Seven-Card Stud

by Ava Drake

  Collin, revealingly, said nothing. He merely smiled pleasantly, as if indulging Oliver’s bizarre fantasies.

  Collin was lying. The guy did know something about this tournament that he wasn’t sharing. And furthermore, he was obviously here to investigate it. Oliver tried again. “So, are you some kind of James Bond? Can I help?”

  Collin’s smile froze in place for just an instant. A person would have had to be staring right at him, and from nearly this close, to see it. But he’d nailed it on the head. The guy was a super spy. Coolest gig ever!

  “What are we going to do first?” Oliver asked eagerly.

  “We’re going to go downstairs and play poker like nothing happened. If you in any way reveal that you saw a body on the beach, or that you’re upset, or that you know Mastrianak died, his hypothetical killer could come after you.”

  Collin had come to the same conclusion he had—a killer might have targeted a poker player. Oh shit. This stuff had just gotten real. They could be trapped in a closed resort with a murderer, and one of them might be the next victim. Surely not. Except the dismay and fear clenching deep down in his gut announced in no uncertain terms that Collin was exactly right.

  COLLIN waited until Oliver had returned to his room to shower and get dressed for the tournament before he made a phone call to his boss. “Hey, Pere. It’s Collin. Looks like there may have been a murder here. Player named Antonio Mastrianak. Another player thought he saw Mastrianak’s body wash up on the beach. But resort security waved him away before he could make a positive ID.”

  Pere swore. “This wasn’t supposed to be a dangerous assignment. You’re a desk jockey, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss,” he retorted.

  “Oh. Shit, I’m sorry. I have complete faith in you. But this was supposed to be a straight fraud investigation. No danger, no threats.”

  “Never fear,” Collin responded. “I’ve got this.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid or heroic, you hear? Promise me.”

  “I hear you,” he replied.

  “Promise.”

  “Fine.” A huff. “I promise. No stupid heroics.”

  “What else have you got for us?”

  “I need you to find out who owns a yacht called Erebus. She’s huge. Upwards of six hundred feet long and looks tricked out like mad. There can’t be many ships like her in the world. And while you’re at it, I need a work-up on a guy named Oliver Elliot. Tell the analysts to pay attention to what’s up between him and his father.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “No, sir. I’ll be in touch when I can. It’s time for me to head downstairs for the next round of play.”

  “How’s the poker going?”

  “I haven’t bankrupted the Crown yet.”

  “Good luck, Collin.”

  Yeah. Right. Luck. If only that had anything to do with what was going on around here.

  Shockingly, he did get lucky during the round of play that night, hitting one great hand after another, which was probably the only reason he didn’t bust out of the tournament. He was so distracted thinking about the dead man and who could have killed him that he barely paid any attention to the card play and bet much more recklessly than he should have. He actually came out nearly a million dollars ahead by the end of the night, putting him close to the two-million-chips mark.

  Of course, the other distraction was Oliver himself. The guy was turning into a strange fixation for him. They couldn’t be more unlike one another, and yet he found himself drawn to Oliver whether he wanted to be or not.

  Why had Oliver come to him after seeing the dead man? Did he trust Collin, or was there a much deeper game afoot? Did Oliver suspect Collin of being a plant? Or was this a test of some kind? Was Oliver actually working for the shadowy, anonymous, tournament director?

  Time was called on play, and his table had just finished a hand, so they sat back and relaxed while the other tables finished up their current hands. The Canadian across the table from Collin asked no one in particular, “So, what’s the word on the prize for this shindig?”

  While Collin listened alertly, the other players speculated, a few guessing that they were actually playing for a hefty chunk of the pool of entry fees, while others guessed that a mansion, yacht, or some other exotic prize was at stake. Collin’s personal opinion was that something other than a monetary item was on the table. But what that could be, he still had no idea. He’d hoped the players themselves would know, but this job wasn’t going to be that easy, apparently.

