DEBRA WEBB CATHERINE MANN JOANNE ROCK
BET ME
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CONTENTS
THE ACE
THE JOKER
THE WILDCARD
THE ACE
Debra Webb
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
PROLOGUE
Thursday
SEVEN A.M. WAS JUST too early for her to pay attention after a late shift on the Strip the night before. Sergeant Clarissa Rivers trudged to the coffeemaker and poured herself a second cup of coffee. She didn’t know why she bothered—she winced as she took a swig—cops were the absolute worst coffee makers on the planet. The nice folks assigned to the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department were no different.
Clarissa resisted the urge to gag and sat her cup aside. Fifteen minutes ago it had been bearable—at this point it was just plain bitter. Better to be half asleep now than suffering with acid reflux later. She scratched her arm, then stretched to get a spot between her shoulder blades.
It had started already. That confounded itching she experienced whenever she got close to anything even resembling a maid’s uniform.
Bellying up to the counter next to Clarissa, Kim Wong reached for the coffeepot. “Don’t look so happy to be here.” She skimmed Clarissa from head to toe, then made one of those you-are-so-hot sounds in her throat as she filled a cup. “Kinda short, very tight. You look sharp in that outfit.” Kim took a sip of coffee, grimaced, then slowly wagged her head from side to side. “Except for the color. Anything in the pink family just doesn’t work for a redhead.”
“Tell that to the Free Throw Casino.” Clarissa shot her friend and fellow officer a look before staring down in disgust at the get-up she wore. She damned sure hadn’t picked the color or the garb. A maid’s uniform in a vibrant shade of rose, white apron and matching white shoes designed for comfort and outright ugliness—no way was she looking sharp.
“You could have played that part…” Kim snapped her fingers as if trying to recall. “You know in that movie with Jennifer Lopez as the hotel maid?”
“Make fun all you want,” Clarissa replied, “I’ll be the one laughing while you’re teetering around in the royal vestments of your homeland.”
“Don’t remind me,” Kim muttered.
Even after working with Kim for years, it was hard not to be startled by her Asian beauty. Five minutes in her presence and her spunky, kick-butt personality told anyone who might think otherwise that she was no fragile princess, even if she was about to play one. Beauty, brains and brawn, all wrapped up in one compact feminine package.
“Don’t you look cute!”
Clarissa and Kim turned to greet the third member of their Metro cop girls’ club, Dorian Byrne. Like Kim, Dorian hadn’t been forced to don her undercover uniform just yet. Clarissa’s operation started at eight sharp this morning. She could hardly wait.
“Hey, Dorian.” Clarissa couldn’t hold back a smirk at the idea of what was to come for her other good friend. “The whole department’s been dying to get a load of those long legs for ages.” Dorian had some Latino heritage somewhere in her background. Just enough to give her a perpetual tan and a slightly exotic look. Short, sexy black hair. The perfect body. Another gorgeous female member of LVMPD.
Dorian threw her hands up Stop-sign fashion. “If I hear one more word about the hooker assignment,” she warned, “both of you will regret it.”
Kim and Clarissa exchanged a look. Dorian got the best assignment of all, in Clarissa’s opinion. Going after the really bad guys in a disappearing-prostitute case. Kim’s op involved stolen diamonds and Clarissa’s was illegal gambling. All three included a level of personal risk and came with a short fuse—they had to get it done within seventy-two hours. But Dorian’s was by far the grittiest. In any case, this was going to be one interesting weekend.
“At least,” Clarissa said as she planted her hands firmly on her starched-cotton-clad hips, “you don’t have to be a servant. Do you have any idea the grief I’ll be taking from rich guests for the next three days?” Clarissa knew all too well from personal experience.
“Stow it, ladies,” a firm male voice bellowed before Dorian or Kim could argue Clarissa’s point. “We have a briefing to attend to.”
Captain Bill Pearson. The boss. An attractive man in his forties, under far more stress than was healthy even for a man so fit, ambled up to the coffeepot next. The mayor, along with every other bigwig in Las Vegas, was up in arms about the rising crime rate and how tourism had been adversely affected. With the final big weekend of the summer coming up, Labor Day, in just eight days, Operation: Clean Sweep had been set in motion. Every cop in the department had his or her segment of the Strip to spiff up. For Clarissa it was the Free Throw Casino. Kim and Dorian had casinos of their own to target. All forms, big and small, of criminal activity in the city were in for a major wake-up call during the next three days.
Pearson filled his cup and looked from one to the other. “Let’s stop complaining and get to it.”
“Yes, sir,” Clarissa said with a snappy salute. Kim and Dorian echoed the same.
