French Roast

by Ava Miles

  The list of other tournament championships was endless and eye-widening.

  He’d started Four Aces at twenty-nine, building four boutique poker establishments in the southwest. Each of his small, exclusive hotels showcased an upscale night club and a swanky restaurant run by an acclaimed chef. There was poker—and only poker. No loud, garish slot machines. No craps or blackjack tables.

  He didn’t fight the big boys, one article noted. Maven created an exclusive venue for the poker enthusiasts, a group that was growing in leaps and bounds across the country. She had no idea the interest in poker had swelled like a balloon ready to burst. There was a seriousness here that went beyond the poker nights she’d experienced—the kind people played with red, white, and blue plastic chips for pennies, nickels, dimes, and oh, a quarter if you wanted to get real dangerous. Peggy chuckled at the thought.

  Maven was as much the allure as the venues. He played frequently enough to draw fans and opponents. His estimated worth had her blinking a few times to make sure her vision hadn’t been permanently damaged by too much Disney.

  He had a few speeding tickets, clocking in at NASCAR limits. So he liked the fast lane when he wasn’t at the table. She had the VIN numbers for the six cars he owned, a mix of expensive classics and top-of-the-line racers. Great, he loved cards and cars. Could he be any more stereotypical?

  She clicked on his properties, marveling at the designs. Not what she’d expected. Classy. No flashing lights or fountains. And surprise, surprise, lots of squeaky clean windows. Weren’t gaming establishments supposed to blot out the light? Stop time?

  The room prices were highway robbery. She clicked on the spa service list and sighed. She didn’t understand the whole hot rock massage thing, but right now, her body moaned for some serious pampering. Clearly she was at the end of her rope if she had a flash of digging up rocks in her backyard, boiling them in her spaghetti pan, and asking Tanner if he’d put them on her body. Get a grip, McBride.

  Her eyes narrowed at all the styles of poker offered at his hotels. She’d heard of five-card stud and Texas hold ‘em, but Omaha and Razz were new. His places boasted poker packages for different player levels and poker types, mostly stud and Texas hold ‘em. There were a few discreet mentions of Mac Maven playing in his hotel-sponsored tournaments with dates.

  Not Macalister, but Mac.

  Her famous intuition put the puzzle pieces together. She’d bet her bottom dollar Mac Maven wanted to open something in Dare.

  He had a house in each of the four cities where his businesses were located, plus one in Denver, where he kept his office. That was a little too close for comfort. He’d bought land here, conditionally. Did that mean he had an inside track on something new? Or an ace up his hand-tailored sleeve? Jill, what in the hell have you gotten into?

  She crumbled Tanner’s file. She didn’t want gambling in Dare. She was a deputy, so she knew the kind of crap it generated. Drunk and disorderly. Fraud. Violence. Prostitution. People spending their last paychecks gambling, going from poor to poorer. This was so not going to happen. She was raising her son here. This was her new home.

  A memory surfaced of her dad drinking and playing cards while they struggled with rent and food. Sometimes he’d swing his arm out and catch her in the cheek if she asked if he’d won when he hadn’t.

  She shook off the past and clicked on a blue link with Mac’s name on it. A picture popped up. Her mouth went dry as an unexpected punch of attraction socked her in the gut. His coal black hair was cut about an inch longer than his skull, curling over a strong forehead. The dark eyelashes were about as shocking as the stoplight green eyes, which made a woman think yes, go as opposed to no, stop. The nose seemed like a poetic afterthought between high, rugged cheekbones, and his ruby chiseled lips kept him from looking like bruiser. The strong chin had a dent in the middle, transforming him into a charmer.

  Having studied perps for years, she thought she was pretty good at reading people. She saw a lot of things in this man. Power. Control. Confidence. Will. And a smoldering sexuality he appreciated, but wouldn’t exploit.

  The deputy and mommy in her slid away from the shore of her consciousness with a tide of new awareness. The woman inside cried out, a faint echo after a lengthy silence. Well, hello there, handsome.

