by Christa Wick
"Tell me about the clock, Marie." Standing, Masters pushes the tablet aside and comes around to the front of the desk. His big, lean body looms over me, his proximity making it all but impossible to breathe. One finger traces the curve of my jaw as he leans even closer to whisper in my ear. My muscles heat as his deep timbre soaks into my skin.
"I can't help you if you won't tell me."
I don't snort but I want to. Obviously, Masters hopes I don't know rule number 4.
You can't con a con.
It doesn't matter if he's gay or straight—I know he won't to do squat for me. I have to get out of this on my own, but I’ve forgotten how. I’ve kept my nose as clean as a nun's ass since I took the twins from my father and ran. I work multiple jobs, spend every day exhausted from ninety-hour work weeks and catch most of my sleep during long bus rides between work and the cheap one bedroom apartment where Tommy sleeps on a pull-out couch and Rose and I share a bed—when she's not fucking her newest boyfriend in it.
Gently pinching my chin, Masters forces me to look at him. "I want to help you, Marie."
"Then let me leave." My bottom lip quivers as I fight the swell of tears trying to escape. "Keep the money and let me walk. I won't come back."
With a scowl on his face, he shakes his head. He returns to his side of the desk and sits down. His gaze hooks for a second on the picture in its frame before his focus lands on me. He studies me another long, uncomfortable minute.
"You can leave when you show me how you cheated."
"Counting cards isn't—"
Another shake of his head, this one hard and bordering on angry, stops me. "Keep lying to me, Queenie, and that sweet, lush ass is going to jail."
He can't know that jail is the least of my worries. Ignoring his reference to my ass as just another attempt to lower my guard, I chew on my bottom lip and focus on the meaning behind his return to calling me Queenie instead of Marie.
I desperately need him to think of me as Marie. Queenie Lafayette spent more than a decade assisting in her father's cons, half of those years counting cards in casinos she wasn't legally old enough to be in.
I, on the other hand, kept Tommy out of the morgue and work every damn day to ensure both of the twins are fed and warm. Masters might let Marie walk out of the casino in time to keep Tommy from bailing and rescue Rose.
But Queenie?
That bitch is dead meat in any Vegas casino.
I stop fighting the tears and give him as much of the truth as I dare.
"Mr. Masters, if you don't release me now, you're killing my sister Rose."
2
Luke
Four Hours Earlier
Scanning a bank of security monitors in the basement of my hotel, I reach up and tap a screen. The act draws the attention of the analyst on duty.
"Send this feed to my account," I say. "If she moves, stay with her."
Not waiting for the man to voice his compliance, I leave the room, quickly cut through an open bay of workers and enter one of three private offices I keep in the building.
Sliding into my chair, I wake the computer and navigate to the feed. The woman hasn't left the Black Jack table. I didn't expect her to. She’s winning and gamblers don't quit in the middle of a lucky streak.
Something tells me this is no mere gambler I’m watching, however.
On the display, numbers hover above her head and those of the three male patrons at the same table. She’s up over five thousand dollars since entering the casino tonight. The male on her left is down almost a thousand. The man directly to her right is up five hundred dollars. Next to him, the remaining player's number goes from a positive seventy-five to twenty-five in the hole.
The men don't interest me. To be honest, neither does the fact that the woman is winning, and doing so at a higher rate than the table's average.
But the woman herself certainly interests me. Her very full figure is scantily covered by a dress colored an antique gold. I zoom in on her face, ignoring the strong urge to dip down and look at the artfully exposed cleavage.
Big blue eyes, blond hair, lush mouth. A bell chimes, telling me her number has changed. I check the score. She just lost four-hundred-fifty but doesn't even blink.
I zoom out again. This time I look at the cleavage, the rounded arms and shoulders. Now that I know her table number, I find another camera and look at her from behind. I zoom in on that view.
Her lush ass spills over the sides of the seat cushion, a little on each side. My cock, already hard, swells bigger.
Another chime, this time telling me she won again. I don't look at the number, my gaze too busy tracing every last curve visible on my screen. Another burst of heat shoots straight to my groin when I return to her sweet ass parked on the chair.
She wins another hand. Now she has much more than she did when I first sat down and I’m torn between what to focus my attention on more—her or her cards.
Unable to stop myself, I return to the feed of her face with those rounded cheeks that would be considered cute if she weren’t so damn sexy, and those full lips I already want wrapped around my cock.
Her smile quirks to the left as she loses just a little. She wins a couple more hands, nothing on her face giving away the wins.
Then her mouth quirks again and sure enough, she loses.
Hell.
I zoom out, look at her from behind again, this time dropping below the waist.
She rolls her right ankle.
She wins.
The pattern repeats. I back up the feed then fast forward. I compare her cards against the dealer's, note the instances were the cards displayed were too close for her to be confident of a win or loss. It takes fifteen minutes and another thousand of my casino's money added to her pile of chips before I discover her tells and can determine for certain that she’s cheating.
I’m not pissed; I’m intrigued.
