by Ava Miles
Tanner strode over. “Are you joking about this? ‘Cause my funny bone’s broke.”
Mac held up his hands. “I know she comes with a kid—a great kid.” He decided not to tell Tanner about his little talk with Keith. “I watch out for my sister and nephew. I know the drill… Look, if I could stop wanting her, I would.”
At Tanner’s glare, Mac lifted a shoulder. “It’s not just lust.” And then he kept his mouth shut. No need to invite a punch.
“Look, Peg had a tough time growing up with our dad, and when she made an effort to be…hell, happy, things turned on her. She went into the police academy all eager–beaver to save the world and then fell in love. Her ex hurt her. Bad. She closed up to everyone except Keith and me. She’s just now starting to come out of her shell again with the Hales, and I don’t want anything to fuck that up.”
Mac’s insides slithered, thinking about her being younger and less guarded. Life had a way of kicking people down. No one knew that better than he did. “There’s a part of her that wants to open up to me, too. I don’t want her hurt either, dammit.”
The woman inside wanted to come alive again. He’d seen it from the beginning. In some ways, she was like his hotel—she was on the verge of unveiling herself to new people and experiences. He’d have to nurture her transformation just like he had The Grand Mountain Hotel’s, although she’d hate the comparison.
Tanner jabbed his finger in the air. “Fine. You’ve been warned. Next time I punch you.”
His mouth twitched. “Duly noted. We good?”
His friend reached for a glass and poured his own drink. “For the moment.”
Mac clinked his glass against Tanner’s. “Okay, then let’s drink and play some blackjack.”
“Are you an ace at this, too?”
“Yeah.” Taking a seat, he reached for a new deck of cards. The crisp texture snapped when he shuffled them. “You played well tonight.”
Tanner sank into a chair. Put his drink in the embossed drink holder. “International correspondents play a lot of poker. Not much else to do except report the news, play cards, and try not to get killed.”
“So cut the damn cards.”
As Tanner picked up the stack, Mac realized he and Peggy would deal.
And deal with what was between them very soon.
There was no running from it.
Chapter 13
Hotel grand openings ran pretty smoothly for Mac after all his test runs. He watched from his office window as guests left their sparkling SUVs at the valet stand, and bellmen carried bags discreetly to an obscure entrance. Gleaming wooden doors swung open for each person, his employees tipping their hats to the ladies—Cince’s addition. People signed hotel forms with a flourish, tucking Mac’s specially designed room cards away.
Some of the poker players brought their wives or girlfriends, who would hang out at the spa and watch their men in the evenings, resplendent in sequined gowns or cocktail dresses. A few women played, disrupting the whole boys–only culture. Mac liked their attendance. It was another challenge.
He left his office periodically to greet an old friend or a high roller. Execs from Fortune 500 companies loved his hotels and frequently rented them out for company retreats. He liked those guests better than the bachelor party crews.
But business was business.
When a gleaming white Bentley pulled up in the far right corner of the security screen, he shook his head and headed out to greet one of his oldest friends, entourage and all. Actually, given the fact that Rye Crenshaw was emerging from the SUV directly behind Rhett’s, Mac had to wonder if Rhett wasn’t a member of Rye’s entourage.
Rhett Butler Blaylock—or RBB as he was known on the circuit—had all the flamboyant charm of his namesake. Just like his country singer friend. And given their similar ash blond hair and Southern mannerisms, many people mistakenly assumed they were related.
As usual, Rhett’s two poker babes, Raven and Vixen, flanked him, their diamond necklaces sparkling from the gas lighting in the lobby. Their skin–tight dresses in neon orange and electric blue had been designed to draw men’s eyes, and they were doing their job well.
Only Mac and a few others knew Rhett planned his entrances and entourages as an off–the–table strategy. People came to see him play, but moreover, they came to watch the spectacle.
“Rhett Butler Blaylock,” Mac called out in the lobby as he strode toward him. Everyone was staring anyway, might as well add to the hubbub.
