Reese's Wild Wager

Sydney Taylor was going to be a new woman. She was going to be the woman everyone thought she was: confident, self-assured, poised. A woman who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought or said about her.

All the things she wasn’t, but desperately wanted to be.

Realizing that she’d lost focus of the game while her mind wandered, Sydney snapped her attention back to Reese. She’d learned that when he touched his finger to the cleft in his chin he had at least a pair, when he scratched his neck just under his left ear, he probably had three of a kind or better. When he brushed his jaw with his thumb, as he was doing now, odds were he was bluffing.

And so she watched him. Closely. Strictly for the game, of course.

She’d never noticed the scar just under that firm mouth of his, or the slight bump at the bridge of what she would consider an otherwise perfect nose. He wore his hair combed back, and the ends just brushed the collar of his blue flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his forearms muscled and sprinkled lightly with the same dark hair that peeked from the vee of his shirt.

No question about it, he was an amazing specimen of masculinity. He wasn’t her type, of course. After Bobby, she’d sworn off smooth-talking, shallow playboys who had more muscle than brain. While she could certainly appreciate Reese Sinclair’s blatant maleness, she had no intention of being a victim of it, as were most of the women in town.

But then, Sydney knew she wasn’t Reese’s type, either. He went for the bubbleheads, the women who giggled at every joke and endlessly batted their eyelashes. She’d seen Heather Wilkins hanging on his arm last month at the pumpkin festival in town, then Laurie Bomgarden had been snuggling with him a week ago at the Women’s Auxiliary’s annual fall charity drive. Sydney doubted that Heather and Laurie’s IQs combined was equal to the current outside temperature. And considering it was only the beginning of November, she was being generous.

But who Reese Sinclair spent his free time with was of no concern to her. Her only concern was beating the pants off that arrogant butt of his that the women of Bloomfield were so crazy about.

She glanced at the “Best Butt in a Pair of Blue Jeans” award he’d hung on the wall in his office. The conceit of the man, she thought with a sniff. Maybe they’d give her an award when she kicked that butt in poker.

“You vote for me, Syd?”

“What?” Realizing that she’d been caught staring at the award, Sydney snapped her gaze back to the table. Reese was watching her, and the amusement she saw in his eyes made her stiffen.

With a grin, he nodded toward the wall. “Did you vote for me?”

“Certainly not.”

It was a bald-faced lie. She’d considered it her civic duty to vote when the ballot box went around for the annual “best butt” election. The contest had been close this year, between Lucian and Reese and the sheriff, Matt Stoker. It had been a difficult choice, but in the end—she almost smiled at her own pun—she’d voted for Reese.

And she’d die before she told him that.

“Who’d you vote for, then?”

She straightened the cards in her hand, lining them up perfectly. “What makes you think I voted for anyone?”

“Sydney Taylor miss an opportunity to express her opinion on something?” He settled back in his chair and regarded her with a curious gaze. “So why didn’t you vote for me? Don’t you think I deserved it?”

She was becoming increasingly flustered by this rather personal topic of conversation. “I wouldn’t know if you deserved it or not. I’ve never noticed.”

“You’ve never noticed?” He looked slightly wounded. “You come over to the tavern every Wednesday night for the book review club. How could you not notice?”

“Reese Sinclair!” She slammed her cards down on the table. “In spite of your high opinion of yourself, I do not go to the book review meeting to stare at your butt!”

He looked at her for a long moment, then blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said, I do not—”

“I heard what you said, I just don’t under— Oh.” He glanced at the wall, then back at her. “I was talking about the restaurant award. You are a member of the Chamber of Commerce, aren’t you? And you did vote for the top restaurant in Bloomfield County, didn’t you?”

The restaurant award. She felt her cheeks burn. He was talking about the restaurant award.

He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Sydney Taylor, shame on you. Where is your mind tonight?”

