by Christa Wick
"Start over," I command, my fingers denting her soft flesh.
Mouth quivering, she shakes her head. "I drop the money, he gives me more instructions. I don't know if I can see Rose tonight, I only know what happens if I don't show."
She’s still holding back. I detected her guilty tells for the cards, but not for the con, though it was clear she was better at the game over the deception. The tells aren’t always the same, typically since they’re linked to the motivation behind it. She may have stayed away from card games, particularly from casinos, but, for all I know, she hasn't stopped conning people since she escaped her old man’s hold on her.
Need makes people do all sorts of things.
My thumbs slide across the bottom panel of her panties. Finding her clit, I press down like I'm taking a pulse. Her entire body begins to shake.
"Stop lying to me, Queenie."
She blinks. Tears fall. I want to relent but I don't.
"I don't know if Rose is even alive," she confesses. "Or maybe she got out but she has no way to contact me because this guy she hooked up with took our phones and I had to get new numbers."
This is the truth, but I don't know if she's still holding something back. She won't even give me the captor's name, claims she doesn't know it.
As if she can read the question in my gaze, Marie shrugs.
"Do you have to believe everything I say?" she asks. "You have Tommy. I won't abandon him or let you send him to prison."
Her hands brush softly against mine, pushing them down her thighs so that I’m no longer touching her so intimately. I push back up, but only to brush my finger once against the outside of the gusset.
I want her to know what I know. Because, no matter how much my questions and the whole damn night have distressed her, my touch left her soaking wet. She can't hide it from me, and I won't pretend like I didn't notice.
"Fine," I say as her blue gaze lingers on the spot my fingers just abandoned. "Let's get you hooked up. I'll deal with your lies when you return."
5
Marie
An hour later, Solandro Ortiz has one meaty hand wrapped around my throat and is starting to squeeze.
"You ditched my guy."
I try to swallow, but he holds me too tightly. I force just enough air through my throat to reason with Ortiz. "You didn't tell me I had a tail."
His grip relaxes marginally. I inhale, the air rushing in so fast it makes me dizzy.
"You have my sister," I continue. "That's all you needed. Giving me a tail could have drawn attention in the casino."
I had, in fact, noticed the man following me and evaded him for just that reason. Wearing a brown wig and raincoat to the earlier meeting, I then detoured through a familiar restaurant and stashed my disguise behind a dumpster in the alley. I had intended to retrieve both before returning, but getting collared by Masters had left me with too little time.
Now, that little bit of subterfuge is all that stands between me and Solandro realizing I have a new boss.
Thinking about Masters and how he holds my future in his hands, my stomach and heart flip at the same time. I take another breath in and remind myself that I don't have the luxury of thinking about him. I have to focus on Solandro and convince the gang leader that I wasn't burned at the casino.
I lightly curl one hand around Solandro's wrist and the thick fingers still digging at my throat. "The money is in my purse."
He jerks the bag from my shoulder. Yanking me with him, he walks over to a folding table and dumps the contents onto it. Seeing my cellphone spill out, my stomach somersaults a few more times. I don't know how, but Masters is using the phone to track me in a way that didn't set off the scanner Solandro's goon checked my clothes and purse with when I first entered the warehouse.
"Nice." He thumbs through the money a second time and raises a brow at me. "Eight grand?"
"Seven-point-six."
He tosses the money at one of the three men he brought with him then returns his attention to my bag.
"Hand over the lenses."
I comply while Solandro takes my pocketbook from the pile. He checks through it for any additional money, leaving the ten dollar bill he finds. His fingers squeeze and prod the case for anything else that might be hidden. He repeats the act with my empty purse.
I do my best to look bored when Solandro grabs the cellphone. Just as he did during our last meeting, he scrolls through my address list then looks at my call history and for new text messages.
"When did you stop playing?"
I gave him the time Luke finally released me from the casino. "Two."
