That might be arrogant. But it’s the truth.
I study the creamy skin on Colette’s nape. Her hair’s pulled back in a bun, tiny blonde hairs curling up beneath. She reaches back, as if she can feel my gaze on her flesh. Brushes her fingernails across her skin—
Colette turns and catches me staring at her.
Triumph flashes across her face and suddenly she looks…not ugly. But common. Even though I’ve only spent a few minutes with her in meetings over the past few months, I know who this woman is. What makes her tick. It’s no wonder I forgot ever having met her. I’ve been with countless women just like Colette Williams. They’re a dime a dozen.
She wants to fuck one of the richest men in America.
Fine. Doesn’t bother me.
We all have needs.
What bothers me is the lying. Because Colette will lie about her intentions. They all do. No one will just say it. Straight up.
I want to fuck you because you’re rich and famous.
I dig my fingernails into the metal edge of the desk beneath the long row of elevated security cameras, turn my shoulder toward Colette and look at the girl at the roulette table.
Summer Mason? Shit.
I almost hope she isn’t doing what everyone says she is.
This suspicion. This inability to trust anyone.
It’s the price of success. Of hard work and focus.
But it seems the more I have the less I trust.
Honesty, not cash, has become the most valuable commodity in my world. Knowing who to trust.
It can make the difference between life and death—
Colette presses her hip to mine, slips forward just enough so the outside edge of her ass presses against my inner groin. Fuck sakes. She’s not gunna give up her fish that easy—
I step away, nearly nauseated by the woman. She doesn’t deserve that reaction. But it’s tied up with a whole lot of other emotional junk. Like the fact I’ve never been with a woman who didn’t want to use me for my money.
Never.
Know how that feels? Like I need a shower.
I’ve devoted my entire adult life to my company. Put every scrap of energy I have into making Blue Line succeed. And not just for the money or power. Because I believe in what we’re doing. Renewable, sustainable energy. It might not be as sexy as a casino. But it means something.
Colette looses a frustrated burst, then flashes me a fiery glare.
Shit. Now she thinks I’m playing hard to get.
Truth is I’m not interested. Not in the slightest.
But if I tell her that outright I’m the one being the jerk.
“Do you know the man at the roulette table, Miss Williams?” My voice is distant and cool and totally professional as I echo my brother’s question.
Blake catches my tone, flicks a glance at Colette. Licks his lips.
I know what he’s thinking.
His little bro has taken a pass. Game on.
“I don’t recognize him. Can we get another angle?”
Blake motions at one of the security personnel. The screen splits into two, one angle from above, the other from the side.
“Oh, that’s impressive,” Colette murmurs. “Where are the head-level cameras?”
“In the statues,” Blake says, moving closer to Colette and grinning with pride. “Our geek little brother Cole designed the software. Facial recognition.” He taps a few keys. The camera narrows in on the man at the roulette table’s face. The software begins scanning through the FBI and Gaming Commission blacklists, then several other state, national and international databases—
“Wow,” Colette says, locking eyes with Blake. “That is impressive.”
“That’s nothing,” Blake says. “That’s just tech. Any idiot can set that up if you have the cash. Which I…uh…we…do. What really makes security here at Savannah’s special is our network.”
“Your brother’s software?”
Blake shakes his head, uses his empty glass to gesture at the screen. Ice tinkles into the quiet hum of computer servers. “No. You see those two grifters? They’re here because they heard that table was a honeypot. Someone put them on that table. I have people out there. In the Latino cartels and Mafia families. People on the inside. Feeding intel back to us—”
“Undercover?”
Blake nods. “Real fucking deep, babe.”
Colette inches toward him. Spurned by me, she’s hoping flirting with my brother will attract my attention.
She couldn’t be more wrong.
My older brother by two years, Blake spearheaded the casino project. With our father gone and our mother very unwell, Blake said the Stone Lion Pride needed a visible monument to our power.
I told him the minute an elite starts building monuments to themselves they’re dead in the water.
But Blake was fixated on the idea. Nearly obsessed.