Rhett opened his arms, the turquoise beads on his white leather fringe jacket clicking together. “Mac Maverick Maven. Heck of a place you’ve got here—like always. Not sure this poor ol’ country boy is good enough for this fine establishment. Right, Rye?” he asked of his friend, who was strolling just a few yards behind him with two other men.
Rhett had been poor until he’d developed a knack for poker. Now he was mega–rich, a country boy no more. Mac slapped him on the back, and Rhett pulled him in for a man hug, pounding him heartily in return. Of all the people he called friend, Rhett was the most unusual, but few guys were more loyal.
“And Rye Crenshaw,” Mac said, stepping forward as Rhett’s poker babes returned to their positions. “Welcome to The Grand Mountain Hotel.”
Camera flashes punctuated the lobby like alien fireflies.
Rye shook Mac’s hand when he reached him. “And you remember John Parker McGuiness, my lawyer, and Clayton Chandler, my deputy manager.”
There were handshakes all around. Mac couldn’t help but notice the speculation from all the women in the lobby. This group looked like a crew of actors from one of Rye’s country music videos.
“Tell me you’ve finally decided to sing for us after the tourney ends,” Mac threw out there, his voice smooth as silk.
Rhett wrapped an arm around Rye. “I’m working on him, Mac.”
“Good. Keep at it,” Mac replied easily, imagining the media coverage it would bring. Hell, having Rye here would be great for business regardless of whether he sang. “Just let us know whatever we can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”
“Well, I have to tell you, Mac, I am lovin’ the name of this town,” Rye said. “It’s kinda crazy since me and the guys here all live on the Dare River outside of Nashville.”
“Oh right. I’d forgotten that,” Mac said, remembering that party he’d attended at Rye’s house last year, which had been filled with country music’s most famous faces. Rye had even talked a few of them into playing a poker game with Mac.
“And tell me about the food,” Rye said, adjusting his black cowboy hat.
“Here we go,” Clayton muttered at his side.
Rye turned toward his friend. “I don’t know why you’re bitching about my love of food when you always benefit.”
“Because you usually go AWOL after a concert to rustle up something to eat when I have interviews lined up for you.”
“Please, that’s only happened once.”
Clayton stared him down.
“Okay, twice. But who’s counting?” He held out his hands like he was some country choir boy. “Maybe I need to hire my own cook.”
“I like that idea,” Clayton said. “I’ll get started on that.”
“Aw, you’re the best, man,” Rye said, slapping his friend on the back.
Mac wondered if Rye and Rhett had trained at the same Aw–Shucks Academy. They had it down to a science.
“There’s a fantastic new French restaurant in town called Brasserie Dare,” Mac told him. “I’ll send up a menu.”
“Perfect! Thanks, Mac. Well, if I’m going to eat French food, I need to go work out.”
“We’ll go with you,” Clayton said without pausing.
Rye gave him a warning glare. “These two yahoos are sharing my suite to keep an eye on me.”
John Parker laughed. “Maybe we should put Rhett in our suite too. Seems he always manages to raise some Cain, just like you.”
Rhett just shook his head. “I do
n’t know what y’all are talking about. Do you, Rye?”
“No, siree. These guys are full of shit. Mac, ladies, I need to take my leave. We’ll see y’all later.”
“Count on it,” Mac replied, blinking as more camera flashes erupted when Rye strode across the lobby.
Cuddling his poker babes close, Rhett kissed each of them on the cheek. “You remember Raven and Vixen.”
“Hello, ladies,” Mac said with a smile. “Welcome to The Grand.”
“It’s an incredible hotel, Mac,” Raven said, while Vixen nodded her agreement.
“Get us checked in, sweeties,” Rhett said. “I’m sure Maverick’s got a fine suite all picked out for us.”
They simpered and tottered away on the highest “do–me” heels Mac had ever seen.
He almost rolled his eyes. “It’s even got windows.”
Rhett put his hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Seriously, man. I’m so proud of you. Another awesome hotel. We who are about to play poker salute you.” And then he executed a perfect one, like he’d been in the military all his life.
“You are so full of it. I had to hire a pooper scooper from the circus when you decided to come at the last minute.”
“Aw, shucks, you shouldn’t have,” he quipped back.