Sneering, he glares at me. "And all you got was seven G, five hundred of which I fronted you?"
"Seven-point-six." I shrug. "You told me to keep it low key. I lost hands I would have won."
He’s slow to accept my excuse. His gaze passes over me with a laboring scrutiny. Everything is noted—the blond hair, the smoky make-up, the georgette that has gone limp and clings to my body, the strappy gold sandals. He finishes with a swipe of his hand across his mouth then tosses the purse at me.
His fingers wave toward the table. "Take your shit and go. I'll call you when I'm ready again."
I slowly move to comply. A week has passed since he let me talk to Rose. I wasn't lying when I told Masters I wasn't sure if she was still alive.
"Can I see—"
"No." Walking away, Solandro stops and turns back. Pulling a switch blade from his pocket, he clicks it open and points the blade at me. "You miss my call—I slice Rose ass-to-mouth then find you and Tommy."
With a lift of my chin, I let him know I understand the threat and take it seriously. I sweep everything into my purse as I watch Solandro and his men exit the building. They turn the lights off, leaving me to grope my way through the dark and out onto an empty parking lot.
Emerging from the building, I want to immediately scan the area for Solandro or one of Masters' team. I force myself not to. Forbidding me to use my flashlight app, the inconvenient ploy with turning the lights off was Solandro's bid to buy himself a little extra time in leaving so I couldn't see which way he went or who he left behind to spy on me.
Anyway, I have Masters assurance that his team will make sure Solandro's crew doesn’t follow me. I’m to leave the rendezvous point and head for a restaurant ten blocks away. If no one from Masters' team approaches me there, I have instructions to head to another casino a few more blocks beyond the restaurant and wait until someone does approach me.
Instructions and assurances aside, old habits die hard. I take as circuitous a route as possible to the first meeting point, approaching the restaurant from the opposite direction.
At a few minutes before seven a.m., only staff and two other customers fill the crappy little diner. I pick a booth along the south wall, next to the drive. Beyond the drive, another building pushes up from the concrete, ensuring I only have to keep an eye on the street in front of the diner and the buildings beyond that.
Without my asking, the waitress tips a coffee cup over and starts pouring.
"You like it straight, right?"
I don't drink coffee, but I smile at her anyway. "Got me pegged."
As she pours, I note her name is Tina. She doesn't wear a wedding ring, she has rhinestones on her manicured nails and a run in her pantyhose. As I catalog Tina and her life, my stomach reminds me with a gurgle that I haven't eaten in sixteen hours.
"I'll take a slice of pumpkin pie," I say.
"Sure thing."
She throws me a wink designed to increase the size of her tip but the gesture is too devoid of sincerity to have any chance of working. She heads to the counter to collect my pie. Her skinny hips bounce left and right like she's playing pinball and has made it to the final round of the world championships.
Again, I’m not impressed.
Trying not to count how many Tina clones with their sashaying hips I can squeeze into my skirt, I scan the parking lot and street. I keep my ex
pression one of practiced indifference in case a member of Solandro's crew managed to tail me and because it’s never a good idea to let a waitress know you don't think much of her.
Tina slides a plate with a fat wedge of pie on it in front of me.
"Anything else, hon?"
"Thanks. That'll be it."
I push the lonely ten dollar bill Solandro didn't swipe from my purse at Tina then take a bite of the pie. Flavor spills across my mouth and I close my eyes. I run the flat of my tongue against my upper palate, the motion bringing out more of the ginger and nutmeg. When the cinnamon hits my taste buds, I’m reminded of Masters and the hungry complaints move south from my stomach.
Eating, I try to shake the idea of something else in my mouth and sliding down my throat. I fail, my mind returning to Masters with each bite and swallow. I have never had this problem before tonight—before Luke. Not only is there zero room or time in my life for romance, men don't approach me.
