Unlucky

by Jana DeLeon

  "You see, that's part of my problem. You're not even from here, so how in the world do you even know who Silas Hebert is? It doesn't add up, Jake."

  "There's not enough time to explain everything now. I promise, I'll tell you what you need to know as soon as we finish playing today. But you've got to trust me on this. I need Silas to stay in this tournament - at least for a little while longer."

  Mallory studied Jake's face, but she couldn't get a read on him. She thought he was telling the truth, at least in part, but a big hunk of important material was missing from his story. Trust him. How in the world did he think she was going to manage that? The list of people Mallory trusted could be counted by a three-year-old.

  And now a veritable stranger, who had given her every indication that he was up to no good, had asked her without any explanation to place her future in his hands.

  "I'm sorry, Jake," Mallory said finally. "I can't afford to let Silas win, not even short-term. My job here is to shut down the table. Otherwise, Reginald pays me nothing. And I have to have the money. This week. I don't have any other options. I can't trust you."

  "Then don't," Jake said, frustrated. "But I'm telling you, I can explain everything. All I ask is that you don't get me removed from the tournament before we have a chance to talk."

  Mallory studied him again. "Fine," she finally said, knowing that in the end, she had ultimate control of the table. "I won't talk to Reginald until after I've talked to you. But you better have a pretty compelling reason for wanting Silas Hebert to win money, even if only for a moment."

  Jake gave her a grim nod. "The reasons are compelling enough, and you'll get your explanation, but not before I get what I came out here for."

  Before she could respond to his cryptic words, Jake grabbed her shoulders and lowered his head to hers. His lips pressed against hers with an energy she'd never felt before-an energy that raced through every square inch of her body.

  Her mouth responded as if completely separate from her mind, because certainly this wasn't a good idea, but damned if she could remember a reason why not. His lips parted and hers went right along with him, their tongues mingling in a sensual dance that made her moan. Her silk blouse brushed against her hardened nipples and the heat began to rise, first in her center, then spreading throughout her body.

  Jake pulled her closer and she felt his erection brush against her. The contact was slight, but enough to make him tense up and pause.

  Suddenly, he dropped his hands and stepped away from her. The desire on his face was plain as day, and Mallory could tell his self-control was as precarious as her own, body warring with mind in the endless battle of whether this was a good idea or a really bad one that felt like a really good one at the moment.

  He stared at her for a moment, indecisive, then shoved the sliding door open and slipped inside, never even looking back.

  She watched him, the heat from her body still radiating out every pore. Well, that definitely honked up the afternoon play. Nothing short of molesting the other players was going to level the playing field after that kiss. She ought to be angry, but instead she smiled. Jake McMillan had thought he'd grab a quick kiss to ensure a run of bad luck this afternoon. He'd thought he was being sneaky, but he'd gotten far more than he bargained for.

  Apparently, Mallory had just come in contact with the only human being in the world who ignored basic attraction as much as she did. That kiss had been an eye-opening experience and the passion of it, while it had shaken her a bit, had obviously confused the hell out of Jake. Which not only gave her the upper hand, it made the rest of the week look far more interesting.

  Chapter Seven

  Jake barely managed to hold it together for the remainder of the day. Oh, the play went all right. He was smart enough to know not to jump into any high-stakes pots, and quite frankly, he didn't have a hand all afternoon to even warrant the ante. Whatever Mallory Devereaux served with a mere touch, it was strong medicine.

  He'd witnessed that whole spaghetti incident at lunch with Walter Royal, but hadn't recalled that shaking hands with Mallory had immediately preceded the entire event until now. Good Lord. A mere handshake had completely destroyed four dinner servings, a metal dining table, and a really bad imitation Italian suit.

  And he'd kissed her.

  A scary thought when he had no idea how long the effect would last and he still needed to drive safely to the motel after the play ended for the day. God help him, now he was worried about driving a car - something he'd been doing for over eighteen years.

