by Jana DeLeon
"Okay," she finally agreed. "But only with one finger and just for a second. Less. Less than a second."
Jake nodded. "Whatever you say."
She stepped toward him, studying his bare arm like he might be an incendiary device. Hesitantly, she reached over with her index finger and barely brushed it over the top of his wrist.
Jake felt a tingle where her finger grazed his skin and his heart began to beat a bit faster, making him wonder if this had been such a good idea after all.
No sooner had she made contact with his skin, she yanked her hand back, almost as if burned, and looked over at him, a frightened expression on her face. She really believed. The thought struck him hard even though she'd maintained her position from the beginning.
He held his arm up in front of her. "See. It's fine. No sprain, no rash. It's not going to make a difference. You're worrying for nothing."
Apparently tired of being ridiculed, Mallory shook her head. "We'll just see about that."
Chapter Six
Before Jake could formulate a comeback to her cryptic response, the players began to arrive, and Mallory pulled out her pad to start the afternoon drink orders. When they were all seated, Mallory scanned the room and sighed. Where the hell was Father Thomas?
"I'll find him," she assured Jake.
"He's got twenty minutes to get back to the table or he forfeits half his chips to the house - your uncle's rules." Jake gave her a brief nod and turned back to the other players. "What do you say we go ahead and start? Maybe we can get in at least one hand without the Old Testament involved."
Mallory shoved the pad into her pocket and headed across the casino, hoping Father Thomas wasn't far from the liquor cabinet.
She'd been searching for the wayward priest for almost ten minutes when she finally got a lead from one of the dishwashers. "I saw him walk out the back doors onto the deck," the man said.
Good God. She hurried to the double doors at the rear of the restaurant, hoping Father Thomas hadn't pitched off into the Gulf. Pushing the doors open, she stepped outside and scanned the deck for the priest.
He was hard to miss.
Father Thomas stood on top of a lawn chair, both arms fully extended above him, one hand clutching a Bible. "Seek first a glass of Jack Daniel's and its righteousness, and if you can't find one then seek a bottle of beer."
Mallory looked around, but there was no one to be found. Either Father Thomas was hallucinating or he thought the fish needed praying over or a drink. "Father Thomas," she said. "The game is starting. You need to get inside."
Father Thomas turned to face her and pitched backward off the lawn chair, his robes floating around him like a warped version of Batman. He hit the deck with a thud and Mallory hoped to hell he hadn't broken something or killed himself. She hurried over to the priest and bent down to see if he was alive.
Father Thomas groaned and managed to sit up. He rubbed the back of his head then gave Mallory a grin. "Must have been a heck of a homily for Satan to toss me off the altar like that."
Mallory nodded. "The absolute best, Father Thomas. In fact, it was so good that God is rewarding you with an afternoon of poker. How does that sound?"
Father Thomas gave her a huge grin. "The Lord giveth and he giveth my way." He struggled to rise from the deck and Mallory grabbed one arm to steady him, figuring she might as well give him the afternoon dose of bad luck while helping him upright. Once he was standing she guided the priest back into the restaurant and into the casino.
"It's the table in the far corner," she said, and pointed to their spot. "Do you remember? You played with them this morning."
A look of confusion momentarily crossed Father Thomas's face, but it quickly cleared and he smiled. "Oh yes, I remember," he said, and stumbled off in the direction of the table. "Praise God and pass the chips!"
Mallory watched for a second or two, just to make sure he wasn't going to fall over or stop at the wrong table; then she spun around and hurried into the restaurant for drinks, not wanting to be away from the table any longer than absolutely necessary. She knew she shouldn't have touched Jake but he was the one who'd asked for it.
The desire to prove that she wasn't the nutbag he thought she was had won out over good common sense. The only thing that made her feel a little bit better was that the touch was slight and shouldn't cause a lot of damage. Plus, Jake's argument was correct - as soon as she returned to the table and made her pass with the drinks, it would far outweigh the miniscule touch she'd given Jake.
She hadn't been gone long, but still she felt the overwhelming need to hurry back to the table to turn the luck the other way.
And to gloat.
The gloating was definitely going to be the highlight of her day. Because if Jake McMillan was agitated before when he was winning, he was going to be downright homicidal now.
She located an available server and directed him to the tray of beverages on the counter. He followed her into the casino and placed the tray on a serving stand just to the side of the poker table. Mallory struggled to hold back the grin she knew was going to break loose when she saw the look of defeat on the disgruntled dealer's face.
But Jake McMillan was smiling.
She blinked for a moment, certain she'd misunderstood. He should be losing. But there it was, a huge grin on his normally blank face.
It wasn't possible. Had her touch failed to make him unlucky? Was Jake McMillan somehow immune to her?
A quick glance at the stack of chips in front of him didn't do anything to alleviate her concerns. Not only was Jake losing, almost a forth of his chips were gone. A check of the rest of the players confirmed the worst - Silas Hebert was the big beneficiary.
What the hell was going on?