Said we needed something to remind the other Wildblood lion prides of our stature. After years of roaming, living our lives separately, the Stone Lion Pride needed a home base.
“Rival packs and prides will pick us off if we’re scattered,” Blake said. “One by one. We need to get in front of this, Landon.”
He was right. As soon as word got out about our mother’s illness, Cole, our youngest pride member and physically weakest, was jumped in his condo’s underground parking lot by a group of nomad Wildbloods. Lions. Wolves. Coyotes. They nearly killed him. Probably would have, if Blake hadn’t come by and heard the screaming—
And the truth is, after a while, the idea of finally having a home base grew on me. I’ve always loved Vegas. The energy. The vision. The sheer, audacious impossibility of it all. A shrine to freedom and cash carved from the desert one casino chip and dead body at a time. Like our country’s first lunar mission, Vegas inspires me in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. Plus, there’s the red rock canyons only a few miles outside town, where a predator can still hunt deer and bighorn if the mood strikes him—
Blake’s a convincing guy. A real smooth talker.
Soon he had Rachael on board with the casino proposal. Rachel, the oldest of the five siblings in my family, is a corporate accountant. She oversees the books for Blue Line, and now the casino as well. After Rachel’s acceptance it was nothing to get Elliot, the second youngest and a hopeless drifter, to back the plan. That left only the youngest.
Cole the computer whiz.
Cole would leap off a bridge if I told him to.
But it was three against two. Blake took the proposal to our mother, then the Wildblood Council, the governing assembly that rules creatures like us.
Like I said. Blake can be very convincing.
“Okay we got him,” Darren the security guy says, pointing at the jockish dude sitting beside Summer. “Name’s Jay Durrel. Twenty-seven years old. Long list of priors. Mostly break and enter in his teens. A charge for armed robbery. Then nothing for the past six years. Went to college—”
“Could’ve cleaned up,” I say.
Darren, Colette, Blake—all give me a look like: yeah right.
“You think he got better at stealing,” I say to Colette.
“Maybe he got smarter. Or luckier. Until today.”
There’s a violent energy building in Blake as he stares at the screen and the roulette wheel winds down. Summer’s making an odd gesture. Tapping her palm with her index finger. That feeling of being drawn to her washes over me, and suddenly I regret everything. Agreeing to the casino proposal. The partnership with Blake. Even coming here to act as president. I should have stayed in Europe. Far away from this desperate, high-stakes madness. Because as the roulette wheel winds to a stop and an elegantly attired Russian woman leans over the table I’m struck by the feeling that Summer Alexa Mason is going to die—
CHAPTER THREE
SUMMER
“OH ZIS IS da most perfect betting time for me!” Maya cries, flinging a handful of chips on the roulette table. “Verrry excitement!”
<
br /> “Hey what the hell—” the paunchy middle-aged guy says.
The croupier looks horrified for a half-second, then stammers, “I’ve called the bets! You can’t add chips until all bets are—”
“I cannot? In Rrrussia we play verrry different—”
“This isn’t Russia, you mail-order slut—”
“Hey!” the croupier nearly yells, coming to Maya’s defense and now the pit boss is storming over, eyes lighting up suspiciously and I reach down and snatch my chips off the table—
“What are you doing?” the second guy, the guy I fucking forgot about, says in a way that sounds like he knows exactly what I’m doing, but I shake my head all panicked like and say in high-pitched squeal, “I thought I could take the bet back I thought because she threw her chips down too soon I thought the spin was forfeit or something—”
The croupier’s nearly in tears.
“I did not know I was not to be supposed to add ze chips,” Maya says indignantly, like she’s pissed at me for implying she’s in the wrong. “No one no tell me this zilly Amerrrican rules—”
“You can’t touch your chips, for Christ’s sake,” the paunchy guy says to me, standing and running his hands through his sweaty widow’s peak. “It’s against the rules—”
“What exactly is going on here?” the pit boss says, leaning over the table and looking at the mess of chips. “Sally?” the pit says, eyeing the croupier suspiciously. “What’s going on?”
Sally opens her mouth to speak. A little gurgle comes out.
