Reckless Gamble: a billionaire high stakes suspense romance (City Sinners Book 4)

by Kenna Shaw Reed

  “He certainly is,” I answered blindly. Matt wasn’t known for having any friends left to loan or gift him that sort of money. I hadn’t asked questions at the time. It didn’t matter. Matt finally grew some balls and had accepted responsibility for his addiction.

  “I better go over and thank Mr. Alexander for reducing my debt book, have a lovely evening.” Basilio left as smoothly as he approached. Shit. I needed to focus on the cards, not have new questions to deal with.

  How was Scott involved with Matt’s debt?

  “Jarryd! Can I have a moment? Please excuse us, gentlemen.”

  I didn’t wait for Jarryd’s response before pulling him away from the small table and sending the dealer an apologetic shrug.

  “Why’d Scott help Matt with the money?”

  It was a gamble, a hunch. Not the biggest but maybe the most important one I’d play tonight.

  “Who told you?” Jarryd shot glances around the room. Too late. Basilio was already deep in conversation with his other guests.

  “Who’d you think? I just need to know why.”

  “Don’t put me in the middle of you two.”

  “Jarryd, we met at your games. Talk to me. Tell me why.”

  Everything I was about to do tonight would come down to Jarryd’s answer. Instinctively, I relaxed my face and shoulders. Hiding my nervous tells.

  “Why do you think—the guy loves you. Actually, Matt didn’t have to offer up his house, but it was all he had. All Scott did was come up with the cash to buy it a hurry and make sure Matt transferred it over to clear the debt.”

  “And the only way he could get hold of the cash was the drawdown.” I posed it as an answer rather than a question, hoping Jarryd would expand.

  “All his other assets would have taken too long to clear. Mason tried to talk him out of it but Scott convinced him it would be a sign of faith they’d be able to keep working together.”

  “Mason knew?” I couldn’t hide my shock. Why would Mason sack him over the media article, if he knew?

  “Of course, he knew—which was why the media article caught them off guard. Scott won’t let Mason tell them why he needed the money, so the media has been able to take a hunch and run with it. Damn the truth and consequences.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “Who would have benefited from both of us losing our—”

  I stopped midsentence as Jarryd was pulled back to his table.

  If a butterfly flapped its wings on the other side of the world, would a tree fall? Yes. Could I flap my wings and create a storm?

  “Miss Hargraves?” A stunning waitress approached me, a fresh drink prepared to my order, only I hadn’t ordered.

  “Yes?” It seemed no one in Melbourne would respect my new name.

  “Your drink. May I escort you to your seat.”

  “Certainly.”

  It had been years since I’d been stupid enough to play at an open table.

  After meeting Matt, we’d put our relationship ahead of cards. He played the high stakes he loved, while I kept up a steady income at the set buy-in games. It had worked—until it didn’t.

  As much as I loved the thrill of the game and reading players, I’d lost too many nights’ sleep because of watching people lose more than they could afford. Guilt affected the way I played, which allowed me to be played by people who didn’t give a damn.

  “Welcome lady and gentlemen, you all know the rules. You can walk away at any time and bet as much as you have access to. If you wish to apply for credit, Mr. Basilio will be gracious but firm.”

  I ignored the offered seat, preferring to take the seat opposite Scott. If someone wanted me to move, they could make a scene.

  He sat, stoic. Face unreadable. No hint of the media storm, or the risk tonight had to pose to his wealth. Not even a hint of what it meant to be facing me.

  He didn’t care.

  No. This was a man who’d drunken himself into a catatonic state for months over a woman. Someone he’d assured me didn’t mean as much as us.

  Pressing the glass to my lips, I bit down. Forcing away the tears. Knowing my dark shades could hide my tells from other players, but would never be enough to hide my heart from Scott.

  “Fold.” I wasn’t about to start betting on a weak hand.

  “Fold.” This time, my caution saved me from being wiped out by two pair, unfortunately one of the other ten players wasn’t so lucky. Seriously? Why did some players insist on going in hard, before they had a chance to get a read.

  Before the dealer could take my cards, I flipped over to reveal a three of spades. Not a seven of spades, but if I fingered it carefully, would Scott understand?

  “Call.”

  I wanted to chance my pair of Queens, but as soon as Scott raised, I quickly folded. He was too angry to read and while too careful to bet on losing hands, was taking no prisoners. Players who wanted to see his cards had to pay. It only took another half a dozen hands to double his stack.

  “Fold.”

  “Fold.”

  I hadn’t played a hand. My stack slowly reducing by the blinds, but I was waiting for a specific card to turn and show.

  Only another hour until our break. If I could hold out until then, I could wash my face, collect my thoughts and come back strong. I could flap my wings and Scott would fall.

  The simple act of giving myself permission not to play the hands worked magic on the cards. When Scott folded, I backed my hand. Two players tested my resolve with large raises but refused to match mine.

  I was never the person to show my cards.

  Never.

  But I’d waited all night for the perfect cards.

