The Billionaire's Scandalous Marriage

As Charlotte entered with Mark, she saw Peter having a word with her father, whose sharp gaze instantly zeroed in on her. She was the only woman in the room and could very well be an unwelcome addition to the poker party. Damien Wynter could not tell her father to let her stay. No one told Lloyd Ramsey what to do. Nevertheless, having come, Charlotte didn’t want to be asked to leave. That would be slighting Mark.

Her arm tightened around Mark’s as her father cocked his head in consideration, listening to Peter who was undoubtedly explaining the situation he and his friend had engineered. Her nervous tension kicked into anger as she saw her father’s mouth twitch in amusement. This challenge by Damien Wynter was no joke. She wanted done with it as soon as possible. She kept her gaze trained on her father and brother, refusing to give the man from London the satisfaction of a glance his way.

“Charlotte, what an unexpected pleasure!” her father rolled out in welcome, his wide mouth breaking into the smile that invariably reminded people of a shark. The top of his head had gone bald some years ago and his high broad forehead, large nose and big white teeth, on top of his formidable physique, contributed to the impression of a fearsome predator. He turned to his aide-de-camp. “Two more chairs at the table.”

“I won’t be playing, sir,” Mark quickly put in.

The deferential “sir” grated on Charlotte. She didn’t want her husband-to-be kowtowing to her father, particularly not tonight in front of Damien Wynter.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to watch Charlotte play,” Mark went on, his ingratiating tone annoying her further. It did sound like sucking up.

“Fine!” her father approved, flashing his shark smile. “Though you might get an unwelcome insight into the woman you’re marrying.”

He was putting in the bite, not snubbing Mark but virtually accusing him of having a superficial view of his fiancée. Which wasn’t true. She was not just a lump of money to Mark. Though it did seem he was attracted to the life-style perks that marriage to her could bring.

“Oh, I think I know her fairly well,” he said with a warm assurance that should have removed her irritation. Except he didn’t know what was going on inside her right now—the absolutely perverse resentment that he wasn’t more like Damien Wynter, just taking everything in his stride as though it was his right to be wherever he wanted and have whatever he wanted.

She savagely reminded herself that Damien had been born into a world of wealth, which cultivated that frame of mind. Mark hadn’t. And she had liked the difference. It was crazy to start doubting her judgement on that. Before realising she was breaking her previous resolution, she turned a proudly defiant face to the man who was unsettling what she had settled on, her eyes mocking any influence he thought he might exert on her.

The sense that he’d been watching for her to look at him, waiting for it, willing it to happen, sizzled along her tense nerves. Satisfaction glinted in the dark eyes. She felt him thinking, You can’t escape me, Charlotte, and her heart instantly skipped into a faster beat. Yes, I can, her own eyes telegraphed back to him.

His gaze flicked to the chairs being placed for her and Mark, then very deliberately he stepped over to claim the chair directly across the table from where she was being accommodated.

“Seats, gentlemen,” her father called, shooting an amused little smile at her. “My daughter is about to test her mettle against yours.”

Good-humoured laughter rippled around the room. It was obvious to Charlotte that these high-powered guests didn’t see her as a threat at the table. They were indulging her because of who she was. Their host had allowed her into the game so any protest was unthinkable.

“I caution you not to underestimate her as a player,” her father tossed at them. “Charlotte has cleaned me out more times than I care to remember.”

“Me, too,” Peter said. “Nerves of steel. She didn’t get to be one of the top guns on the trading floor without ’em.”

“Top gun on the trading floor?” Damien queried, clearly surprised by this information and looking to Peter, who’d taken the chair next to his, for more enlightenment.

“Charlotte worked for an international bank. A star player on their scale for dealers.”

“I didn’t realise…”

Charlotte smiled her own triumphant bit of amusement as Damien Wynter’s gaze turned back to her in swift re-assessment. He’d probably had her pegged as a socialite, with nothing better to do than attend fashionable functions—a woman groomed to hang off his arm and satisfy any social role he wanted her to play.

Peter grinned at her as he topped off his spiel with, “She was called The Ram at the bank, and I don’t think that was entirely related to the family name.”

“Fascinating,” Damien murmured, his dark eyes suddenly burning like hot coals, his interest in her fired, not dampened by this new knowledge.

To Charlotte’s horrified consternation, her stomach contracted as though it had been punched and her breasts tightened, her nipples tingling into hard peaks. She didn’t want to have this physical—a sexual—reaction to Damien Wynter. And why on earth did he like the fact she had a brain that most men shied clear of as too competitive for them?

“I have better things to do with my life now,” she stated quickly, half-turning in her chair to reach out to Mark who was seated just behind her right shoulder. She took his hand and squeezed it in a show of solidarity with him. “I was happy to resign from my job to take on a far more fulfilling career as Mark’s partner in everything.”

So take that on board, Damien Wynter, she thought, furious over the strong response of her body to him and barely noticing Mark’s delight in her little speech.

“Enough talk!” her father commanded tersely, shooting a look of distinct displeasure at Charlotte—a reminder that he had only grudgingly accepted her forthcoming marriage to Mark and he didn’t enjoy a public expression of her devotion to a man he barely tolerated. He gestured to the dealer to get the game under way and was instantly obeyed.

