Royal Shark (The Rourkes, Book 6)

by Kylie Gilmore

  Sara Travers. A chill runs down my spine. How odd. Neither of us have heard from Sara since her parents died when she was thirteen. She didn’t want to keep in touch when we were teens, and never returned our calls, emails, or texts. Silvia said it was because the two of us were reminders of Villroy, which was where Sara had happy summers with her parents, whom she’d never have again. It was rejection by association. The last time I saw Sara was at her parents’ funeral.

  I’ve thought about her, though, hoping she was doing well. Truth? I tried to connect with her as an adult, too, tracking her down through social media, but she never reciprocated. I finally accepted that she didn’t want the connection. Still, some part of me never let her go.

  Her birthday is August tenth—the day before the casino opened—and she turned twenty-five. That means we’re both twenty-five, the age we vowed to marry. We made a pact. One of those silly things children do. We also vowed to play poker all night, every night as a married couple, unable to imagine anything more exciting a married couple could do. Ha! We may have only been twelve, but it felt intense at the time. She was my first kiss and it was perfect.

  A pang of jealousy shoots through me. Sara got in touch with Silvia and not me? Sara adored me. She said I was her hero.

  I press the button to return the call. “Hey, Sil, how’re you doing?”

  “Great! How’s the casino business going?” She’s a chirpy early bird to my night owl, which used to make for some tense mornings when we were kids as she chirped away to my irritated grunts.

  “Casino business is going. What’s this about Sara? How did you get in touch? Did she contact you, or the other way around?” I grimace, hoping I don’t sound jealous that Sara didn’t get in touch with me too.

  “I did a little digging and found her in Brooklyn. I just got to remembering all those good times we had together as kids, and then she just went away. I thought she’d be willing to see me since I’m practically a native New Yorker like her now.”

  I refrain from commenting. Silvia has only lived in New York for a few months, and her accent is still clearly from here. I’m told we speak a proper-sounding English with a slight French lilt. Villroy is just southwest of France, and many of the islanders are bilingual since Villroy was taken over by the British and then by the French before the rightful family, the Rourkes, took back control a couple of centuries ago.

  I lean back in my seat. “So you called her and went out for drinks. What did she say that has you worried?”

  “Actually, I just showed up on her doorstep. I wasn’t sure if she’d try to avoid me. Luckily, she was home, and I guess she’s in a better place now because she was happy to see me.”

  I should see her too. “What has you worried?”

  “She said she’s making good money now running a poker game in Brooklyn. She says it’s legal. She just makes a lot in tips. Then I started thinking if she’s making a lot in tips, then the pot must be really high. Who’s attracted to a poker game like that? Really wealthy people, powerful people. Do you think it’s Wall Street types or—”

  “Organized crime.”

  “Exactly. I just kept picturing this poker game with high stakes, and then there’s Sara running it alone, handling the money alone. Am I being paranoid?”

  I consider this. Would Sara admit if there was any danger to what she was doing? I’m not sure. As kids, she loved a bet, loved a challenge, loved poker. This would be a natural fit for her. The only way to find out is to see the game in action and meet the players. No way am I sending Silvia into that situation. First, because it could be dangerous, and second, because she’s not much of a poker player.

  Cards on the table? I can’t miss this chance to finally connect with Sara again. If she’s open to seeing Silvia, she’ll be open to seeing me. We’re equal reminders of Villroy. Maybe she’s moved past the grief tied to that reminder of her parents.

  “Give me her address,” I say.

  “Are you coming for a visit? Yay! Bonus for me.”

  I find myself smiling. I just saw Silvia last month for the grand opening of the casino. “As if that wasn’t your plan all along.”

  She laughs. “Yes, that was my nefarious plan. Play on your weakness for her.”

  “It wasn’t a weakness. I liked her same as you.”

  Her voice is soft. “Sometimes I think it was harder on you than me when she cut us off.”

