by Aleah Barley
Damn, she hated poker.
Time to make her move. She shoved a handful of chips toward the center of the table. “Ante up.”
Twelve hands later, the other players seemed to have relaxed. Daisy was the one who couldn’t think straight. She was second-guessing every move she made. None of it felt right. It was supposed to be pure mathematics—if she was playing against one of the poker machines out in the slot hall, it would have been pure mathematics—but every time one of the other players glanced her way, all she could think about was the way Ryan had talked about poker.
And bluffing.
And love.
If something was worth having, then it was worth taking a risk on.
For a few moments she’d thought Ryan might be someone she could end up with. She loved him, but she hadn’t been willing to risk everything on him when she’d had the chance.
Instead, she was stuck at this table, playing poker over and over again while—for the first time in her life—her calculator of a brain struggled to comprehend something more than pure mathematics.
Like the pot in the table right now. It was closing in on a million dollars—big enough to make most of the other players back out. The only players left in were Blethins, Daisy, and the man in the blue suit. They’d all made introductions. His name was Charles, but some of the other players called him Trick. He was a professional poker player—a shark—and his technique was everything Ryan had told her about.
It was sharp and angry.
It depended on his ability to look another player in the face and know—without a doubt—what they were holding.
It had nothing to do with math.
Maybe if Daisy had been more like that, maybe if she’d been less concerned with beating the odds, then Ryan might have shown up for the last game.
He might at least have said good-bye.
Her spine straightened. She sat up in her chair. She might not be a professional poker player, but she had two PhDs and most of a third. She was the smartest woman—no, smartest person—in the room by a long shot and she was funny to boot. She deserved to be loved.
Her grip tightened on the cards. She had a full house, twos and tens. It wasn’t chicken shit, but it wasn’t what she’d like. Not with so much money on the table.
Her breath was coming faster as she calculated the odds over and over again in her head. It was time to make the final ante. Time to figure out exactly where she stood.
The odds weren’t good. She didn’t need to bet high. She didn’t need the risk, but then—
There.
The professional’s gaze dropped slightly to the right, as if he wasn’t quite as confident in his cards as he’d been projecting all night.
Anything worth having was worth taking a risk for, and for once Daisy didn’t want to make the smart move. She wanted to take what she’d learned from Ryan and use it in real life.
“All in.” She shoved her tower of chips forward and all around her, the crowd murmuring in surprise.
The move was wild and reckless.
It was completely unexpected.
Daisy felt a rush of heat and excitement as adrenaline raced through her veins. This buzz, right here, was why people played poker. She’d never felt this kind of excitement before—ever.
She’d never had so much to lose.
Across the room from her, Bullet was leaning against the doorway, blinking in surprise. Up close Charles was beginning to sweat. The professional’s brow was furrowed. His hands shook ever so slightly as he pushed his cards away. “I’m out.”
Good. Her lips widened into a happy grin, and—
“I’ll see your bet,” Blethins said without even rechecking his cards.
Cocky bastard.
Daisy took a deep breath as the chips moved across the table.
Time to see if it had all been worthwhile.
Time to win.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eric Jones—he wasn’t admitting to any other last name—was a slick son of a bitch. His hotel room had been empty of any personal identification or indication of what he was doing in town. His cell phone was encrypted, and it had been blind luck that had led one of the agents searching his car to the hidden catch under the dash. The secret compartment he’d uncovered had been chock full of goodies—guns, ammo, and cash.
Fifty thousand dollars in unmarked twenties.
They’d processed Eric at the same time they were counting the money. It had taken hours. Then the interrogation started. Stephanie got the first crack at him. It was her city and the woman was damn good at her job.
It was nightfall before they let Ryan into the room. He’d spent most of the afternoon reading Daisy’s book and waiting his turn.
“Fucking hell,” Eric said when he saw Ryan. “I expected you earlier.”
“You thought I was dead,” Ryan corrected.
“Nah, I don’t miss what I aim for.” The shooter drank from the bottle of water someone had left for him. “And I don’t need the hassle that comes from killing a Fed.”
Ryan prickled at the thought that he owed his life to the other man’s careful shooting. “My partner’s in a wheelchair.”
“He’s still alive.”
The man was soft spoken. His accent was bland—maybe middle American, maybe something else—and his hands didn’t move when he talked. He took another sip of water, then screwed the cap on the bottle. “I thought I was seeing things when I caught sight of you at the Hendrix. I made damn sure you didn’t see me and I didn’t tell anyone where I was staying. How’d you find me, anyhow?”
“Video surveillance.” Ryan’s skin felt just a little too tight. How long had the other man been watching the poker tournament? And, more importantly, why? “Caught you paying for drinks the other day.”
“I used cash.”
“You flashed your room card for the camera. It had the Rollio’s logo on it.”
Eric shrugged. “I guess nobody’s perfect. I’ll just have to be more careful next time.”
“You think there’s going to be a next time?”
“I think the Feds are more interested in making sure Victor Morelli spends the rest of his life behind bars than prosecuting a man who didn’t kill two FBI agents.” Eric stretched out slightly in his seat. “I figure my lawyer will be able to work out some kind of plea deal.”
