by Kresley Cole
My mom and dad were freaking symbiotic. If anything happened to him, I’d lose both parents.
Our only other option was to rabbit. The problem with that? We had dozens of people at Sunday dinner. Would everyone in our extended family go into hiding? What if someone wanted to remain?
To the grave. “You’re right. When the Russian calls tomorrow, I’ll do what I need to do.”
CHAPTER 9
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As I skulked in platform high-heeled boots and a party dress through the dark, I could have sworn I was being watched.
I narrowed my eyes and surveyed the murky brush around our prop house, a.k.a. the badger den. I strained to hear, but A2B continued to wheeze and rattle long after I’d turned off the ignition.
For months, I’d been feeling paranoid like this. Probably because I was jinxed.
Dmitri hadn’t called today, had written me only one cold line of text.
DSevastyan: I will contact you tomorrow.
My sixth busted mark.
At the back door, I glanced over my shoulder again, unable to shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Maybe one of the cartel’s henchmen was following me until we paid.
Surely it couldn’t be Brett. . . .
I slipped inside and headed toward the camera room. Recording equipment crowded the small area. Benji was already here, manning a desk with a mic and several monitors. The screens played streams from video cameras all around the exterior—and interior—of the house, but I didn’t spot anyone outside.
Benji swiveled around in his chair. “I thought you were meeting us later.” Like me, he was dressed up to go out afterward. His stovepipe pants and fitted jacket accentuated his tall frame. He’d shaved his lean face.
“Got stir-crazy.” I couldn’t stand my lonely apartment any longer.
Earlier, Pete had texted me not to come in, that the VIP lounge was dead.
Vice: I can still take a shift.
P3X: We’ll celebrate tonight and let off steam. Tomorrow huge group of Canadian high rollers.
Trying not to appear desperate for news on Dmitri, I’d asked about Nigel.
P3X: He checked out.
Seriously?? Vice: Dmitri? How could a one-word text be so pathetic?
P3X: No one’s come down from the penthouse. Not a peep from them. But I know he’ll call you.
Vice: Two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it.
I dropped my false-bottomed purse on the couch, then plopped down beside it. I would’ve gone biking in Red Rock Canyon today to burn off some energy, but A2B might not have made it back, and I’d worried about spotty telephone reception. Not that I’d needed to.
One sentence, Dmitri? After he’d spanked me so much I still felt it? I didn’t know if I should be pissed or worried, so I’d settled on pissed.
Benji said, “Well, you’re just in time. Karin’s ten minutes out.”
Like clockwork. In less than an hour, I’d be on a dance floor. Vegas was the capital of electronic dance music; even our local club had EDM Saturdays. After so much work, I craved one wild night out—and I’d dressed accordingly.
I pulled my Bee deck of playing cards from my purse, then mindlessly cut and shuffled for comfort, warming up with basics. Pinky cut, false cut, double cut, the false riffle shuffle.
“Bad day?” My brother knew me all too well.
“It was fine.” It was shit. Though I should’ve caught up on sleep, I kept replaying what the Russian had done to me.
When I’d pictured the look in Dmitri’s smoldering eyes—and the glint of his piercing—I’d gotten so horny I’d had to take the edge off. Repeatedly.
Then I’d broken down and looked up Vika. It was a Russian diminutive of Victoria, an endearment. I’d sighed like a sap.
Yet all that had been before I’d known he wouldn’t call me the entire day. I flashed cards from my right palm to my left, lifting a king of hearts.
Benji asked, “You never heard from him?”
Everyone in the family now knew I’d fooled around with the richest mark we could ever imagine—but hadn’t set my claws. Why had I even expected him to call? Talk about reaching for the stars! I’d reached for a different galaxy!
Roughly eighteen hundred male billionaires existed in the world. Only one out of every four million people was that rich.