  I don’t respond. It was tough, and obviously I never let her go, but that’s the kind of thing Silvia would jump all over with her romantic sentimental ideals. For all I know, Sara and I won’t even be compatible as adults, other than a shared love of poker. I don’t have expectations. I just need to know that she’s okay. And I’m curious about a person who was a big part of my childhood. Nothing romantic going on in the least.

  “Okay, enough mushy talk from you,” Silvia says in a teasing voice. “So you’re going to check out her game?”

  “Worth a look. I can’t get away for long. I’ll fly out on Monday since we’re closed here on Mondays.” Our private jet makes travel easy.

  “The boss man.”

  “Not all glitz and glamour. My assistant cowers from me, and the staff can’t get over my title to be straight with me.”

  “It’s your voice. It comes out like a gruff growl when you’re irritated. Personally, I find gruff, growly men endearing.” She speaks away from the phone. “Yes, I mean you, love, and also my twin and my cousins.” There’s a kissy noise. Cade looks like a mountain man—six feet six, dirty blond hair left loose to his shoulders, with a full beard. He works for an outdoor recreation retail and services company as a financial analyst. He’s gruff and outdoorsy. The near opposite of my sweet bookworm sister.

  She gets back to me. “Cade overheard. Anyway, some people find that type of voice a wee bit intimidating. Add in the prince thing for locals who’ve only known you from afar and you’ve got uneasy staff.”

  “Nothing I can do about being a prince, and I can’t help my voice when I’m irritated.”

  “Try to put some sweet into it like me.”

  “I’m sweet as pie,” I growl, and she laughs.

  “Make Emma take your place when you’re gone,” Silvia says. That’s our older sister and investor in the casino. “She has a stake in it and should take more interest.”

  “I’ll run it by her.” I pause. “What’s she like?” I mean Sara.

  “She’s the same but different. There’s a hard toughness to her that she didn’t used to have, but when she smiles, it’s like old times. And Chloe is no longer the wild child. Sara says she’s a very serious student. She just started at Columbia and plans to graduate in three years so she can go straight to Harvard Medical School. She wants to be a medical researcher and find a cure for cancer.”

  “Wow. That’s…great.” But concerning to hear the complete turnaround in Chloe’s personality. She was never serious as a kid. Of course, the last time I saw her, she was only five. I never would’ve thought she’d be a serious student and a doctor. It seems there’s a lot I don’t know about Sara and her sister.

  “I know, it’s a little weird considering what a terror she was. I plan to visit her too. Okay, got to go. Text me when you get in town. Love you!”

  “Love you too.” I hang up and sit there for a moment, my mind replaying memories of Sara as a kid, teasing, playful, laughing. That summer when I rescued her and kissed her and made a solemn vow.

  If Sara needs a hero, then, good news, I’m on my way. And if she doesn’t, I have a good excuse—we’re twenty-five, and we had a pact.

  Chapter Three

  Sara

  I ring the bell of a Park Slope brownstone and tell myself to stay cool and confident. This is the hard part of my job. The morning after the poker game, I have to collect the debts from the losers before I can distribute the money to the winners. Sergei lost big last night. It’s a balancing act with wealthy, powerful men. They don’t want to lose face, don’t want to be see
n as the loser. I have to keep it light and fun.

  A moment later, his housekeeper, Ms. Davies, a woman in her sixties with a short bob of gray hair, ushers me in. “Hello, Sara, he’s in his office.”

  “Hello, Ms. Davies, and thank you.”

  I’ve been here before with his winnings, but never for such a big loss. I glance around. What am I worried about? He can afford it. Sergei lives alone in this prestigious historic neighborhood in a six-thousand-foot town house. It’s a mansion, really. These places go for millions. Just look at this carved wood staircase original to the home, more than one hundred years old. That alone is probably worth more than my apartment. My heels click across herringbone parquet floors as I pass French doors leading into an elegant parlor.

  I’m in a black and white striped short-sleeved blouse with a black pencil skirt and black pumps, going for the professional look. This is business. I turn to the open door of his office. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound books stretch the length of the wall on either side of the fireplace and above it. The room is well lit by two large windows on the far side of the room.