Why would they? I’m not Tina or even her slightly larger cousin. I wear thrift store clothes. Cosmetics are a luxury I cannot justify. I get my hair cut once every six months and only then because neither Tommy nor Rose is competent when it comes to hair and scissors.
In no way am I the kind of woman who gets attention from men. Masters, however, wants me to believe he desires me. So now I’m obsessing over him. I wonder how his facial hair, which I normally hate, would feel rubbing across my nipples or between my thighs as he takes my flesh into his mouth and sucks. The question instantly becomes a sensation. My skin flushes, my nipples pucker. I feel the warm crawl of moisture between my thighs. I’m as wet as I was those last few, deeply embarrassing minutes in his penthouse office.
Like a dirty dream I don't want to wake from, Luke Masters chooses that moment to walk through the door and slide into the booth behind me. The tailored silk suit is gone. In its place, he wears jeans, a dark t-shirt and a denim jacket. A lived-in ball cap covers his thick, dark curls, the brim pulled low to hide those warm brown eyes.
He’s only barely recognizable, but my infatuated heart has memorized the lines of his body.
Tina shimmies up to his booth and purrs like a cat in heat who has landed in a room full of tomcats. "What can I get you, handsome?"
Taking his order, she can't stay still. Her hip rubs against the side of the booth. Her shoulders squirm, lifting and pushing her breasts in a little dance just for Luke.
"Extra-large coffee to go." Amusement reflects in his voice and he moves a little closer to where she stands.
I watch their reflection in the plate glass window. She places her hand on his bicep and squeezes. I barely contain the hiss building behind my lips. Is she fucking serious—touching a complete stranger like that?
She gives another squeeze and her breasts lift again. "Big strong man like you needs more than coffee to start his day."
I snort, certain Tina intends something other than a plate full of bacon and eggs—unless the eggs are as over easy as she is. Ears straining for his reply, I swallow my last forkful of pie.
"How about I come back for lunch then, sexy?" he answers back with innuendo in spades.
Hearing his words, I feel the blood drain from my face. If I want proof that Masters faked the heat directed at me in his penthouse, it’s standing less than a foot from me, reeking of cheap perfume and stuffed into a navy blue skirt, size two.
Still, it’s the wake-up call I desperately need. Rule four only applies to conning cons, not fools. For Rose's sake and Tommy's, I cannot foolishly fawn over Masters.
"You do that, sugar!" Laughing, Tina walks back to the counter and grabs a super-sized Styrofoam cup and lid.
It’s cosmically unfair that I’m sitting here wondering how I'm going to save my sister and stay out of jail while Tina is scheduling a hook-up with Masters. Even if he has no intention of returning, his approval of Tina with her tiny little body vibrated through his voice when he talked to her. I watch her work and a small, vindictive part of my soul I would rather not acknowledge hopes she spills a little of the hot liquid on herself.
"You're not listening, Marie."
Masters has said something that I did not hear. Blood rushes back to my face, heating the skin enough to break a sweat. "What?"
"Green Honda Civic out back," he repeats. There’s no teasing lilt in his voice for me like he’d had just now for Tina, just irritation at my inattentive lapse. "Passenger seat. If the driver isn't there in ten minutes, go to the next location."
Tina returns with his coffee, but she doesn’t hand it over immediately. She holds it like bait and flirts with him. Right in front of me.
I get up and leave. As I walk down the drive in search of the green Honda, I see them together one last time. She leans down, whispering something in his ear as her breasts brush against his shoulder. His hand is on her hip and his eyes are on her breasts. She stops talking and slides a slip of paper across the table. It’s the perfect size for a phone number. He pockets it with one hand as the other squeezes Tina's flesh and she smiles.
All I can think are three little words.
Fuck my life.
6
Luke
Climbing into the passenger seat of the work van, I shove the coffee in the cupholder and reach for the tube of sanitizer to erase whatever traces of her DNA and nasty perfume Tina deposited on me. From the driver seat, Mikhael cuts an annoyed side glance. I allow it, and the warning that follows, because he's saved my life at least as many times as I've saved his.
