Poker Face

by Cindy Dees

  Jack Lacey was right in there with the other males trawling the edges of the pool, scoping out the local talent. The bastard moved around the pool with a connoisseur’s concentration. Hard to believe the guy had a wife, and apparently a formidable one at that.

  The ladies wasted no time hitting on Stone. They rubbed up against him like cats in heat, brazenly groping his junk and purring at what they found. He pasted on a polite smile and mumbled what he hoped was an inoffensive apology about being at work while he brushed their hands away.

  Stone happened to be passing by Christian—well, not just passing by—when a particularly aggressive brunet threw herself at poor Christian. She seemed determined to get into his pants, and Christian looked like he’d passed beyond panic into mildly homicidal. The young woman reeked of alcohol, and Stone unobtrusively grabbed her by the elbow, half lifted her off her unsteady feet, and bodily hauled her off Christian.

  It was a move he’d perfected over years of protection work. He kept his grip hidden between their bodies so nobody would notice the disturbance, and then he walked her away from Christian quickly and powerfully enough that the woman had no choice but to move with him or fall down.

  “Hey!” she protested.

  As if anyone would hear her over the din of dance music and drunken shouting.

  “Trust me, darling,” he shouted in her ear in his best British accent, “you’re not that guy’s type.” For some reason, British accents tended to disarm Americans, as if their owners were automatically classy and polite or something.

  Sure enough, she cooed and turned toward him, looping her arms around his neck. He twisted his body so she ran right up against the gun under his left arm.

  She started. A vaguely alarmed look passed over her face, and her arms fell away from his neck.

  Free.

  He spun away from her vodka-and-vomit breath and scanned the crowd, trying to reacquire Jack.

  A voice murmured in his ear, “Thanks. I owe you one.” Warmth flowed through him. Christian.

  “My pleasure. Any idea where the boss is?”

  “I think I saw him head inside. This way. Follow me.”

  Also with pleasure. Although, he didn’t allow himself the luxury of scoping out Christian’s backside. His priority was to find Jack.

  Alcohol flowed, couples disappeared upstairs, and inhibitions evaporated around them.

  They headed into a huge room decked out as a disco, complete with colored lights and mirrored balls. It made for a lurid and damned-hard-to-see-in environment. Easily a hundred dancing people were moshing in a pseudo-orgy.

  Christian stopped abruptly in front of him, and Stone all but plowed into him from behind. Which was why he heard Christian swear sharply.

  “What?” he demanded over Christian’s shoulder, following Christian’s glare.

  “What the hell is she doing here?” Christian demanded.

  “She who?”

  “Valerie.”

  “The mistress?”

  “Yes. Dammit.”

  Christian tried to plow through the crowd but made little headway. Stone touched his elbow and slid past, murmuring, “Allow me.”

  Whereas Christian had tried to be polite, Stone had no such compunction. Using his body as a battering ram, he shoved through the crowd mercilessly, pushing and lifting drunks out of his way like so many sacks of sawdust. He crossed the room in a matter of seconds.

  Christian touched his elbow and he paused, letting Christian move in front of him again. He stopped in front of a highly curved, highly coiffed, highly made-up woman with black hair that couldn’t possibly be natural in color. She was attractive but older than he would have expected of Jack Lacey. The senator struck him as the type to go for young models or aspiring actresses. Beautiful, empty-headed arm fluff.

  “Valerie,” Christian said with what Stone now knew to be fake pleasantry. “What brings you here?”

  “Where’s Jack?” she shouted over the noise.

  “No idea. He left a while ago. I can have him call you when I see him. Where are you staying in town?”

  “Don’t give me that political double-speak crap. I want to talk to Jack. Now. I just saw Tucker. I know Jack’s here somewhere.”

  Her thick New Jersey accent had an edge that set off warning bells in his head. She was royally pissed off about something to do with Jack and trying to hide it. In Stone’s experience with VIPs, pissed-off mistresses could be both violent and irrational.