“Been way too long, Rhett.”
“Well, this boy needed to see the world. That whole Europe thing, well, it’s really old. And out there in Asia, it’s like super, duper old.”
Knowing Rhett’s passion for architecture, Mac could barely contain his laughter. His friend sure liked to keep up his larger–than–life persona. “Slept through world history, huh?”
He waved his hand around. “Never did like all that book learnin’ stuff. What I like are practical skills.” As another player walked by, Rhett waggled his fingers at his poker babes. “Something I can do with my hands.”
Mac played along. Rhett liked to sucker people into thinking he was simple–minded. His success in the tourneys had caused people to dig into his background a little more, though, so the truth was mostly out. After hitting the circuit out of high school, he’d gone back to school, graduating with honors from Vanderbilt University in Nashville right along with Rye Crenshaw and his friends—something neither Rhett nor Rye ever shared in the media. Just didn’t fit their images.
When Jill waddled across the lobby, greeting guests, Mac called her by name.
“I heard I missed Rye Crenshaw, darn it.” Then her eyes popped open when she saw his companion. “Oh my gosh, you’re like Brad Pitt’s character in Fight Club. ”
Rhett took the hand she thrust out and dipped into some weird gallant pose.
“Beats that Liberace jab Mac made a few years back. We had words over that one.”
Mac shook his head as Jill’s gaze swept over his friend—from the man’s gray snakeskin cowboy boots to his silver, gallon–size cowboy hat.
“You’re huge!” Jill announced, pointing out the obvious. Rhett topped out at six foot six without the shoes and hat.
“So are you, honey. You look like a tick ready to pop. When are you due?”
Jill caressed her stomach. “A tick, huh? Our twin girls arrive in October. It feels like a long ways away.”
“Jeez, Rhett,” Mac breathed out. “You never tell a woman she’s huge.”
“It’s only nature’s way.” Rhett looped an arm through Jill’s. “This lady shouldn’t be on her feet. Aren’t there rules against working pregnant women too hard in this state?”
“Gosh, I like you,” she said. “I wasn’t sure I would after everything I’ve read about you, but you’re fun.”
“Been reading up on me, eh?”
“She’s married,” Mac informed him.
Jill waved her left hand. “Happily and knocked up too. I know a little something about all the high rollers who are coming. Mac believes in personalized service.”
“That’s the way I like it, ” Rhett all but purred, white teeth shining from his poster–boy smile.
Mac pointed a finger at Jill. “Don’t be taken in by this ‘aw shucks’ routine. Inside this—”
“Don’t say Liberace of Poker,” Rhett warned.
“Brad Pitt of Poker?” Jill interjected.
Mac rubbed his lucky poker chip in his pocket. “Inside this man beats the heart of a lion who clamps on the jugular every time.”
“Why do they call you the ‘Rhett Butler’ of poker?” Jill asked as Mac led them across the lobby to the bar.
“‘Cause that’s my legal name. My mama loved Gone with the Wind more than any person alive, and she named me after the dashing hero. She works in a profession that keeps her close to the Old South. She designs and sews antebellum ball gowns for Pilgrimage.”
“Like Mecca?” Jill asked.
Mac hid his grin behind a cough.
“Good Lord, honey, where are you from? We have a Pilgrimage Festival in Natchez like we used to before the Yanks beat us. Like reenactments,” he explained.
“That was a long time ago,” Jill said, whistling. “So you’re basically Rhett incarnate?”
“My mama likes to think so, although I have my own unique style.”
This time Mac did roll his eyes. “That’s an understatement.”
Rhett chuckled, and even to Mac, it had a dirty ring to it. “What Mac is trying to say is that I take things a bit further than a Southern gentleman might, even one on the edges of proper society like the original Rhett Butler.”
Mac signaled the bartender. “A bit? That’s a whopper. Two bourbons. Buffalo Trace. Rhett, you’ll love this brand if you’ve never had it before. And sparkling water and lime for Jill,” he added, knowing it was her pregnancy go–to drink.
“Wish I could join you in the bourbon, fellas, but it’s not on the docket. Like coffee.” She made a sad face.
