by Aleah Barley
It wasn’t just Daisy he’d helped, either. He’d gotten her sister a job at the Rollio. Lily may be a showgirl like their mother, but she’d worked at the same place for nine years, making her way up through the ranks. She had a career because of Bullet.
Lily was alive because of Bullet.
There was no way Daisy could let him down now.
She forced herself to take a deep breath. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”
“Yes, please.”
She rolled her eyes at Casanova. “Tit for tat. I ask a question, you answer. You ask a question, I answer. Sound fair?”
“I ask the first question.” Ryan leaned forward and his shirt clung to that muscular chest. Downstairs, the smell of recycled air had been overpowering, but up here? She could almost catch the faint whiff of soap and heat and something entirely too masculine. “Were you just watching me play cards earlier? Or, are you looking for something?”
“That’s two questions,” Daisy corrected. But they were almost the same thing. “I’m looking for something. Bullet’s been having some problems with the poker tables. The house’s take has been low the last six months and he doesn’t want anything messing with the tournament. His job is on the line. The owner wants this tournament—gave extra money to top the pot off at a cool ten mil—and everything has to go off without a hitch.”
Ryan nodded, like he believed her. “You got a plan for finding—”
“My turn.” She wanted to dig right in and ask him what the FBI was doing at the Hendrix, but they were playing tit for tat. He’d started with a small question. She could show him the same courtesy. “Is your name really Ryan Wilson?”
“Ryan DiNatto,” he said. “I try to keep the same first name no matter the investigation—makes things easier when you’re trying to remember who you are—but sometimes I end up as Brian or Rayland. The last name’s less important.”
So, this wasn’t a one-time thing. Ryan was undercover full-time. It sounded lonely. Daisy relaxed slightly into her chair. “Your question.”
“You got a plan for finding out what’s wrong with the poker tables?”
“I’m watching the dealers,” Daisy said. “The players change. The dealers stay the same. This tournament uses the Hendrix’s regular dealers, so if any of them are crooked, they’ll probably be up to something here.”
“You sound like you’ve got some experience with that sort of thing.”
“There was a dealer at the Rollio—Marty Simmons—who dealt from the bottom of the deck. It took us a while to figure out what he was up to. The man had great hands, but the numbers don’t lie. If there’s something weird going on, I’ll figure it out.”
“And if it’s not the dealer? If someone messed with the electronic shufflers? Or something like that?”
“That your next question?” Daisy asked.
The FBI agent shrugged.
Her turn.
She was done playing nice. “Why does the FBI have an undercover agent at a poker tournament?”
Ryan’s lips squeezed together in a thin line. “Try again.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t talk about the details of an ongoing investigation.”
Un-freaking-believable. She wanted to smack him in the face, but—knowing Ryan—he’d probably like it. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Then what the hell are we doing here?”
“That your question?”
“No.” She tried again, thinking hard. “Are you investigating the casino or any of its employees?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Bullet,” she asked, forcing the name out between clenched teeth. “Are you investigating Bullet?”
Ryan leaned back slightly. His head cocked to the side. For a moment it looked like he was going to refuse to answer her question—again—but then he shook his head. “Not at this time.”
It was a small concession, but some of the tension in Daisy’s body eased for the first time since he’d said “FBI” earlier in the day. Whatever Ryan’s investigation was about, it didn’t have anything to do with Bullet or her. Of course, he could still screw everything up with a few well-placed words.
Then there was the concussion.
Ryan didn’t look particularly interested in pressing charges at the moment, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be back as soon as his investigation was over. Assaulting a law enforcement officer was serious business.
And what if something happened to Ryan?
The man may be a major pain in her patootie, but she’d hate to see him hurt. Really hurt, not just glazed and smiling. Her heart beat double time, slamming against her chest. “You should have gone to the hospital earlier.”
Ryan leaned forward, so close she could feel the heat off his body. He reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Worried about me?”
“Is that your question?”
“Yeah.” The grip on her shoulder tightened, drawing her in close. “I kind of think it is.”
“I’d hate for anyone to get hurt,” she said, picking her words carefully. “I don’t want Bullet in trouble.”
“Are you worried about me?” Ryan repeated, his voice a gentle growl.
“Yeah.” And why was that so hard to admit? She’d worry about anyone in the same condition.
Not true, said a tiny voice inside her. Anyone else, she would have sent to the hospital—under armed guard if necessary—but there was something about Ryan…
Under his playful attitude and macho FBI agent persona, there was a strong man who Daisy wanted to get to know better, wanted to take care of.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “It’s no big deal.”
His brow creased, like he didn’t believe her, but then he leaned forward and kissed her. His mouth grazed her lips as his hand curved around her neck, tilting her head to exactly the right angle. He came off the couch, kneeling down in front of her to bring them closer together. The kiss in the bathroom had been hurried and heated. It had exploded in her mouth and driven her out of control.
This was something else.
Something almost sweet.
Then Ryan pulled away. “That was a mistake.”