  What else was there to consider? The stairs with the loose handrail at the motel, using his laptop, walking and chewing gum? The list could go on forever. Heck, even a trip to the men's room could turn into a disaster if he wasn't careful.

  What in the world had he gotten himself into?

  As the players filed out of the room, Jake placed the chips in the racks and slid them on the shelf under the table. He'd hoped to catch Mallory as soon as the players had left, but she'd gone into her table-cleaning routine and had followed the tray carrier into the restaurant. It figured. Just when he needed the woman to stick around, she'd gone off to take care of something as stupid as dirty dishes.

  Not even bothering to hold in a sigh, he reached for the spent cards and the shoe. As he lifted the shoe from the table, a piece of paper appeared from beneath. Jake stared at the paper and frowned. Where had that come from?

  He lifted the paper from the table, unfolded it and was surprised to find a message from Mallory.

  We can't talk at the casino. Too many eyes and ears. I'll meet you at your motel room at 8:00 P.M.

  Jake glanced around the room, relieved to find it empty. No one had seen him read the note. Obviously Mallory Devereaux was smarter than he'd given her credit for and her sleight-of-hand wasn't bad either.

  So eight o'clock it was. But this time, no more kisses. Hell, he wasn't even going to stand close to her. It wasn't worth the risk - especially not with a room on the second floor of a sixty-year-old motel.

  Jake finished clearing the table and grabbed his car keys. He'd just walked off the boarding ramp and into the parking lot when he saw Mallory get into her truck and back up. The big lettering on the side read:

  HARRY BREAUX DEMOLITION FOREMAN-MALLORY DEVEREAUX

  Jake did a double take and read the lettering again as she turned to exit the parking lot. Demolition? Okay, so given her propensity for disaster, maybe it made sense, but foreman? A title like that meant Mallory Devereaux wasn't some full-time two-bit floozy, shaking her boobs and screwing men out of money at her uncle's poker table. She had a legitimate job and probably a pretty good one, based on his limited knowledge of his uncle's construction business.

  So why was she moonlighting as a card bimbo?

  A good question and one he wanted an answer to before he met with her tonight. Out on the balcony, she'd said she had to have the money this week. But why? Leverage was always a useful thing. It might be considered playing dirty, but at this point Jake really didn't care. If Mallory Devereaux had any reason for playing in this tournament, other than picking up some quick cash to replace dishes or whatever other mishaps she managed on a regular basis, he was going to find out what it was.

  And he knew just the place to hear all about it.

  J.T's Bar wasn't exactly the type of place Jake usually frequented. But then when it came right down to it, the only place Jake frequented that didn't have anything to do with his job was his condo in Jersey. Bars were loud and filled with smoke and women looking for you to pick them up. Shopping centers were full of harried moms and screaming kids. Neither was his cup of tea. Too much noise, too much activity.

  Too much neediness.

  And ultimately, it was the neediness that kept Jake from mixing with so-called normal society. His job was far from the norm and the last thing he wanted was someone waiting up late for the phone to ring, or staring at the front door waiting on him to walk through it.

  He
was only a kid when his mom had put him to bed that night, so many years ago. She'd done her best to pretend that everything was normal, but he knew it even then. Something was terribly wrong. He remembered sitting in his bed, covers wrapped around him, waiting for his father to walk through the front door, for his mom to kiss him when he walked into the house, waiting for his father to sneak into Jake's bedroom and ruffle his hair.

  He was still waiting.

  No way in hell was he going to put someone he loved in that position. So right now, that meant not loving at all. Even friends had gotten more difficult as the years passed. His schedule was never regular - he could be gone months at a time, and since he took discretion about his cases as serious as death, he found he didn't really have much to contribute to general conversation. Maybe if the conversation was about the latest in firearms or high-tech surveillance equipment, he'd have something to say, but how many "regular" guys sat around talking about guns and listening devices?

  Although, now that he thought about it, that whole gun conversation would probably go over big in Royal Flush.

