Tense, she wrapped her hands around the purse in her lap. She wished she’d brought the other one. It had bead-work she could have run her fingers along to distract herself. But Zane had asked her to bring this one, saying it complemented her ruby red dress. She wouldn’t have thought he cared that much for fashion, but she supposed that he wanted everything to be perfect this last night with Quinton.
At least she hoped it was the last night. With any luck, after tomorrow, she would never have to see Richard Quinton again, barring perhaps a dinner party. She could not force herself to relax in his company. Beneath the charm and the good looks there was ice, sheer ice. She didn’t trust a man with no heart.
Whitney shifted in her chair, crossing her legs, careful not to make any noise. Sally had not come tonight. Whitney wasn’t sure if she was glad. It would have been nice to have someone to share this ordeal with.
But then, Sally wasn’t exactly a soul mate.
Maybe it was better this way, Whitney mused. Conversation, if not expressly forbidden, was frowned on.
How much longer were they going to play? She doubted that Zane would even notice if she slipped out. As long as she did it quietly. But Quinton would notice. He’d been very specific about her remaining, as well as where. He wanted her to sit to his left. So that was where the chair had been placed.
She looked around the room with its golden leaf chandelier and heavily paneled walls. It had an Oriental flavor, from the wall coverings to the table to the rug. It was all so tasteful and all so cold. It felt like a tomb. An opulent tomb.
A modern-day equivalent, Whitney thought, of what the Egyptian pharaohs had requested for their final resting place.
The thought played over again in her head. Where had that come from? Whitney’s heart beat a little faster. Maybe it was coming back to her. Maybe her memory was returning in increments, the small, insignificant pieces of information first. She knew that she didn’t quite feel like an empty slate anymore. There was writing on the slate now.
But the only words about Zane were what had been inscribed in the past four days.
She looked at him. She wanted more. Much more. Though the past few days had been nothing short of fantastic, Whitney wanted her life back, her memory back. She wanted to remember meeting this man who was now sitting opposite Quinton, coolly holding cards in his hand. She wanted to remember the thrill of his first embrace, his first kiss.
Whitney smiled to herself, replaying the afternoon in her mind. She supposed, in a way, she already had that. Because of the amnesia, when he’d kissed her, it had been the first time. When her memory returned, she’d have each memory twice.
But what if it didn’t return? What if she never remembered?
Would that be so bad? She knew she had a wonderful man in her life and apparently an exciting, unorthodox life-style. She glanced about. How many other women had managed to walk through these doors?
Beyond them, just a few yards away, were the pennyante rollers. The tourists out for fun and the diehards who scraped together a meager stake and came to make their fortunes at the gaming tables. All of them would have blanched had they witnessed a single bet placed in this quiet room.
She’d blanched herself when Quinton had insisted that Zane play with them. The other men at the table had silently nodded their assent and Zane had appeared willing enough to join in. Only she had been uneasy.
During their stay—the part she could remember, she amended—she hadn’t seen Zane place a single bet, pull a solitary lever or watch the tiny white ball jump over the grooves as the wheel turned with anything riding on it. Apart from watching Quinton play, he didn’t appear to even be mildly interested in gambling. Was he a gambler, after all?
What else of consequence didn’t she know about him?
Whitney moved to the edge of her chair as another round of bets began. The stakes for this game were already incredibly high. During the course of the evening Zane had appeared to hold his own. Was he good at poker or just lucky? Could they afford to lose the money if he wasn’t?
When they had begun, Quinton had offered to stake him, but Zane had refused. Whether it was because he thought Quinton actually expected him to carry his own weight, or because he really did have money to burn, Whitney didn’t know.
She didn’t want to guess.
The headache that had sent her from Quinton’s suite this morning returned, wrapping steely fingers around the crown of her head.
Whitney tried to concentrate on Zane and not the pain. Edginess dampened her hands. She wished they had allowed her to stand behind Zane, but the players had all been in agreement with Quinton and relegated her to the sidelines, like the chair or an empty glass.
Even Zane had said she’d be a distraction. Quinton had said nothing about her presence bringing him luck this time, but he had appeared displeased when, between hands, she had suggested leaving for a while.
“You will remain, Mrs. Russell. And cheer us on.” It was a blatant order. She had felt herself bristling, but in the end, for Zane’s sake, she had acquiesced.
She hoped it wouldn’t be much longer.
The room had been intended for private games of baccarat, the game of choice for most of the world’s high rollers. But Quinton preferred the earthier feel of poker. So that was the game they were playing tonight. The table, with its inscribed patterns, had been covered, the design cleverly concealed with a specially created attachment the casino had made to please Quinton. The table cover seemed a small enough investment if it meant keeping Quinton happy. It was nothing in comparison to the price tag on the room itself, but even that had been inconsequential to the owners in the larger scheme of things. Over the life of the game, the saying in Las Vegas went, the house won.
The house was winning pretty consistently tonight, she noticed, much to Quinton’s displeasure.
There was tension in the quiet room. She could see it, smelled it. It oozed from the players’ very bodies, though they hardly moved, hardly gave any indication that this was more than a friendly game.
