Free The Mad British by Hera Leick Page A

you're more of a vodka girl."
    He picks up the glasses and walks toward me. I push myself away from the doorway, fixated on his smile. It’s mysterious in a way that is almost seductive, as if he doesn’t let just anyone see it.
    "So you do listen to that other brain of yours," I say, pointing a finger to my head.
    “It’s good for something.”
    I take the glass from him, but don’t take a sip. I feel sloshed enough from the champagne, which is probably why I had walked into this room and taken off my clothes in the first place. Vodka is a whole other ball game.
    “I’m curious,” he says. “Who taught you to count cards?”
    “My brother.”
    His glass stops halfway to his mouth. “He sounds. . . interesting.”
    “He’s not—are we going to play or not, big shot?" I lift my head in the direction of the desk behind him.
    "Why do I get the feeling you know your way around the board all too well?"
    I chuckle, mostly to myself, knowing I can say the same for him. Chess requires thinking several moves ahead, and tonight, we’ve both been playing our own version.
    "You’ll just have to wait and find out." Taking a seat behind the desk, I sip from my glass. I figure one sip can’t hurt. Reaching for the game board I ask, "I hope it's not a problem that I'm disturbing your game?"
    "Help yourself. I was playing by myself while I waited for you. . . or not.”
    “Play with yourself often?” I smirk. His eyes meet mine. He looks like he wants to eat me.
    Yummy noises.
    That’s all I can make when I’m around this man.
    “Play and find out.”
    I lean back in my chair after I move all the pieces to their rightful places. We start to play and I chew my lip as he watches me intently. Everything inside me throbs with need with the way his eyes roam over me. It almost feels like it’s his tongue and not those blue pools of light slithering over every inch of my body.
    I avert my eyes. I can’t lose the game. I have nothing to prove to him, but yet, I feel like he’s waiting on something. . .
    We make our next several moves in near silence. The only sound is the occasional sip from one of our glasses or an agitated sigh as we debate our course of action. My finger lingers over my knight, then my rook, and I glance up to find him watching me, a cocky smile on his lips.
    Oh, those lips.
    It is hard to ignore them.
    Those pretty, pretty lips.
    "What?" My voice is just above a whisper.
    "Nothing." He barely shakes his head, but I know he’s up to something.
    I narrow my eyes at him across the desk and lean forward. "If you're trying to distract me—you're failing miserably."
    "I think you're doing just fine being distracted on your own." He gets up and crosses the room to refill his glass. I sneak a glimpse.
    He must do a lot of squats.
    He pours the whiskey and turns back to me, catching me red-handed. I feel my face grow flushed. He’s loving every second of this.
    "See," he drawls, coming back over to his seat. I stare down at the board, still wavering between using the knight or the rook. "I don't care for the knight either," he comments, taking a sip from his glass.
    "Why?" I decide on the rook and slide it forward several squares, realising it’s the best choice. If I can follow through on my next three moves, I can have his queen. And it’s obvious from the way he keeps her nestled in the middle of the other pieces, he cherishes the queen the most.
    "It's the one piece that can jump over the other men." He taps the top of his knight with his forefinger. I’m surprised when he moves it forward.
    He is planning something.
    "And let me guess," I say, moving my rook over two squares. "James Hatter never jumps over other men."
    "Only when they jump first." He slides his other knight from its home.
    I swear under my breath when I start to move my rook, but realise I’m trapped by his knights.
    "Maybe next time you should try playing chess with someone who isn't better than you," he mocks, repeating my words from