Reese's Wild Wager. Barbara McCauley
to closely assess an opponent. Every movement, every blink, every twitch, was to be noted, then analyzed. If her father had taught her nothing else before he’d left when she was twelve, she had learned to be observant. If she ever saw him again, she just might have to thank him for that one thing. But seeing her father again was one bet she’d never take. He’d called a few times, sent a couple of birthday cards, but he’d never come back once to see her after he’d walked out fourteen years ago.
Knowing what an extremely difficult woman her mother had been to live with, Sydney could understand the lack of visits. What she couldn’t understand, what she couldn’t forgive, was him leaving her alone with her mother, who had no one else to take out her bitterness on except her daughter.
But that was water under the bridge, Sydney thought with a sigh. She was twenty-six now and in a few short weeks she’d have the business she’d dreamed of for so many years. The past would be behind her, including the humiliation of Bobby and Lorna.
Sydney Taylor was going to be a new woman. She was going to be the woman everyone thought she was: confident, self-assured, poised. A woman who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought or said about her.
All the things she wasn’t, but desperately wanted to be.
Realizing that she’d lost focus of the game while her mind wandered, Sydney snapped her attention back to Reese. She’d learned that when he touched his finger to the cleft in his chin he had at least a pair, when he scratched his neck just under his left ear, he probably had three of a kind or better. When he brushed his jaw with his thumb, as he was doing now, odds were he was bluffing.
And so she watched him. Closely. Strictly for the game, of course.
She’d never noticed the scar just under that firm mouth of his, or the slight bump at the bridge of what she would consider an otherwise perfect nose. He wore his hair combed back, and the ends just brushed the collar of his blue flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his forearms muscled and sprinkled lightly with the same dark hair that peeked from the vee of his shirt.
No question about it, he was an amazing specimen of masculinity. He wasn’t her type, of course. After Bobby, she’d sworn off smooth-talking, shallow playboys who had more muscle than brain. While she could certainly appreciate Reese Sinclair’s blatant maleness, she had no intention of being a victim of it, as were most of the women in town.
But then, Sydney knew she wasn’t Reese’s type, either. He went for the bubbleheads, the women who giggled at every joke and endlessly batted their eyelashes. She’d seen Heather Wilkins hanging on his arm last month at the pumpkin festival in town, then Laurie Bomgarden had been snuggling with him a week ago at the Women’s Auxiliary’s annual fall charity drive. Sydney doubted that Heather and Laurie’s IQs combined was equal to the current outside temperature. And considering it was only the beginning of November, she was being generous.
But who Reese Sinclair spent his free time with was of no concern to her. Her only concern was beating the pants off that arrogant butt of his that the women of Bloomfield were so crazy about.
She glanced at the “Best Butt in a Pair of Blue Jeans” award he’d hung on the wall in his office. The conceit of the man, she thought with a sniff. Maybe they’d give her an award when she kicked that butt in poker.
“You vote for me, Syd?”
“What?” Realizing that she’d been caught staring at the award, Sydney snapped her gaze back to the table. Reese was watching her, and the amusement she saw in his eyes made her stiffen.
With a grin, he nodded toward the wall. “Did you vote for me?”
“Certainly not.”
It was a bald-faced lie. She’d considered it her civic duty to vote when the ballot box went around for the annual “best butt” election. The contest had been close this year, between Lucian and Reese and the sheriff, Matt Stoker. It had been a difficult choice, but in the end—she almost smiled at her own pun—she’d voted for Reese.
And she’d die before she told him that.
“Who’d you vote for, then?”
She straightened the cards in her hand, lining them up perfectly. “What makes you think I voted for anyone?”
“Sydney Taylor miss an opportunity to express her opinion on something?” He settled back in his chair and regarded her with a curious gaze. “So why didn’t you vote for me? Don’t you think I deserved it?”
She was becoming increasingly flustered by this rather personal topic of conversation. “I wouldn’t know if you deserved it or not. I’ve never noticed.”
“You’ve never noticed?” He looked slightly wounded. “You come over to the tavern every Wednesday night for the book review club. How could you not notice?”
“Reese Sinclair!” She slammed her cards down on the table. “In spite of your high opinion of yourself, I do not go to the book review meeting to stare at your butt!”
He looked at her for a long moment, then blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said, I do not—”
“I heard what you said, I just don’t under— Oh.” He glanced at the wall, then back at her. “I was talking about the restaurant award. You are a member of the Chamber of Commerce, aren’t you? And you did vote for the top restaurant in Bloomfield County, didn’t you?”
The restaurant award. She felt her cheeks burn. He was talking about the restaurant award.
He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Sydney Taylor, shame on you. Where is your mind tonight?”
Her entire face was on fire now, the heat spreading down her neck. “I…well…I—”
“I’ve never seen you stutter and blush, Syd.” Reese gave her a lopsided grin. “You were thinking about my—”
“I was not!” She scooped up her cards again and stared at them. “The sun will be up in a few hours and you can crow all you want, Sinclair. Right now, this game is gathering moss. Could we get on with it, or do you need some ice for that swelling in your head?”
“You know, darlin’—” Reese picked up the cigar he’d put out an hour ago and bit on it “—that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one of these days. You need to learn to lighten up and have some fun.”
“I am having fun.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I have twice as many chips as you do. Bet’s to you, darlin’.”
Reese grabbed a large handful of chips and tossed them on the table, then grinned at her. “Five dollars.”
It was a steep bet, the largest he’d made since they started playing. He was bluffing, she thought. She’d seen him brush his thumb over his jaw a few moments ago. Sydney matched the bet, then slid another column across the table. “And I raise you.”
And then he scratched his neck under his left ear.
Oh, dear.
Now she wasn’t sure.
She stared at her own cards. She had three jacks, ace high. A good hand, but not great.
His thumb brushed his jaw again. She chewed on her bottom lip.
“Let’s have some real fun,” Reese said casually and glanced up from his cards. “Let’s bet it all.”
Bet it all? Her throat went dry. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” He shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and leveled his gaze at her. “Winner take all.”
She knew enough not to look away, not to so much as glance at her cards. Confidence was everything in this game. Never sweat, never falter. Absolute self-assurance.
“Do you know how to make quiche, Sinclair? With a splash of goat cheese and a kiss of basil? It’s a little