My suggestion that we cut him loose now embarrassed me. “He texted that one time.” I gave Benji a breezy nod that would convince anyone but a fellow grifter. “He’ll call tomorrow.” Long cons had taught me to be patient. I drew on that inner well.
“Hey, that’s a big mark for anyone.”
The unspoken words hung in the air: But especially for you, Vice. With my six busted cons. Everyone was so focused on my recent failures, they seemed to have forgotten my years of success.
I’d had such a great start, and all the support I could ever need.
My mom loved to tell our friends: “I remember when Vice pulled her first card hustle at four.” Her voice would grow thick with emotion. “Her hands were so tiny, she could barely palm-deal. And don’t get me started on her first three-card monte.”
In a monte, the dealer would shuffle around three cards, two black and a queen of hearts, using misdirection to obscure the queen. Dealers of montes were called broad tossers because of the queen card.
Mom had home movies of me hustling tourists, lisping, “Can you keep your eyeth on the queen, thsir?”
Benji whirled back around toward the desk. “Here comes the congressman’s limo.”
The Midwestern lawmaker was a married father of four—who’d told Karin he was a childless movie producer from California, a widower since his wife had passed away in a “fiery car crash.” So Karin had told him she was a divorced, childless waitress and aspiring actress.
Benji tossed me his phone. “Check out the texts he sent right before he met up with Karin.” Benji had cloned the congressman’s phone while Karin had distracted the man.
If we’d gotten a clone of Dmitri’s phone, maybe I would have a better understanding of what was going on up in that penthouse villa.
I scanned the politician’s exchange from an hour ago as he’d played up his day of meetings and told his (strangely alive) wife, Sheila, that he was about to pass out for the night and he’d call in the morning. The woman had responded that he was working too hard and that she and the kids couldn’t love him more. Then, his cherry-on-top text: There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my family.
I wanted to vomit.
As Karin and her “date” laughingly strolled up the walk, Benji murmured into the mic, “Earpiece check. Check.”
Behind the mark’s back, she gave a thumbs-up sign.
Benji said, “Get me a sound bite about his ‘dead’ wife, luv, and I’ll buy drinks all night.”
Another secret thumbs-up.
I’d seen Karin do this dozens of times. She was so sexy and skilled, she never even had to touch a bare dick. After her customary striptease, she’d tell the mark to lie back in bed and show her how badly he wanted her. He’d sprawl and grip his junk, then she’d kneel over it. Taking her time, seeming about to slide down, she’d say smutty things while the guy gawked with utter desperation on his face.
Boo-yah. Money shot. Oftentimes, from one angle, it’d look like he was inside her.
As soon as Benji had collected enough evidence to hold up in a potential divorce, he would go bang on the door, acting like a murderous ex-husband. On cue, Karin would hurry the mark out the back door.
Damn it, I could do this—if I could ever lure a guy back here. Did I want to kiss a man I knew was a lowlife? No. But that didn’t matter. . . .
As Karin poured a round of drinks, beginning to tighten the noose, I stowed my cards and pulled out my phone, hoping I’d missed a text chime.
Nope.
My unread e-mail number blinked. I found offers from my former design scho
ol, a downloadable “hot fireman” calendar from Gram, and a seamstress forum newsletter.
I knew I’d get another message from Brett tomorrow. Initially, his fight to win me back had consisted of long, remorseful voice messages, with him swearing he wouldn’t have gone all the way with that bombshell.
Then he’d started a weekly e-mail campaign, recounting some memory from our history. He’d written every Sunday without fail for several months.
Last week’s:
On our second date, you tangled with Jack Daniels and Jack won. I held back your hair as you got sick. You told me to leave you and go back to the party. I realized I’d rather hang out with you over a toilet than be around anyone else. The next day you made me feel like a hero and gave me a helluva thank-you.
I’ll always love you, B
Regardless of his betrayal, I felt guilty that he couldn’t move on. I mean, yeah, we’d been about to join our lives together forever and all, but a year had passed. Maybe my persistent singlehood spurred his hopes.
