Poker Face

by Cindy Dees

  “I get the feeling he’d like to do more… party harder, but so far, his wife and I have managed to keep him in line.”

  He blinked but didn’t miss a beat. “And why do you work for him if he’s such a douchebag?”

  “He happens to support prison reform, and in addition to my law degree, I have a master’s in public policy, specializing in prison reform. He’s my best chance to make a real difference for a whole lot of incarcerated people.”

  “Irony, much?” Stone murmured.

  Their gazes snapped to each other. Awareness, hell, sparks, flew between them for just a second. Then, simultaneously, they both firmly and regretfully tamped down on the incendiary attraction flaring between them. Irony, indeed.

  Stone stepped back to a safer distance, clear of that sexy-as-hell aftershave. He made a mental note to find out what it was. Someday when he grew up, he’d like to smell that classy.

  He leafed through the senator’s busy itinerary for the next week. Holy crap. There were close to a dozen appearances booked. No way could he properly assess every single one and furthermore fix the security flaws at each. He would need a month, or a team of a half-dozen Wild Cards security experts, to do the job right.

  He looked up at Tucker. “Have you scoped out all these locations already?”

  The man rolled his eyes, a flash of bright white in his grim face. “I’ve seen each venue, but that’s about it. I’ve only had time to do full security inspections on about half of them. Hence bringing you on board to help out.” He added under his breath, “It’s a fucking mess.”

  “And he won’t cancel?” Stone responded.

  “His wife booked this whole junket, and he’s scared shitless of her. If she says to appear in all these places, he’ll complain up a storm, but he’ll do it.”

  “Is she trying to get him killed?”

  Stone was startled when Tucker seemed to consider his rhetorical question seriously.

  “Wouldn’t put it past her. She thinks he’s a moron.”

  “And they’re married why?”

  “Oh, she likes the political power his job gives her.”

  “Does she interfere with his actual career, or just ride his coattails?”

  “I don’t understand the question,” Tucker replied.

  Ahh. Perceptive guy. He sensed that Stone was going somewhere with the line of questioning. “I’m asking if she’s included in the threats against the senator. Or if she’s perhaps the reason for the threats.”

  Tucker swore under his breath. “It’s possible that the answer is yes to both. I don’t think we can rule it out. The good news is she’s in Texas and not our problem for the moment.”

  Stone glanced surreptitiously at Lacey, who was currently swearing at the TV and reaching for his cell phone. The senator commenced yelling at somebody on the other end. Beneath the din, he asked Tucker, “Is it possible she’s the one anonymously sending the threats?” It wouldn’t be the first time he’d run into the spouse of a rich, powerful asshole who’d tried to off said asshole.

  “Ms. Lacey?” Tucker blurted. “Nah. She’s good people. She’d divorce him and take him for all he was worth before she’d bother killing him. She’d get a lot more satisfaction out of humiliating him.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like her just fine, but I wouldn’t want to tangle with her in a dark alley. She would fight like a junkyard dog.”

  “Sounds like a great politician’s wife,” Stone commented dryly.

  “She’s the only reason he’s gotten anywhere in politics.”

  Stone nodded. Interesting. Thankfully, his job wasn’t going to include having to dive into the middle of the apparently contentious Lacey marriage. He glanced back down at the list of places Jack Lacey was scheduled to appear this week. “Which venue are you the most worried about, Tuck?”

  “Hotel ballroom where the big casino-night fundraiser will be held. More sight lines than you can count, multiple access points, huge crowd, huge staff. It’s going to be a nightmare. The public is going to have full access to the senator. Not even rope lines to contain the crowd.”

  Stone winced. If it was even half as bad as the guy described, barring a full-on Secret Service-style team of a dozen guys or so, no way were they going to be able to guarantee Lacey’s safety. “How many warm bodies can you put on the job?” he asked Tucker.

  “I’ve got two security guys from the hotel lined up for Saturday night. And now you. The boss hates bodyguards and refuses to use them most of the time.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Wish I was, man.”