Ryan’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to hit something. Worse. Eric was probably right. That was the problem with bureaucracy.
Instead, he took a deep breath and concentrated on the task at hand. He’d been sent into the room in the hope he could rattle Eric’s cage and get the man to reveal something about his true identity. “You haven’t asked for a lawyer.”
“I wanted to talk to you first, agent.” The small man’s head cocked to the side. “Like I said, I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
“That’s what you were doing at the Hendrix.”
“I was there for a job.” Eric leaned forward slightly in the hard metal chair.
“Blethins,” Ryan said.
“Blethins was part of it. The man’s gotten a little big for his britches. Coming up with all sorts of cockamamie plans.” Eric’s expression soured. “The man thinks he’s untouchable because he has half a brain in his head.”
Ryan hated to agree with a hitman. He bit back a smile, maintaining his calm composure. “You’re the one who trashed his room.”
“I was trying to send the guy a message. Even if Blethins was as smart as he thinks he is, he’d still be an easy target.” Eric’s expression thinned out.
“There’s got to be more to it,” Ryan said, but his mind was scrambling. He leaned forward slightly. “If you were just in Las Vegas to send Blethins a message, then you’d have lit out the night of the party. You wouldn’t be ordering room service at the Rollio.”
“Give the man a cigar,” Eric said. “I was supposed to send Blethins a message and clean up his mess. It was supposed to be a simple job—a knife
in the back or a bullet in the temple—but that was before you showed up. Like I said, I don’t kill FBI agents or the people they care about.”
“Nice to know you have standards.”
“You should be fucking grateful.”
And there it was, the hint of a real accent. Boston Irish or just Irish? Either way, it would give Stephanie a place to start digging into this man’s true identity and all of his dirty secrets. Even if Eric managed to get his plea deal, he wouldn’t be able to go back to his old life.
“Because you didn’t shoot me a second time?” Ryan snorted. “Thanks.”
“Because I didn’t put a bullet between your girl’s eyes like I was asked.”
All the air seemed to leave the room. The world spun under Ryan’s feet and in that moment, he felt like he was about two feet tall. “Daisy—Daisy Adams was your target?”
“Got it in one.”
“Black hair, petite?”
“Smart girl and she looked damn good in that dress. I can tell why you’d be interested, agent.” Eric’s lips twisted up into a droll smile. “You think she’d like someone a little more compact? After this shit, I’ve earned a vacation. Maybe I’ll hit up California when you guys let me out.”
Ryan’s heart was beating too fast. In another couple of minutes, he was going to pass out. They’d send him to the hospital and he wouldn’t be able to go to Daisy when she needed him. Not that he’d ever really been there for Daisy.
Not when she’d been fourteen years old and cowering from her mother’s ex-boyfriend. Not when she’d walked into a Las Vegas casino with a fake ID. Not when she’d told him about the funny business at the Hendrix. Sure, he’d been determined to take the cheater into custody, but he hadn’t spent any time helping her investigate what was going on.
Hell, he hadn’t even been able to notice a damned mob hitter was stalking her.
Not this time.
He didn’t have time to ask Eric why anyone would want Daisy dead. He was already lunging for the door and calling for someone to take him back to the Hendrix. The final round of play had already started. That was where Daisy would be. And when he found her? He’d be damned if he’d ever let her go again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The door to the poker room was closed when Ryan arrived at the Hendrix. He rattled the latch once, twice, before slamming his fists against the solid wood. He’d kick the damn thing down if he had to. Hell, he had a gun in his pocket. He’d shoot the latch off.
His hand crashed against the door a second time—hard enough to make it shake—and the handle finally turned.
“So, you finally decided to show up.” Bullet said as he walked through the door, his steel-gray hair and broad shoulders blocking Ryan’s view of the rest of the room. “It’s a little late.”
Had something happened to Daisy? Had she even made it to the game? Or had she been shot down in the hallway by some villain who wasn’t quite as principled as the redheaded shooter from New York?
But Bullet’s expression was just unhappy—not homicidal.
“You realize that if you’d given notice, someone else could have taken your spot, right?” He poked Ryan in the shoulder with one gnarled finger. “It’s ten million dollars on the line. Not chump change. And since you’re not playing…” There was a sniff. “The room’s at maximum capacity. We don’t need any more spectators.”
“I’m an FBI agent, not a poker player. I don’t give a fuck about your tournament.” Ryan reached out and grabbed Bullet’s collar, yanking the older man in close. The guy might have been a real fighter back in the day—he might still be able to throw a devastating right hook now—but he didn’t have a team full of security agents at his back anymore.
And Ryan was armed.
“I’m going to find Daisy. Are you going to try and stop me?”
Bullet’s face held perfectly still for one long moment, and then the mask cracked. His mouth pursed. His eyes went wide. Worry twisted his expression. “What’s going on?”
“She’s in danger.”
Three little words and Bullet was stepping out of his way.