Jake had put up his own cash for this tournament just like every other dealer. Did he really want to throw away money that badly? Because at the rate he was going, he would be reduced to nothing by mid-afternoon. Mallory didn't even want to think of the consequences if Jake lost to Silas on the first day of the tournament. Reginald wouldn't only kill him-he'd follow him to hell and torment him personally for all of eternity.
Not that her own fate was any better. If she didn't gain back control of the table, Reginald would undoubtedly find a place even worse than hell and make sure she was a permanent resident.
Realizing there wasn't a second to spare, she grabbed the drinks and hustled them around the table, careful to make deliberate contact with every player and more than one with Silas. She totally disrupted the game with her ungraceful maneuvering, but that was just too bad. When she was satisfied that she'd done everything she could to reverse the situation, she slid back onto her stool and looked straight at the frowning face of Jake McMillan.
"If you're done with your serving, Ms. Devereaux," he said, "we'd like to continue with our play."
Before she could respond, he focused his attention on the deck and began to deal, his jaw locked tight with obvious aggravation.
It almost seemed like he'd wanted to lose.
The thought ripped across her mind in a flash, but she dismissed it as quickly as it had come. That wouldn't make any sense. Jake may not care anything about Reginald, and she was certain he didn't give two wits about her, but why would he throw away his own money?
She looked once more at the reduced pile of chips in front of Jake and across the table to Silas's larger, more impressive stack. It was her fault. That much she would take responsibility for, but it still didn't explain why Jake had seemed so happy with the situation.
Then in a flash, still shots of the day washed over her - Jake discarding a full house, Jake smiling at Silas Hebert when she returned to the table, Jake's obvious anger at her when she turned the table back the other way.
She stared across the table at him and wondered if Jake McMillan was playing for Reginald or for someone else entirely.
When the afternoon break rolled around, Silas Hebert slid off his stool and headed across the casino toward
the lobby. He stepped to the side just in front of the exit doors and let the remainder of the players file past him. He reached into his pocket for a cell phone and turned back toward the tables, studying the dealer and the attendant with watchful eyes.
Something wasn't right about this tournament, of that he was sure.
The fix was on somehow, but so far, he hadn't been able to determine how they were making it happen. He'd played with the best of cheaters and if the dealer was palming cards or cutting the deck somehow, he was better than Siegfried and Roy.
He watched as the attendant, Mallory, reached across the table for the empty glasses and loaded them onto a tray. The dealer shoved the spent cards into a pile, readying them for shuffling before they continued for the afternoon. All the while, he stole glances at the attendant, an aggravated expression on his face.
And that's where Silas got confused.
If the dealer and the attendant were both in on it, they might be able to pull it off. Although he still couldn't figure out how. From her seat at the table, Mallory couldn't see anyone's hand, and the dealer had been careful to avoid placing cards while she was serving. No, everything had been conducted completely aboveboard. Plus, the tension he could sense between those two didn't at all indicate there was any way they were working together.
But he still wasn't winning.
And that just wasn't possible. The dealer was a pretty damned good card player, but not the best Silas had played. And beaten.
The woman stacked the last of the glasses on the tray and without so much as a glance at the dealer, turned and walked across the casino toward the exit on the other side. The dealer barely lifted his head from the cards as she walked away, but Silas could tell he was watching her, studying her with an intensity he didn't understand.
But he was damned well going to.
He flipped his cell phone open and punched in some numbers. As soon as the man on the other end answered, Silas began to bark out orders. "I need you to run a couple of checks for me. Man by the name of Jake McMillan. Might be the guy you were expecting. About six-two, in good shape, brown hair. Claims he's from Atlantic City. Not sure on that part, but he's definitely a Yankee. Other one's a woman, name of Mallory Devereaux. She's Cajun and most likely lives in the area."
There was a bit of a pause on the other end and Silas could hear the rustle of pen on paper. "The guy sounds right," the other man said finally. "What am I looking for exactly on the woman?"
"Everything you can get," Silas said. "Email what you can, overnight the hard copy to my hotel. Once I have the info, I'll give you a call back and let you know how to proceed."
"Got it. How's the tournament going?"
"Not so good at the moment. I think that dealer and the attendant are making something happen, but I haven't been able to place how."
"This is nothing to play around with, Silas. I know you've got your reasons, but you need to consider the risks."
"I don't need you to tell me the risks. Do you think I got this far being foolish? If I can't straighten things out soon, I'll bow out, but not a moment before." He snapped the phone shut and watched as one of the other dealers opened the door next to him and strolled into the kitchen. The man nodded as he passed, and Silas wondered how much he had heard.
No matter. He couldn't have been close enough to overhear more than the last comment and that in itself wouldn't mean much. He glanced once more across the room. Jake McMillan had finished fiddling with the cards and was headed across the casino some distance behind Mallory Devereaux. His expression was a mixture of aggravation and confusion.
Silas didn't know how they were managing it, but somehow that dealer and the woman were up to something, and there was no way he was letting a Yankee and some two-bit floozy get the best of him. He had serious business to settle with Reginald - the last of his business with the St. Claire family. And by God, he was calling that debt one way or another.