  Five of hearts and two of spades. Would Scott understand? I held the cards in place until he raised his eyebrow. Yes, come on, I silently pleaded. After I’d cracked the clues the time Scott called me a seven of spades, we’d spent a night having fun playing cards and reading our dealt hands as if they were tarot cards.

  Five of hearts, loss and despair. Mine. His. Surely, he remembered? He could remember the return on investment from a two-bit company Softli only purchased because Mason wanted to buy a racehorse off the owner. In a one-hundred-and-forty-page financial report, Scott remembered every line item.

  The two of spades, failure to communicate. Us. My name, Mason’s secret project, the report. Scott’s refusal to listen to my denials.

  By the time the dealer announced our break, I’d convinced myself Scott’s raised eyebrow had been in my imagination. Scott played hard and I only played the hands he dropped out from. We took all other players in our wake. Those foolish enough to stand up to us ended up with stacks you could count in the number of small blinds.

  Scott held the large stack. I held the second largest.

  The others would be easy pickings, after the break.

  Scott

  The bitch was right where I wanted her.

  Ten minutes until the break and it had taken all my patience not to take her out on her bluff call. Even though she ended up folding without the crazy-ass act of showing, I’d put her on either a pair of tens or an Ace high. Nothing I couldn’t have taken down, but tonight was about revenge.

  Two more players to take out and then she wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Raise,” I called, a fraction louder than normal. Only GG was left in the hand. All eyes were on her, her eyes were on me when I tapped my left little finger half a second before pushing the chips towards the dealer. The other players were oblivious, but GG noticed everything—which I would use later.

  Trap, baited.

  “Call.” She was just as confident.

  The remaining cards were tabled, and predictably, I lost. I feigned annoyance and accepted the insincere commiserations from the rest of the table.

  The bitch.

  The love of my life.

  The woman who’d ruined my life with one, vengeful and well-timed media article.

  Wheneve
r I thought about the lengths I’d have gone to protect, love and give her the life she deserved and even family if she wanted—all for naught.

  Betrayal in the board room almost came with the territory. What GG had done was unforgivable.

  I could have played cat and mouse with her during the break.

  A bro code was forming, determined to pit the remaining men against the little girl who had the balls to take us on.

  I could have been that bastard.

  Or not.

  “You in?” Fifty-year-old dude with the twenty-year-old blonde attached to his side asked. She was obviously with him for his good looks and he with her for her intellect. Could that be me in ten or twenty years?

  “What terms?”

  “We take her out, split her chips between us at the end of the night.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Help a brother out.” The dude nodded towards blondie. “I have expenses.”

  “Then ask her to give you a loyalty discount.” Dismissing him like the asshole I’d become, I sauntered over to the bar.

  “Hi.” Only GG could make a single word feel like a lifetime of promises—or lies. “Lime and soda by two,” she asked the barman.

  “Three cubes of ice in one,” I added before checking myself.

  Hey, stupid. Why don’t you make sure the lady gets what she wants instead of what she deserves?

  “Is that really a thing or just another way to mess with my head.”

  “It started off as something for other players to wonder about, but then it became a thing—between us.”

  “There is no us.”

  “It wasn’t me.” GG could protest until the cows came home but I’d never believe her. Evidence, baby. It was all stacked against her.

  “It won’t matter after tonight.” I’d intended on giving her the news when collecting my winnings. But to see her reaction up close and personally, priceless. “I’ll win. Take everything you have, leave town and we’ll never have to see each other again.”

  She clasped her hands together, almost in prayer. The lie sounded so sincere, “We could make it easy and you can take my money now, leave town and the only thing that I’d miss is you.”

  Two glasses appeared in front of us with a bowl of nachos that I’d normally be happy to share.

  “Or, we get rid of the competition and then may the best player win.”

  “Don’t you realize—there was only ever one person who gained by that article, and it wasn’t me.”

  “Time!” The dealer called before I could call her on the throw-away statement but before I could rejoin the table, she had another.

  “Read the cards, Scott. Two and three of spades. Five of hearts. Read the bloody cards. It wasn’t me.”

  The two pawns were sitting either side of me. Each trapped between GG and me. I didn’t care about which one of us cleaned them out, as long as we did.

  Allowing GG to claim her small victories gave me time to think. Not about the cards, there’d be time for that later.

  Who the hell benefited if it hadn’t been GG looking for revenge?

  Mason? No. His fortune was tied to Softli shares and had taken a hit, as had his reputation for picking executives with a tendency for bad press.

  Jarryd? Even more unlikely since he’d been adamant about protecting the reputation of his game and keeping his name out of the press. Also, Jarryd had just as much to lose if GG or I boycotted his games. Players liked to chance their hand against the best. We drew the best players to Jarryd’s table.

  Matt? Hell hath no fury like a dickhead scorned? No. I’d tried to believe Matt would either have the guts, intelligence or connections to pull off a stunt, but it was too clean. No attributable source and no way of killing the story. Every time Mason’s high-priced PR team tried, the story grew more legs.

  Read the cards, GG had urged. I had, at the time.

