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unreal, so much a fanstasy for her, that she couldn't analyze it
properly. That knowledge alone should inspire a great deal of care, she
told herself.

"You're going to be here next weekend?" she hedged

"I'll be here for at least another couple of weeks. Then I'll be going
to Oregon."

"Your home?"

"As much of a home as I've got, yes," he agreed dismissively. "When
will you be arriving? Friday night? I'll pick you up at the airport"

He was rushing her, crowding her into agreement, not giving her a
chance to think. She knew what he was doing and had a hunch he did,
too. The catch was that she wanted to be hurried along. The lure of
spending another fantasy weekend with this man was almost irresistible.

"Do you really want me to spend another weekend with you?" she
whispered, her eyes shining.

"You know the answer to that. I want you, Alyssa. I've never tried to
make a secret of that fact. What about you? Do you want the time with
me?"

Alyssa was unable to hold the golden eyes. Her own gaze dropped to the
snifter in her hand as she whispered the truth. "Yes."

"Then we'll make your flight reservations tomorrow when I take you to
the airport. Next Friday
evening, I'll be waiting for you." There was a note of fierce
satisfaction in his dark voice.

"Same room?" Alyssa found the courage to tease him.

"I'll see if I can find another one even more interesting to surprise
you with," he promised.

"Oh, no! The one you have is quite surprising enough, thanks!"

"Then why don't we go on upstairs and discover whatever else it has to
offer?" he suggested deliberately, setting down his glass with an air
of finality and getting to his feet

She sensed the male decision in him. He was more than ready to carry
her off to bed, and wrapped as
she was in the magic of the illusion, Alyssa could not have protested
if she had wanted to do so. Obediently, she allowed him to take her arm
and guide her out of the cocktail lounge.

They walked past the roped-off baccarat table where elegantly attired
men and women lost their
money to a croupier in a tuxedo, and Jordan smiled.

"One thing you get for your money at baccarat is a classy environment,"
he observed.

"That's about all you get. With the rules so completely established by
the house, I have yet to figure
out a way to better the odds in that game," Alyssa said sadly.

Jordan, shrugged. "I doubt that anyone has. Theoretically, the house
edge is only a little over one percent in baccarat, but there isn't any
room for skill or mathematics, and people lose quite steadily. It holds
no appeal for real gamblers or people like you and me, but that doesn't
seem to stop a lot of folks from wanting to play."

"It's because of the image," Alyssa decided wisely. "What with everyone
having to dress to the hilt to
play and the croupier and the ladderman in tuxes and the whole area
cordoned off, it makes one feel elegantly European and rich. The
illusion is everything in gambling."

Jordan glanced down at her. "So it is. But you and I see past the
illusion, don't we? Our magic is possible because we see the
mathematical structure behind the fagade and we have a feel for it."

"Yes, I suppose so." They were in the elevator now, and Alyssa shivered
at the inevitable approach of passion. They were talking of math and
probabilities and gambling, and all she could think about was what it
would be like in a few minutes when Jordan took her in his arms. It was
a dizzying, reckless sensation that made it difficult to think with
anything remotely resembling her usual logic.

When they stepped out into the corridor that led to the bordello-red
bedroom, Alyssa swayed slightly,
and when Jordan's arm immediately came around her, she leaned
gratefully into his strength. Amazing, she thought contentedly.

"What's amazing?" Jordan asked, opening the door to his room.

Alyssa blinked up at him, unaware she had spoken aloud. "You are," she
explained politely as he led
her inside.

"And why is that?" His smile was one of