Forgotten dude yells, “Russian floozy threw her chips in early and this one took hers—”
Great. Just my luck. A fucking good samaritan. A rat.
“How many chips did you take out?” says the pit boss, his flinty blue eyes meeting mine.
“Three reds, sir,” Jay says, extending his hand, all upstanding frat-boy eager to sort out an unfortunate misunderstanding. “That’s what? Fifteen dollars? She’s new it’s her first time she doesn’t—”
“I asked her,” the pit says.
“Three red chips?” I say, real meek and quiet. “I think it was three reds?”
“I no like zis table and the unfun of it, I will take my—”
“Don’t you touch those chips!” the pit yells at Maya, motioning at the camera in the ceiling.
This is an abort mission.
The words run through my mind in a weird robotic voice. The mind does strange shit under this much stress.
Signal: all players abort.
Cuz we’re fucked.
The cameras directly overhead will have recorded the brown five hundred dollar chip tucked under the two reds. The Savannah scam. Hide a high count chip under some low ones, and if you lose make a distraction, pocket the chips, play drunk or stupid and hand three low ones back when the croupier asks where your chips went. Do it until you hit and collect big on the hidden chip. A scam so ‘stupid it works’, said the scam’s inventor.
And he’s right. It works. Except when it doesn’t.
In two minutes the floor will be full of suit-wearing meatheads looking to impress the new owner—
“No one move,” the pit growls. “This table’s officially closed.”
The croupier’s hands are trembling so bad the pit snatches the rake from her and sets it on the spoiled table.
The pit boss is tucked at the far end of the table, ten feet away. Jay slides toward the forgotten man who opened his mouth. Good. He’s just the kind of self-righteous hero who’d try to snag a thief on the run.
Jay will take care of that—
Discreetly, I slip out of my platforms. Maya’s doing the same.
Damn, I’m gunna miss those shoes.
It was my intel that got us here. My score. So it’s my signal to make the dash. What, you thought this was fucking James Bond? Thought a helicopter was gunna burst through the glass ceiling to save us? Nope.
We’re gunna run.
Old-skool.
I reach up and drag the back of my hand across my forehead, like I’m wiping the sweat from my brow. Which I am.
A whole bunch of bad shit happens.
The casino’s fire alarm sounds.
Jay clocks the hero douchebag straight in the jaw, laying him out on the table. The pit boss roars. Maya, quick as hell, vanishes behind a row of golden statues and potted plants. I leap backward and whirl, racing for the nearest exit while the hard-working, good-living citizens of the world mill around with empty ‘what’s that sound?’ expressions and for a moment I wish the casino was on fire, wish it was crumbling around our heads, burying us alive in flaming death because fuck it I hate losing and I make it fifteen yards, well toward the exterior wall when I realize I’ve blanked on the casino floor plan—
The screaming behind me sounds like Jay and fucking shit fucking shit they got him he’s a lifer like me has a long-ass record a grifter they’ll break his hands for sure and at least he’s not on parole, that’s right I think as I leap over a fish pond, come up short, land in knee-deep water, scattering huge gold and white speckled koi that cost like three grand each, more than I’ve made in the past six months, and where the fuck is that exit…left or right?
Left. I hop out of the pond, barefoot, soaked, too focused to cry.
No, the exit’s right. Shit! This is what happens on a rush job. No time to get to know the layout. No time to practice an escape route—
It’s left. Has to be?
The casino patrons are beginning to panic. They’re running now too, which is good, because it’s becoming a pandemonium on the roulette floor of the most luxurious casino on earth. Everyone shoving and screaming, thinking there’s a fire. The overhead sprinklers hiss and turn on, soaking everyone. I hear more shouting behind me and a burly security dude in a gold trimmed suit—the standard uniform here at Savannah’s—races at me from the side, face all scowled up and ugly as he reaches out, snags his stumpy fingers into my blouse—
Crack!