Pearson flashed an annoyed face, then headed for the briefing room.
All kidding aside, Clarissa was really worried about him. His wife of twenty years was on the verge of sending him packing if he didn’t slow down on those ninety-hour workweeks.
“You know,” Kim said, hesitating instead of falling in behind their fearless leader, “we should lay down a little wager to make this weekend more interesting.”
Clarissa’s full attention jumped back to her pals. “What kind of wager?”
Kim shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe see who gets their baddie first.”
“And,” Dorian added, “who gets the report filed first.”
Kim groaned. “I hate those things.”
Every cop did…except Dorian. She was a hurricane on the keyboard. Whipping out a masterful final report was like taking a breath for her. Not only was she fast on the keys, she could sum up a case in the least possible number of words.
But she had to get her perp first to win. No perp, no final report.
“I’m in,” Clarissa said, never one to back down from a challenge. “What’s the prize? Can’t have a wager without one.”
Kim and Dorian seemed to consider the possibilities.
“How about Labor Day weekend at a luxury spa?” Dorian suggested. “All expenses paid by the two losers?” She looked from Clarissa to Kim as if their fates had already been decided.
“That’s a decent start, but we need more,” Kim said, raising the stakes. “Something to make the extra effort really worthwhile.”
“The whole week off,” Clarissa suggested, “starting Monday. In addition to the spa weekend.”
The three mentally tallied the cost and the number of vacation days the losing parties would each need to throw in to cover the time off.
“It’s a bet,” Dorian tossed out first.
Clarissa looked to Kim. This was her idea—she surely wouldn’t back out now.
“I’m in,” the Asian-princess-to-be confirmed.
“Then we have a bet,” Clarissa said.
After they had shaken hands to seal the wager, they followed the other cops, some, like Clarissa, already dressed in costume, into
the briefing room.
This was one bet Clarissa fully intended to win.
“Spa weekend,” she murmured, “here I come.”
CHAPTER ONE
Free Throw Casino Hotel
Room 2119
“SLOB,” CLARISSA MUTTERED as she picked up the jeans from the floor. Versace. She shook her head. Didn’t this guy have better things to do with his money? Give her Levi’s any day of the week.
She had cleaned the bathroom already. Made the bed and dusted the elegant mahogany furnishings. But she couldn’t vacuum without running the risk of sucking up something that cost more than a month’s salary. This Mr. Jennings was a total slob. Clothes, all male, were scattered around as if he’d been in a mad frenzy to peel them off. Jeans, faded and well worn despite their designer label, plain white cotton tee and a navy silk jacket that seemed mismatched with the rest. Oh, and let’s not forget the handmade Italian leather loafers.
Clarissa forced herself to neatly fold the articles of clothing and place them on the ornate credenza that served as a dresser. Some renegade brain cell made her go momentarily stupid and she sniffed the T-shirt. An earthy male scent all but overwhelmed by cheap women’s perfume and not-so-cheap champagne. Clarissa was surprised she hadn’t found female clothing tangled in the sheets. Clearly this guy had had company last night. She tucked the overpriced shoes next to the closet door, and then dusted her hands in finality.
All she had to do was vacuum and she was out of here.
Hopefully by now—she glanced at her wristwatch—some of the high rollers on her watch list would be up and around. So far, all three of her most likely suspects had been piled up in bed with the do-not-disturb signs out—even at 10:00 a.m.
She scratched her side through the stiff uniform. God, she was going to be covered in hives before lunch at this rate. Calamine lotion loomed in her future.
After plugging in the vacuum, she switched it on and got down to business. It was hard to believe half the morning was gone already and she hadn’t even gotten close to the first suspect on her list.
Sergio Fuentes, Bogotá, Colombia.
Mark Weldon, Houston, Texas.
Rita Russo, Miami, Florida.
Those were the three VIPs that had tripped LVMPD’s radar upon arrival in Sin City. All were suspected of illegal activities in their home territories. Then, of course, there was Shannon Bainbridge, the woman in charge of high-rollers gambling at the Free Throw. Clarissa suspected that Bainbridge coordinated everything on this end, but that was only a suspicion. She needed evidence.
Floors twenty-one through twenty-six were the ones of interest to Clarissa. Twenty-one through twenty-four were VIP guest suites, like this one. Twenty-five was dedicated solely to VIP gambling, with only four suites reserved for the crème de la crème of guests. The penthouse and a couple of select, private playing rooms were on twenty-six.