Her entire face was on fire now, the heat spreading down her neck. “I…well…I—”

“I’ve never seen you stutter and blush, Syd.” Reese gave her a lopsided grin. “You were thinking about my—”

“I was not!” She scooped up her cards again and stared at them. “The sun will be up in a few hours and you can crow all you want, Sinclair. Right now, this game is gathering moss. Could we get on with it, or do you need some ice for that swelling in your head?”

“You know, darlin’—” Reese picked up the cigar he’d put out an hour ago and bit on it “—that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one of these days. You need to learn to lighten up and have some fun.”

“I am having fun.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I have twice as many chips as you do. Bet’s to you, darlin’.”

Reese grabbed a large handful of chips and tossed them on the table, then grinned at her. “Five dollars.”

It was a steep bet, the largest he’d made since they started playing. He was bluffing, she thought. She’d seen him brush his thumb over his jaw a few moments ago. Sydney matched the bet, then slid another column across the table. “And I raise you.”

And then he scratched his neck under his left ear.

Oh, dear.

Now she wasn’t sure.

She stared at her own cards. She had three jacks, ace high. A good hand, but not great.

His thumb brushed his jaw again. She chewed on her bottom lip.

“Let’s have some real fun,” Reese said casually and glanced up from his cards. “Let’s bet it all.”

Bet it all? Her throat went dry. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and leveled his gaze at her. “Winner take all.”

She knew enough not to look away, not to so much as glance at her cards. Confidence was everything in this game. Never sweat, never falter. Absolute self-assurance.

“Do you know how to make quiche, Sinclair? With a splash of goat cheese and a kiss of basil? It’s a little more complicated than flipping burgers and pouring beer, but you’ll get the hang of it.” Without so much as a blink, she pushed her stack to the middle of the table. “Or maybe I’ll have you put on a tux and wait on tables. There are plenty of people who’d pay to see that.”

“Not as many who would pay to see you wearing a wench outfit toting a load of drinks.” Reese shoved his chips across the table. “Hell, I’d give a month’s salary for that, myself.”

They stared at each other, neither one flinching.

“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” Reese raised one corner of his mouth.

Sydney laid her cards on the table without even looking at them. Reese glanced down. Without any expression at all, he laid his hand down, too.

Breath held, she slowly lowered her gaze.

Three tens.

And a one-eyed jack.

Four of a kind.

Her breath shuddered out of her. She felt a pounding in her head, as if her skull were a tin drum and someone was beating on it. Boomer, who’d started this whole business in the first place, lay under the table, softly snoring.

But she could hardly blame the dog for her own stupidity.

“We don’t open until ten tomorrow,” Reese said cheerfully. “But show up at eight to get ready for Sunday breakfast. The Philadelphia Gazette ran an article about the tavern winning the Chamber of Commerce award, so I’m expecting a crowd.”

Numbly, she rose from the table, every limb stiff and cold. She’d lost. Dear Lord. Two weeks. She had to work for Reese Sinclair for two entire weeks. Under his “personal supervision” as he’d put it.

She couldn’t think right now. Couldn’t let Reese see how completely humiliated she was.

She’d never let anyone see her like that again.

“All right, then.” Drawing in a deep breath, she tightened the belt of her robe. “Eight o’clock it is.”

“Sydney.” Reese shook his head and chuckled. “You don’t think I was serious about this, do you? I was just having some fun.”

She lifted her chin and narrowed a cold look at him, praying he wouldn’t see how badly her hands were shaking. “That’s just one difference between you and me, Reese. Everything’s a big lark to you, a game. You don’t take anything seriously, where as I intend to honor my bet and the deal we made. I said I’d be here at eight, and I will.”

A muscle jumped in Reese’s jaw, and she watched as his eyes darkened. “Have it your way, Syd,” he said with a shrug. “Just remember if it gets too rough for you, that I gave you an out.”

“I can handle whatever you dish out,” she said in a voice so serene it surprised even her. “What remains to be seen is if you can handle me.”

His brow shot up at that, and she simply smiled, turned on her muddy, slippered feet and walked calmly out the door.

She intended to give Reese Sinclair two weeks in his life that he’d never forget.