The security tool collides head-first with a heavy-set guy in a cowboy hat. Luck be a fucking lady. I slip between the two groaning, dazed men, spot the unmarked exit corridor and leap into it while the alarm blares and the screaming continues. Only ten yards. Ten yards of brightly-lit corridor and I’m out and if I’m lucky Alfie will be there with the car—
Burst outside. Blink against the harsh, glowing streetlights.
I’m in the alley behind the casino. Gasping, shaking all over, my heart drumming in my throat.
No Alfie. No getaway car. Shit.
I take three steps and someone leaps out the door behind me, no time to look, only praying it’s Jay, but when a wicked strong hand clamps on my shoulder and forces me to my knees, skinning them badly, I know I’m well and truly fucked.
Shit. I didn’t even have time to appreciate being inside the biggest casino on earth. All I remember is bling bling bling—
“You’re mine, you thieving little ditchpig,” the guy holding me growls, and then something I’ve never felt before washes into me.
Terror.
The kind that can drive a person mad, because there’s a smell to this guy, a scent that feels so wrong, so…evil…all I can do is close my eyes and mumble an apology I might even mean.
***
Dude tosses me against the wall so hard my teeth knock together. For an instant the world goes black, and when I come to he’s holding me pinned.
“You know who I am?” the bastard snarls, his fists bunched into the fabric of my blouse, his face so close to mine I can’t really focus on him. All I can do is smell his boozy breath.
Then the anger hits, melting away that sense of panic and terror of moments before. Fuck this asshole. So he caught me. Good for him. Doesn’t give him the right—
“There’s a fire an alarm a fire I found the exit—” I stammer.
“Shut up, liar!” he screams. “Tell me who I am!”
I blink. Sirens in the distance. People on the Strip close by.
I need to stall.
Need to not be alone with this guy.
Okay. I’ve been in some tight spots before. Bet your ass. But the vibe I’m getting from this asshole…it’s weird. No. It’s creepy. Like he wants to hurt me. Even murder me. Like he’s trying real hard to remember why he can’t murder me, not now, not here in public—
He’s built tall and thin, with a pointed, almost weaselly nose and a porn mustache and thinning, slicked-back dirty-blonde hair that’s fallen out of place to gather in wild clumps around his ears. He’s wearing black jeans and a Hawaiian shirt and black leather cowboy boots. Dude’s sketchy enough to be a grifter, just like me. Judging by the twitchy black-gold eyes and the way he’s shaking I’d say he’s well into a three or four day bender. In fact I can see the white powder rimed around his nostrils.
Great. Most expensive security system in the world and Landon Stone hires cokeheads to work the floor.
“You’re a street,” I say.
The sirens are getting closer. C’mon c’mon—
Street’s slang for an undercover tool. A guy hired by the casino to pose as a customer and keep an eye out for scammers. Like me.
“Look again,” the guy growls.
Something in the gold-flecked eyes. And maybe the jawline? Too narrow, but it feels familiar.
My heart pounds against my ribs.
Without meaning to, I shake my head and whisper, “No.”
Dude’s eyes light up. He’s loving this. Torturing me. Feeding on my helplessness and fear. “Oh yeah, sweetheart. You know who I am.” His grip on my blouse shifts. He runs his right hand over my breast while his left wraps around my throat. “So say it. I want to know you know who I am.”
I nearly knee the fucker in the balls. But that creepiness coming off him? It’s a gut instinct screaming one thing: this guy is very bad news.
“You’re Blake Stone,” I say, real quiet.
“That’s right. Landon Stone’s older brother. Chief of fucking security at the esteemed and luxurious Savannah’s Casino as Vegas. And you’re Little Miss Nothing. Little Miss Dead and Gone—”
Blake pushes into me, his hand tightening around my throat. My eyes go wide and I try to scream because he’s strangling me, right here in the back alley while cops and firemen rush in the front entrance, the fucker’s murdering me and my breath seizes in my lungs and for a second I think I see something really awful—it must be the terror, the lights flashing behind my eyes—because for an instant Blake opens his mouth and his teeth are huge, dog or cougar fangs dropping lower than his lip and a deep, rumbling growl washes over me and even if he wasn’t strangling me I’d want to piss myself—
High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1) Page 3
