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felt a peculiar sensation, as if flames suddenly lapped their way from an intangible place within her soul to roar right through her limbs, searing her from head to toe.
    He was well dressed. His shirt was as white as snow, his frock coat an elegant black, his trousers fawn. She noticed his hands, his fingers upon his cards. They were as bronzed as his face. His fingers were very long, the nails blunt cut but clean.
    “The whiskey! At last!” the German man said.
    Tara quickly put the bottle and the glasses down onthe table. She could still feel those dark eyes on her, and she was desperate to get away.
    “You’re out of your gold coins, Jack. It’s time to call it quits,” McKenzie was saying. His voice was as rich and deep as his hair. It had a subtle slur of the South to it, though she could not exactly pinpoint the place. He wasn’t from New Orleans, but he certainly wasn’t from the North.
    “Out of coins, but never out of assets,
mon ami!
” the Frenchman said.
    Tara was so startled when his fingers wound around her wrist that she nearly shrieked out loud. She fought from doing so, well aware that Eastwood would have her on the streets if she screamed just because a man had taken hold of her wrist.
    “The girl!” the Frenchman said. “Yours for the night.”
    “What?” Tara gasped furiously.
    “She’s not yours to barter!” the black-eyed American, McKenzie, shot back quickly.
    “Eastwood is in debt to me. The girl for a night. Against your three hundred in gold.”
    “No whore, not even this one, is worth three hundred!” the German said, swallowing down his whiskey, pale eyes assessing her carefully. “Or is she?” he speculated.
    Tara wrenched her hand free. “I work for Eastwood!” she snapped. “I am not his possession, no man’s to barter or hold!” she cried angrily.
    She turned to flee. To her amazement her skirt was caught, and she was hauled back against the table. Dear God, these two were involved in some wretched challenge in this poker game, and she had become a part of it! The Frenchman had her by her skirts, and she’d lose half her clothing trying to rip away from him. She stared at him incredulously, gripping her skirt. “You let me gothis instant! I’m not an object to be cast upon a table. Let me go! I told you! I wait tables—”
    “Then you will wait on this man’s table for a night,
chérie!
” the Frenchman said.
    The German sniggered. “Table, floor, what’s the difference, eh?”
    Her eyes flashed to his, blue fire. “You, sir, may go to hell! I’ll get Eastwood—”
    The Frenchman’s laughter interrupted and terrified her. “You go get him,
chérie!
He’ll set you in the center of the table himself. You see, I must bet with this blackhearted bastard, but your Eastwood owes me half his inn!”
    She tried to control her temper. She really did. But she found herself lifting the Frenchman’s glass and dashing his whiskey into his face.
    He let out a bellow like a whipped puppy and started to rise, reaching for her.
    But McKenzie was up. His gaze was deadly as he stared down the Frenchman. “Let her go,” he said flatly.
    “Sacré bleu—”
    “Let her go!”
    The Frenchman started to release her reluctantly. Tara would have fled then except that she was newly detained.
    Now it was he, McKenzie, who had his hand upon her. His fingers circled her upper arm. She found herself staring up at him. He was very tall, his shoulders were broad. He appeared lean and trim but he was solid muscle, she realized. She could feel the force of his hold and knew that he was a man she would never escape if he chose not to let her go.
    “Sit down,” he told her, dark eyes enigmatic.
    She lifted her chin. “I told you, I don’t care who oweswho what! I’m not available for a night! For any man, from any man!”
    A black brow arched higher. “I didn’t say that I wanted you for a night.”
    “Then—”
    “But that all remains to be seen, doesn’t it? It’s all in