Page 15 of Wild Card (Advantage Play 1)

“Answer me, Acely Mezzerich.” With a knowing smirk and a few choice words, he nearly knocks me on my ass.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Surprised I know who you are?” he pushes.

Again, I’m silent.

How the hell does he know my real name?

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Yup. I keep my lips zipped.

“Answer me, Ace. I won’t ask again.” His authoritative tone does weird things to me, but I don’t have time to assess them now, so I shove them deep down in a little box labeled: Do Not Open.

“Yes,” I whisper as I watch him continue to circle me in his expensive loafers. The guy is built like a freaking panther. I can see his muscles bunching beneath the tailored suit he wears like a second skin as he slowly inches closer with every step.

He pauses at my voice. With a quirked brow, he asks, “Yes, you’re surprised I know who you are? Or yes, you know why you’re here?”

Licking my chapped lips, I hold his gaze. “Both, I guess.”

“And do you know how much money you’ve taken from me and my casino?”

I nearly grimace before schooling my features. If I had my notebook that’s not-so-safely tucked away in my backpack by the blackjack table upstairs, I’d be able to tell him exactly how much money I’ve taken from him. Even without it, I think I can still ballpark the number off the top of my head. That is if I wanted to get backhanded. Again.

A cocky grin tugs at his mouth. “So you do know, I take it. Interesting.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Do you know who I am?” he continues his probing while slowly closing the circle he’s been surrounding me with. The shrinking proximity is giving me heart palpitations, and my hands sweat as they hang by my sides, bunching up the black material of my dress.

When I remain silent, he pushes a little harder with a sharp tongue and an icy stare. “Better start talking, Ace. I’d hate to see that pretty little face get any more bruised than it already is.”

Asshole.

Part of me doesn’t believe he’d actually hit me, but the other part doesn’t want to risk any more damage. Getting hit hurts no matter how many times it happens.

Lifting my chin, I find the courage to answer. “I have an idea.”

He laughs dryly. “You have an idea of how much you’ve stolen from me, or you have an idea of who I am?”

“Both.” My lips tilt up on one side, and I find it ironic that any of this situation could possibly be found amusing to me.

“This is starting to feel an awful lot like déjà vu, isn’t it?” Again, I catch him reading my mind.

Rule #3: If something feels fishy, it probably is. Trust your instincts. The only problem? My instincts aren’t telling me to run in the other direction. The longer I’m in this room, the less threatened I’m beginning to feel, which is weird. And foreign. Thanks to my past, I always feel the need to run.

His forest green eyes flash as soon as the thought enters my mind. Instead of continuing his predatory stalking, he stops in front of me, leaving only a foot of room between us.

Tilting his head to the side, he states, “You’re not afraid of me.”

My poker face slips, revealing my confusion at his narrowed eyes. How can he tell when I just figured out the same thing myself?

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“Let’s play a game.”

I feel like I have whiplash from the turn of events, and I’m having a hard time keeping up.

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