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gestured toward the orange crate. “You deal. I’m getting a beer. Want one?”
    â€œBeer sounds good.”
    That surprised him, but he made no comment. Nor did he say much when she displayed an extraordinary knack for knowing when to hold her cards and when to fold ’em. When she folded for the fifth or sixth time in a row, Paul grew frustrated.
    â€œWhy not play the hand out?”
    â€œIt’s always better if you know when to cut your losses.”
    â€œWe are not playing for the rent money. Hell, we’re not even playing for matchsticks.”
    â€œIf you get out of the habit of playing like you mean to win, it’ll get you in trouble later.”
    â€œAnd who taught you that bit of wisdom?”
    â€œMy father. He swears it’s how he made his first million.”
    â€œHis first million?” Paul repeated with adry inflection. “Exactly how many does he have now?”
    Gabrielle shrugged sleepily and took another sip of beer. “Ten. Twenty. I don’t know. He doesn’t think it’s important for women to know those things.”
    â€œIf your father has all that money, why are you living here?” Paul asked, thoroughly bemused. He’d known Gabrielle was classy, that until very recently she’d had some money, but he’d had no idea just how much.
    â€œBecause I’m almost broke,” she explained patiently.
    â€œBut your father—”
    Her chin set stubbornly, though the effect was lost in a yawn. “That’s his money,” she said, continuing to shuffle the cards.
    It finally dawned on Paul that there was some sort of pride at stake here. “Your father doesn’t know you’re running out of money, does he? How long before the next trust fund check comes through?”
    â€œWhat trust fund check?” She put the deck of cards down in front of him. “Cut.”
    Still perplexed, Paul did as she asked. So there was no trust fund, he thought as shedealt. Yet she didn’t seem to be estranged from her family. The fondness she felt for her father had been unmistakable in her voice. She had quoted him not with irony, but with respect. Figuring out the complexity of the relationship was something he decided to leave for another time.
    They played a few more hands before he got up and went for another beer. When he came back into the living room, she was sitting on the floor, legs tucked under her, her head resting on the orange crate.
    â€œGaby?”
    She gazed up at him with sleepy eyes and a suggestion of a smile on her lips. All at once playing poker and her family’s elusive financial dealings were the last things on his mind. He tried to tell himself the swift sexual reaction was perfectly understandable. He hadn’t fully recovered from that earlier misinterpretation of the noises in her room. He reminded himself sternly that he had no personal interest in Gabrielle Clayton beyond her ability to pay the rent.
    Then he made the mistake of picking her up and carrying her back to her room. She snuggled. The woman curled up in his arms, buried her face against his neck and smelled like some exotic flower. He wanted to drop her onto her bed and escape just as quickly as he possibly could. Instead he put her down gently, then stood watching her, wondering at the vague tightening in the pit of his stomach. This woman wasn’t cool and distant. This woman wasn’t a snob. She was warm and vulnerable and desirable. And he needed to get very far away from her very fast.
    The room next door wasn’t nearly far enough. Gaby might have been sleeping peacefully in her own bed, but she made her presence felt in his dreams. He blinked awake to incredible loneliness and throbbing memories.
    Well, hell, he thought, staring at the ceiling for the second time that night. He might have been tempting fate by inviting her to share this apartment. He might even have hoped that the chemistry between them