  Sergei’s back is to me as he stares at a photo on the fireplace mantel. He’s a tall wiry man in his thirties with dark brown hair in a buzz cut that accentuates his sharp cheekbones.

  Light and fun. “Morning, Sergei. Looks like a gorgeous day out.”

  He turns to me and smiles, his dark brown eyes glittering with shrewd intelligence. “Always good to see you, Sara, though I wish it were under better circumstances this morning.” He has a slight Russian accent, which he’s been working to lose with a private dialect coach. I know this because he asked me if I could detect his accent when we first met. Um, yeah, sure can.

  I cross to him, and he gives me a once-over as I walk, taking in my outfit, lingering on my calves. My legs are bare. Guess he’s a leg man.

  I smile brightly. “I’m sure you’ll be winning again in the very next game. You’re the best player.” One of the best.

  “Let’s talk,” he says, indicating a pair of wooden chairs with blue cushioned seats in front of the fireplace. Not good. I don’t want to talk. I want the money he owes me.

  I take a seat and cross my legs. “What would you like to talk about?”

  He angles his chair so he’s facing me. “We haven’t had much time just the two of us.”

  I paste on a smile. He’s interested in me. No, thanks. “True, but I’m here now. I know it’s not fun, but I do have a lot more stops to make, so if you could just give me what I came for, I’d be most appreciative.”

  His voice turns husky. “You’re a beautiful woman. Have I ever told you that?”

  “Thank you,” I say evenly. “I appreciate that. I need to go; others are expecting me. I could accept a check if that’s easier.”

  His dark eyes are soft, his voice low. “Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

  I look down and away, playing flattered. “Sergei, that’s such a nice invitation.” I meet his eyes, wait a beat as if I’m considering it, and then say in a regretful tone, “I need to decline. I don’t date players. It would make the others suspicious if they thought I favored one player over another. I like to keep the game professional for all concerned.”

  This is true, but it’s not just because he’s a player and this is business for me. I don’t do relationships, period. My sister is the only real tie I will keep until the day I die. I’d rather be alone than go through the pain of losing someone again. I don’t need a therapist to tell me why. It is what it is. Most people are a bad bet anyway.

  He leans his elbows on his knees, bringing his face down to my level, uncomfortably close. “No one would have to know. I wouldn’t tell. You could keep a little secret, no?”

  I push my chair back and stand. “I’m afraid not. I would like to keep our friendship as is.”

  He slowly stands and closes the distance, a predatory stealth to his movements. My heart pounds. I consider my options—knee in the balls, turn and run, scream. Wait. I have pepper spray in my purse.

  He’s so close I can feel his breath on my face. He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Such a pretty little thing.”

  I swallow hard, my hand sliding to the zipper of my purse. “I heard Vic Sobol has been asking about our game. He’s that—”

  He stills. “I know who he is. He runs that hedge fund. You can get him?”

  “I’m meeting with him later. I can get him from curious to itching to play. Definitely.” This is a total bluff. I’ve been putting out feelers for Vic and haven’t heard back. I’ll worry about that later.

  His eyes narrow. “You play us all, don’t you?”

  My hand dives into my purse, frantically searching for the pepper spray. “My job is to run a fair game with the best players. Like you.” I’ve got it, my finger on the nozzle. I debate whipping out the pepper spray. If I do it prematurely, I’ve cut this player forever. He was one of the first players in my game when it was only five men, and he’s brought some great players with him. We’ve got ten men now with loads to gamble. They may all take his side, leaving me without a decent game. “You understand this is my job, right? Run the game; keep everyone even. I’m putting my little sister through college. I’m all she has. We’re orphans.” I ignore the sharp jab of pain over my parents and remain focused on the task at hand.

  He turns to his desk across the room, and I nearly collapse with relief, releasing my hold on the pepper spray. I watch as he pulls open a drawer and produces a checkbook.

  “I lost my mother young,” he says as he writes out a check. He hands it to me. “Your sister is lucky to have you.”