As the cards were distributed around the table, Charlotte brooded over her father’s disapproval. She understood he’d prefer to see her married to a man like Damien Wynter—connecting wealth to wealth—but where marriage was concerned, she had different priorities, and she was not going to be talked out of them or distracted from them by a blast of sexual chemistry.

She picked up the two cards dealt to her and focussed her mind on them, determined to keep to her game-plan, avoiding any direct contest with the man who wanted her to battle with him.

One hour later, Damien knew with certainty that Charlotte Ramsey had chosen the tactic of guerrilla warfare. She hit only when he wasn’t betting on his cards. More times than not, she won the pot, so her foray into the gambling ring was not injudicious. She didn’t always move in when he withdrew, but she always stayed out when he put himself in the running to win, even when the cards she held were highly promising. At least that was definitely the case in one instance, because Damien caught Mark frowning over her decision to throw them in.

The man hadn’t learnt to keep a poker face. Charlotte, on the other hand, revealed no expression whatsoever when she looked at her cards. It was impossible to tell if she was bluffing or not when she placed her bets, though she did bet aggressively, making the other players doubt the worth of what they held. If they hadn’t respected her skill before play started, they very quickly learnt respect as her pile of chips grew while others’ diminished.

Damien was winning, too, but he derived little satisfaction from it. He wanted Charlotte to engage with him, not evade him. Finally frustration drove him to challenge her.

“Are you afraid of losing to me, Charlotte?” he drawled sardonically, aiming to get under her armour-plated skin.

Her eyes mocked his purpose. “Have I deprived you of the pleasure of winning against me, Damien?” she replied as though she hadn’t meant to. “Let’s see what the next hand brings. If I get cards which give me a high percentage chance and you think the same about yours…who’s to know until we see them?”

Her smile got under his skin. It wasn’t a shrug-off smile. It was a smile of secret intent. Her actions did not depend on the luck of the draw. She knew precisely what she was doing and thwarting him was giving her pleasure.

The cards were once more dealt around the table. Damien picked up the ace of hearts and the ace of diamonds—an unbeatable pair at this point. He pushed chips forward, declaring himself in on this hand and waited to see what Charlotte would do, his gaze fastened on her lowered lashes as she pondered her play.

When her turn came she casually pushed chips forward, which instantly drew everyone’s attention. Damien’s direct challenge to her had titillated interest. The other players wanted to see them go head to head—the two biggest winners finally facing off.

Was it simply a ploy to satisfy them that she wasn’t evading him? Would she pull out once the three flop cards were tabled? Damien’s heart pumped into a faster beat as his mind buzzed with possibilities. Never had a woman engaged him so totally.

He glanced at Mark Freedman, hoping for some kind of signal from him as to what Charlotte’s hand was worth. A slight crease between his eyebrows indicated puzzlement. Was she bluffing or didn’t Mark understand the value of what she held?

A couple of other players were up for contesting the hand. The rest folded. The dealer proceeded to lay out the three flop cards; the five of spades, the queen of hearts, the ace of spades. Excitement zinged through Damien. He now held three aces, which made him a very strong contender to win. Even if Charlotte now held three queens or three fives, she could not beat him.

Yet without any hesitation she declared, “I’m all in,” and pushed every pile of chips she had into the pot.

She lifted her gaze to his, shooting him a hot bolt of challenge, deliberately inciting his active participation in her gamble. Excitement coursed through his entire body, stirring more than his blood. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly he was getting an erection right here at the poker table where it was impossible to have any physical engagement with her. But the mind-game was on. Win or lose, he was going with her on this hand.

The amount of chips she was wagering was an intimidating move. The other contenders immediately dropped out of the betting. To stay in, he had to match her bet and risk losing all he’d won and more.

He studied the cards. There were two spades on the table. If she held another two and if the turn card or the river card, both of them still to be played, turned out to be another spade, she could beat him with a five spade flush. But the odds were against that. She could be gambling on getting a straight—ace through to the five if she held two of the intermediate cards and the third was turned up, but that was a low percentage play, too. Four queens or four fives were remote possibilities, as well.

He looked at her.

Her mouth curved into a taunting little smile.

Loser, was the message she was telegraphing.

He didn’t believe her—wouldn’t believe her—not on any count.

“I’ll call,” he said, pushing in his chips, making it by far the biggest pot of the night and generating an air of electric tension around the table, everyone leaning forward to watch the outcome.

Charlotte leaned back as though she didn’t have a care in the world. The smile was still tilting her mouth and her eyes glittered with some deep private satisfaction.

Certainty flashed into Damien’s mind—I’ve made the wrong move, the move she wanted me to make. He was going to lose but it was too late to pull back. The dealer was already laying down the turn card.

It was the eight of diamonds.

No help to his hand.

He couldn’t see how it could be to hers, either.

Finally the river card was revealed—the six of hearts.

Charlotte shrugged and threw down her cards—the two and four of spades. If the river card had been a spade, giving her a flush of five spades, or if it had been a three of any suit, making up a straight, she would have won. As it was, she had nothing.

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