  He stepped forward. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to have to ask you to go through regular channels to contact Senator Lacey. If you’d like to talk with him, I’d suggest you call him during business hours. I’m sure Mr. Chatsworth-Brandeis can arrange for the senator to take your call—”

  “Who’s the new boy, Chris? He with you? He’s pretty.”

  There was something about her… something that reminded him vaguely of the mafia. As if she was used to intimidating and threatening underlings to get her way. She hadn’t said or done anything specific to warrant the impression, but it clung to her, nonetheless.

  He asked evenly, “Ma’am, are you carrying a weapon on your person?”

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. It’s none of your business.”

  “Actually, it is my business. I’m part of the senator’s security team.”

  “Since when?” she exclaimed.

  He ignored her question. “Here’s the deal, Ms. Micklethwaite,” he said calmly. Her eyebrows shot up when he used her last name. “This is a private event. Unless you can produce an invitation right now, you’re going to have to leave. Immediately.”

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” The arrogance became more evident all of a sudden.

  “I don’t need to know who you are, ma’am. This remains an invitation-only event.”

  “Most of the people here don’t have invitations, you moron.”

  “Most of them aren’t being aggressive and threatening toward my client,” he said coolly. He stepped forward, crowding close to and forcing her to take a step back if she wanted to keep glaring up at him.

  She teetered on ridiculous platformed stilettos that added a good six inches to her height but still barely came to his shoulder. “Don’t get all up in my business. I’ll have Jack fire your ass so fast your head flies off.”

  Whatever. He’d be delighted to get out of this gig. “Be my guest to complain to the senator if and when you speak with him.”

  She seemed surprised that he didn’t seem to care if he lost this job.

  “Chrissy-poo, go find Jack and tell him I’m here, will you? Be a good boy.”

  Stone had to bite back a smile when he spotted the muscles literally rippling along Christian’s jaw. To his credit, the man said nothing. He merely turned smartly on his heel and went looking for Jack.

  For his part, Stone stayed with Valerie. No way was she leaving his sight until either she or Jack left this venue.

  “What brings you to Miami, Ms. Micklethwaite?” he asked conversationally.

  “Obviously, Jack.”

  “Do you have business with him?”

  She snorted. “You might call it that. He made a promise to me, and I’m here to see to it he ponies up.”

  “Oh? And what did he promise you?”

  “That’s totally none of your business.”

  Christian was actually gone long enough that Stone was considering calling his cell phone to find out what the holdup was. But then he spied the familiar face swimming upstream against the crowd to reach them.

  He drew near to Stone and leaned in close to put his lips on Stone’s ear. “Jack’s gone.”

  “Roger that.”

  Christian turned to Valerie. “As I said before, the senator left the party some time ago. If you’d like to give me a message for him, I’ll be happy to pass it along when I see him.”

  Valerie screeched. Literally screeched. No words, just a howl of rage that brought everyone within about a fifteen-foot radius to
a staring halt.

  One of the bouncer types hired by the homeowner for the night came over and zeroed in on Stone. “Everything okay?”

  “This woman was about to leave. Would you mind showing her out?”

  “Not at all, sir,” the bouncer said, smirking.

  He reached for Valerie, who threw off his hand, shouting, “Don’t you put your paws on me! Jack will hear about this! My daddy will hear about this!”

  At this rate, half of Miami was hearing about it this very second.

  Another bouncer joined the first one, and they quickly escorted the woman out of the room and, presumably, out of the house.

  “Who’s her daddy?” he asked Christian. “Should I be worried?”

  “Maybe. He’s reputed to be one of the biggest traditional Italian-style mobsters left on the East Coast.”

  “She’s a mafia princess? What’s Jack thinking?”

  Christian shrugged. “He’s thinking her old man can do him favors, funnel him cash, and do the occasional dirty deed to advance his political career.”

