Hooked #3 (The Hooked Romance Series - Book 3) by Claire Adams Page A

I
was, who I had become. But I loved the daring of it all. I nodded to the other
people at the blackjack table—the people who were trying to earn back what
they’d lost. The woman on the end from Missouri. The man in the middle without hair. The
Asian man who punched the table every time he lost—which was every time. Frustration churned on.
    The dealer greeted me with familiarity. “Madame.” I nodded toward him. In the back of my mind, I
couldn’t believe I was in the middle of Iowa, that I was in the midst of
cornfields, of simple folk. All around me were beautiful millionaires and piles
of money.
    “Hit me,” I said. I counted the cards. First a four. Then a ten. I thought
in my head; Plus one. Minus one. I continued counting
until—about ten minutes later—I found myself hit with a plus six. My eyes wide,
I found myself winning that round. And then the next. And then the next.
    Drew stood by me stoically as I used his chips.
“That’s my girl,” were his only words as I sat there, focused and counting,
counting, counting.
    It was like I was addicted suddenly. I couldn’t get
enough. The drinks kept coming; my blood pressure kept rising. After an hour, I
had won over ten thousand dollars. My head was spinning. I could buy the
goddamned studio! The dance studio could be mine; I wouldn’t be in danger of
losing my apartment. My eyes were large as the dealer kept dealing, and the
chips were sent my way.
    After another twenty minutes things started to die
down. The count died on the table, and I turned toward Drew, ready to give it a
rest. “I don’t know how my father got addicted, really,” I murmured, looking
down at the plethora of coins, feeling like I was waking up from a dream. My
blood pressure started to release. I could breathe again. “It really does get
old after a while.”
    “I can only come here every few months, get it out
of my system. You earned quite a lot of coins, there, natural.” He winked at
me. “Let’s go cash in your winnings.”
    But I started shaking my head vehemently. We
couldn’t cash in my winnings; these weren’t my winnings. “I would have never
been able to put the money up,” I murmured. “These are yours. They came from
your money. I can’t take them—“
    “Come on, Mol. You earned this money. This should go
to you.” He smiled at me good-naturedly, but he sensed a darkness in me—a
prideful nature. He hung his head for a moment before walking toward the
exchange and collecting the winnings. He stuffed them in a yellow envelope and
pushed them into a secret, inner-jacket pocket. He looked at me, nodding,
noting that my eyes were dripping with fatigue. The flashing lights, the slot
machines were knocking into my brain. I was happy to see him taking the money
I’d earned, but I still felt a gnawing ache about it. After all; that was more
money than I’d ever seen before.
    “Shall we go?”
    I jumped toward him, kissing him on the cheek. I
felt the immense excitement of the evening’s festivities; I felt the
high-esteem of winning and winning and winning, chip after chip. “What an
adventure,” I murmured into his ear, allowing my lips to trace his neck.
    We raced back to the Porsche. Drew tossed the valet
two hundred dollars to drive us back to the hotel; we were far too drunk, too
committed to laughing in the back seat, rolling around and holding our
stomachs.
    “You, Molly—big-eyed and saying you just don’t know
if you CAN count cards,” Drew laughed, holding onto his stomach. “I can’t
believe you conned me. You conned me!”
    I slapped him on the knee, giggling myself. “What
can I say? I’m just a natural.” The valet driver up front drove us fast through
the night toward the hotel, and I leaned my head toward Drew’s, allowing my
forehead to connect with his. “It was a beautiful night.”
    And it was. I couldn’t get over how much fun it had
been. As he helped me from the Porsche and gave the valet more money to get
home from the