WITH A HUM of satisfaction, Amy moved her bishop diagonally across the chessboard toward Colin’s king.
“Check,” she announced.
Colin was hard put to keep a smile off his face. After two complete games, it was clear Amy was the thoughtful tactician, while his style was fast and aggressive. But he’d put his mind to this match, planning his moves far in advance. He knew exactly what would happen from here on out.
He moved his king one space; then, the game well in hand, he turned his thoughts to something even more diverting: plotting the perfect practical joke.
Amy’s gray marble knight made a decisive click against the black and white board. “Check.”
As Colin’s hand shot out to rescue his king, he decided he would offer to prepare supper. Alone in the pantry, he ought to be able to dream up a clever prank.
Ahh…yes.
She grinned, oozing confidence, and slid her bishop into place. “Check.”
He managed to respond with no more than a speculative glance and a raise of one brow. Though he was relieved to find them much more evenly matched in chess than they’d been in piquet, there was no reason to rub his impending victory in her lovely face.
He tapped his king into place, threatening her knight.
Amy frowned at the board, then slowly withdrew the knight, relieving the pressure on his king.
Colin rubbed his hands together in glee. Now he controlled the events of the board, and he quickly moved one of his jade-green rooks across to threaten Amy’s gray one.
She had no choice—either move her rook or lose it. Colin saw her freeze—she could see the inevitable. No matter which way she went, she’d be dead in two moves—checkmated by his bishop.
She looked up, a surprised, wry smile on her face, then her hand moved to her king and gently laid it down.
Colin reached across the table to offer the obligatory victor’s handshake. “Good game.”
“Shall we make it three out of five?”
He grinned. “I believe two out of three was the agreement.” The slim margin of one game made victory all the sweeter. “Shall I collect supper?” Rising, he glanced at the clock on the mantel. “A midnight supper, as it turns out.”
“I’ll help,” Amy offered.
“No, it’s my turn.” He shrugged into his cloak before she could offer again. “See if you can finish that book. You said you cannot bear to let me return it to Jason’s library without seeing how it ends.”
Reaching for the book, the tenth volume of Madeleine de Scudéry’s Clélie, she smiled and settled back.
Apparently she wasn’t suspicious.
He ducked out the door before she could change her mind.