"We don't need this kind of trouble," he rumbles. "Either Marie is playing you or she’s getting played by her sister. Maybe both. These are Troy Lafayette's kids—and Marie was his meal ticket."
Looking at surveillance on my tablet, I only half listen to Mikhael until he mentions Troy Lafayette.
"Ah…" I poke. "Is this THE Mikhael Nazarov suggesting we should judge people by their parents?"
A long, rumbling growl that might have words mixed in leaves him. We’ve spent enough time on extended operations to know one another's history. Mine includes an abusive drunk father.
Mikhael's is the stuff nightmares are made of. But that's what happens when you grow up in the Russian Mafia.
"Lucky us," I say, tone dripping sarcasm as I flash the tablet's screen at him. The display shows a regional gang leader from Los Angeles named Solandro Ortiz. Among the five men—four in the building and one posted as look out—he’s the most senior.
Mikhael shrugs. I swipe left to reveal a much older male, his face memorable for its network of scars and the missing right eye.
"This is his boss."
I don't have to tell Mikhael who he’s looking at. The man's face has been in the news for the better part of three years. He tops the most wanted list in four countries and the bounty on his head exceeds five million from the U.S. government alone.
More than just a lucrative casino business, the Gladiator is a front for my other holdings, holdings that have surveillance teams and ground vehicles, not to mention two planes and a helicopter at my beck and call.
"We nab Ortiz, use him to get to Machado. That's not only a nice chunk of change, but it will bring contracts for even more money to take down more bad guys."
"That's not why you're doing this."
The accusation rolls off me. Sure, I want Marie. But Machado is his own motivation.
"You're just jealous I saw her first," I say as the little green Honda leaves the lot.
Mikhael rolls his eyes, but they stop before he can complete the gesture. They stop because I’m right and he's never been very good at lying to me. We both like the same kind of women. Flush with curves, nice round ass and thighs. Flesh I can dig my fingers into for purchase when I fuck her senseless. The only difference, as far as I can tell, is that Mikhael only looks. He never touches.
"She's not even a real blonde," he says, pulling onto the street and taking a position two cars back from the Honda.
He isn't talking about a hair color pr
eference for women, I don't have one. The reference is to the photo that sits on my desk to remind me of my one failure after I started my security company.
Pushing the past aside, I tap at the list of things Ortiz alone is wanted for.
"This is a chance to do some good instead of siphoning money from the pockets of adrenaline junkies who don't know shit about gambling. This guy is wanted for trafficking, not just drugs but people. Extortion. Kidnapping…"
"Someone else will step up to fill the void if we take him down," Mikhael argues. "Things will get bloody as his little soldiers make their power plays to be top dog in whatever crummy patch of ground he controls. I've seen it my whole life over, it never ends. You know this."
I shrug, looking at the picture of Ortiz but thinking about Marie.
"You're right," I say. "But that doesn't mean I can ignore it."
7
Marie
Three minutes after I close the passenger door on the Civic, the man who delivered Tommy bruised and bound to the penthouse eases into the driver's seat. We wait a few more minutes then, driving in both silence and circles, he returns me to the casino. In the underground garage, we enter an access-card-only area then an elevator. No buttons mark the floors we pass, but I sense we’re descending even further below street level.
That downward perception may just be my mood or echoes of the spiral my life is in since Rose's abduction. Certainly the area revealed when the elevator doors part looks nothing like the bowels of a casino. Instead, I’m greeted by a labyrinth of shiny computers and office chairs intended for prolonged use.
My escort navigates me through the maze of desks and cubicles, his attention seemingly focused on a narrow door at the opposite side of the sprawling space. Not trusting me to follow behind him, he makes me walk in front and steers me with the press of a finger against my shoulders, switching between them when he wants me to change directions.
