse stutters, and I tug harder at my trapped wrist.

Fuck. Did I make him mad? I can’t afford to piss off another dangerous man. One tattooed psycho threatening to burn me alive has already maxed out my quota.

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