The Mad British Read Online Free PDF

tow, and proclaim himself the best blackjack player in history, while his dog barks the song of victory.
    "Adelaide." His voice purrs like a panther. “Don’t be a sore loser.”
    Is it possible to hate someone at the same time you want to push them against the wall and kiss them until you die from asphyxiation?
    I tap my fingers repeatedly against the felt when the dealer reveals he has nineteen, and hold back the insult weighted at the tip of my tongue. A really witty insult, something to do with James, his brain—his lower brain—and him being sore. I refuse to show him that he’s getting under my skin, when all I really want to do is shove his poker chips down his throat.
    And so the next several hands go like this: James takes my money, hands out a few smug words, then grows annoyed when I don’t give him any kind of response.
    Gradually, three other men join us at the table. Somehow I’ve allowed the smooth know-it-all James to throw me off track and now I've lost count of the cards. No doubt he's done this intentionally, boosting his own enormous ego in the process. So, I sit back in my seat, observing the other men as they all take their turns, sipping my glass of champagne.
    James barely acknowledges the other men. I notice the way his eyes sweep across the table, then glance up at the dealer, then back down at the cards. Every move he makes is meticulous.
    I fold, knowing the dealer is going to flip up a low card to the first man, a face card to the second, and I suspect—just a gut feeling—an ace to James. The third man is already busted.
    Sure enough, the first man gets a five of hearts, only to fold, and the third man gets a king of spades to go along with his matching six. And James gets an ace of diamonds to match his the-sun-shines-out-of-my-arse expression. He wagers high, smirking at the other man. My eyes widen as my thoughts scramble to understand.
    Then it hits me like a speeding train.
    Oh, the nerve of that cocky bastard.
    He is just as guilty of counting as I am.
    "Adelaide," James says, placing his hand on my shoulder.
    I flinch at the touch, then shrug his hand off my bare shoulder. "Sorry, I’m just uh—"
    "Just what?"
    I feel a vein twitch in my neck. "Thinking about how I'm going to win my money back."
    I give him a hard stare, then glare at his ever-growing pile of chips. It’s more than half that he’d collected from mine.
    "Feeling lucky?' he asks, angling toward me, completely disregarding the other men at the table.
    "I have fifty pounds." I smack my chips together. "Thirty minutes ago, I had about five hundred. How do you think I'm feeling. . . love ?"
    He leans in, an inch away from my ear, and whispers, "Five hundred pounds you won by cheating." Leaning back, he looks me straight in the eyes, daring me to argue with him. "Now. . . you may want to recount your losses."
    James glances at the other men when he notices their irritation with him slowing the game. With one look—one pretty lush look that I’ll never admit to melting under, not even under the pain of torture—the three of them retreat like they’re the Three Little Pigs and James is the Big Bad Wolf. When Fifer, Fiddler and Practical Pig leave the table, Wolf turns back to me, looking like he just ate a plate full of bacon sausages.
    "But,” he adds, “I am willing to help you win it back." His wolfish smile is disconcerting. I’m not sure I want to win the money back now.
    "If you want me to show you my 30B boobs," I start, squinting my eyes at him, "that is so not happening."
    "While I appreciate the thought. . .” His gaze dips to my cleavage once again. I’m torn between thrusting his chips down that big cocky mouth of his, or ripping his shirt off so I can lick every dip and curve that I’m sure is waiting for me under there. I clear my throat with exaggeration and he finally looks up. “I’m not one to skip straight to dessert. I had something else in mind."
    I sit back. "I'm not sure I even want to