Page 59 of The Biting Bargain

"Oh, just curiosity. You know," I grin. "I like to know more about the people I have totally transactional sex with."

He measures me for a long second or two, and I'm already thinking he's not going to answer when he says, "You just have to work with the hand you get dealt."

I blush, wiping away the angry thought that he almost lost me to Stellan DiAngelo, and spear a piece of mushroom with my fork.

"Doesn't make any sense, though," I say. "I know as much about poker as I do brain surgery, but I understand enough that it comes down to who blinks first. Poker is basically a massive game of chicken."

"It's probably a bit more refined."

"Still. You make the best of the hand you get dealt."

"That's true." He swirls the contents of his glass.

I point the tip of my fork at him. "It just means you're good at bluffing."

That wolfish grin again. "I'm probably just good at making my opponent believe what they want to believe."

Or deluded little companions like me, who think that the fact Vincent Renard even bothers with them would mean anything. I put down my fork. Suddenly I’m not hungry anymore.

"So, my argument stands," I say.

"Add to that centuries of experience, of course," Vincent adds dryly.

"Obviously," I say, taking a hasty sip of water from my glass . "But your opponents are usually as ancient as you are, right? The paranormal bonus doesn't cut it. You must have at least some secret up your sleeve."

He sighs, that smile stealing back onto his face. He leans forward, propping his elbows up.

"My grandmother taught me."

"Oh." I set down my glass. The thought that Vincent might have a grandmother never occurred to me. But since he's a born vampire, there must be some kind of family.

"She was my mother's mother," he says. "Mamanis a turned vampire, but my grandma stayed human." His gaze turns down to his hand resting on the table. "I liked her."

This sounds so strangely yearning and vulnerable that my throat tightens.

"How long..." I ask, but he shakes his head.

"She died in 1801. I was still young. But for the final three years of her life, I visited her every day and played cards with her." He looks at the tablecloth again, smiles. "She was ruthless."

I give a soft laugh. "No shit."

"They didn't call it poker then," he continues. "It was calledbrag, orbouilotte. But whatever, one thing's for sure. If you're playing every day against some half-crazy old hag whose retinas are peeling off, and not learning to tell if someone's bluffing or not, you might as well just step into the sun."

Amber eyes lock on me, that devastating sly smile on his face, and I feel warm all over. I turn back to my pizza and shove an extra large piece into my mouth before I say something I might regret.

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Polly

Opening the door,I push aside a pile of letters — apparently they've been throwing bills and pizza-flyers through the mail slot again despite the sticker telling everyone not to. Also, a funky smell informs me that the yogurt I left on the kitchen cabinet when I hurriedly left for work a week ago, before the whole mess took its course, has since started a colony.

"Shit. Sorry. Stay where you are," I blurt out, rushing past Vincent and into the kitchen.

"Everything okay?" his dark voice booms from the hallway as he clicks the front door shut. I clean up the damage in the kitchen, hauling the stinky yogurt to the trash can. Thank goodness at least that it was empty. Thank goodness I don't have anything else freaky in my apartment.

Why again did I have the brilliant idea to bring him here?

Oh yeah, right. I need my stuff. I can’t stand another night in designer PJs.

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