Free California Royale by Deborah Smith Page A

strode to the couch. He dumped her unceremoniously on the soft cushions, then jabbed one blunt finger at her.
    “I’ll be right back with the other bottle of wine,” he said in a firm tone. “Have you got a deck of cards?”
    “Yes,” she said, and pointed to a drawer at the bottom of the bookcases.
    “Get it. Clear off your coffee table. I’ll teach you how to play poker.”
    “I know how to play poker. I also know how to shoot craps.”
    He gave her a long, respectful look. “Good, Ms. Mustang. I’m not in the mood to shoot craps, if you don’t mind.”
    “Me neither. We can play cards.” She felt giddy and confused.
    “Marvelous. Playing poker’s one of the best ways to calm my nerves.”
    “Poor man,” she commented dryly.
    “One
of the best ways, I said.”
    “I’m sorry for upsetting you a minute ago. I never meant to imply …”
    “I’m a little oversensitive—comes from being treated like a second-class citizen when I was young.” His voice became sardonic. “I guess we Latin types are bound to be temperamental.”
    “Me too. I’m not Latin, but I’m a temperamental something.”
    “Woman,” he concluded for her. “All women are temperamental.”
    She threw a pillow at him as he made his way to the kitchen, and he threw it back. By the time he returned with the wine bottle and two fresh glasses, she was seated cross-legged on the floor, shuffling the cards atop her coffee table.
    “That’s better,” he noted in a tone of grand satisfaction. “You’ve calmed down.”
    “Sit down and be quiet,
hombre
,” she warned. “What are we playing? Five-card draw?”
    “Fine.” He took the deck.
    “What are we betting, Alejandro? I don’t have any chips, pennies, or matches.”
    “Let’s improvise. No ante. Straight and simple. We’ll bet clothes.” When she arched one brow and gazed at him without speaking, he added, “Chicken?”
    “I won’t bet chickens. It isn’t humane, and they’ll drop feathers everywhere.”
    “Very cute.”
    “All right, Araiza, I’ll play strip poker with you. I’m a shark, I warn you.”
    “I thought you were a mustang.”
    “Deal the cards, wise guy.”
    “My shirt against your shirt.”
    “Hah! Great! I’d love to have a man’s shirt to sleep in.”
    “I’ll use yours for a sweat rag.”
    “You’re a cruel man, Alejandro.” She smiled fiendishly and began dealing the cards.
    When they both had a full hand, she nodded to him. “You first.”
    He laid his hand down. “Two pair.”
    Shea’s eyes gleamed as she put her own cards on the table. “Three of a kind. Fork over the shirt.”
    Duke took a deep swallow from the wine glass beside his cards, then quickly unbuttoned his short-sleeved print shirt and pulled it off.
    “I like this,” Shea told him as he handed it across the coffee table. “The tiny black stripe in it is the color of your hair and eyes. I’ll always think of you when I wear it.
Gracias
.”
    “
De nada
. Your shirt against my pants.”
    “Brave man.” Shea gloated until she put down a miserable pair in the next hand and he slapped down a straight.
    “Your shirt, if you please,” he ordered.
    Shea was suddenly very glad she’d worn a bra under the light T-shirt with its colorful, hand-painted design. Grimacing because the shirt was a favorite of hers, she pulled it over her head and tossed it to him. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
    “Ah, roses and cream,” he murmured gleefully. “I’ll always think of you when I wipe my underarms with this.”
    “How wonderful.”
    They faced each other for an awkward moment, her eyes roving over his thickly haired chest, his taking in her rather demure white bra. “You shouldn’t be wearing that,” he complained solemnly. “It’s bad for your lungs—makes it harder for your chest to expand when you breathe. Why don’t you take if off?”
    “Your theory about underwear is interesting but unproven,” she told him in a wry tone.
    “Let’s prove