Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Tamara Morgan

  “You’re not in the way,” I say automatically, but we both know it’s a lie. I try to alleviate some of the sting with, “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we ask Jordan to sit with you so you don’t have to be alone? She was planning on watching today anyway, and it might be fun. You guys can talk chemistry and math together.”

  “She won’t mind?”

  I don’t say what I’m thinking—even if she does mind, she’s too nice to say so out loud. “Of course not. She’ll probably enjoy having you explain how card counting works. Next to you, she’s the smartest person I know.”

  A flush of color spreads across her cheeks. “I told you, I’m not smart. I don’t know anything about the real world.”

  Yes, well. A few years ago, neither did I. Since marrying Grant and plunging myself into this messy, complicated place where good meets bad, I’ve come to realize that I’m only as smart as the people who have my back. It just so happens that the people who have my back are pretty freaking brilliant.

  “The real world is overrated,” I say and grab the phone to ring up Jordan. “But the benefits of friends like mine are not.”

  * * *

  I can’t decide whether or not it’s a good thing that I don’t recognize any of the people at my table.

  The tournament is set up with seven tables, each of which has been assigned seven players. For the first few days, we’ll be playing in a process of elimination—each game will continue until there’s a single winner at every table, at which point the winners move on to the final game. That’s where the real competition will take place—assuming, of course, that the tiara is still around by that point.

  Not everyone has arrived by the time I find my table and settle in, but the four men sitting in surly silence on the other side of the green felt aren’t inspiring me with much excitement about the game ahead. I know we all paid a million dollars for this chance, but I thought it was supposed to be fun.

  “See the older guy in the visor sitting down next to Riker?” Hijack asks from my right. He’s not playing against me, but he’s using this opportunity to discreetly catch me up on the competition. I’m not sure how he knows so much about these people, but his insight comes in handy. I doubt even Grant has as much information at his fingertips.

  “Yeah, I see him. Who is it?”

  “That’s Two-Finger Tommy.”

  I recognize the name as one of the top contenders for stealing the tiara, which explains why Hijack is pointing him out. For him, this event is less about winning poker and more about beating everyone else to the Luxor.

  I swear, he seemed almost disappointed to see me and Lola arrive this morning with the tiara in tow. Did he honestly think it was going to be that easy to steal? Even if I was in the market to take it, the heist would have to be an intricately planned balance of getting the goods while simultaneously defraying all suspicion so as to avoid Peter Sanchez’s murderous vengeance. That’s not the kind of plan a girl can come up with on the fly.

  I mean, I could do it, but…

  “You’ll be interested to know that Two-Finger spent most of last night in the stateroom directly below yours,” Hijack goes on to say. “It belongs to one of the spectators—that guy in the windbreaker sitting on the far right of the stands. He goes by the name of Rainier. He’s not much to be afraid of, wanted for a few petty burglaries and drug possessions, but word is he’s willing to trade rooms to the highest bidder. My guess is Two-Finger wants to be that man.”

  “Geez. You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

  “One of us has to be on top of things,” Hijack replies. “You’re lucky he didn’t tunnel through the floor while you slept.”

  That’s a possibility? Oh, goody. This trip keeps getting better and better.

  “Where are you playing?” I ask, mostly to avoid having to spend any more time looking at Two-Finger’s craggy face, which seems to be growing more sinister by the minute.

  “I’m at table five.” Hijack jerks his head toward the middle of the room. “So far, no one of any note is playing against me, so I should take it easily. Your father will be at four, and your stepmother is surrounded by her admirers at one. They’re both considered the favorites to win at their tables, but that will come as no surprise to you. Um, let’s see…who else do we need to worry about?”

  We notice her at the same time, though Hijack is the first to speak. “Aha—Eden St. James,” he says, grinning at me. “Your new best friend.”

  I don’t like the way that sounds. I also don’t like the purposeful gait to Eden’s walk, which seems to be headed straight toward us.

  “Where is she playing?” I ask, my mouth dry. “Hijack, please tell me she’s not coming this way. Is she coming this way?”

  But it’s too late. She’s already here.

  “Hello, gentlemen.” Eden approaches the table with a nod for the four seated men and a smirk for me. Her voice carries the same clipped undertones I remember from the track yesterday, though I could swear it drops a whole octave when she adds, “And Penelope Blue. My, my. Isn’t this a delightful surprise?”

  “Delightful,” I echo and look to Hijack to see if he has anything to add to the conversation. I swear to all that is good and holy, if placing her at my table is somehow his doing…

  I can’t tell. There’s a look of calculation on his face as he appraises her, but that could just be admiration for the deeply plunging neckline of her pantsuit.

  The ten-minute warning bell sounds, informing us that it’s time to take our places or risk immediate disqualification. I consider it both a blessing and a curse—a blessing, because Hijack finally peels himself away to settle at his own table, and a curse, because I’m now stuck with Eden St. James for the next eight hours of my life.

  “How are your wounds?” she asks in a false show of concern as she sits in the chair directly to my right. “I hope they’re not going to get in the way of your poker playing. Abrasions can get nasty on their second day.”

