The Mad British Read Online Free PDF Page B

know." I fight the urge to smile like a schoolgirl with a big crush.
    "All or nothing." He holds his hand up, motioning at his stack of chips. "You win, you get all of yours and mine, which is a little over. . . one thousand pounds."
    "And if I lose?" I lift my chin. "I'm seriously not going to show you my boobs."
    "I'm not going to pay you to show me your—" He pauses, stumbling over the word.
    "Boobs," I offer. He looks embarrassed so I say it again.
    "Adelaide—"
    "What? Are you not a boob guy?" I laugh softly.
    "I like them very much," he replies, refusing to say the word. "But I don't pay women to take their clothes off."
    "You mean they just rip them off for you?"
    It surprises me when he grunts, seeming to be annoyed by my response. "I didn’t mean it like that. Why do you always have to mis—?"
    "Anyway, what's your wager?" I cut in. Yanking his chain is not as fun as taking his money. I eye his stack of chips. "I want to win my money back."
    "You're very sure."
    "Hey, don’t hate the player, remember? It’s not my fault I'm better at blackjack than you."
    "Are you judging from your losses?" He nods in the direction of my measly two chips.
    "Just tell me what it is.”
    Why does he feel the need to draw every interaction out? I’ll win back my money, then leave. It feels like I’m hanging on a rope with James Hatter. These mixed feelings I have for him are giving me a headache. And now that I’m back on track, I know I can win.
    "You lose and . . .” He stops to think.  "You come up to my room for one drink."
    I snort. "A drink? Is that code for sex?"
    “Miss Queen, you have a filthy mind. It’s code for: I will pour you a glass and we can chat. Alone. Get to know one another.”
    I’m torn between losing on purpose, or winning my money back and walking away with my pride. I decide to go for the dramatics, hoping he will drop the offer entirely. "If you get me drunk I still won't show you my boobs."
    "I don't want to see your damn—"
    "What's wrong with my boobs?" I peer down at my chest and he laughs at me, but not in that you're-being-ridiculous kind of way. Instead, he seems to be endeared by my antics. "Seriously, my boobs—"
    "Are perfect," he cuts in. I blush to the tips of my ears, and his eyes seem to scintillate without mercy. I drag my eyes away from the endless blue.
    He’s humouring me, which should madden me, but he has been leering at my cleavage enough to know. And it’s hard not to feel weak-kneed when a man like James Hatter makes it blatantly clear that he is attracted to me.
    I’m not sure why I feel so drawn to him. I have talked to him for all of thirty minutes—half of that time filled with urges to smack him—and yet I want nothing more than to go to his room for. . . a drink.
    God help me.
    I really could do with a double shot of vodka.
    Maybe it’s the way his eyes soften when he looks in my direction. I've noticed the way he looks at all the other women in the room.
    He doesn’t.
    His eyes are murky and cast downwards whenever he passes them, making it obvious he has no desire to speak to them. Wonderland is crowded with beautiful women, but he only seems to want to talk to me.
    How can I ignore that?
    He is everything my dreams and nightmares are made from, and it’s hard to resist his pull. But it’s playing with fire. I should know. I’m still healing from the last burn.
    I need to get away from him.
    "I pay you a compliment and you—"
    "Deal us in, please." I lean forward to study the cards on the table. "One thousand, huh? A drink with me is worth that much?"
    "I'd pay more," he replies, his expression serious.
    I take a deep breath and look down at my cards. If I’m on the right track, the dealer will hit him with another face card. The only question is: What does he have hidden beneath his other hand? I’m almost positive it isn’t a ten or higher, but I can never be quite sure.
    Especially when James Hatter seems so sure he can win.
    "Stop," he says,