  Her body grew warm as those eyes seemed to stare deep inside her. He would know what to do with a woman. He’d enter forcefully and drive deep. The thought almost made her moan.

  The tide came back in. The deputy and mom returned, pushing the woman back out to sea like flotsam. Disgusted, Peggy forced herself to breathe out the jittery desire racing up her spine.

  She would have to talk to Jill about this situation. Maybe she didn’t know Maven’s game. Damn, he was smart, she had to admit. Jill was an asset. She could bring the town along. Was that what he wanted from her?

  Cop reason prevailed. She’d have to see what the local laws said about gambling and how she could use them against this man. Keith called her name from downstairs, his voice hoarse from coughing. She stood, praying she wasn’t going to sound like that in a couple of days. Hadn’t Keith had a sore throat before whooping all over the place?

  “Coming, honey.”

  Her mommy persona snapped more firmly back into place. Time to take care of her most precious gift.

  Maven was not bringing gambling into her town.

  Chapter 16

  The small talk irritated the heck out of Jill, especially since she was dying to know what Mac wanted from her, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. They were lunching in a five-star restaurant illuminated by cozy gas lighting yet decorated with modern art—a compelling contrast to her artistic eye. He controlled the conversation, asking her about herself, her family, Dare. Jill suspected he already knew most of the answers, but his interest didn’t waver, his charm didn’t fade.

  She poked at her roasted chicken, not wanting to rock the conversation boat. “I’m curious why you dropped out of Princeton when you had a full scholarship. That’s when you hit the poker circuit, right? Were you bored with school? ‘Cause you’re talking to someone who totally understands.”

  He was silent for so long she wasn’t sure he would reply. Then he set aside his silverware. “Since you have a strong sense of family, I’ll tell you. My sister, Abbie, got pregnant in high school. There were some…medical issues. We didn’t have insurance. My father was a small-time gambler in Atlantic City who had more ups than downs. I’d sworn never to become drawn into that world after he left us. The only problem was I’d shown an innate skill at cards. Some parents sing nursery rhymes to their kids. I played cards with mine. My mother was a dealer. She died when I was ten. Dad left when I was sixteen, telling me I was old enough to take care of things. Abbie was twelve then.”

  Jill felt a surge of gratitude for her loving parents and happy childhood, and just like that, Brian popped into her mind again. She wished she could wave a wand for people whose parents totally sucked. “That must have been tough.”

  He shifted when the sun came out from behind a cloud, streaming through the windows. “My nephew, Dustin, was premature. There were complications. The bills started mounting, and the two jobs I worked couldn’t make a dent, so I did something I’d sworn I’d never do. I went to Atlantic City—our hometown—with the mad idea that I could grow the measly savings we had into the funds we needed to pay her medical bills.”

  Jill smoothed her hands in her lap, trying to imagine how much pressure he’d been under.

  “I didn’t get what we needed overnight, but I grew it over three months. My classes were in jeopardy, so I took a leave of absence.” He smiled in an absent way—he must have thought of something private and amusing. “By then I couldn’t deny the truth. I loved poker. I was like Moses in the Sinai finding his inner calling. It wasn’t an easy transition, but my sister and nephew needed more care, so I could justify my choice. When everything…settled down, I’d developed a certain reputation and received in
vitations to other events.” His gaze returned to her. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

  Wow, talk about will power. “That’s quite a story. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.”

  “That’s not why I told you the truth. You wouldn’t want to work with someone you couldn’t trust.”

  Brian came to mind. Wasn’t that one of the reasons she was sitting here with Mac and not trying to iron out their different visions for the restaurant? She tapped her fingers on the table. “You’re right. It’s a bit scary how well you read people.”

  His chuckle was as inviting as wind chimes on a breezy spring day. “I usually don’t share my observations, but I know I only have one shot with you.”

  “So what did you major in when you were at Princeton?”

  “Engineering. I always wanted to build things.”