  The man beside Collin, probably one of the Albanian mobsters, commented in a heavy Slavic accent, “You play good tonight, no?”

  He shrugged. “I was lucky.”

  “You will be biggest mover of day, I think.”

  Collin was startled. His intent was merely to stay in the tournament, not try to be competitive in it. He’d already noticed that the leading players tended to go after those whom they saw as serious competition with an extra measure of aggressiveness. The last thing he needed to do was draw the big dogs’ attention.

  The other tables wound up play, and the remaining hundred and fifty or so players adjourned. Using the general chaos for cover, he slipped away from the crowd heading toward the buffet and made his way down the hall toward the kitchen.

  The space was bustling with activity as food was served up and carried out and carts of dirty plates were bussed back into the kitchen. Heart racing, he did his best to walk through the area as if he belonged there and headed straight to the big commercial freezer in the back. Pulling on the heavy door, he ducked inside, pulling it closed behind him.

  He paused, breathing hard. In spite of his big claims to his boss, a steel-nerved field operative he was not. Crap, it was cold in here. It went straight to his bones and made him shiver in a matter of seconds. Or maybe that was the adrenaline screaming through his veins, giving him his own personal earthquake. Jesus, this was hard. How did the regular Wild Cards operatives do it? They always sounded cool, calm, and collected when they called in from the field looking for information or assistance from HQ. If one of them were calling now, he would tell the agent to search the freezer fast and get out before hypothermia made him too stupid to complete the assignment safely.

  Take your own advice, Einstein.

  He pushed away from the wall and walked forward. Two rows of metal shelving stretched from floor to ceiling, loaded with boxes of frozen food. If he were hiding a body in here, where would he put it? Toward the back, maybe. The shelving stopped as he moved deeper into the frosty compartment, and a larger space opened out before him. A side of beef loomed in the ice fog, hanging from a meat hook. This was more like it.

  A sound behind him made him dive for cover behind the beef, plastering himself against the frigid stainless steel wall. Crap, crap, crap. His entire body was cramping up from the piercing cold. Peering between the shelves and through the icy condensation hanging in the air, he spied a male figure gliding into the freezer stealthily. That was no kitchen worker fetching food!

  No way could he slip out behind the guy and make an escape without being spotted. What to do? Panic ripped through him. In a second, the man would turn around to leave the freezer and spot him. The words of his field instructor belatedly roared through his brain. The best defense was a good offense. Better to take charge of the situation than passively let someone else seize the upper hand. Right. Do something, then.

  He waited until the man drew slightly ahead of him, and then he pounced, wrapping his arm around the intruder’s throat, squeezing until the guy clawed ineffectually at his forearm.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Collin demanded. He released his arm just enough to let the man form sounds.

  “Collin?” the figure croaked.

  Shocked, he registered a hard, muscular back pressed against his torso, firm buttocks nestled against his groin, the scratch of beard stubble against his arm, and the saltwater smell of h
is prisoner’s sun-bleached hair. He let go, and Oliver whirled around to face him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Collin asked in disgust.

  “Checking to see if Mastrianak’s body is in here. What are you doing?”

  “Same. I wanted to check for an obvious cause of death.”

  “Want me to stand guard while you look for the corpse?”

  “Actually, that would be helpful,” Collin answered.

  “That’s me. Mr. Helpful.”

  “Keep your voice down. The food in a freezer doesn’t make noise, and we wouldn’t want to draw the wrong sort of attention.”

  “Oh. Right. Got it,” Oliver whispered loudly.

  Collin rolled his eyes and moved deeper into the rear space of the freezer. He spotted what had to be Mastrianak’s remains. A rolled-up canvas tarp stood in the corner like a lumpy, rolled rug. Nylon cord tied around the whole bundle held the tarp in place. After taking a mental snapshot of the rope’s pattern, he reached for the top edge of the tarp and wrestled it down, revealing the dead man’s face.

  “Oh, man. That’s gross!” Oliver exclaimed.

