Falling for the Highland Rogue. Ann Lethbridge

down a card. Jack trumped it. The boy looked confused. Disoriented as he gazed at the cards he had left. Men and their lust. So stupid. It was the end of him, of course. The rest of the hand went Jack’s way and with a shaking hand the boy wrote his vowel. So damned easy.

      At her back, she could feel golden boy, standing there, watching. Waiting his turn to be fleeced. A shudder went through her bones. An urgent need to tell him to leave. She glanced at Jack, wondering if she could excuse herself while he gathered his winnings. Use the moment to warn her green-eyed panther away from danger.

      Hers. Hardly. Men, handsome or not, left her cold. Even young handsome ones.

      Why would she even consider taking such a risk for a fool of a man who was little more than a boy. What was it to her, if he lost his coin? It would put more money in her pocket. Money she needed. Thank goodness Jack had recognised her worth at his tables after her utter failure in the brothel. While she might look the part, while she could drive a man to losing a fortune for the sake of a smile, men didn’t like a cold woman in their beds.

      Which was why she didn’t understand why the man at her back heated her blood with no more than a glance.

      The boy pushed his vowel at Jack and stood up, his face ghostly, his hands shaking. ‘I’ll send the money round tomorrow morning.’

      Jack smiled coldly, a quick baring of crooked teeth. ‘You will find me at the White Horse Inn. Gold only. No paper.’

      The boy swallowed and stumbled away with one last longing glance at her face. She cut him dead. He no longer existed. The next mark was waiting his turn. Him. The handsome rogue. Tonight he would lose his swagger and, like all the others, she’d consign him to the flames of unrequited lust.

      It was as inevitable as day following night. It had to be.

      Jack handed off the winnings to Growler standing behind him and raised his gaze, looking up at the man standing behind her right shoulder out of her line of vision, though she could see him in her mind’s eye, see the arrogant set of his head, the confident expression on his handsome face.

      Damn you! Can’t you see what we are? Go away.

      Jack gestured to the empty chair. ‘Faro?’ he asked around his cigar.

      The other two men at the table looked up expectantly, saying nothing. They each had some winnings. Money they would return to Jack at the end of the night. His boyos, Jack called them in the private sanctum of his office at the back of Le Chien Rouge. It was the only place he ever acknowledged he knew them. They took their orders from Growler.

      Lean and lithe, her panther sat down. He glanced at her face, his eyes blazing heat for a brief betraying moment, a heat that burned in her belly. She swallowed an indrawn gasp and picked up her glass, sipping slowly, retaining her mask of indifference.

      Jack didn’t notice anything amiss. He was used to the hot looks young men cast her way. It was what he paid for. He assessed the young man with a knowing eye. He wore clothes quite different from last night. A dark coat of superfine slightly worn at the cuffs, the linen good, but not expensive. A man of few means, but a great deal of pride. And a fool.

      She set her glass down with more force than she intended. Jack glanced her way, a quick sideways glance and a faint trace of a frown. A shiver slid down her back. It did not do to make Jack angry. To ruin his play. She touched a finger to her smiling lips. ‘Oops.’

      ‘A shilling a point to begin,’ Jack said, with his friendliest grin. He looked around the table. ‘All right with you, gentlemen?’

      They murmured their assent on cue and Jack raised his brow in the direction of the young man. ‘Jack O’Banyon at your service.’ He nodded at the other two men in turn. ‘Mr Smith and Mr Brown.’

      Not their real names of course. Only Growler knew those.

      ‘Gilvry,’ the young man said, his Scottish burr a startling velvet caress in her ear. ‘You were asking after me.’

      Clearly surprised, Jack leaned back in his chair. ‘You’ll be excusing me, Mr Gilvry. I was expecting someone older.’ He glanced from him to her and his eyes gleamed with cunning, deciding how to use that first hot look to advantage. She tapped a fingernail on the wooden table. ‘My glass is empty, Growler.’ She spoke in the husky murmur men loved to hear in bed.

      Not that they ever heard it in her bed. She preferred to sleep alone.

      While the bruiser went in search of a waiter, Gilvry’s gaze focused on Jack. There was a wealth of understanding in that look. ‘My brother asked that I meet with you.’ His voice didn’t carry beyond the confines of their group.

      ‘Why don’t we play while we talk?’ Jack puffed smoke in Gilvry’s direction. ‘We’ll attract less attention.’

      Gilvry’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Do that again, man, and I’ll stuff that wee cheroot down your throat.’ Then he grinned, an open devil-may-care smile that was both charming and dangerous.

      Charity shivered as if she, too, had been caught in his predatory gaze. But it wasn’t quite that. It was the razor edge to his voice, the sense of a blade with a silky sheath. Her breathing shallowed, her chest rising and falling, the edge of her satin gown pressing against her skin like a touch. She wanted to scream. Anything to break this tension.

      Brown’s hand went beneath the table, to the pistol she knew he had tucked in his waistband.

      Jack threw back his head and laughed. He mashed the hot end of the cigar between his stubby fingers, his gaze fixed on Gilvry’s smiling expression. A battle of strength fought in silence.

      Jack’s other two men relaxed, watchful, but at ease.

      A breath left her body. Relief. Glad Gilvry wasn’t about to die. She caught herself. She did not care. Not at all.

      Growler plonked the fresh glass in front of her and took the empty one away.

      ‘I’ve no interest in cards,’ Gilvry said softly. ‘Or drink. If it is business you want to discuss, we’ll do it in private. Or we’ll no’ do it at all.’

      Not once did he look at her. Not once, since that first look the moment he sat down, yet her skin shivered with the knowledge of his strength of will. His blind courage. Fool man. She lifted her glass and drained it in one draught. A dangerous thing to do, to let the wine cloud her judgement around Jack, but the tension was too great, too impossible to let her resist the warm slide down her gullet, steadying her nerves, calming the frantic beat of her heart.

      ‘We’ll be going back to my rooms at the White Horse then, is it, Gilvry?’

      ‘Aye, that will do.’

      ‘Ride with us?’

      Say no, she willed, the thought of being confined in a small space with him a suddenly terrifying prospect.

      ‘No,’ he said, once more flashing the smile with its edge of wickedness.

      She almost sagged back in her chair with relief. Almost.

      ‘Give me a little credit, O’Banyon,’ Gilvry said. ‘I’m no’ advertising our business to all and various. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’ He cocked a brow at the men at the table. ‘Am I needing to bring my own gang of ruffians?’

      Jack barked a short laugh. ‘You’ll find no one with me but Growler, here.’

      He nodded. ‘Half an hour, then.’ He rose gracefully to his feet, so tall and almost as broad as Jack, but not nearly so heavy set. There was an elegance, a manly grace, about him as he prowled away.

      Deliberately, she kept her gaze on Jack, waiting for her cue.

      He looked at his men. ‘I’ll not be needing you any more tonight,’ he said curtly. ‘Growler will bring you my orders in the morning.’

      He rose to his feet with a sour look at Charity. ‘It seems you are losing your touch.’

      The