  “Christ,” Stone muttered. “Take me to Jack. I’ve had quite enough of this damned circus.”

  “I wasn’t kidding. Jack has left the party.”

  “He headed back to the hotel with Tucker? We might want to contact the front desk and make sure they know not to reveal that Jack is a guest to anyone who asks about—”

  “No, Stone,” Christian interrupted. “Jack didn’t leave with him. Tucker is still out front with the SUV.”

  Stone stared. What the actual fuck?

  Christian did that uncanny mind-reading thing of his again and shouted, “Come with me. There’s a quieter place where we can talk.”

  He followed Christian to the kitchen, which was bustling with caterers and waiters but still quieter than the room with the DJ and blaring speakers.

  “Did he leave the house?” Stone asked tersely.

  “I don’t know. But he’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Where’s the homeowner? A place this size has to have a security room where all the cameras feed to.”

  “This way.”

  Christian led him to a billiards room and a silver-haired man who was more drunk than not. But the guy readily took them to a small room at the back of the house where, indeed, a man was sitting in front of a bank of cameras.

  Stone didn’t waste any time. “I need the last footage you’ve got of Jack Lacey. Where did he go?”

  “The senator? Last I saw of him, he was headed upstairs. If you know what I mean.” The guard waggled his eyebrows. “Hey, is it true that he’s got himself a stalker? Someone out to kill him?”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Stone demanded.

  “Saw a thing in the news about it. Quoted the senator, himself.”

  Christian replied dryly, “Not all quotes are real, and don’t believe everything you read in the news.”

  “Was he alone?” Stone jumped in.

  “No, sir. And I’m afraid there aren’t any cameras in the bedrooms.”

  “How many bedrooms in the house?” Stone demanded.

  “Six on the second floor, four on the third.”

  “Got it.” Stone whirled for the door.

  “You can’t go barging into them, though!” the guard called at his back. “There are people in them!”

  Stone 100 percent didn’t care. He was finding Jack Lacey and quitting this damned job.

  Christian rushed after him, half running to keep up. “The guard’s right. You can’t bust in on everybody in those bedrooms.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Give me a chance to at least ask around for which room he might be in, okay?”

  Stone shrugged, irritated as fuck and not in the mood to make nice with anyone.

  “Stay right here,” Christian said, parking him at the foot of the sweeping staircase. Christian disappeared into the billiards room once more and came out in under a minute. He said merely, “Come with me.”

  They jogged up the stairs side by side, and Christian strode down a long hall, then paused before a pair of double doors. “Master suite,” he muttered.

  Of course, Jack would fuck in his host’s own bed. Class in a glass. Stone bit out, “I’ll go first.” He reached for the door handles. Locked. Shaking his head, he pulled out his pocket knife and jimmied the childishly simple interior lock. “Anybody with a goddamned coin could open this door,” he muttered direly.

  “Don’t kill him,” Christian warned. “You’re supposed to keep him alive.”

  Stone’s glare narrowed even more. “Don’t remind me.”

  They stepped into the suite, and Jack Lacey was sprawled out on the bed, naked as the day he’d been born, with a blond straddling him, wearing cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and not another stitch of clothing. And she had possibly the largest breasts of any woman Stone had ever seen.

  Christian stepped forward and said politely, “Sorry to interrupt, ma—” He broke off. “Oh! Hello, Ms. Hills. Like I was saying, sorry to, umm, interrupt. But something’s come up and the senator needs to go now.”

  Jack drawled, “Something’s come up, all right, and this li’l filly knows just what to do with it.”

  “Sir. There really is a problem. I need you to get dressed and come with us.”

  “Have the Russkies nuked America?”

  “No, sir.”

  “China?”

  “No, sir. No nuclear weapons have been fired.”

  “Then get the hell out of here, boy!”

  Stone stepped forward, picking up discarded clothes as he went. “Ma’am. If you could please put on your clothes.”

  The blond pouted but took her clothes and crawled off the bed.