  Collin about leaped out of his skin. “I thought you were standing watch.”

  “I figured you would want me to identify this body as the one I saw on the beach.”

  “Why?” he asked dryly. “Did you think there would be more than one dead man stored in here?”

  Oliver flashed a grin. “Good point. Still. I’m here, and that does look like the corpse I glimpsed. What’s that purple stuff around his throat?”

  Collin glanced back at the corpse and pulled the tarp down a little more to fully reveal the livid line about an inch wide circling the dead man’s neck. “Those are called ligature marks. It means this man was strangled to death, or strangled close to death, before he went into the water.”

  “Awesome,” Oliver breathed.

  “Why on earth would you say that?”

  “We have our proof that he was murdered. Obviously, the tournament directors are up to no good if they’re fishing murdered guys out of the drink and stashing the bodies.” Oliver reached in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

  “You’re not going to tell someone about this, are you?” Collin blurted in alarm.

  “Duh. Of course not. I’m taking pictures. Gotta collect evidence, right?”

  Cripes. He should have thought of that. Oliver’s unexpected appearance in the freezer had him more rattled than he’d realized. Collin pulled out his own cell phone and snapped a series of pictures as well, including several close-ups of the ligature marks on the corpse’s neck.

  “Got some great pics,” Oliver announced. “Do we need to take a few selfies with him to prove we found him and they’re not just random pictures of some dead guy?”

  Again, an excellent idea.

  Oliver snapped a few pictures of him standing beside Mastrianak, and then he passed his cell phone over to Collin. “Take a few of me with the old boy too, will ya?”

  “That’s bloody morbid!”

  “I thought you said we should keep our voices down,” Oliver chided.

  Glaring, Collin just shook his head and pointed the camera at Oliver and the dead man. Oliver held up a peace sign behind the corpse’s head at the last second before Collin clicked the picture. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Have a little respect for the dead.”

  “Why? Antonio’s gone. This is just his meat. Besides, Mastrianak had a great sense of humor. He would think it was funny.”

  Not deigning to reply, Collin replaced the tarp and restored the ropes to their original position as best he could.

  “Now what?” Oliver murmured.

  “Now we have to sneak out of here undiscovered.”

  “What if we pull the fire alarm and slip out while everyone’s evacuating?” the surfer suggested.

  “Who would put a fire alarm inside a freezer?”

  “Whoever built this one. I saw it on the way in.”

  Son of a bitch. “Well, okay, then.”

  Oliver murmured conspiratorially, “Should we go in separate directions? You know, to draw less attention to each other? And then we can rendezvous later in one of our rooms, all spooky-like.”

  The guy might act half-stoned most of the time, but that was a decent idea.

  Collin muttered, “You go left and I’ll go right. My room, in an hour.”

  “Be there or be square, man.”

  And Oliver was back to being Gun, the beach bum.

  Chapter Five

  OLIVER was shocked by how nervous he felt standing at Collin’s door. His belly was all aflutter as if he had a schoolboy crush. Weird. After all, he was no amateur when it came to hookups. He’d made them his stock-in-trade for most of his postpubescent life. But for some reason, this man was different. And not just because of the fuck-me-now British accent and those piercing gray eyes of his.

  Collin opened the door and smiled. Really smiled. With his eyes, his face, his whole demeanor. Oliver’s knees felt a little weak all of a sudden.

  “You’re late.”

  Oliver pulled out his cell phone and glanced at it. “By one minute!”

  The corner of Collin’s mouth quirked up. “I don’t like to be kept waiting. I worry.”

  “About me? Hey, no worries. I’m good, man.”

  Collin hustled him inside the room and closed the door behind him. “They saw you out on that beach. You have to be careful. Lie low and don’t attract attention to yourself.”

  “Kinda hard to do after I cracked the top ten on the player board.”

  Collin winced as if unhappy that Oliver had just put himself in the crosshairs of whoever could be knocking off the top players.