  He pulled into the parking lot of the bar and stared at the gray metal building with the bright red lettering. His partner Mark had been the only person he'd call more than an acquaintance, and that was because they understood each other-knew intimately what the other did every day for a living. The pressure of the job wasn't just about catching the bad guys but learning how to deal with ones who got away.

  And the victims.

  The live ones were the worst, he'd decided. It was hard to deal with murder-hard to face the families. But living victims were a walking, talking testimony to the failure of mankind to take care of its own. The failure of law enforcement to protect those weaker and unable to protect themselves.

  Granted, there was no way to catch all perpetrators, but sometimes he wondered if what he did made a difference at all. Did his putting those ten or twenty criminals behind bars save lives, or did it just open a job position for the next criminal to step into? It sometimes seemed to Jake that he made a bigger impact with the youth program he volunteered for. He may only be able to measure the difference he made one child at a time, but at least it was there for him to see.

  They were questions he'd been asking himself a lot lately, and somehow that bothered him more than anything else. He'd always thought he needed to follow in his father's footsteps-protect the innocent, like his mother, from all the bad that was out there. He'd never considered the preventive maintenance that could be done on the front end. But chasing the likes of Silas Hebert for so many years had made him question the amount of time spent and people used to pursue one man. Granted Silas Hebert was a big gun and ran a huge organization, but the reality was, putting him in jail wouldn't alleviate the problem-it would only alleviate the problem from that one man.

  He turned off the ignition and took one final look at the bar. Mallory Devereaux was probably the type of woman who had friends. And if she worked construction, there was little doubt in his mind that he would find some of those friends in this bar. The question was, would they talk to him?

  There was only one way to get an answer.

  At first, he was surprised to find so many people in a bar on a Monday night, but then Royal Flush wasn't exactly a cultural mecca, so he supposed the locals took what they could get. What they could get was a metal building with a cement floor, country music playing a little too loud and enough cigarette smoke to get a contact high in a neighboring state. He'd barely stepped inside the door before he was jostled around by a group of men headed for the pool tables.

  Realizing he needed to find a seat or be steamrolled by local linebackers, he scanned the bar and spotted an empty stool at the far end. Squinting a bit in the dim light, he studied the guy on the stool next to the empty one. He looked familiar, but it took a minute for Jake to place him. Then he remembered, this guy was on the boat all day, but wasn't a player. In fact, the only thing Jake had noticed he did was drink beer. Granted he'd consumed an admirable amount if the stack of spent bottles in the lobby was any indication-sort of a leaning tower of beer arrangement on a coffee table. Obviously he'd needed more.

  Which was fine by Jake. Drunks were usually easier to get information from, and since he'd seen Mallory sitting with the marathon beer drinker and another dealer at lunch, he had to assume this guy knew her. Maybe well enough to cough up some information. Mind made up, he began to thread his way through the clusters of bodies, the mingling of smoke and cheap perfume almost knocking him out.

  He was only a couple of steps from his destination when the heel on his dress shoe decided to take a leave of absence. As the shoe, now sans any rubber treading, hit the polished concrete, he promptly slid a good foot farther than he was actually stepping. Jake put one hand down on the table next to him, trying to steady himself, and managed to dip his fingers in a very agitated-looking woman's Bloody Mary.

  Apologizing profusely, he took a twenty from his wallet and presented it to the woman. Her companion, a guy resembling a cross between a WWF performer and a Harley biker, grabbed the money and glared at him. Taking the hint, he located his missing heel and stuck it in his pocket, then hobbled like a one-legged man over to the bar. It took him a while to make it, but at least there were no more disasters along the way, and the stool was still empty when he got there.

  Taking a good look at the legs of the stool, he pressed down on the back of it before pulling it out and sitting. He took a second to ascertain that no more mishaps were in the works, then nodded to the guy next to him. The guy stared at him for a moment, confused, then smiled.