“Jill also owns the town’s best coffee shop,” Mac informed Rhett.
“Ah, a businesswoman,” Rhett drawled, tucking the bourbon into the crook of his arm. “If you weren’t married and pregnant, we could have something.”
Jill huffed out a laugh. “You’re what my grandpa would call ‘incorrigible.’”
Rhett leaned into her ear. “You bet your lacy under–britches I am.”
Jill drained her glass and set it on the bar with a thunk. “I’ll leave you men to your poker talk. Good to meet you, Rhett.”
He took her hand and bussed it. “You too, honey.”
“Mac, we need to put up a sign,” she said with a wink. “Watch out, Dare Valley Females. Bye, boys.”
Mac sipped his bourbon, letting the bold fruit and anise coat his taste buds. “You are way too much sometimes.”
Rhett tipped up his cowboy hat with one finger. “All the time. As my mama always says, ‘no one remembers you if you don’t shake the bushes.’”
“Speaking of bushes,” Mac commented as dryly as the bourbon. “Did you have to bring your poker babes? I’m trying to keep a conservative small town happy.”
Rhett pulled out a chair. “You know they work for me.”
Few knew they both had MBAs from Harvard Business School. They studied and scouted other players for Rhett during tourneys, creating elaborate files on the competitions’ tells, betting habits, and strategies.
“Couldn’t they wear more…appropriate fashion?” Even as he asked it, he knew better. The way they dressed was all part of the game. He’d missed this ribbing with his friend.
The two women in question had ambled over from the check–in counter and were leaning over the bar, revealing mind–numbing mounds of cleavage. His new bartender fumbled an eighty dollar bottle of tequila before securing it against his chest.
“They’re part of the show. You know I haven’t paid a hotel bill since I hit the circuit when I was eighteen.”
Mac winced. “Yes, I know. Please be nice to me. This isn’t Vegas. I can’t afford to comp you for the sixty rounds of Jack you bought everyone in the bar at our last tourney.”
Rhett gri
nned. “I’ll be good. Scout’s honor. Unless there’s a hot tub in my room.”
“There’s not. I made sure.”
“You’re mean as a snake.”
Mac hit his friend on the back. “You’re no Boy Scout, and if you think I’d put you in a room with a hot tub after what you pulled last time, you’re crazy.”
Rhett rubbed his chin. “Now that did get a little crazy.” He straightened so suddenly he spilled part of his drink. “Shit, don’t say anything. Your sister is coming this way.”
Mac fell into poker face mode. “No, she’s not. She’s only walking to the gym. Hey, Abbie, come say hi.”
Abbie halted so quickly it looked like she’d run into a wall. She stopped, face blank, and then forced a lukewarm smile on her face. God love her, he’d tried to teach her a poker face, but she’d never mastered it. Her stride slowed to a shuffle. Her progress over to them couldn’t have beaten a snail.
“Why, Rhett. Mac told me you were coming. Welcome to The Grand.”
Then she actually extended her hand.
Mac squeezed back against the bar. Sometimes his sister added kerosene to a fire without knowing it. She probably thought she was being nice. After everything the two had shared, he didn’t think Rhett would take her gesture well.
Rhett stared at her hand like it held a bag of night crawlers. “You expect me to shake your hand?” he asked in a tone as cold as the mountain stream out back.
Abbie’s false smile faltered. “You don’t have to. I was only…saying hello.”
Rhett had his own poker face. None of the usual good nature or charm shone in his eyes now. They smoldered.
“Hello then, Abigail. I’ll pass on the shake. Don’t want to hurt my hands. Need to hold my cards, you know.”
Mac had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Then he saw the hurt in Abbie’s eyes. So, she really did care. Well, shit. Caring about Rhett Butler Blaylock was no easy path.
“Then maybe you should set your bourbon down and use a straw.” Her smile had claws now. “Or have your…girls…feed it to you.”
Rhett stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. Abbie had to move out of his way as he spread out. “They’re my poker babes. I hadn’t thought of them feeding me. I’ll have to add that to their job description.”