Two

Sunday was the only morning that Reese allowed himself to sleep in. He cherished that day, was grateful that he had a manager like Corky to come in early, start the coffee brewing, the grills heating, and the cinnamon rolls baking. Squire’s Tavern and Inn was well-known not only for their hamburgers and pizza, but also for their breakfasts—plump sausages, country potatoes, biscuits that melted in your mouth and eggs so fresh they were still warm from the nest. He loved the smells and the sounds of his business: the food grilling, people laughing, having a good time while they ate and talked.

It reminded him of meals in his house when he was a kid. With five kids at the table—four of them boys—you had to yell to be heard over dinner in the Sinclair house. His father had always joined in with his children’s antics, while his mother frowned and made a convincing effort to keep order. But as strict and rigid as she’d tried to be, they’d have her laughing and acting silly right along with the rest of them before the meal was over.

He missed those meals almost as much as he missed his parents. Twelve years had passed since the car accident that had taken them both. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday, other times it seemed like an eternity.

Yawning, he rolled into the softness of the mattress and his pillow, cracked one eye open to glance at the bedside clock. Eight o’clock. He frowned and slammed his eye closed again, shutting out the early-morning light that poured through the open slats of his wooden blinds. He was up every other morning by six, but he never woke up before nine-thirty on Sunday. He still had an hour and a half to go, and he intended to savor every minute of it. The cottage he lived in was directly behind the tavern, a redbrick carriage house he’d converted into living quarters after he’d bought the abandoned tavern and completely renovated it four years ago. He was close enough to his business to handle whatever problems might arise, but it offered enough privacy for him to have alone time when he needed it. Or to entertain company.

Specifically, female company.

He was a man who fully appreciated women. The female gender, with their exotic smells and delicious curves, fascinated him almost as much as they intrigued him. They were complicated and mysterious; sweet and coy one minute, difficult and confusing the next. An absolute enigma that completely enchanted him.

Fortunately for him, women enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed theirs. He understood the game well enough to know that, as an unattached male, he was open season for all the single women. But he was honest and up front with every woman he dated: he wasn’t looking for marriage. Still, they had a way of pausing at jewelry-store windows, dragging him to movies that included at least one wedding, and somehow ending up in the department store housewares section, specifically china and silver.

But he was content with his life exactly as it was. He loved his business and his freedom. No one telling him what to do or when to do it. He never had to answer to anyone. No complications, no problems—

He buried his head in his pillow and groaned.

Except for Sydney Taylor.

Damn.

Sydney was one big problem.

He’d really never expected her to take him seriously when he’d made that bet with her, and he’d certainly never expected her to know how to play poker, let alone be so good at the game. But if there was one thing predictable about Sydney, it was the fact that she was unpredictable. He knew he never should have challenged her like that, but once he had, and she’d refused to back down, he couldn’t just walk away. A guy had his pride, after all, and Sydney had tweaked his.

Knowing the woman, she was probably in the kitchen with Corky right now, telling him what to do and how to do it. Corky would have a fit about that, Reese knew. The man had been in the New York restaurant business for twenty-five years before he’d given up the fast pace of the big city and moved to Bloomfield. He’d applied for the position of chief cook and bottle washer one week before Squire’s Tavern and Inn had opened its doors. For the past four years, Corky had been more like a partner to Reese than an employee, and even more, he’d been a good friend.

But Corky was particular about his kitchen. He had his own way of doing things. He wouldn’t like Sydney messing with his pots and pans. Reese could see her now, with that stubborn little chin of hers pointed at Corky while she informed him of the proper method of cracking an egg or peeling a potato. That long, slender neck stretched high as she swished him out of her way. That sassy mouth giving orders.

Reese had known Sydney most of his life, but had never noticed before last night what a perfect mouth she had. Her lips were wide and full, rosy pink. She didn’t know she did it, but every time she’d have a mediocre hand, she’d catch that lush bottom lip of hers between her perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth and nibble. More than once, that little action had distracted him. Then he’d remind himself he was thinking lustful thoughts about Sydney, of all people, and force his mind back to the game.