Chapter Five
Ryan really needed to stop kissing Daisy. The woman was cute, spunky, and pushed all his buttons in a way he couldn’t quite understand. She was also a complication he didn’t need. Not when the Bureau was already breathing down his neck about maintaining professional standards.
He stood up and turned away, focusing on the lights outside the hotel room window. It was closing in on nine o’clock, but the sun still gleamed over the desert and heat waves curled off the nearest buildings. Inside, the air conditioning kept things nice and cold.
Not cold enough, he thought, smiling ruefully as he adjusted his blue jeans.
He needed to think.
Casino management thought something was wrong at their card tables, but instead of pulling in a specialist or calling the police, they’d brought in a college professor. A genius, if her story about Harvard at sixteen and two PhDs was anywhere near true. The woman was completely out of Ryan’s league.
Even if she had moaned like a schoolgirl when he kissed her.
They were playing tit for tat. Technically it was Daisy’s turn, but there was still one question he needed to know the answer to. “If you found someone cheating at the tables—”
“When I find them,” Daisy said. Why was she so confident?
“When you find them, what would you do with them?”
“I wouldn’t do anything. Bullet would.”
And that was the crux of the issue. Ryan’s hands squeezed tight into fists. Las Vegas was a desert town built on blood and fury. Back in the day, a manager who found someone cheating in his casino would have taken the perpetrator into a back room and given the person a fiendish beating. Things had changed. These days, there were numerous legal avenues a man could take, but somehow, he got the impression that Bu
llet didn’t care about “legal.”
The man was old-school.
Ryan rubbed his stomach, biting back an oath when his hand touched a fresh bruise. “What would Bullet do?”
There was a long pause, as if Daisy hadn’t considered the question before. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Ryan turned, glaring at her in disbelief. “Want to feel the bruise on the back of my head?”
Daisy looked small, sitting on the hotel chair. She pulled her legs in tight against her chest. “He just—he thought—”
“He saw me grab you and figured I was the bad guy,” Ryan said. “I didn’t say he was wrong. Nor did I say I wouldn’t do the exact same thing if I saw someone lay hands on a friend of mine.” And what kind of friends were they, anyway? “I’m just saying that’s not the action of a guy who practices non-violence. He was asking for his baseball bat.”
“It’s a limited edition Louisville Slugger,” Daisy said. “I gave it to him for Christmas a few years back.”
“And he was just going to show off his present?”
“Probably not.” Her grip tightened on her legs.
“What would he do if he found someone messing with the poker game?” Ryan demanded. “Invite them in for tea and crumpets?”
“Donuts—” Her fair skin colored. Daisy’s tongue darted out to moisten her lips and Ryan knew, absolutely knew, in every fiber of his being. Here was the lie. “I don’t know what he’d do. It doesn’t change anything. I’ve still got to find the guy.”
It changed everything. Because Ryan may be the kind of useless son-of-a-bitch who got his partner shot, but he couldn’t ignore possible criminal action going on beneath his nose. If Bullet gave the guy a beating—or worse—then Ryan would have to arrest him.
And then he’d probably have to arrest himself because if he saw tears in Daisy’s eyes, there was no telling what he might do.
He really needed to stop kissing the woman.
“You find your cheater and you bring him to me,” Ryan said. “Not Bullet. Understand?”
“Because card cheats are under federal jurisdiction?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll have the FBI so far up the casino’s ass, it’ll make Bullet wish it was a tax audit.”
Her eyes went wide. Daisy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re bluffing.”
Probably. It would take a lot of juice to get that kind of reaction from the Bureau and at the moment, Ryan was coming up dry. She didn’t need to know that, though. “Sometimes you have to go all in to get what you want.”
“Okay.” Daisy’s voice was small. “Fine. Whatever you want.”
Ryan felt like a bully. It was definitely not what he wanted, but he was running out of options. “You notice anything suspicious, you bring it to me.”
“Fine.” And then her hands curled into fists, as if she was thinking of fighting back. That was his bunny. “You don’t have to be a jackass about it.”
“Yeah, I do.” Because if he wasn’t being a jackass, then he’d be reaching for her to finish what they’d started a few minutes earlier, running his hands over her warm body, feeling her curves, making her call out his name over and over again.
The room suddenly felt small. The hotel bed seemed way too close. Hot air buffeted Ryan from every side. He needed to get out of there. He needed to think. “We’ve both got a big day in the morning, and I need a shower.” A cold shower to calm his fiery libido. “You planning to go out tonight?”
“Not really,” she said, and there was no lie in her voice, just bitter resignation.
“Good.” At least if she was tucked away safely in her room, she wouldn’t be consorting with mobsters or flirting with strange men in her pajamas. “I’ll be right next door. Working. If you need food, you call room service and check the peephole before answering. If you want to go out, knock on my door. Understand?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He walked to his room and slammed his door, not caring what a certain curvy neighbor might think.
He wanted a smoke, but he’d tossed out his last pack of cigarettes in college. No sense going back now.
He needed a drink, but he still had work to do.