  Swearing up a blue storm, Jack swung his feet to the floor. “Well, hell. Hey! Tell ya what. Darlin’, come on back to the hotel with me and we’ll pick up where we left off before these yahoos busted in.”

  “Sure, sugar pie,” the blond cooed.

  Christian glanced over at him. “Any objections?”

  “I gather you know her?”

  “Uhh, yes. Her name’s Chesty Hills. Adult-film star. She was in California the few months back when we were there for a series of interviews and fundraising events. She, umm, spent some time with the senator.”

  Stone shrugged. “If you can vouch for her, she’s as good a choice as any other woman here. Might as well be her we take back.”

  Chesty gave a suggestive wiggle as she tugged her mini dress down her thighs. She smiled up at him winningly. “Honey pie, I’ve got some business to discuss with Jack. If y’all aren’t going to let us finish this discussion here and now, I’m gonna have to go with y’all.” Her Southern twang was as pronounced as Valerie’s New Jersey accent had been.

  Stone sighed. “What’s your real name, ma’am? I need it for security purposes.”

  “Chesty. Chesty Hills.”

  “Jesus.” He looked over at Christian in time to catch the momentary grin that disappeared as quickly as it came. “Did you change your name or did your parents have an inkling of how you’d turn out?”

  She laughed, and it was actually an infectious sound. If a guy could lift his gaze from her bodacious endowments, she was actually quite pretty.

  Christian helped Jack into his suit coat and held out a comb for the senator to run through his rumpled hair. He even tied the man’s tie efficiently. God. How did Christian stand having to do that kind of work for his boss?

  “We good to go?” Stone asked from over by the door.

  Christian nodded.

  Stone radioed to Tucker, “Can you bring the SUV around back by the kitchen? We’ll meet you there.”

  “You got it,” Travis replied.

  Except the minute they hit the ground floor of the crowded mansion, Jack veered away and started greeting people and shaking hands.

  Swearing, Stone circled back to grab the senator by the scruff of the neck and haul him the hell out.

  “Stop, Stone,” Christian
murmured. “You won’t win this fight. Let him do his thing. I’ll take Chesty out to the SUV to wait, and you can play bodyguard until he’s ready to leave.”

  Scowling until his face hurt, he followed Jack around as best he could.

  Whether Jack Lacey was eliciting pledges of funds or blackmailing every person in the goddamned room was anybody’s guess. Stone couldn’t get close enough to the man to hear anything he talked about with anyone. The one time he did venture close enough to hear, Jack turned and snarled at him to get back.

  To get back, for fuck’s sake! Who did that to their own freaking bodyguard? It was an ongoing struggle in Stone’s gut whether or not to just go get a beer and let the bastard rot.

  The longer this travesty of a protection detail dragged on, the more furious he grew. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer, and he pulled out his cell phone. Time to talk to his own boss.

  It was early morning in London. Very early morning. But Peregrine Cardiffe, one of the two founders and CEO of Wild Cards, Inc. was used to middle-of-the-night phone calls.

  “Go ahead,” the familiar British voice said after one ring.

  “Up early or still awake?” Stone asked, amused.

  “Both. No rest for the weary, my dear Stone. What prompts this call?”

  “The client refuses to cooperate with me or with his own security man. There’s no way the Wild Cards can or should take responsibility for keeping this jerk alive.”

  “The jerk is paying us a substantial sum of money.”

  “I’m not kidding, Pere. I’ve worked with some assholes in my day, but this guy’s in a class all his own. I’m at an unsecured party right now with close to a thousand unnamed, unvetted, unsearched partygoers, at least one quarter of whom are consuming controlled substances and another quarter of whom are paid prostitutes. And I’m under strict orders to stay away from the client. Away from the client, Pere.”

  “How far away?”

  “He snapped at me the one time I ventured within thirty feet of him. Stormed over and told me to lurk somewhere else, entirely out of his sight.”