But he’d never seen her with that blond hair all mussed up like that, or streaks of mud on that smooth, porcelain skin. And he’d certainly never seen her in a bathrobe. As plain as the garment had been, there’d been something appealing about that red-plaid robe. Something strangely…sexy. Something that made him curious about what she wore under that robe.

And further still, what was under that.

Good Lord. He flipped onto his back and snorted. His brothers would have a good laugh if they could hear his thoughts about Sydney. Reese decided he needed to start dating more. He hadn’t had much time for female companionship the past several weeks, and even Sydney was starting to look good to him. And that was ridiculous. Sydney Taylor was not even close to the type of woman he was interested in. Sydney was too uptight, too bossy, too—

“Are you going to sleep all day, Sinclair, or do you think we can get started?”

“What the—” On an oath, his eyes popped open. Arms folded, Sydney stood in his open bedroom door, a smile on those lips he’d been so foolishly fantasizing about and a gleam in her baby-blue eyes.

He was going to strangle her.

Eyes narrowed, he sat slowly. This was the Sydney he knew. Dressed in tailored black slacks, a pale blue, high-necked turtleneck that made her eyes shine, her hair pulled up tight in a smooth, golden knot on top of her head.

While, he, on the other hand, was buck naked under his sheets.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“I did knock.” Diamond studs sparkled on her ear-lobes as she tipped her head. “Twice, as a matter of fact. Corky told me to come on in if you didn’t answer.”

He decided he’d strangle Corky right after he finished with Sydney.

“This is my bedroom. You want to be specific about what it is you’d like to get started?”

“My duties, of course. What else would I possibly be talking about?”

He slipped down between the sheets and his white down comforter, plumped his pillow with his fist as he turned his back to her. “I sleep in on Sundays. Corky will show you what to do.”

“Not a chance, Sinclair. Our bet was that I was to work under your supervision.”

“Well, Syd, since I’m in my bed, what work under me would you suggest?”

“Why, Reese Sinclair.” Sydney’s voice dripped Southern debutante. “Sweet words like that do make a girl’s heart flutter.”

“If the girl had a heart,” he muttered.

He heard her soft laughter and couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder to watch as she strolled around his bedroom, first inspecting a baseball trophy from the year his college team had won the state championship—he’d been pitcher—then squinting as she bent over his dresser and closely examined an oak-framed photograph of his sister Cara and her husband Ian that had been taken at their wedding last year, then another picture of his brother Callan and his wife Abby taken at their wedding six months ago.

She straightened, not even pretending to hide her curiosity as she continued to inspect his bedroom.

The woman was unbelievable.

“Tours don’t begin until ten.” Reese glared at her. “You can purchase tickets at the front desk.”

Sydney smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s just so overwhelming to be in the legendary Sinclair den of carnal delights. I expected to be stepping over the writhing bodies of scantily clad women.”

“The maid cleaned up already this morning,” he said dryly. “But there might still be a couple in the closet if you’d care to look.”

She was actually heading for his closet when she stopped suddenly at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase he’d built beside an existing brick fireplace.

“Books!” she exclaimed. “You actually have books in here. Grisham, King, Follett—oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Dickens and Shakespeare, too. Were they all left here by the previous owner?”

The sarcasm under that sweet smile of hers had Reese bristling. It wasn’t bad enough she’d invaded his bedroom, now she was insulting his intellect. He’d read every one of those books, even had a signed copy of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. His most recent purchase, though, and his most prized, was a first edition, leather-bound Alexandre Dumas The Three Musketeers. It had cost him a bundle, but it was worth every penny.

Still, he did have an image to maintain.

“Yeah, well, my comic books didn’t take up much room and I needed something on the shelves.” He sat, bent one knee while he stretched his arms wide. The comforter slipped down to his stomach. Sydney looked in his direction, and to his smug satisfaction, her eyes widened and she gasped.

Ha. That ought to send her running.

“Reese,” she whispered, her voice filled with reverence. “How magnificent!”

Good Lord. Reese felt his face warm. He pulled the comforter back up as she hurried across the room toward him. Geez. He’d heard a lot of compliments, but never had a woman been quite so…exuberant.