  “And now you do.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, inclining his fork.

  They continued to eat. Her stomach couldn’t quite settle even though she’d opted for the blandest thing on the menu. No sleep. Too much caffeine. Personal stress. Not appetite material. He coaxed her into looking at the dessert menu. On any other day, she’d have jumped at the pumpkin soufflé.

  “Your mind is working overtime,” he finally said after the waiter set down his espresso.

  Yes, it was. The coffee scent tickled her nose. The restaurant used a roasted blend of Kenyan and Guatemalan beans, she’d guess. Not too strong or smoky. An Italian would liken it to piss water, but it worked for Americans.

  “What are you smiling at?” He cocked his head to the side in that intense way he had. Funny how it reminded her of Tanner.

  “I was deciphering the beans in this espresso.”

  “And your guess?”

  She told him. He signaled the waiter over and conveyed her assessment.

  “Your guest is correct, Mr. Maven,” the waiter responded when he returned. He set down a plate of small chocolate coins dotted with espresso beans. “The chef’s compliment. For the lady’s good nose.”

  Delight at being right prompted her to sample her prize. Perhaps the chocolate would calm her stomach. Unleash those chemicals it was so famous for. “Why did you ask?”

  Mac drained his espresso and leaned back in his chair. “I can’t help it. It’s like calling someone’s hand.”

  “So the hand went to me.” She rolled the coin with her tongue.

  “It shows you know your business. May I share the chocolate?”

  She extended the silver dish, ready to get down to business. “Do you finally want to tell me a little more about what you have in mind?”

  “That’s good chocolate.” He threw his napkin on the table with an easy flick of the wrist. “I assume you know of The Grand Mountain Hotel.”

  Well, that was totally weird. Why was he interested in that run-down, haunted old place? “Of course. We call it Pincari’s folly.” Her brows drew together as she tried to recall the local history. “Robert Pincari had some cockamamie idea he could build a European mountain resort in Colorado in the 1920s. His family owned some gambling places when Denver was a big venue. He spent tons of money on it and drew in a motley clientele, from mobsters to East-coast businessmen. The resort combined skiing and vice.”

  “Exactly. I’m impressed.”

  Cheered by his praise, she decided to share the rest of what she remembered. “Don’t be. It’s my journalist family rubbing off on me. Pincari lost a chunk in the crash of 1929, but he couldn’t sell the hotel, so he tried to keep it open. There was a ghastly murder in it a few years later. Some gangster. A local disappeared too—can’t recall the family now. I think they moved away. Isn’t that terrible?”

  Since he gave no agreement, she continued, “Pincari closed the hotel shortly thereafter.” She snorted. “Everyone in Dare thinks it’s haunted.”

  “Interesting.” His face didn’t give anything away. No urbane charm now. “And why is that?”

  His intensity had her wondering if he was into ghost hunting like the other tourists who pestered her with questions when they visited the coffee shop. She shrugged. “My grandpa talks about people sneaking up there to make out or scavenge around. People came back with tall tales. Moaning sounds. Shrieking laughter. That kind of nonsense. It’s a wreck now.” She leaned forward, beyond curious. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve put in a conditional offer to buy it,” he responded like he hadn’t said the most asinine thing in the world.

  Her mouth dropped open—totally unprofessional. “Are you kidding? It’s a disaster! I know it’s only a few miles out of town, but it’s a dead loss, investment wise.” Reigning in her babbling, she took a long breath. “Okay, you’re a smart man. Why?”

  “The gambling license comes with the hotel. It’s grandfathered in. I informed the Colorado Gaming Commission that I’m going to rebuild it once I get Dare’s city council to approve the restoration plans. Everything is contingent.”

  Holy. Shit. This was huge! Her hands grew damp just imagining the boost it would give Dare. Her town couldn’t compete with Aspen or Breckenridge, but with a restored poker hotel in the mountains, it would be a unique tourist attraction. She could already hear cash registers in town ringing from the influx.