Friendly games were not devoid of conversation. Friendly games didn’t have enough money in any single pot to supply food to a South American village for an entire year.
Her stomach began to turn, not from the tension, but from the waste.
There were eight men at the table, counting Zane and Quinton. Luck had initially kissed Quinton’s cheek, but then capriciously gone on to flirt with two of the other men before returning to Quinton’s side.
The return had been temporary. The Western-attired sheikh was showing a particular flare for the game. He’d won the last two pots. With a five-thousand-dollar minimum to get in and bets at five hundred or more, each had totaled over a hundred thousand. The chips were gathering around the sheikh in multicolored towers.
Unlike the dealer for the house, the sheikh was not winning graciously. As each hand brought him victory, he laughed, rubbing his hands together. The ruby on his left hand was the size of a walnut. It caught the light from the chandelier and blazed like fire captured in a setting.
The sheikh’s small eyes glittered as he smiled broadly, stacking his latest win around him. He took particular pleasure in mocking Quinton.
“Ah, perhaps you should try your hand at something else? The one-armed bandits in the lobby might be kinder to you.” Another, deep-throated laugh accompanied the suggestion.
There was no other sound within the room. The three butlers standing at the walls, trained to be guards as well as servants, had all but faded into the decor until needed. Their expressions remained completely impassive, as if they were not allowed to hear what was being said. Only their eyes indicated that they were alert.
Whitney held her breath as she watched Quinton’s expression darken at the disparaging comment. She could almost hear the sizzle of the fuse as it was being lit.
Quinton glared at the sheikh. A little of his polish slipped. “Why should I settle for a one-armed bandit when I can play with one who has
two?”
The rage in the small dark eyes was immediate. Whitney could have imagined the sheikh threatening Quinton for the audacity of his words.
The sheikh’s temper was barely controlled as he demanded, “Are you challenging me, Mr. Quinton?”
Quinton’s mirthless smile returned. He’d accomplished what he wanted—to get under the other man’s skin. It was little enough to ask in exchange for the sum he had lost.
“Just making an observation.”
Afraid of an escalating confrontation, one of the butlers left his post and came forward. He placed his gloved hand on Quinton’s shoulder. The next moment, a look of horror crossed his lined face. Whitney guessed that in the intensity of the moment, the man had forgotten his place.
Her sympathies were instantly aroused. Whitney exchanged looks with Zane. Almost imperceptibly, he moved his head from side to side. He didn’t want her saying anything.
Quinton jerked his shoulder away, even though the butler had immediately removed his hand. His face twisted until his expression bordered on malevolent.
“Get me your manager.”
“Right away, sir.”
The game was suspended as the pale butler withdrew, backing out of the room as if he were taking leave of royalty.
For all his airs, Quinton was slime. Very polished, educated slime. Zane glanced toward Whitney, his eyes slipping to the purse on her lap. He would have preferred if she wasn’t almost a room length away.
No one spoke a word in the few minutes that they waited for the casino manager’s appearance. The agitation on Quinton’s face was plain. The others at the table seemed either amused by the incident or sympathetic toward him. To a man, they all had their own superstitions and taboos to deal with. Luck was a capricious enough commodity without having obstacles placed in its path.
The reason for the butler’s approach in the first place was forgotten. The sheikh had melded into the background of observers, waiting for the drama to play itself out.
The manager, Harry Goodman, appeared quickly. He was never far from the room when a private game was in progress. Keeping things running smoothly was what he was paid to do. That and entice the high rollers to either return to Zanadu, or forsake their previous hotel affiliations whenever they were in town.
From Goodman’s sickly pallor, Whitney judged that the man did his job around the clock and it was taking its toll.
Entering, he went straight to Quinton. Goodman’s manner toward him was politely authoritative yet subservient at the same time. Zane watched and marveled, wondering if there was a school somewhere that taught how to project that manner. And how to walk upright while seeming to bow.
Goodman, a thin, bald man in his early forties, inclined his head. There was the proper degree of respect in his voice as he asked Quinton, “Is there a problem, sir?”
“Yes, there’s a problem.” Quinton didn’t even bother looking at the butler, who stood several steps to the rear of Goodman. “He touched me. I specifically said no one was to touch me during a game.”
Disgusted, Quinton abruptly rose from the table. The chips closest to the edge tottered, then spilled down, a shower of blues and golds spreading along the richly carpeted floor. He glared accusingly at Goodman. His losses during the course of the evening had placed him more than a million dollars in debt, a great portion of that to the house.
Losing always enraged him. “My luck’s ruined for the evening. The game is over.”
Goodman knew better than to argue with him. A man’s luck was precious, and if he felt it had turned sour, then there would be no coaxing him back to a table until such time as he felt it had changed.
. Perspiration appeared on the manager’s brow. Whitney began to feel sorry for him. And to really loathe Quinton. But at least the torture of watching Zane play was over.
Zane rose. He had lost more than he had won, but the overall impact had not been too great. It helped not to be playing with his own money. Quietly, he came up to join Quinton. The man hardly appeared to notice. His attention was focused on Goodman and the butler.