Whatever the dealer and attendant were doing, he was going to find out.
Then he was going to deal with them. His way.
Jake stepped into the lobby, hoping to get away from the rest of the casino crowd, and was relieved to find the area empty. He needed to think and think fast. He'd been dead wrong about Mallory Devereaux. Whatever the hell was wrong with her - and he still didn't want to know - it worked. Now if only she would work her magic for him again.
He paced the length of the lobby and stared out the windowed walls at the Gulf. Convincing Mallory to help him was going to be tricky. After all, she was probably just as shady as her uncle. But he would have to trust her - at least a little - or this bust was never going to happen.
"McMillan."
Jake turned. "Brad," he said, and nodded. "How's it going?" He was somewhat surprised he hadn't heard the other dealer enter the lobby.
"Not bad. I'm up about twenty K and looking for a bit more before the end of day. I've got a real amateur at my table. Me and the others are eating him alive."
"Makes it easier. That's for sure."
Brad smiled. "How about you? Based on what I heard, you must be putting it to them good."
Jake stared at Brad. "I'm doing pretty good I guess. Why? What did you hear?"
"One of your players was on his cell when I left the casino, saying as how he might cut out soon."
Jake felt the panic run through him. "Which player?" He struggled to keep his voice steady.
"That Silas dude." Brad laughed. "That's pretty damned good, man. Silas Hebert is sort of a legend in Louisiana when it comes to card playing. If you're whooping him enough to make him consider leaving the first day then I may need to get some pointers from you."
Jake nodded and tried to control his emotions. "Yeah, sure. Maybe we can talk at lunch tomorrow. Listen, I've got to run. Got a couple of things to take care of before break is over."
"No problem, man. I'll catch you at lunch tomorrow. And hey, there's a fishing rodeo this weekend if you're interested."
God help him. Jake managed to exit the lobby at a normal pace, but as soon as he was out of Brad's viewing range, he quickened his step and hurried toward the kitchen where he'd seen Mallory go when the break started.
He had a plan. It was going to be called into action a little sooner than he had expected. He just hoped like hell it worked.
Mallory hurried to the kitchen as soon as the break started, hoping Scooter knew where her uncle was hiding. She hadn't seen Reginald since lunch. Unfortunately, Scooter wasn't available either, and a dishwasher informed her that Scooter had been in the engine room since right after lunch, assuring the return trip to shore would take place as scheduled.
She considered briefly which worried her more - Jake's ulterior motive for playing the tournament or Scooter working on the engine, but they were running too close to call.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and wondered if she had enough time left on break to accomplish anything. There were too many inconsistencies in Jake McMillan's behavior to ignore. And even though at the moment, she might not trust Reginald any further than she could throw him, she knew her uncle would crawl up Jake's butt with a microscope if he thought for even a second that the dealer wasn't doing his best to win.
At least Father Thomas hadn't said a word about her cooling ability. Mallory had inwardly cringed every time he'd opened his mouth. But for whatever reason, and Mallory was seriously considering divine intervention, the priest had stuck only to mangled Bible verses and hadn't imparted any personal secrets.
Deciding that some fresh air might help her think more clearly, she left the kitchen and stepped outside a set of sliding doors onto a small balcony. She'd barely closed the door behind her and turned to look out over the Gulf when the door slid open and Jake McMillan stepped through.
"We need to talk," he said, his voice hard, his expression serious.
Mallory studied him for a moment, then glanced inside. They were in full view of the kitchen staff, so surely he wasn't going to attempt anyt
hing stupid-like pitching her overboard.
"You're right about that," she said, and immediately made the decision to take this matter into her own hands. She could always fill in Reginald later. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Apparently, the question was not one Jake had expected because he was taken aback for a moment. Then a hint of anger crossed his face and Mallory knew they were back on common ground. "Don't you think that's what I should be asking you?"
Mallory shook her head. "Don't give me that shit. What I really want to know is how long you've been working for Silas Hebert."
Jake stared at her, the stunned expression on his face so sincere there was no way he was faking it. "I'm not working for Silas Hebert," he finally managed to get out. "What the hell gave you that idea?"
Mallory narrowed her eyes at him. "Nothing special, except the fact that you're throwing hands, and you were all excited when you started losing to Silas, then angry when I reversed the luck."
She studied him for a moment more, then blew out a breath. "Whether you're working for him or not - and the jury is still out on that one - if you lose Reginald's money to Silas Hebert, there's the possibility you won't be around to tell about it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Jake stared at her in surprise. "I knew your uncle was kind of shady, but what you're suggesting is a lot more dangerous."
"I'm not saying I know for sure. But there's always been rumors ... I just don't know what's true and what's bluff."
"But you aren't willing to run the risk."
"Hell, no."
Jake looked out over the open water and ran one hand through his hair. Finally, he turned back to her. "Look, I'm not interested in losing anything, especially to Silas Hebert. I hate the man for a list of reasons I don't have time to explain. But I don't want him to leave this tournament without losing more money. And if he doesn't ever win a hand, that's exactly what he's going to do."