Ryan didn’t have time to call in the cavalry. He was too busy pressing through the crowd of fans who’d made it into the room before the doors were closed. Men and women in various degrees of undress were all turned toward the stage. Their gazes were all locked on the action taking place at the poker table.
There was a game going on.
All the moves had been made. A stack of poker chips was wobbling inelegantly in the middle of the table. Most of the players were out and only two remained—Daisy and Blethins.
Ryan’s heart seized in his chest. His stride lengthened. His elbows flew as he struggled forward.
And Daisy turned her cards over.
“A flush,” the dealer announced. “Very good, Miss Adams. You are to be congratulated.”
Blethins laughed. “Congratulations.” Then he turned over his own cards.
“Full house,” the dealer exclaimed. “Aces and eights. Very good, sir.” He leaned out and swept the chips in Blethins’s direction.
Daisy stood up slowly. Her slim body swayed. She looked distraught. Broken. She turned to the crowd without seeming to see them and walked off the stage.
By the time she made it to the ground, Ryan was waiting for her. “Daisy,” he called her name, but she didn’t turn in his direction. She was as intent on leaving the room as he’d been on getting inside. “Daisy.” He reached out to grab her arm, holding her in place. “What happened?”
She turned slowly, blinking twice as if she didn’t quite recognize him. “Ryan.” She sniffed. “You’re here? Why?”
“I was looking for you.” He paused awkwardly. “What happened?”
“Didn’t you see? I lost. I didn’t win the tournament. Hell, I wasn’t even in the running. I was the first person out.”
Fuck. “What are you talking about? How could you lose? What happened?”
“You,” she said. “You happened. You made me think there was more to poker than numbers. More than math… I took a risk and I lost.” Her breath was coming faster. “It shouldn’t matter. It…” Her lower lip wobbled. “Bullet put up my entry fee. I wasn’t going to keep the money, but…” For a moment, it looked like she was about to cry. “I wasn’t supposed to lose. I never lose.”
“At least you played.”
“At least I showed up.” Daisy sniffed again. “I didn’t run off when things got hard.”
Ryan probably deserved that. He probably deserved a hell of a lot worse. His grip tightened on her arm, drawing her to him. “I shouldn’t have left.”
“It’s your job.” Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I understand. You never promised me forever.”
And that was the worst part. He’d walked away without telling Daisy how he felt about her. Fuck, he loved her and he’d been ready to leave her. He was a moron. He took a deep breath, trying to control his spiraling emotions. “I thought it would be easier for you if I left. I just want you to be happy.”
“Right,” she said, her voice low and sarcastic. “Because you actually have feelings for me.”
“I love you—”
“Don’t say it!” She threw the words back in his face. “Not while you’re in the middle of a case. Don’t pretend we have a future together. Don’t lie.”
“You are my future.”
She snorted in disbelief. “Tell me sometime when we’re not under threat from the mob.”
“I’ll tell you every day,” Ryan swore. Forget about his case—someone else could find Morelli’s lost ten million and change—he just wanted to wrap Daisy up in his arms and convince her exactly how much he cared.
Someone slammed into her from behind, sending her body sprawling against his. Familiar warm curves melted against him for a moment and then went rigid as she straightened up and pulled away.
“You’re tall and handsome, a real American hero. You could be with anyone and I could
n’t even win a freaking poker game.” Her hands stilled for a long moment and she turned to look at him. “What are you doing here, Ryan? Really?”
“We were interviewing the shooter. He told us his target in Las Vegas. Someone at the poker game. You.” There were hundreds of people pressed into the big room, a writhing crowd, any one of whom could be coming to get Daisy. A knife in the back or a bullet to the head and the attacker could melt back into the chaos without a second thought. Hell, Ryan was standing right next to her, but with everything going on, he might not be able to figure out what happened until she collapsed into his arms.
“I need you somewhere safe,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Daisy ripped her arm away from him. She turned, heavy-hearted, back toward the stage at the center of the room. The next round of cards had already been dealt. After all, there were still three players left and a ten million dollar prize to get to. “I have to… I have to find the cheater. I have to figure out what’s going on. Even if you don’t think I can—”
“I know you can,” Ryan interrupted.
Daisy was a smart, capable woman. She’d worked behind the scenes at the Rollio for years. She’d written a genius book about poker statistics. Of course she could find the cheater.
“But it’s not important now. You’re in danger.”
Daisy’s entire face seemed to fold in on itself. “You don’t have to lie to me. Why would anyone want me dead?”
Her words from earlier were still echoing through his head. “I wasn’t supposed to lose.”
Daisy should never have been out this early.
She knew the math cold.
She could calculate odds with one hand tied behind her back and a naked conga line dancing through the room. She was a machine. She’d proven it over and over again all week long, playing poker with a cold competence that had left her opponents frozen in their tracks. Someone else might have called her run luck, but Ryan knew better.
She was just that good.
After all, she’d written the damn book.
“Fuck, you should have won the tournament.” Ryan grabbed Daisy by the arm and pulled her upright. “That’s why Morelli wanted you dead. He wants the money.”