  They were so screwed.

  Wild Cards, Inc. couldn’t possibly take responsibility for this client under these circumstances. He crossed the living room to address the senator directly. “How bad do you want to stay alive, sir?”

  “Whaddiya mean, son? I like being alive plenty.”

  “Enough to cancel your appearances this week?”

  “No way.”

  “Can I at least convince you to cancel the casino-night appearance, sir?”

  “I get a third of all the donations from this damned shindig. It’ll fund my television ads for months to come. I’m not fucking canceling nuthin’. I’m paying a fortune for you to keep me safe and make this event happen. You do your job and we’ll all be fine.”

  “You are, indeed, paying a fortune for my services. And this is me giving you my extremely valuable advice. Cancel your appearance at the casino night. I don’t even need to see the venue to know you will be wide open to an assassination attempt.”

  “Isn’t it your job to take the bullet for me?” Lacey asked coldly.

  A faint, strangled noise made Stone look up. Christian had just stepped into the room from beyond the senator. Apparently he’d heard Lacey’s last remark too. Christian’s jaw clenched so hard that the rippling muscles in the guy’s perfect face actually caught Stone’s attention.

  He pulled his gaze back to the truculent senator and answered evenly, “My job is to keep both of us alive, sir. I will not have done my job if I have to take a bullet for you. That is the last-ditch act of a failed security detail.”

  A shrug from Lacey. “Not my problem.”

  He glanced over at Tucker, who rolled his eyes eloquently. The bastard had better be paying Tucker a fortune to put up with this shit.

  “Tell you what, sir. I’m going to go downstairs and take a look around the ballroom. I’ll report back to Mr. Tucker after I’ve seen it.”

  “Whatever.” Lacey picked up a laptop computer, opened the screen, and hit a key on it. The computer commenced emitting the groaning, moaning, and flesh-slapping sounds of porn reaching its exquisitely unclassy cinematic climax.

  Well, okay, then. Add an unabashed porn habit to the senator’s list of vices.

  “I’ll show you the ballroom,” Christian volunteered.

  Stone swore mentally. He’d told the guy last night that he had no time for drama. He’d meant it. He did not have time for flirting, for innuendo-laced snide comments, or wistful, lover-wannabe banter in the damned elevator.

  Irritated as fuck, he spun and headed out. Christian fell in beside him. He lengthened his stride, emphatically not interested in conversation. Christian kept up easily, matching his stride, and he moved with the supple strength of a man who worked out vigorously. No doubt about it. We would have been a great fit physically.

  The elevator arrived, and they stepped into the empty space, alone. Here it came. Stone braced himself.

  Christian spoke with contemptuous precision. “Lacey’s an asshole. Demands the impossible and throws hissy fits when he doesn’t get what he wants. He’s behind in the polls, and his fundraising has been dismal this year. The voters are apparently catching on to what a bad joke he is. Don’t kill yourself to save him. He’s not worth it.”

  Huh. He’d assumed Christian would throw himself at him. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that the guy
hadn’t.

  Stone arched one eyebrow sardonically. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel about your boss?”

  A huff of reluctant laughter escaped Christian. “He’s your boss too now.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  They rode the rest of the way down in silence that was blessedly reasonably comfortable. He had to give Christian credit. The guy had said the one thing that would ease the discomfort between them and make the situation not weird. Pere had the same gift of natural diplomacy. Stone… not so much. But he owed Christian at least a try at civility.

  “For what it’s worth, I’ve worked for worse,” Stone commented in commiseration as they stepped out into the lobby.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Christian replied drolly.

  “Buy me another Derby sometime, and I’ll tell you a few stories that’ll curl your toes.”

  “Deal.”

  Shocked that he’d been the one to bring up a personal interaction between them, he fell silent. They started across the lobby toward the parrot-infested palm trees.

  He spied an incoming figure moving fast and muttered, “Oh joy.”