  Mac made room on the table for his briefcase. “The hotel is not a dead-loss. Trust me, I’ve checked.” His wink competed with the twinkle in his eyes. “It’s made of brick, so it will be easy to strip it down to the frame. Gut everything. The main highway up the canyon makes the road to the hotel 1.3 miles now. I can pave that. Taking away some of the 150 rooms, I can convert some of the space into the club I want. The original plan had only one restaurant, which I’d expand.”

  He drew out sketches from his briefcase. Jill marveled at how far along his plans had come. She’d seen black-and-white photos of the hotel at The Independent. The face-lift Mac had designed was guaranteed to make the hotel a showstopper again.

  “The restaurant will be in the left wing. The club will flank the right side, back against the open valley, so the noise won’t echo. The poker floor will have a combination of open rooms and private spaces. And of course, we’ll have a spa, health club, and swimming pool.”

  Freaking cool.

  His smile flashed when he raised his head. Then he focused on the sketches again, his finger pointing to different parts. “Pincari laid five miles of ski lifts, which we’ll re-secure. The trails will be cleared. In summer, people can go to the top of the mountain, do some hiking.”

  “What about parking? People have a hell of a lot more cars now than they did back then.”

  “Didn’t I say you had first-class smarts? We’ll add onto the back. Here, between the right side of the hotel and the start of the mountain. We’ll also run a shuttle service from Denver airport and downtown Dare.”

  Sweat broke out on her palms. She rubbed them on her skirt. He was already including her in his vision. Her brain made the leap, imagining it all. She could see herself in front of the hotel. Thousands of questions swirled, but only one mattered. “Why do you want me involved and in what capacity?”

  The way he sat perfectly still was unnerving. He could have taught yoga.

  “I can’t make it feel like a Dare institution or have the Dare stamp of approval without the help of a local.”

  She gave a slow nod. “So, you want my expertise in making this palatable to Dare citizens?”

  “Not just that. I want you to be the creative manager, putting your special touch on the property, like how you’ve made Don’t Soy with Me a local meeting place and not just a coffee shop. Things like what music the club should play, what menu and spa services will draw in locals. You’ll have a sense of how it should look, feel, and taste.”

  It was even more incredible than she could have imagined. Her feet tapped on the floor.

  He reached into his briefcase and pulled out an envelope. Inside were sepia photos from a different time. The hotel at its finest. Women in long velvet
skirts and hats dotted with swirling feathers. Men in pin-striped suits and Fedoras. Antique automobiles with running boards as long as bridal trains flanked the drive. When she stared at the pictures, she could almost hear a crackling radio playing a jazz hit by Al Jolson.

  “I’ll also want you to greet guests, especially the locals. Make them feel at home. I had Jack do a little scouting for me in Dare because I didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing me. Even poker players have followings, although the whole thing makes me uncomfortable. Anyway, the first thing he told me about you was that you know the name of every customer who walks into your shop, and if you don’t, you immediately introduce yourself. You know what they order, who they’re dating, what their story is. That’s a special gift. I want it at The Grand Mountain Hotel.”

  Everything within her went still. This was the chance of a lifetime. She could stay in Dare and become a world-class businesswoman. It would allow her to achieve far more than she could alone…or with Brian.

  Right. Brian. “It sounds incredible.” She gripped her napkin with a fist. “What are your plans for the restaurant? Would you be open to having a local chef run the kitchen?”

  “I usually bring in someone from the outside who has a strong culinary reputation.” He steepled his hands. “Let’s cut to the chase. You’re asking if I would consider Brian McConnell for the position. Jack mentioned you were exploring the idea of opening a restaurant together.”

  Of course he had. He’d been the scout. “Yes.”

  “I checked into Brian’s background before our meeting, sensing this might come up. His reputation among elite chefs isn’t the hottest. There were some problems at his last restaurant. I don’t want any complications like that. Plus, I usually hire someone with significant head chef experience. I wish it were different, Jill.”