“Whoa,” Benji said. “You sew that up for her?”
I glanced at the monitor. Karin was already on the striptease portion of tonight’s program?
She wore my newest lingerie creation, a system of red bands that resembled a merry widow. “Yep.” I’d designed it to be nearly impossible for a guy to rip off. To undo each snap would be like a puzzle for a patient man—or a tease for a honey trap.
She’d had her son, Cash, six months ago, but Karin had bounced back with a vengeance. The only lasting effect from her pregnancy: her boobs were now bigger than mine.
At the sight of her in lingerie, tension stole through Benji’s shoulders and his respiration accelerated—even though he’d never want me to note those signs. Alas, some reactions couldn’t be masked. “Don’t bother trying to hide it. Grifter here, remember?” Details were my job.
Without looking away, he said, “You’re an annoying kid sister, you know that?”
“I’m not technically your sister, which means Karin isn’t either.”
“Which means your parents aren’t my parents. And I quite like our parents.”
They were babysitting Cash tonight. “Mom and Dad could be in-law parents. Or you could just be family with no labels.” Like Russian Al, our favorite fence.
“I’ve got enough weird stuff going on in my head. Falling for Karin is the last thing I need to do.”
When he’d first come to live with us, he’d had horrific nightmares, screaming in the middle of the night. I’d started sneaking into his room to sleep on the floor, standing guard against whatever kept scaring him. I’d been too young to realize I couldn’t protect him from his own memories.
He’d gotten so much better, but yeah, I could see why he’d be gun-shy.
“Here we go,” Benji said. “She’s getting him to talk. . . .”
Some highlights from the congressman’s audio reel:
—“I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Not even Sheila, God rest her soul.” (BINGO!)
—“My late wife was the only one I’ve ever been with.” (Except for the escort orgy last night.)
—“I’ve had a vasectomy. We can skip the condom.” (Sheila would not appreciate this, Congressman.)
And people wondered why I thought men sucked? Even Karin seemed to be losing patience.
Once she had the mark naked in bed, holding his needle dick, Benji murmured into the mic, “Not much longer now.”
She slinked over in heels to straddle the guy, starting her dirty talk, a script she’d tweaked and polished over the years. You can’t improve on a classic.
Benji directed her. “Move a little to your left. A bit more. Almost got it—there. That shot is worth at least a million. And the video will show his hands shaking. Would you like to see your ‘irate ex-husband’ now?”
Another thumbs-up.
Benji rose and winked at me. “Showtime.”
CHAPTER 10
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Music thumped, laser lights pierced the dimly lit club, and scantily clad twentysomethings ground their crotches all around me on the dance floor.
My head was spinning, my body moving to the house tunes.
I loved showing off my tiny black dress. I’d designed the micro-length sheath with a zipper down the front for easy access. The material had hidden writing—“go hard” translated into a half a dozen different languages—that glowed under the black light. My platform high-heeled boots stretched up to the middle of my thighs. I wore glam eye makeup, spike earrings, and a neon choker some random guy had given me.
My hair was free and wild, my good-girl disguise long gone.
I’d had Jell-O shots for dinner—who said they weren’t a food group?—and a vat’s worth of rum and Cokes. Apparently, I was hammered. I’d asked Karin in all seriousness, “If we’re honey traps doing badger games, are we really honey badgers?”
For now, my dance partner was a brown-haired Dane with nice muscles and a Rolex on his beefy wrist.
I already had two other watches in my purse, lifted from a pair of guys who’d negged me, earning their punishment.
I rubbed my nape again. I kept getting that sense of being watched. Maybe a grifter had me in his sights. Ha!
Pete was nearby laughing and dancing with some hunk. Karin sat with Benji in one of the VIP booths. They looped arms and did shots. Toasting the next president?
When we’d first arrived at this club, we’d passed a bachelorette party. Karin had glanced at me to see how I was taking it.
