“Certain terms are not up for negotiation. This is one of them.”
“How do you propose you win this point in your client’s favor? The client, I presume, is you?”
“You know what they say about representing yourself.”
“That you have a fool for a client?”
He nodded, and smiled at her, his lips curving in that sexy grin. Then his expression changed. Shifted. Turned more serious. “Julia, when I first came to San Francisco, I had no idea this would happen.”
“What’s this?” she asked, nerves fluttering through her. She was terrified to attach definitions to what she was feeling. Better that he go first. He was always the braver one.
“You and me,” he said, and the words made her heady. They’d both come so close to voicing the most dangerous one of all. “I didn’t come to San Francisco that first night looking for this. I wasn’t looking for anything.”
“What did you come for? What did you want?”
“I didn’t want anything,” he said, staring deeply into her eyes. She felt as if he were looking far inside her, beyond her skin, beyond her cells, to know the heart of her. And that it belonged to him.
“And now?” She asked, her throat dry with hope.
His deep brown eyes searched hers, holding her gaze, holding her tight. “Now I want everything.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Her instincts had been one hundred percent right. Klausman, the show producer with the completely shaven dome and ever-present frown, had been tough as steel. He was hard to read and calculating, but she’d managed to separate him from about $1,000 by sticking to her guns, studying her cards, and quickly analyzing what had been played and what hadn’t. Klausman was a fierce opponent; the guy showed no emotion, and he reminded her of how she played in Charlie’s fake games.
Except tonight, she didn’t play like that. She played loose and carefree on the outside, laughing and joking, and mixing a drink here or there at the restaurant Liam was slated to open in two weeks.
Speakeasy, he was calling it, and the place was gorgeous. There were booths in fine brown leather, and gorgeous oak tables, as well as a long, polished wooden bar. She loved that he hadn’t gone with the overly slick look of so many bars and restaurants these days that draped themselves in chrome and steel. This restaurant was classy and warm, with rich red-framed abstract prints on the walls, and burgundy stools at the bar.
Liam finished dealing to Cam, then slapped down the last card for Klausman. He picked up his cards and considered them, his cold blue eyes on the hand in front of him. He’d never be the type invited into Charlie’s games; he wasn’t an easy target. Julia held her own cards, not too tight, not too loose, as Clay rested a hand absently on her thigh. His white button-down shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing off his fabulous forearms. He wore his purple tie, knotted loosely. His lucky tie, he’d called it. He puffed on a cigar, looking sexy and oh-so-masculine doing so.
But she wasn’t focused on him right now. Her real focus was on Klausman, and she tried to study him, to gage his next move.
“Well, this is just a shit hand,” Cam said out of nowhere, slapping his cards down with a loud smack, and shaking his head. “I’m so out I’m beyond out. They’re going to need a new word for how out I am in this round.” He brought the cigar he was smoking back to his mouth.
Julia smiled faintly at Clay’s lawyer friend. He was exactly as Clay had described: big personality, big voice, lit up the room. He even smoked grandly, puckering his lips around his cigar and taking deep inhales.
“So, Miss Julia,” he said, “what is your favorite drink to make? Absolute favorite in the entire universe of spirits?”
“How about you let the woman play?” Clay said, as Klausman pushed a black chip to the center of the table, muttering that he was in.
Cam’s eyebrows rose at Clay’s question. “What? Your woman can’t talk and play cards at the same time?”
Julia raised her eyes. “ Champagne for happiness. Whiskey for loneliness. And vodka for anything else,” she answered as she slid a chip into the pile.
Cam blew out a long stream of smoke, making rings with his big mouth. “Well, look at that. She’s a poet. That was f**king beautiful. Was that not a beautiful ode to drinking?” Cam glanced around the table, at Liam, at Michele, at Klausman and at Clay, waiting for them to respond to his question
“It was lyrical,” Liam said, glancing up from his cards to flash one of his charmer smiles. It was so clear he was an actor, because he had that it factor, the charisma that made him shine on stage. “Like a gorgeous soliloquy.” Tossing a chip into the mix, he turned to Michele who stayed in the round yet again, even though she hadn’t once won. Julia had to give her credit. The woman wasn’t backing down, even though she’d had nothing decent all night, and could barely play. But she had iron nerves, and kept on ticking. Even Liam, who couldn’t keep his hands off her, hadn’t distracted her from her cards. Not when he nuzzled her neck, ran his fingers through her hair, or flirted like a movie star with her.
“I’m gonna drink to your ode to drinking,” Cam said, holding up a glass in a toast across the table.
Julia raised an imaginary glass. “Cheers,” she said, and soon it was time for hands to be revealed.
Clay went first, laying down his cards: only a ten high.
“Oh, you bluffing bastard!” Cam shouted. “Did you actually think you were going to win with that?”
He simply shrugged, and the corner of his lips quirked up. His secret? He was protecting her secret. “Man’s gotta try,” Clay said dryly, leaning back in his chair. He ran a finger over Julia’s thigh as she placed her cards on the table, showing her pair of sevens.
“Lucky sevens,” she said proudly, then she noticed Michele looking at her. Or rather, at her leg. At the exact spot where Clay’s hand was, as he ran his finger across the fabric of her stocking. Maybe it was coincidence, or maybe there was something more to the stare.
Meanwhile, Klausman laid down his cards, and he had a pair of fives.
A phone rang, and Liam reached into his pocket. Glancing at the screen, he said, “My film agent. Let me go take this.” He rose.
“Wait. Liam, what do you have?” Michele asked.
He waved off his hand. “I got jack shit. That’s what I got. You show them my hand,” he said, bending down to kiss Michele on the forehead. She tilted her face up and let out a small murmur. Maybe she did like him.