I go back to her lovely face with its expert application of makeup and the blond hair very carefully blown out. Something about her features tickles my memory. But the facial recognition software has been running from the moment she stepped into the building and she didn't trigger it.
Still, my gut has never been wrong before.
I open the software, tick a few boxes, untick others. The changes I make widen the margin of error, which generates false positives and siphons off processing power from the system.
Names and photos begin to populate my screen. Using the measurements of the stool she sits on and the table in front of her, I input a height range. Some of the names disappear. I winnow the list down further by approximate age and run the remaining names against a "concerns" list.
A picture from six years ago pops up.
Marie Eloise Lafayette, aka Queenie Lafayette
"Jackpot," I murmur.
I don't need to bring up the attached file. The twenty-six-year-old woman on the screen is well known among casino owners and their security teams with only a single caveat against her infamy. For the last six years, she's been a ghost.
My office door opens, the visitor not bothering to knock.
"Mikhael," I say without looking up because the big Russian is the only person in the casino with big enough balls to enter my personal space without warning.
"Your profile just got a ping on Queenie Lafayette," he says as if I wasn't here when it happened.
"Yes, but I'm handling it."
Frowning, he comes around my desk to stand next to me. Seeing the woman on the screen, he grunts.
"I'll find you someone to fuck who looks just like her," he says, knowing that Marie, with all her curves and cunning, is exactly my type.
"I'm handling it," I repeat, standing up and brushing him aside. "Tell floor security to observe but don't approach."
"What’re you doing?" he asks curiously as my hand pushes open the door.
I straighten my tie and an answer simply, "I'm going to go meet a legend."
3
Marie
"Stay."
The air like acid in my lungs, I watch him walk across the room and confer in whispers with the man who took my purse. Masters dismisses him and returns to stand in front of me again, thick arms folded across his broad chest.
Sensing it just might be time to beg, I open my mouth.
"Don't," he rumbles and motions for me to stand.
Without thinking, I obey, only to pull back when Masters cups both sides of my face and steps all the way into my space.
He won't let me retreat. His grip tightens. He takes another step closer until his torso presses into my full breasts and rounded stomach. His body heat permeates the silk suit and the thin georgette of my clothing until I feel like my flesh will melt if he holds me another second.
His mouth waits a hair's width from mine and then he speaks. "I believe you, Queenie, but girls like Rose die every day."
Unthinking, I jerk my hand up. My open palm lands hard against his angular jaw.
"Bastard! You don't know Rose, don't know what she's been through, what she had to see!"
Masters catches my wrist before I can form a fist and strike again. Spinning me, he grabs my other arm and pins both arms across my stomach. A hard yank on my wrists and I find my backside cinched tightly to him. Hot tears splash against my cheeks and chest as I struggle in his embrace.
His beard brushes against my shoulder, paralyzing me. Lips whisper against my neck. As if tendering my temporary surrender, my head rolls back. Masters nuzzles the skin below my ear, his warm breath falling hypnotically against my neck. Trapped in his arms, I smell a warm, sensuous mix of citrus and cinnamon emanating from his body and the tension inside me eases another degree.
"Yes, I'm a bastard." He kisses where his lips nuzzled my skin and then again a little higher. "But you'll take my help and thank me."
My mind numb, I look around the room with its trappings of wealth and success and think of the challenge coin on the desk. It’s his, not something given to him by a cherished or hated relative. So he has at least a decade on me of playing this game and has done so at levels I can't begin to understand. Aware of how painfully sexy he is, he’s not above using his body as a bargaining tool.
I comprehend that his actions are all a show, but I can't stop myself from falling deep into his trap. The intimacy produces his intended effect. Starting with a reflexive tightening of my thighs, a contraction rolls through my pussy, its outward vibrations so strong they momentarily fragment my spine and I’m only standing because Masters is holding me upright.
"You can run your errand." Slowly stepping back, he gives me time to recover my legs before he lets go. "But you will return."
"Of course." I agree too fast, my mind already running through a dozen ways I can ensure I’ll never see him again. "Thank you, Mr. Masters."
"Luke," he tells me. His palm against my back, he propels me toward the office door. Stopping right before we reach it, he steps in front of me. One hand on the knob, he curls the other along my chin and leans in. "We'll discuss my compensation upon your return."
His lips, flushed and warm, flatten against mine before his tongue expertly draws me into the kiss with teasing licks along the seam of my mouth.
Unexpected, the kiss captivates and confuses. Certain I’ll collapse unless I have something to hold onto, I reach for the lapels of his jacket. His tongue pushes deeper and he wraps a hand around my head to control me.
My torso curves backwards. Lifting onto my tiptoes, I flex my hips until my mound pushes against his groin. Another contraction rolls through me. My chest constricts until I find that I can no longer breathe.
I want to hate myself for being so weak, but I can't. I’ve been on the run for six years, working and moving constantly, the only male in my life my baby brother. For twenty years before that, I remained under the watchful eye of my father. This isn't quite my first kiss, but it’s pretty damn close and I’m certain I’ll never experience another like it.