  So can she, apparently.

  “I’m a lot tougher than I look, thanks.”

  “Well, you could hardly be less, could you?” she says with an evil smile. She proceeds to introduce herself to each of the men sitting at the rest of the table. There are five of them now, the last straggler just as blandly and ominously ferocious as the rest. I try to pay attention to their names, but I’m too busy noticing that everyone is in place and ready to start playing—with one notable and, to me, very important exception.

  When Grant finally arrives alongside Peter Sanchez and his requisite bodyguards, it’s with a mere two minutes to spare. The pair of them chat in an amiable and unconcerned way, knowing full well the game won’t get underway without them. In fact, Grant takes the time to stop by our table, beaming as though nothing could make him happier than to find Eden and me thrown together again.

  “Well, well, well,” he says. “It looks like this is the table where all the fun will be happening.”

  He stands directly behind the two of us, a hand on the back of either of our chairs. I twist to peer up at him, wondering if there’s a hidden meaning somewhere in there. I can’t see much from this position, but the scrape of late-night stubble across his jaw does catch my eye.

  I know that stubble. I love that stubble. I’m also aware that it means he’s not nearly as rested as he’d like everyone to believe.

  “A pity we can’t switch seats, or I’d ask one of these men to make the trade,” Eden says sweetly. “It would be fun going up against a man of your many…talents.”

  Wouldn’t it just?

  “Look on the bright side,” Grant replies easily, his gaze careful not to stray in my direction. “Maybe we’ll both come out victorious and meet at the winner’s table.”

  “One can hope,” she says with a purr.

  “You’ll have to do a lot more than hope,” I grumble. “Ther
e are six other people sitting at this table, every one of whom would like a chance at that tiara.”

  “Speaking of, where is the pièce de résistance?” Grant asks. It doesn’t take him long to spot Lola in the front row of the stands, chatting unconcernedly with Jordan. “Ah. I see you managed to keep both the jewels and the girl safe. You have my admiration.”

  Grant’s admiration is something I tend to value pretty highly in the general order of things, but right now, I’d like to stick it in places better left unmentioned. He doesn’t get to flirt with Eden and mock me at the same time. It’s one or the other.

  “How do you know I didn’t swap out the diamond for a fake while Lola slept last night?” I ask. “We could all be playing for a two-hundred-carat counterfeit, and no one would ever know.”

  That gets the table’s attention—and not in a good way. Six murderous glances rocket over the green felt, but Grant just laughs.

  “I was warned about you, Penelope Blue,” he says, reverting to the rhyming singsong of our courtship. “I was told you’re adept at twisting truth and reality, that you always toy with your victims before you go in for the kill. I see my sources are correct.”

  Please. His sources are biased against me, mostly because his sources are him. I only twist truth and reality where he’s concerned—and I do it because he does plenty of twisting on his own. A contortionist I might be, but that man knows how to wriggle out of a tight spot just fine.

  “All the more reason not to cross me,” I say. “You wouldn’t want to be next on my list of victims.”

  “I don’t know,” he says and leans down so close, his lips are touching my ear. His breath is warm and intimate, but despite the spike in temperature, I shiver. “I have the feeling that falling at your feet would bring far more pleasure than pain.”

  I don’t have a glib response for that one, not while my heart does somersaults in my throat and the rough scratch of his stubble abrades my jawline. As it turns out, I don’t need one, because the starting bell sounds, stopping him short. But not short enough—Eden must have overheard our exchange, because she watches with a queer light in her eyes as Grant takes his leave.

  “That’s my cue,” he says and lays another one of those killing smiles on us both. “The best of luck to you, ladies. Not that either one of you will need it.”

  I’m not so sure about that as our dealer takes his place and barks an order for us to ante, a no-nonsense expression settling on his brow. I’m even less sure when Eden crosses one long leg over the other and applies herself to her cards with an intensity that doesn’t bode well for my chances.

  And I have absolutely no confidence at all when Grant takes his seat at table five.

  Right across from Hijack.

  13

  The Game

  “That makes another win for Eden St. James,” the dealer says, grinning deeply as Eden rolls a blue chip—one of the expensive ones—across the felt as a tip. “The bell for last call just sounded, so get ready for your final ante of the day.”

  Six chips are tossed into the middle of the table with a soft clank. One of the men lost already—just a few hours in, actually. He was fine until Eden asked him if he planned to blink that rapidly every time he bluffed, because it was starting to get on her nerves. I’ve never seen anyone strive—and fail—so valiantly not to close his eyes. He and his dry eyeballs lost pretty soon after that.

  “Are you sure you want to bet that much?” Eden asks me as the game continues and I push a stack of my chips forward. “At this rate, you won’t have anything to play with tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure.” The pair of jacks winking up at me promise a change in my fortunes. “Even your winning streak eventually has to come to an end.”

  From the looks of it, I’m not alone among my friends and relatives in finding the first day of poker to be off to a discouraging start. Of everyone in the room, only my dad and Grant appear to be enjoying themselves—my father, because emotion of any kind is rarely allowed a chance to surface, and Grant, because I presume he’s baiting Hijack to within an inch of his life. At least, that’s the vibe I’m picking up from the way the pair of them keep facing off across their table.