A year ago, she’d thrown me one at the Caly; a week later, I’d walked in on Brett.
Tonight, I’d wanted to shake that bride-to-be, telling her, “Never give a man a wedding ring unless you can be certain he won’t ever take it off.” Spoiler alert: eventually most will.
Really, Brett had saved me the heartache of a divorce.
When my mind turned to heartache, I immediately thought of Dmitri Sevastyan. The guy who couldn’t be bothered to make a single phone call today.
Maybe he had another date. At the thought, jealousy churned inside me. Was I more jealous of Dmitri with some imaginary woman than I’d been with Brett and the real-live showgirl in my own bed?
The answer to that question made me uneasy, so I danced closer to the Dane. He grinned, thinking I was in the bank.
Why shouldn’t I sleep with him? Then again, why should I?
He’s not my key. . . .
I ran my hand over my nape. Damn it, again I felt like I was being watched watched. I peered around the club—
Lost my breath.
Dmitri Sevastyan stood beside the dance floor, his eyes riveted to me. He was dressed to perfection in black slacks and a crisp, blue button-down, but he looked agitated.
How had he found me here? What did he want? He raked his gaze over me, seeming dazed by my appearance. Had he expected the angel from last night?
’Cause she’s gone, baby, gone.
As my hips swayed, Dmitri’s breaths shallowed. Maybe I should show him what he could have gotten if he’d deigned to call me.
I turned to face him, making my moves sensual, as if I danced only for him. Dane took the hint and skulked off with a curse.
In my nearly indecent dress, I raised my hands to play with my hair, then I glided my palms down my front as I worked my hips. My boots had been made for moves like this.
Dmitri’s fists were clenched, his eyes glazed with lust. His cock was hard, and he made no attempt to disguise that fact. He looked like he might grab me and rail me against a speaker.
My nipples stiffened. Wondering if my eyes were begging for it, I moistened my lips.
He must’ve reached his limit. He strode onto the dance floor and grasped my forearm. “Come with me.” He had to yell over the music. “We’re leaving.” As he ushered me through the crowd, people stopped and stared at him, but he seemed oblivious to their attention.
He faced me, lips drawn back from his teeth. “Were you going to fuck that man?”
“Are you a jealous kind of guy, baby?” The absolute best type of mark for a milk-cow con. Of course, he’d never admit it.
“With you? Yes! I wanted to kill him!”
Oh boy. Had Dmitri meant that . . . literally? “Yet you didn’t contact me today?” Could I revive this con?
His eyes darted. “I need to talk to you.”
We couldn’t continue this conversation over the music, but I wasn’t prepared to leave with him yet. “I know a place. Head toward the back.” Taking my hand, he walked in that direction, stopping at what looked like a solid black wall.
“Here.” I ducked behind a dark drape into the club’s secret area.
He followed, drawing up short. “What is this place?”
“The Carousel. It used to be a speakeasy.” Carnival decorations from bygone fairs lined the walls. Strings of lights cascaded over ceramic horses from one of the first steam-powered carousels. Drums that still smelled of greasepaint were stacked in the corner. Bright banners and an acrobat’s net hung from the ceiling. “Now only locals know about it.”
The management opened it for friends’ parties, so I’d been here several times. I found the place magical. On slow nights, people hooked up back here since there were no cameras.
“And it’s simply . . . here.” He surveyed the area, murmuring, “I need help with things like this.”
“Like what?”
His gaze held mine. “I need curtains drawn back. I need to be shown things I never would see on my own.”
His strange words—plus my cocktails—equaled zero comprehension for me. “How did you find me?”
“This club is popular with Calydon staff.”
I scooted into a booth. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
He slid around the table to sit beside me. “I am struggling to . . .” He closed his mouth. Another try: “I want to . . .” His eyes were fierce with some pent-up emotion, but he also looked frustrated, like he was trying to read my mood and knew he was failing. “Are you angered with me?”