So he called down to room service and ordered a steak. Two hours later, the food was gone. The paperwork was done. And he couldn’t stop staring at the wall between room 811 and 813. Daisy was over there. All he needed to do was walk next door.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and dialed Jack.
“Fuck,” his ex-partner answered. “You know it’s after midnight, right?”
“I’m on the left coast.”
“California?”
“Nevada.”
“Damn,” Jack said. “That’s not the coast. It’s the desert. What are you doing there?”
“Undercover.”
“Right.” There was a long pause. Jack yawned. “Want to tell me about it?”
“Not particularly.” Ryan flopped back onto the hotel bed. His room wasn’t quite as nice as Daisy’s—he didn’t have her pull with the staff. Instead of a king-size bed and a sitting area, it had two doubles. The floor’s air conditioning unit cut off the view.
He kicked off his shoes. “I met a woman.”
“Finally. How long has it been? Six months?”
“Since the shooting.”
“That’s almost a year.” There was a long pause. “Is it Stephanie? I met her at a conference a few years back. I know she’s your type but—dude—she’s on her fifth husband.”
“Not Stephanie.” Ryan frowned. “You think she’s my type?”
“Tough as nails? Legs for days?” Jack laughed. “Yeah, she’s your type. I’m surprised you haven’t proposed to her yet. You being the marrying type and all.”
“Maybe.” Ryan considered it for a long moment, then shuddered. Definitely not. These days, he was definitely interested in something a little more compact. “Can you run a background check for me?”
“Sure thing.” There was a long pause. “You got a name?”
“Daisy Adams.” He could hear Jack typing in the distance. “Are you looking her up in the database?”
“Google.” There was a pause. “Cute little college professor?”
Ryan bit back a laugh. “Sounds about right.”
“Hell. Have you seen her CV?”
“Not really.”
“This chick went to Harvard.” There was a pause. “And UCLA. You meet her playing poker?”
Poker. Ryan frowned. He reached for his computer and Googled Daisy. There were a bunch of different articles and her CV. He clicked over. It was six pages long. She really was a genius.
And there on top of the list of publications was a book: “Ante Up: A Statistical Analysis of Casino Poker.”
No wonder she thought she could play.
He searched for the title on Amazon. It was available as an ebook for $12.99. That seemed pricy for a digital file, but at least some of the money would go to Daisy.
He bought the book.
Something to keep him entertained at night.
“You seriously met this woman?” Jack asked. “And you like her?”
“Something like that.” Ryan shook his head. He shouldn’t have said anything. This was just a case. Of course, he’d already gotten Jack out of bed. He may as well talk to the guy. “How are you doing, Jack?”
“Fine.” Ryan’s ex-partner was ten years older than he was. Tall and lanky, he’d always been the brain to Ryan’s brawn, but he’d also been capable of holding his own.
Right until he’d been shot in the spine by one of Morelli’s men.
“You getting around okay?”
“Fine,” Jack repeated.
“Linda and the kids doing okay?”
“Linda got moved to the night shift.” There was a long pause. “She’s talking about having another kid—she always wanted three—but money’s tight these days. We’re trying to build up a cushion.”
/> Another kid. They’d been talking about it before the accident. But now? Ryan hadn’t even known it was possible. Jack couldn’t walk, but the rest of the equipment had to be working if they were still considering it.
“That’s great,” Ryan said.
“Don’t get too excited.”
“Yeah, well, let me know if you need any help around the house…or with Linda.”
“Fuck off.” Jack laughed, then he hung up.
What were best friends for?
Chapter Six
Daisy leaned back in her seat to get a better view of the tournament. At least this morning she’d remembered to make coffee in her room. The Styrofoam cup wouldn’t last for long, but it was better than nothing. Now, if she could just find a waitress.
“Morning.” Ryan slid into the seat beside her. “I knocked on your door—thought we could walk down together.”
“Yeah, no thanks.” She’d left fifteen minutes early. She may know the sexy FBI agent’s secret—they might even have come to some kind of truce—but she wasn’t his sidekick. She wasn’t about to make things easy for him. She sipped her coffee and watched the people moving around the poker room.
Men. Women. Old. Young. Most of them looked refreshed. Some looked anxious. A few of the players just looked hungover.
She turned to glance at Ryan, trying to gauge his comfort level.
Mr. Sexy Agent Dude was dressed in tight blue jeans, a combed cotton T-shirt, and a smile that sent a burst of energy shooting down her spine. How the hell did he do that? Was it some kind of secret voodoo mystery sauce?
Probably not. She really should have paid more attention in biology.
“You change your mind? You going to tell me why the FBI’s interested in a poker tournament?” she asked.
“Jesus, Daisy—” He glanced around, checking to see if anyone had heard them. “No. I’m not.”
“I can be helpful.” She was smart and capable. She probably knew more about the mathematics of poker than anyone else in the room. If the FBI was going to investigate something at the tournament, then the least she could do was help. It was her civic duty.
She’d thought about it a lot the night before while she’d been eating room-service tortellini and trying not to think about Ryan on the other side of the wall.