Especially since I have no intention of seeing this man ever again.
Luke steps back and opens the door. With his gaze narrow and locked on me, he pivots on one heel to reveal just how he has secured my return.
In front of me, sitting on a couch, Tommy waits handcuffed and gagged.
My shock takes a second to clear and then I race across the room as fast as my chubby legs can carry me. With his lean muscular body, Masters makes it to the couch several strides before I do. I reach for the gag anyway.
He catches my hand, pulls it down and to his side. But then he nods at the guy standing guard over Tommy.
"Let him talk."
"The cuffs, too." I demand, struggling to free my hand from Masters' tight grip. "You have no right—this is kidnapping!"
Continuing to keep his body between me and Tommy, Masters wraps an arm around my waist and glares down at me.
"No, beautiful, it's a conspiracy. You, Tommy, and whoever bankrolled you tonight."
Conspiracy.
That one word shuts me up fast. Masters is right—Tommy can be charged with conspiracy and not just for tonight's acts. If the money Solandro gave me came from drugs or theft, those charges get rolled up, too.
If I don't cooperate, not only will Rose die, but Tommy could go to prison for decades.
Legs threatening to fold, I stop fighting. Masters keeps his grip firm as if I might be faking my capitulation. Knowing that I won't be free until he releases me, I can't hold back the angry, helpless tear that rolls down my cheek. Breaking left, it lands on my bottom lip. I suck it in. The salt bites my tongue and my bottom lip begins to quiver.
Only then does Masters release me.
The removal of his hand triggers more of my tears. He pulls the linen handkerchief from his front breast pocket. Using his big frame to block Tommy's view, Masters dabs at my cheek. The press of the fabric is soft against my skin and his knuckles gently graze my lips. The gesture is intimate, as if we’re long-time lovers instead of two people who are both strangers and natural enemies in his world.
Finished erasing the evidence of how helpless I've become, he steps aside.
"Key."
Masters holds his hand out to the guard while I remove Tommy's gag.
He gives me the key, only to take it back a second later because my hands are shaking too much. Bending to reach the cuffs, he stares Tommy down and unlocks them.
"I'm sure you want to help Rose as much as Marie does," Masters says to my brother.
Tommy looks at me, rubbing his wrists while ignoring both men.
I sink onto the couch. This close, I can see that there’s swelling around his eye and bruises on his arms. I shoot an accusing look at Masters.
"He needs ice."
Masters subtly gestures and the guard scurries across the room to return a minute later with crushed ice wrapped in a bar towel.
I touch the towel to Tommy's cheek. When he winces, my chest constricts painfully in response. It kills me that he’s hurt. He’s had to endure more than enough black eyes and bruises at the hands of our father to last him a lifetime. We both have.
Meeting his gaze, I silently try to communicate how sorry I am and that I’ll fix everything. The look in his eyes tell me it’s not my fault, but he’s twenty and doesn't know how wrong he is. I’ve let him and Rose down tonight. I got too soft to play the game. More importantly, I didn't keep better track of Rose and the people she hung around with. I could have done a dozen things to stop the relentless march to this point in time.
"Clock's ticking, Marie."
Head jerking up, I glare at Masters.
"I'm aware," I rumble.
More than aware, I’m over-the-fucking-top aware of how many seconds and minutes closer I am to failing Rose. Even so, I can't pull myself away fr
om Tommy. It's not right to pick favorites, but Tommy is mine. Rose was always a daddy's girl, untouched by Troy's fists or belt. Of course, she never said "no" to his cons, never judged him, and she forgave the bastard every last bruise he left on Tommy's flesh and mine.
Time has done little to change her. Even so, I want her safe—but I want Tommy safer.
Reaching up, my baby brother takes quiet command of the ice pack. "I'll be okay. Do what you have to."
Masters extends his hand, his gaze locked down and as cold as the ice pressed against my brother's cheek.
"Time for you to receive your instructions."
4
Luke
Leaving Marie's brother behind, I steer her back to my office, my hands on her hips.
"I'm not going to run," she growls, but there’s no real bite to the sound.
"It would be very stupid if you did," I say before softening my words. "And you're anything but stupid."
Hell, if her juicy body with its overflowing curves hadn't caught my attention, she might have walked out of the casino with no one on my staff the wiser. We would have written it off as a bad night for the table and adjusted the algorithms that average each table's take.
I keep walking her until the top of her thighs push against my desk. With her low-heeled sandals, she’s the perfect height for me to bend over the surface, pull her skirt up and her panties down, and take her.
With a rough growl, I back away then bark a command for her to sit.
I begin to grill her on the details of what her next steps were supposed to be. She tells me the meet location and deadline.
"I have to drop the money there," Marie explains.
She looks too damn honest. Worse than that, she's calmer than she has been since I grabbed her at the Black Jack table.
"Don't con me, Marie," I warn, my tone going cold in a heartbeat as I return to her side of the desk.
There are two visitor chairs, I take the empty one then jerk hers until she faces me. I get right up on her, force her thighs wide then wrap my hands around them up under the skirt.