  "Hey," he said, and pointed a finger at Jake. "You're the dealer at Mallory's table. I saw you when everyone was leaving."

  Jake nodded and extended his hand to the other man. "My name's Jake."

  The other man grabbed his hand and shook it, surprising Jake with his viselike grip. "I'm Scooter. I'm the maintenance man for this tournament." He gave Jake a big grin. "Mostly I'm maintaining a buzz. Lucky nothing's broke yet. Well except the engine, but that was no big deal."

  There was an encouraging thought, Jake decided. They were on a pit of a boat, out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, surrounded by criminals, and the drunken idiot in front of him was whom they were depending on to get them back and forth to dock. The same man who thought a broken engine on a boat cruising approximately two hundred miles offshore was no big deal. The labor pool in this town was seriously lacking.

  Scooter stopped smiling and studied Jake for a couple of seconds. "You feeling all right now?" he asked, "'cause I ain't got time for a cold or nothing. There's a big fishing rodeo next weekend."

  Jake stared at the man, uncertain what to say. He hadn't been sick at all and wondered what had given the other man that idea. At the same time and for some ungodly reason, he found himself really wanting to know what the heck a fishing "rodeo" consisted of, since that was the second time that day he'd heard the expression. But he wasn't about to ask. "I don't understand what you're asking," he said, deciding to stick with the more familiar of the two items. "I'm not sick and haven't been."

  Scooter scrunched up his brow in thought. "Damn women never make any sense. You see, at lunch, Amy was saying as how you was hot and Mallory said you was hot but you was kinda an asshole."

  He scratched his head, then continued, "So I said if you was hot, I had an extra fan in the engine room that I could put at your table. They just laughed. I thought it was kinda rude and all if you were uncomfortable, but sometimes women are just funny."

  Jake stared at Scooter, certain the man was another species. No one could be that stupid. Not even in Royal Flush. Something told Jake he wouldn't get any useful information out of Scooter. "Yeah, women can be a mystery," Jake finally said. "But to answer your question, I feel fine." Fine for an asshole.

  Scooter nodded. "Well, you let me know if you get hot again and I'll fetch you that fan. Summer colds are a bitch." With that Scooter jumped off his stool and h
urried across the bar to a dartboard, calling out to someone as he went.

  Jake stared after Scooter a moment more, then lifted one finger for the bartender. Someone in this town had to have evolved beyond the primates. Maybe he could get the information he was looking for from the bartender.

  The bartender shuffled over, eyeing Jake from top to bottom. "You visiting?" he asked.

  Jake shook his head. "No. I'm dealing in the poker tournament."

  The bartender studied him a moment more, not looking entirely convinced. "You're wanting me to believe Reginald hired a Yankee to deal for him?" He laughed. "C'mon, man. You can do better than that."

  Jake stared at the man, trying to hold in his frustration with small towns and small minds. "I've barely said five words to you. What indication could you possibly have that I am a Yankee?"

  The bartender smirked. "Well, we could start with the words `what indication.' Someone from south of the Mason-Dixon would have said, `Who the hell are you calling a Yankee?' Then we would have fought."

  Jake held in a sigh. "I'm not looking for a fight. I just wanted to relax a bit before I head back to my motel. It's been a long day."

  The bartender studied him a moment more, then nodded. "I guess that's all right then. But mind you, I serve alcohol and beer here. No club soda with lime, no shaken not stirred, no drinks without alcohol. You sit at my bar, you drink like a man. So what's it gonna be?"

  "Jack Daniel's on the rocks."

  "Then I guess I'll be letting you stay," the bartender said, and walked to the back of the bar to fix the drink.

  Now Jake did sigh. He hadn't intended to throw any back before his meeting with Mallory. The reality was, Jake rarely drank at all. He never wanted his senses less than 100 percent, because he never knew when the phone might ring. There were no real holidays or days off with the FBI-every day was a potential workday, no matter what the schedule might say.