  Failure to communicate and misunderstandings, GG was just trying to absolve herself from guilt. The loss and despair? I called, bullshit. The only thing she was about to lose was money. Even then, she’d only have to flutter those violet eyes at a man and he’d mortgage a kingdom to stake her next game.

  Maybe Mr. Fifty-Year-Old who was about to go bust should introduce himself to his female nemesis!

  The thought of another man touching GG made me want to upturn tables and drag her screaming to the nearest empty room. I wanted to forgive her, worship her body and forget her betrayal. All the reasons I had to leave town. Cab to airport from here, first flight to who-the-fuck-knows and I’ll be back when who-the-fuck-cares. Mason could sing for his money or take it out of my severance.

  I was done.

  Three hands later and it didn’t matter.

  GG took out Mr. Fifty-Year-Old before I had the chance, leaving me to take out Mr. Ex-Footballer-With-A-Sex-Tape.

  No, I hadn’t seen it. No, I didn’t know it was impossible to get videos permanently removed from those sorts of sites. No, I didn’t want the link and if he offered it to GG once more, the only offer he’d be accepting would be medically related.

  Douchebag.

  I mentally calculated our stacks. GG had taken more of the smaller chips and looked like she had more, but I’d played for the big chips. In this situation, size of stacks didn’t matter. About time GG learned a lesson about quality.

  “And then there were two,” GG purred as seductively as she had that first night. Hitting me in the gut.

  I had to grab the table leg to stop myself from reacting like a man.

  Damn, I still fucking loved her.

  Despite what she’d cost me personally and professionally—I was the stupid schmuck who’d do it all again for one night lying naked with her on a cabin floor, in front of an open fire. With her dark hair framed against the flames and her skin warm and soft to my caress.

  “As it should be,” I murmured, soft enough that only the dealer and GG heard.

  “Who other than the two would care—do you think?”

  It was the second time GG had implied that someone else had set up the media article—someone else who could want to see us lose our professional careers, force us back to the table.

  “Miss, Ms.GG, can I have the card please?”

  Only when the dealer pressed the point did I realize GG hadn’t released her cards.

  Tens of hearts and diamonds.

  Joy and wealth.

  “Congratulations to two of my favorite people!” Dressed in a light grey suit, white shirt to show off more than his gold cross, Basilio Calibri appeared almost as if the devil had heard his name.

  Fuck.

  Someone with the power, influence and incentive to ruin our lives.

  Starting by setting us against each other.

  Even if one of us won at the table, Basilio could make sure we both lost at life.

  But not at love.

  Royal flush

  Scott

  There were a thousand reasons not to have flown to Melbourne or even turn up to the casino. Thanks to the media having nothing better to focus on, my career didn’t need more help in its nosedive. The opulent glitz of the rooms was in depressive dichotomy to the lives shattered by the fall of the cards.

  I should have been packing my kit and heading to Nepal. Play nursemaid to one of the teams who could use an extra pair of hands to help them get to the top of their mountain.

  I could have been in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. Standing on top of a cliff, embracing the insignificance of my shit against the majesty of the national park.

  The single reason to turn up was sitting across from me.

  And I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her.

  And now, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she knew and what she wanted to tell me.

  Yes, she’d told me Basilio was another ex—but they’d broken up almost a decade ago. The man moved amidst women, wealth and privilege. I’d done nothing to deserve his attention. For my mind, all I’d done was make
sure he got paid. A debt that wasn’t even mine.

  The thick cigar smoke hung like a fog over the table. Down to the two of us, I should be putting on my own shades. But I’d wanted her to see my eyes when I took her down.

  Now?

  Now I wanted her to read me.

  Talk to me.

  Had she been trying to send me a message or mess with my head? The result was the same. I could barely remember my own name, let alone whether a flush beat a straight. It did, but I was operating on muscle memory.

  If only we could have another break. I could pull her aside and do what we should have done this past week. Hell, we should have started talking from that first lunch with Mason.

  Talk.

  Been honest.

  Not just about the stupid article—within weeks the world would have moved on and the smart money would have bought Softli stock at the basement price and made a fortune when the market turned again.

  Which was exactly what I’d already planned to do with my winnings.

  Unless I didn’t.

  “Ready?” The dealer looked for confirmation.

  “The lady would like another soda with three slices of lime and three cubes of ice.”

  “And for you, sir?” The attentive barman asked.

  “Same as the lady.”

  Was that enough to tell GG we were on the same team? Or had she given up on me, and us.

  “Fold.”

  GG quickly handed back her cards, but I counted to forty before handing mine over to the dealer and collecting my chips. Just as I had the first night, I continued to count forty seconds between each call, no matter how instinctive the play.

  “Do you really need to take a nap between hands, old man?”

  After the third hand, with each of us only collecting the blinds, GG spoke. Chiding me to the sniggers from around the room.

  I hadn’t realized how small the playing community was—once word had gotten out this game had become personal, dozens of well-dressed couples drank their overpriced drinks and jostled for position behind us. Since when had a friendly game of poker become a spectator sport? Then again, four of the onlookers had non-descript black suits and a white spiral cord attached to earpieces.