The manager looked around the table to see if any of the other players could be subtly coaxed into remaining. But the atmosphere in the room had altered, and all thought it was best to call it a night. They could return tomorrow, when luck had had sufficient time to reaffirm its loyalties.
There was bad karma in the room now. Gamblers knew better than to come up against bad karma. No one was the winner then.
“Very well, sir.” The manager signaled for the other butlers to begin clearing the room. To him remained the task of having Quinton make good on his marker. His experience with the man had taught him that if Quinton didn’t settle up within twenty-four hours, collection might take anywhere from six months to a year, if at all.
If he’d had hair, it would have long since turned gray.
His job, at the moment, was to make himself available to Quinton for as long as the man needed. Quinton had lost a considerable sum. Provided that he made good the debt, Zanadu would eagerly await his return. All that meant smoothing over any hard feelings.
He hurried out of the room in Quinton’s wake, subtly elbowing Zane out of the way. The latter, he knew, was only in the entourage of a high roller, not one himself. Goodman had been around the breed long enough to know the difference.
“I’m very sorry, sir. It should not have happened. I assure you that the man will be severely reprimanded for his thoughtlessness.”
Quinton stopped in the lobby, turning on his heel. The look on his face was so dark that Whitney found herself pitying Sally tonight.
“I want him fired,” Quinton retorted. “He ruined my luck and my evening and I want him fired. Do I make myself clear?” Though they were of approximately equal height, Quinton gave the appearance of being taller than Goodman. And far more lethal. “Not transferred, not talked to, not docked. Fired. Tonight.”
“Sir, please—”
Quinton was unmovable. Not even the fear he saw in the other’s eyes diverted him. His losses had been too great and too irritating.
“Tonight,” he growled.
Defeated, Goodman surrendered. “It’ll be taken care of.”
Incensed at the injustice and appalled that a silly superstition could cost a man his job, Whitney opened her mouth to intervene. She had no idea what she was going to say, only that she wanted to let Quinton know how small a man she thought he was.
She felt Zane’s fingers press warningly on her arm, aborting her words before they had a chance to form.
Whitney blew out a breath, annoyed that Zane didn’t rise to the occasion and that he didn’t want her to, either. She hadn’t thought of him as a moral coward. But then, Whitney reminded herself, she really didn’t know him, did she?
Quinton waved the manager away. Goodman withdrew, clearly grateful to be out of the line of fire.
It was redirected at Zane. Whitney could almost feel Quinton reloading. “So, where were you?”
Zane did his best under fire. “Right across from you, Mr. Quinton.”
Quinton didn’t know if Russell had guts or just mush for brains. “You two were supposed to be my good-luck charms. Maybe you’re getting a little tarnished.”
Did that mean that they were free of this ridiculous obligation? Whitney certainly hoped so. “You can’t really think that we brought you luck, or that that man touching you jinxed it.” To her it was all a ploy on Quinton’s part, an excuse, a way to blame others for what went wrong.
She didn’t realize what she was up against. “Whit,” Zane warned.
“I have more money than the entire population of Rhode Island. That gives me the right to think any damn thing I please.” Taking a breath, Quinton appeared to temporarily check his anger. Frowning, he looked out at the casino floor, not seeing any of the crowd that was milling around. “When a man’s luck changes, he’s got to change some other things to make it come back.” Quinton turned to look at them pointedly.
It sounded like a convoluted philosophy, but Zane knew that Quinton believed it. He was beginning to get that itchy sensation at the back of his neck again.
“Such as?” Zane asked guardedly.
Quinton’s eyes turned steely. They were eyes that could appreciate the beauty of a fine, rare painting or a sunset. They were also eyes that could watch a man twist and squirm, pleading for his life. Eyes that could watch a man die.
“Our deal,” he replied coolly.
Zane braced himself. “You want to terminate it?” He was going to have to do some fancy talking to change Quinton’s mind. It couldn’t just all go up in smoke now. Not after all they’d been through.
“On the contrary, I want to escalate it.” Quinton’s eyes shifted so that they were exclusively on Whitney. “Tonight.”
She didn’t understand. What was going on? How could the deal go through tonight? Weren’t they talking about developing Quinton’s property, building tracts of homes on it? How could any of that be settled tonight?
Zane’s mind began to race. He had to get in contact with Sheridan. “I don’t have the money here.”
His smile was cold. “We’ve already established that. But it is somewhere else, right?”
Though he was looking at Quinton, Zane was not oblivious to the fact that the man’s two bodyguards were moving closer. “Yes.”
“Where you can get your hands on it.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command.
Zane felt his throat growing dry. This was going sour. He had to get Whitney somewhere safe. “Yes.”
The smile on Quinton’s face turned ugly. “Then I suggest you get your hands on it.”
He wasn’t ready for it to be tonight. Everything was set for tomorrow at noon. Somehow, he was going to have to bluff his way out of it. Zane reached for Whitney’s hand.
“All right, I’ll just—”
Quinton’s hand was faster. He caught Whitney’s wrist, pulling it out of Zane’s grasp.
The Amnesiac Bride Page 17