  “Gentlemen!” Brittney gushed. “How lucky am I? The two hottest guys in South Beach have graced our hotel with their presence. Call the paramedics—there will be women swooning all over my lobby.”

  He traded wry glances with Christian over her head.

  “Where are you two off to? Can I help you with anything?”

  Christian answered smoothly, pitching his voice with a hint of flirtation guaranteed to delight Brittney. Better Christian dealing with her than him. “I’m on my way to show Mr. Jackson the ballroom where the casino night is going to be held.”

  “Oooh! Let me help.” She pushed between their tall bodies, looped an arm through each of theirs, and all but skipped down the yellow brick road toward the bowels of the hotel.

  “Are you always this… perky?” Stone asked dryly.

  “Oh yes. I was a cheerleader at Florida State, you know. I barely missed being a Miami Dolphins cheerleader at my first tryout last year. Which is really great for a first-timer, by the way. Since then I’ve gone gluten-free, taken up hot yoga, and gotten crazy limber. I can get into all sorts of uhh-maze-ing positions now.”

  “The mind boggles,” Christian commented dryly.

  A snort of laughter slipped out of Stone, and he coughed hastily to cover it up.

  “I know. Right?” Brittney chirped.

  “Totally,” Stone replied dryly.

  Christian pulled a face at him over the young woman’s head.

  Brittney unlocked a set of ornate double doors, and he and Christian each pushed one open for her. She stepped inside and spun around dramatically. “Here’s the ballroom. It’s the most famous feature of the Imperium Hotel. Built in the 1920s, the structure has been refurbished of course, but its original design and architectural details have been preserved. When the hotel was torn down and rebuilt in the 1990s, this part of the building was not touched.”

  Stone supposed the room was pretty, but he paid little attention to such things. Instead he took note of the many alcove balconies running down both sides of the room, overlooking the main floor. The big orchestra mezzanine across the back of the ballroom. The heavy velvet curtains lining the tall windows that could easily conceal a shooter. The row of french doors opening onto an oceanside terrace, every one of which provided an entrance and exit point. A raised theater stage crossed the far end of the room. Oh, goodie. That meant there would be catwalks and lighting rigs to secure too.

  He turned to ask Brittney where the gaming tables and buffet lines would be set up, but she was already on her cell phone. It was in moments like this that he felt a little old. She moved away, talking at light speed, as he strolled the perimeter of the space in silent horror.

  He glanced over at Christian pacing along silently beside him. “Gaming tables all over this main floor, I assume. Is there going to be a speech?”

  A grimace. “Yes.”

  “Podium on the stage?” he guessed.

  “Correct.”

  “Do me a favor, Christian. Go up on stage and stand where Senator Lacey will be for his speech, so I can check a few sight lines.”

  “Sure.”

  Stone watched appreciatively as Christian jogged up the side steps and took his place center-stage front. The man was absolutely an athlete, body aware and in control of his movements. Stone followed more slowly up the steps, walking around the stage. He looked up. Well, hell. A full, professional theater lighting and rigging setup dangled above him. He moved out to the middle of the stage behind Christian, who tensed.

  As aware of him as he was of Christian, huh? Good to know—

  He’s off-limits now. The job comes first.

  Dammit.

  He peered over Christian’s shoulder, looking at the various spots where a shooter might hide. If he could see the shooter from here, the shooter could see Senator Lacey from his or her hiding spot. He counted approximately twenty possible perches for a sniper. Twenty. Holy Christ. How was he supposed to secure all of them simultaneously? This was madness.

  He moved into the wings, stage right, to see how blind he would be if the senator insisted on his security team standing offstage while he gave his speech.

  Jesus. He couldn’t see a thing from back here. He’d be totally blind. Unable to see any threats. He took a few steps forward out of long habit as a bodyguard, scanning the shadows around the edges of the ballroom.

  Without warning, a red laser dot blossomed in the center of Christian’s chest.