  “What’s the plan now?” Oliver asked.

  “I’ll answer that only if you promise not to go running around conducting an amateur investigation of your own.”

  He frowned. “I was only trying to help.”

  “I appreciate it. But I’m a trained professional. Let me do the sneaky stuff.”

  “Hah! So you admit you’re James Bond!”

  “You never let up, do you?”

  “Nope. I’m relentless.” Their stares met, and Oliver took the step forward that Collin was obviously hoping he would take. For whatever reason, Collin seemed unwilling to take the sexual initiative, but that was okay. Oliver had initiative enough for both of them. He reached up, speared his fingers into Collin’s short, silky hair and pulled his head forward for the kiss they both wanted so bad.

  Collin resisted, his gray eyes turbulent. “We shouldn’t.”

  “You’re right. And yet….” He leaned in a little closer.

  “I can list a dozen reasons why this is a dreadful idea,” Collin blurted.

  “I can list two dozen.” Oliver leaned in close enough that their breaths mingled.

  “I… just… can’t….”

  “Ah, there’s my repressed Englishman. Dude, you gotta learn to live a little. Loosen up.”

  “And you think you’re the one to show me how?”

  Oliver smiled wickedly. “I know I am.”

  Collin inhaled sharply, holding out for one last moment. And then he all but inhaled Oliver.

  Once unchained from its uptight British leash, Collin’s urgent desire was at least as intense as Oliver’s, if not more so. He slid strong fingers around the back of Oliver’s head, grabbed his longish hair, and pulled him in even deeper to the kiss. Their tongues clashed and teeth clicked, and there was nothing restrained or elegant about it. They were both voracious and held nothing back.

  Oliver grabbed Collin’s shirt at the waist and tugged it free of his pants. Oliver wanted skin and shoved his hands under the fine cotton in a frenetic search for it. Ahh, better. Collin’s smooth flesh, hard muscle slabbed over ribs, all of it laced with pounding blood, slid under Oliver’s palms.

  He hooked his fingertips into the muscular indentation of Collin’s spine and pulled Collin’s hips tight against his. The mutual bu
lges in their pants rubbed provocatively, and he groaned into Collin’s mouth. A driving need to take him hard and deep spiked into Oliver. His gut tightened in anticipation—

  A cell phone rang.

  “Ignore it,” Oliver muttered against Collin’s mouth.

  “Can’t. Work.”

  Oliver actually ground his teeth in frustration as Collin stepped away, clothes askew, and fished out his phone. Oliver was too fucking horny to be amused that the ringtone was “God Save the Queen.”

  Collin listened to whatever was being said on the other end of the line in complete silence for a good thirty seconds. His expression passed through shocked to alarmed and then to grim as hell. “Understood. Will do.”

  Crap. That was a work voice. His temporary spell over Collin was broken. The Brit was back to being his usual repressed, no-nonsense self.

  “Well?” Oliver asked in resignation. “What’s the big news that made you look like you’ve been sucking lemons?”

  “Do you know Leon Tran?” Collin asked tersely.

  “Yeah, sure. Everyone does. He’s one of the leading money earners of all time on the professional poker circuit. He’s in second or third place here right now.”

  “He fell out of a cable car en route to the top of the Rock of Gibraltar today. Broke his neck. He’s dead.”

  A bucket of ice water in his face couldn’t have stunned him any worse. Oliver stared at Collin in disbelief. “Someone is trying to knock off the top players to make way for themselves!”

  “My boss thinks so, and I have to agree. Frankly, in light of this death, I have to wonder if the Jet Ski that nearly killed you was not an accident either. You, too, are renowned as one of the top poker players on earth, as it turns out.”

  “I was at one time. But it’s been years since I played.”

  “And yet, the day you got here, someone nearly ran you over.”

  “The Jet Ski was an accident.” But Oliver even sounded halfhearted to himself in his denial.

  Collin said soberly, “Are you sure about that?”