Fuentes, Weldon and Russo were all playing on twenty-five and twenty-six. Playing on twenty-five was a perk of being a guest on the upper floors. Getting to twenty-six required a personal invitation by a member from one of the few tables in those private rooms.
Clarissa didn’t see that happening for her, but she would get as close as possible. She wasn’t allowed to enter the penthouse floor without invitation and a scheduled time, not even to make the bed. Basically all she had to do was prove Bainbridge was involved and Clarissa felt confident the woman would spill her guts. Clarissa could type up her final report and win this bet. She would be seriously ready for some R & R after wearing this damned uniform for seventy-two hours.
Between the itching and the less-than-comfortable thigh holster this assignment was not going to be a pleasant one. Not to mention she had little use for the high-roller types. She’d had far too much firsthand experience with the absurdly wealthy growing up.
Clarissa shook off the thought before it could take root and spoil her day.
Goose bumps suddenly rushed over her skin and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
She wasn’t alone.
The instinct kicked her in the gut a split second before she whirled around to come face-to-face with six feet of hard, sweaty male.
For three seconds that lapsed into ten she couldn’t decide what to say. Hello. Who the hell are you?
Never in her life had she found herself at a total loss for words the way she was at that exact moment.
He said something but it didn’t penetrate the haze of confusion or whatever the hell had just wrapped around her brain.
She blinked. “What?”
He reached around her and shut off the vacuum.
“I said—” he cleared his throat and lowered his voice “—sorry to interrupt.” He plowed his fingers through his tousled blond hair. “I’m Luke Jennings. I’ll try not to get in your way.” He plucked at the damp shirt clinging to his chest. “But I need a shower.”
Jennings. The guest assigned to this room.
“Oh.” She snapped out of the ridiculous daze. What the hell just happened to her? “No problem. I’m almost finished.”
“Take your time.” He flashed her a quick smile then sauntered a little one-sidedly toward the en suite bath, peeling off the wet-with-sweat tank top as he went.
An expanse of nicely tanned skin drew her attention to broad, broad shoulders that tapered into a lean, narrow waist and hips…and long, muscled—really muscled—legs. She noted the slightest limp as he disappeared into the luxurious bathroom.
Jennings. Luke Jennings. Why did that name, coupled with the handsome face, seem vaguely familiar?
A memory bobbed to the surface. “Damn.” Luke Jennings. The Ace. Professional cyclist who’d won the Tour de France five years in a row. Would have won six if he hadn’t taken a nasty spill that wrecked his right knee.
That explained the limp.
Clarissa glanced at the clothes she had gathered off the floor. Oh, yeah, he would have had company last night. That was the thing with celebrity athletes. There was always a flock of women following them wherever they went. She shook her head. Didn’t see the attraction. Why would any woman in her right mind chase after such a massive ego?
Just then she caught a glimpse of Jennings’s naked backside as he stepped into the shower. He hadn’t closed the door…but then, maybe he hadn’t expected her to stare after him.
Talk about a great ass. Her mouth gaped.
Wow.
She pivoted and grabbed the vacuum’s handle. Focus, Rivers. This was no time to get caught checking out some guy’s buns.
Especially not this guy’s.
She had an assignment and Luke Jennings was not a part of it. Nor was his amazing bod. Clarissa knew his type. Lots of money, women at every turn. Definitely not what she was looking for in her future. She’d had a guy very much like him around for as long as she could remember.
Her father had been a wealthy, handsome playboy. Not on purpose, though—she had to give him credit where credit was due. Her mother had passed away when Clarissa was only two. For years her father had played the part of widower and single father with no social life. Then the string of girlfriends and wives had begun. Every new girlfriend or wife doted on Clarissa to no end—all the way up to the part where the I-do’s were exchanged. Then the new wife wanted the daughter shipped off to boarding school.
Living in so many different cities and with no fewer than a half-dozen boarding schools under her belt, Clarissa couldn’t really say where home was. To some extent home had always been a fancy hotel suite with a maid seeing after her more often than not. With all the business trips and minivacations to Vegas with her father, this place ended up feeling more like home than any other city. So Clarissa had landed here in the end.
Though she felt confident she had turned out okay, her location-hopping past was no kind of life for a kid. If—major if—she ever had kids of her own, they would not be dragged around like that.
Maybe that was why she’d hit thirty recently and hadn’t felt the
first biological prompt for marriage, much less children. Clarissa liked her life just as it was.
Her father had set up a huge trust fund for her, but she would rather earn her own way. He couldn’t understand why she would play the role of cop when she never had to worry about supporting herself.
The answer to that question wasn’t so simple. Even if she could spell it out she doubted he would understand. This was something she had to do.
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