  Stone didn’t think, just reacted in response to a dozen years of training and exploded forward. He tackled Christian in a flying leap that sent them both to the ground, rolling over and over.

  Stone wrapped his arms protectively around Christian and continued the roll, carrying both of them in a tangle behind the curtains, stage left.

  Christian stared up at him in shock. “What the hell was that for?” He struggled against Stone’s weight, and Stone rolled off him, jumping to his feet. He reached down and Christian took his hand. The guy’s palm was warm and smooth. Everything his own hand was not. He gave a yank and jerked Christian upright.

  With a quick hook of his arm around Christian’s waist, he pushed him back and behind his own body. “Stay here,” he bit out tersely. “Don’t come out from behind the curtains to see what’s going on. And if I tell you to run, head for the stage exit and run as fast as your fucking gorgeous legs can go to the front of the hotel and the biggest crowd of people you can find.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “No questions. Just do it.” He moved away from Christian, dropping into a crouch as he pulled out his sidearm.

  “Whoa,” Christian exclaimed behind him.

  No time to hold Preppy’s hand. Someone had put a fucking laser gunsight on Christian’s chest.

  Replaying the glimpse of that laser dot in his mind’s eye, he took his best guess at the source: the orchestra balcony in the back of the ballroom. Spinning out low from behind the curtain, he knelt in a shooter’s stance, pistol braced in both hands for the takedown shot.

  “Easy, man,” Travis Tucker laughed from the balcony. “I was only testing your reflexes.”

  Stone stared down the barrel of his weapon at the security man for a stunned moment while his killer brain reluctantly processed that there was no threat.

  “Easy there, Double-Oh-Seven,” Tucker said in alarm, showing his empty hands well away from his sides, in plain sight.

  After a tense, several-second delay, Stone lowered the weapon and stood upright. Swearing under his breath, he registered that his heart rate had accelerated to something like triple its normal speed.

  Which was bizarre. Usually, he was ice in the Arctic. In winter. His pulse never spiked. He was the coolest of the cool under pressure. But he’d basically freaked out like a first-timer bodyguard.

  Moving with taut precisi
on, he made his weapon safe and replaced it carefully in its holster.

  “Tucker,” he said in a conversational voice, trusting the room’s excellent acoustics to carry his words up to the balcony, “you just came very, very close to dying. Do not pull a shithead stunt like that again unless (a) you have a death wish, or (b) you want me to quit this job on the spot.”

  The ex-Marine threw both hands over his head in mock surrender, holding in one fist a spotter’s scope that was no doubt the source of the laser dot on Christian’s chest. Speaking of whom….

  Stone looked to his left. Christian was standing in the wings beside the velvet stage curtains, looking more than a little shocked. With his face partially hidden in shadow, his insanely elegant bone structure was sharply highlighted. Class, man. The guy was pure class. Way out of his league.

  Stone reluctantly walked over to join him, chagrin coursing through his blood like hot acid.

  “Sorry about tackling you. Did I hurt you?”

  “I played football at Columbia University. I’ve taken worse hits.”

  Thank God. It wasn’t every day he randomly tackled his employer’s right-hand man and slammed the guy to the floor. “What position? Lemme guess. Wide receiver?”

  “Correct. How’d you know?”

  “You’re too lean for defense or playing around the line. And you don’t like being in the spotlight enough to play quarterback. You’re tall and have a runner’s ass. Which means either a safety or wide receiver. And you’re more of a go-getter than the type to block someone else from doing something. Hence, wide receiver.”

  “God. Even I don’t pay that much attention to football.”

  Embarrassment pumped through Stone. He mumbled, “I watch more soccer these days.”

  Christian clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s all good, man. That was a nice tackle anyway. You ever play football?”

  “Nah. No time for it.” The truth was, his parents hadn’t been able to afford the cost of it when he was little, and in the area he grew up, if you didn’t start playing by about age eight, a kid would never be good enough to play in the big high school programs.