  According to my tally at the last break, both Riker and Tara are also losing heavily, which means Team FBI isn’t doing so well overall—not good news. If each of us ends up getting kicked off our tables within the first few days, our access to Johnny Francis suspects is going to be severely restricted.

  Of all of us, though, poor Lola is in the worst position. Long since done trying to hold that tiara high, she’s curled up on the bleachers, her head in Jordan’s lap. Even though her father is seated just a few feet away, fully capable of lifting her burden, he hasn’t looked over at her even once.

  Peter, I need hardly mention, is playing just fine.

  “That’s another full house for me,” Eden says with a cluck of her tongue as she pulls the stacks of chips to her side of the table. “How far down does that make you for the day, Penelope? Three hundred thousand? Four?”

  Worse. By my last count, I’ve lost about half my money so far.

  “I was just lulling you into a false sense of security,” I say. “And planting fake tells so you think you know my every move. Did you notice them?”

  Her sharply narrowed eyes indicate that she took careful note of everything I said or did, though of course none of it was planted. I’m not so sophisticated a player as that.

  “Is this what Kit was talking about earlier?” she asks. “Are you toying with me by playing around with the truth?”

  Well, yes. It’s all I can do, especially since an honest win isn’t in the cards, so to speak. Eight hours spent in this woman’s company have shown me two things: one, that I actively dislike her; and two, that she has a much cooler head than I do. Not even a threat to hunt down and eat everyone she’s ever loved could cause her to misplay her cards.

  These people are kind of scary.

  “Kit O’Kelly is an incorrigible flirt who would say anything if he thought it would put him at the center of attention,” I say as I rise from the table. “I wouldn’t believe a word out of his mouth if I were you.”

  She stays seated, presumably to oversee the dealer counting out our money for tomorrow’s game. “I don’t. But then, I don’t believe a word out of yours, either. You two are up to something.”

  We two are up to a lot of things, but I’m not about to share them with this woman.

  “You think?” I say. “And here I thought he was just trying to get in my bed.”

  Her laughter is genuine. “That makes one of us. He certainly didn’t want in mine.”

  “Oh, really?” I try to keep the smugness out of my voice, but it’s difficult. My husband might be a manipulative, mule-headed idiot nine-tenths of the time, but he’s a manipulative, mule-headed, loyal one.

  “Yes, really,” she replies without looking at me. “I’ve never flirted so hard with a man as I did with Kit the night we prowled the ship together. He flirted back, but it was all superficial. No man has been less interested in me my entire life.”

  “Maybe he finds your personality off-putting. You can’t tell me that hasn’t happened to you before.”

  This time, her laugh is so loud, it takes me aback. “Why, Penelope Blue. I think you’re growing on me.”

  I’m immediately on alert. “I thought you said you were immune to being charmed.”

  “Yes, well. That was before I knew you were on such close terms with Lola Sanchez. You’re useful to me now.”

  My admiration for the woman moves up a notch, but so does my internal alarm. Between Hijack’s flattery, Eden’s sudden burst of attention, and all the fake rumors floating around this boat, I might be the most popular woman around, but I’m not so self-deluded as to think I’m the real focus. Right now, I’m the thief with the best access to that tia
ra, period. That’s all anyone cares about.

  “Being useful to you is, of course, at the top of my list of priorities,” I say dryly and leave it at that. As much as I’d like to keep pressing Eden for information, I have a few more days of her company to look forward to. My super stealthy and charming interrogations will have to wait. My main priority right now is getting Lola somewhere she can rest. The next priority after that is getting me somewhere I can.

  “How’d it go?” Jordan asks as I approach the bleachers. The sympathy in her drawn brows indicates she already knows the answer to that question.

  “Ugh,” I say. “I forgot how much I hate poker.”

  “I know. I could tell when you remembered. It was about fifteen minutes in.” Jordan casts a look over my shoulder. “Hey, Riker. Bad day at the tables?”

  Lola, who had been looking rather wilted until now, perks up the moment Riker appears. Although holding her neck up has to be killing her, a bright smile crosses her face, and she lifts her long-lashed eyes in Riker’s direction.

  “I thought you played wonderfully,” she says with a burst of enthusiasm. “Oh, I wouldn’t have played for that flush right before lunch, and I think you were a little too quick to get rid of that ten of spades for the chance at a straight, but I loved watching you. You hold the cards so well.”

  He stares at her. “I hold the cards well?”

  “Absolutely. You have such nice hands. I could watch you play all day.”

  Jordan and I are careful not to look at each other for fear of falling into hysterics. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Riker turn that shade of purple before.

  “But when you sit down tomorrow, you might want to try easing up on bluffing the eensiest bit,” Lola continues, heedless of the dangers. “Not that you aren’t good at it, of course—though you always toss your cards around when you’re trying to hide something. No, it’s just that bluffing won’t work against Two-Finger Tommy.”

  Riker’s ire simmers to a more controllable level. “Really? Why?”