  I take the check, glance at the amount to be sure he didn’t stiff me, and tuck it into my purse. “Thank you. I’ll see you Tuesday night with the new fish.” Fish means a bad player, which is a lot of fun for skilled players like him to play with. I’m implying the hedge fund guy will be bad at poker, though we both know he’s not. Keeping it light and fun.

  He shakes his head. “That would be ideal. Not likely that Vic will be a fish.”

  I back toward the door. “I value our friendship greatly, Sergei. And I’m a bad bet anyway. I don’t do relationships.”

  He smirks. “Who said anything about a relationship?”

  I shake my finger at him. “I don’t do that with my players either. Have a good day!”

  And then I’m gone, walking at a brisk pace out of what I’m calling a successful collection visit. Only four more to go. Then I get to do the fun part, bringing the money to the winners. Everyone loves those visits. I’m like Robin Hood, except I take from the rich and make the rich richer. Maybe I’m more like a fairy godmother. All I know is I fucking love this job.

  By the time I get home to my studio apartment in a not-so-nice neighborhood of Brooklyn, far from the Park Slope richies, I’m flying high. All of my players are paid, everyone’s eager for Tuesday, and the world is a golden place. I toss my purse on my dark green futon and go to the galley kitchen, pulling the safe from the oven. My favorite pastime, counting my money. It’s not like I’m Miss Greedy. I really am putting my sister through college and hopefully medical school too. Our parents died in an accident when I was thirteen. My chest aches, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I remind myself to breathe normally as the memory washes over me. Breathe in, breathe out. Panic attacks do not control me anymore.

  They’d gone out for a date night, walking to a restaurant not far from our Manhattan apartment. They were trying to work things out after many heated arguments over my dad wanting to quit his job in favor of starting a new business as a consultant. A drunk truck driver veered off the road and plowed into them on the sidewalk. I like to think they were trying to make peace and not fighting in their last moments.

  I grew up overnight. Wrenched from my secure idyllic life into the harsh reality that I was alone in the world. Of course, I had Chloe. She was only six, a baby, and I stepped up to be the mom she missed out on. We mo
ved to Brooklyn to live with our uncle Rob in a two-bedroom apartment in a nice neighborhood. It wasn’t too bad. He was a nice guy, but flaky. I became the adult in that household, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of Chloe. She went from a wild child to mute overnight. It took three months to get her speaking again, and she never did go back to her energetic carefree self. She became serious and withdrawn, even with counseling. Who could blame her? It was a dark time.

  When I was sixteen, Uncle Rob lost his job and moved to Nashville to make it big with his new girlfriend, leaving us behind. Then I really was the adult in charge. He sent some money for the rent, and I covered the rest working as a waitress. I thought he’d come to his senses, but he never returned. Chloe and I took stock and decided we needed a cheaper apartment, this tiny place, and our best bet was to live extremely frugally until I was eighteen and could get a higher-paying job. Finally, I graduated high school and got a job as an office manager, working there days and waitressing at night. Chloe worked her ass off at school, deciding college would be her springboard to a better life. But then she found she really liked school. She was good at it. Now her aspirations are both for financial security and to make a difference in the world. I’m so proud of her.

  As for me, I’ve been a player in local poker games for years before it dawned on me I could make a lot more by running my own game. Ever since I got this game going this summer, all of my money worries vanished. I quit both my jobs and I paid Chloe’s first tuition bill in August. It’s looking fantastic for the January bill. I don’t want her to leave college in deep debt, especially knowing the cost of medical school. Last night I pulled in fifty thousand in tips. The pot keeps getting higher and higher with the players I’m attracting—wealthy Russians—and I make sure everyone leaves the game feeling like they’re the king. Maybe Chloe won’t have to work so hard to finish college in three years. I want her to enjoy her time in college, not rush through it. Though she swears she’s not doing undergrad in three years for financial reasons. She claims she just can’t wait to get to medical school. Knowing Chloe, it’s probably both. Now that she’s eighteen, she has some perspective on what I did for her, trying to be the mom she missed out on, and wants to give back to me. Silly girl. That’s not how the little-sister gig works.