“It’s Louis XV, isn’t it?” She stopped at the foot of his bed, touched one corner of his four-poster bed and ran her fingers over the dark grain. “Black walnut, right?”

“Ah, yeah.” She was enthralled with his bed, for God’s sake. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or annoyed. He watched as she stroked her fingertips over the round top of the smooth wood and made a small O with those pretty lips of hers.

His throat went dry.

“These rose carvings are amazing.” Her fingers glided over the intricate petals and leaves. “Has it been refinished or is this the original stain?”

He dragged his gaze from those slender hands of hers and swallowed hard. What had she asked him? If the bed had been refinished? He had no idea. He’d just bought it last month at the Witherspoon estate auction after Cara had insisted it would be perfect for the inn. On a whim, he’d kept the bed for himself instead. Sydney was the first woman who had been in his bedroom since he’d set it up, but if it had this effect on all females, he would have to give his sister his undying gratitude.

Somehow, though, he couldn’t imagine any of the women he’d invited here—and there weren’t nearly as many as the gossipmongers proclaimed—noticing the grain of wood on his bed. He did know, however, that not one woman had ever commented on his book collection before.

He frowned as he remembered that Sydney’s comment had been less than complimentary. And he certainly hadn’t invited her here, either.

She bent on her knees and leaned closer still to inspect the carving, her hands moving over the post. Stroking. Up, down. Reese felt an arrow of liquid heat shoot straight to his groin.

Good God, as ridiculous as it was, the woman was turning him on!

“Gee, Syd—” Reese feigned a lightness to his voice, even though his entire body was wound up tighter than a steel spring “—now that you’re such good friends, maybe you’d like me to leave so you can be alone here with Louis.”

Sydney’s head shot up as she obviously realized how…intimate her inspection of his bedpost had been. Her blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then she quickly dropped her hands and turned her lips up in what Reese could only call a smirk.

“Why, Reese Sinclair, you’re upset because I got more excited over an old bed than you.” She tilted her head to the side and touched her chin with her finger. “Don’t take it personal, but you’re just not my type, that’s all.”

Oh, was that right? Not her type, huh? She was just so damn pompous, Reese couldn’t resist messing with her. Resting an arm on his bent knee, he lifted one dark brow and grinned at her. “You sure about that, Syd?” he said huskily. “If you’d let yourself loosen up just a little bit, I bet I could tip your tiara.”

“Not a chance, Sinclair. But thanks for the offer, anyway. I’m sure you considered it quite generous on your part.” With that, she turned on her heels and headed for the door. “By the way, I have some great ideas on improving the efficiency of your kitchen. Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of days, then we can talk about developing a new menu. You really could use a little more variety.”

She waltzed through the bedroom door in that regal manner of hers and Reese almost felt as if he’d been dismissed. The woman was enough to make a man chew nails and spit rust.

He frowned. What the hell did she mean, develop a new menu? He had a terrific menu, with plenty of variety, if he did say so himself. Why fix it if it ain’t broke? And besides, she was supposed to be doing what he said, not messing with his menu or improving the efficiency of his kitchen.

Oh, no. The kitchen. If Sydney started rearranging things in the kitchen, Corky would kill him. He had to get down there before the woman caused too much trouble or any blood was shed, though that blood was probably going to be his own, Reese knew.

Whatever Corky did to him—and it was probably going to be painful—Reese figured he’d earned it. It was his own stupidity that had started this ridiculous bet. He’d made his own bed, so the saying went, and he’d have to sleep in it.

But the thought of beds brought his mind back around to the look in Sydney’s eyes as she’d admired his. Those lips of hers that had gone soft, those long, slender fingers moving on the bedpost….

Dammit! He bet she’d done that on purpose, just to get to him. Well, he refused to let Sydney Taylor get the better of him. He wasn’t interested in her like that, anymore than she was interested in him.

But now that he thought about it, when she’d told him that he wasn’t her type, she’d tilted her head and touched her chin. Exactly what she’d done last night every time she’d bluffed.