Heidi Rice - Claiming My Untouched Mistress

‘Long enough,’ I answered, forcing myself to pretend a confidence I didn’t feel.

My mother had been right about one thing. Appearances were everything now. If I wanted to win, I couldn’t show this man a single weakness. Appearing confident and in control was as important as being confident and in control. In fact, letting him believe I was over-confident would also work to my advantage—the ultimate double bluff, because then he would underestimate me.

His devastating face remained impassive, but the glitter of heat in his irises and the tiny tensing of his jaw, which drew my eyes to a scar on his upper lip, suggested that my cocky statement had hit its mark. I would have felt more triumphant about his reaction if that quickly masked tell hadn’t increased the weight in the pit of my abdomen by several hundred pounds—and the prickle of awareness coasting over my skin by several thousand volts.

What was happening to me? I had never had a response like this to any man.

‘I guess we’ll see about that, Miss Spencer,’ he said, then turned to his casino manager. ‘Escort Miss Spencer up to the Salon, Joe. Introduce her to tonight’s other Millionaire Club players.’ He glanced at his watch, all business again, even though the vibes coming off him—of heat and animosity—were turning my legs to jelly.

‘I need to speak to Renfrew but I’ll be up in thirty minutes,’ he added. ‘We can kick off then.’

‘You’re joining the table tonight?’ Donnelly asked, sounding mildly surprised.

‘Yes,’ he said, that deep voice stroking the hot spot which had started to throb at my core. ‘I never back down from a challenge, especially one issued by a beautiful woman.’

It took me a moment to realise I was the beautiful woman, probably because the glare he sent me before he walked away suggested he didn’t consider it a compliment.

But as I was led away by the casino manager towards a bank of elevators, I couldn’t take my eyes off Allegri’s retreating back. His broad shoulders looked indomitable, and yet terrifyingly alluring in the expertly tailored designer evening suit. The crowd parted to allow his dark figure to stride through the room.

I had to win tonight, no matter what the cost—my family’s future depended on it. But as the inexplicable heat continued to throb at my core, my senses thrown into turmoil by that one brief encounter, I had the agonising suspicion I had already lost.

EDIE SPENCER WAS an enigma I couldn’t solve, and it was driving me nuts.

We’d been playing for over three hours now and I couldn’t figure out her system. I was even finding it hard to read her tells—those insignificant physical responses every player had which they were unaware of, but which made them an open book when it came to assessing their next move. And the reason why I couldn’t figure out her tells was as simple as it was surprising. I couldn’t concentrate on the game—because I was too busy concentrating on her.

While her winnings had been modest so far, they had been building steadily, unlike every other player at the table, who had the inevitable troughs that came with a game of chance. I’d managed to dispose of all but one of the other players, so there were only three of us left at the table. But while my friend Alexi Galanti, the Formula One owner who sat beside her, was down to his last million, Edie Spencer was sitting with a tidy pile of chips in front of her that matched my own.

I knew she had to be using a system which was even more ingenious than mine. But my desire to figure it out was a great deal less urgent than my desire to peel her out of the provocative dress she wore. The lace that covered her cleavage was doing nothing to distract me from the tempting display of soft female flesh beneath.

‘Raise, two hundred,’ Alexi said as he tossed a couple of hundred thousand euro chips on the table, raising the stake after the blind bids.

I stifled my frustration as I watched Edie’s slim fingers lift her hole cards on the table to study them again.

I wanted Alexi out of the game so I could play Miss Spencer alone. But Alexi was a good player. So I needed to concentrate on the play, and not the provocative display of cleavage across the table.

I stifled the visceral tug of anticipation, and the swift tug of arousal, at the prospect of having her all to myself. Mixing sex with poker was never a good strategy. But as I watched her I had to admit it wasn’t just her beauty that had been driving me nuts for hours.

I’d seen a spark of fire downstairs, when I’d questioned her about her age, and it had excited me. For the first time in a long time, I’d found myself relishing the challenge of playing a stimulating game with a stimulating woman. But ever since that moment downstairs, I hadn’t been able to tempt that spark out of hiding again.

Her skin had remained pale and unflushed, her hands folded demurely in her lap when she wasn’t betting or checking her cards, her breathing even. Her bright green gaze, which had captivated me downstairs, hadn’t connected with mine since.

And while that lack of eye contact was frustrating enough when it came to reading her play, what was a great deal more frustrating was that I was becoming even more turned on. Not less so. And even more desperate to see that flash of green fire again.

I didn’t like it. I never let physical desire distract me at the table, but what I liked even less was the fact I didn’t understand what it was about her I found so hot.

For starters, she was only twenty-one years old. And she looked even younger. When I had first seen her, I would have placed her as nineteen, twenty at the most, the revealing dress and heavy eye make-up making her wide emerald eyes and slim coltish figure look for a moment like a child playing dress up.

Young women were not to my taste. I preferred women older than me as a rule, women with lots of experience, who could match my appetites in bed, provide stimulating conversation out of it—and didn’t get over-invested in the relationship, or over-emotional when I gave them an expensive bauble to send them on their way.

I had also never had the desire before to pursue a woman who was not sending me clear signals she was interested in a little bed sport too. The truth was, when younger women bought into the high stakes game they were usually looking for a little of both—the chance to test their skill at the table and test their skills in my bed. A temptation I had found it very easy to resist up till now.

But not this time.

Of course it was more than possible Miss Spencer’s demure behaviour was all an act, intended to intrigue and entice me. If that were the case, I had to give her credit for trying a new tactic. But that still didn’t answer the question of why it was working so effectively.

Was it simply the enigma of her? Or that momentary spark of defiance? Or maybe it was the challenge she represented? How long had it been since I had found a woman this hard to read?

As I studied her debating her play, unable to detach my gaze from her, I forced myself to focus.

This girl was no different from the many other heiresses I had met over the years while I was setting up my business. The spoilt, entitled daughters of millionaire businessmen and aristocrats, European royalty and Arab sheikhs, who had never had to work a day in their lives and didn’t know the meaning of want. They played the tables to imbue their lives with the excitement their pointless existences lacked—without realising that if money had no value, the risk and the pay-off of gambling with it would have no value too.

But despite my determination to dismiss and rationalise her unprecedented effect on me, my gaze continued to roam over her, the embers of my fascination burning in my abdomen.