Skin Game

by Ann Aguirre

  Tonight, however, he trusted that she wanted him. Alarm and excitement warred for supremacy as he began to move, gentle strokes into her that made him feel as though she did the taking, sinking hooks deep into his heart. Reyes ran his hands over her body, caressing her breasts and belly until she arched beneath his hands like a cat.

  He knew the instant she roused to full wakefulness, swiftly confirmed by her murmured, “Mmm. So it’s not a dream.”

  “No,” he managed huskily.

  “That’s good. Can we . . .?” In answer, he angled her hips slightly, pushing her forward for stronger thrusts. “Yeah, that. Exactly.”

  His breath came faster as he took her with fierce tenderness. He had to be closer than she was so he found her clit with his fingers, jacking her intensity to match his own. They came together, shuddering, with only the quiet rasp of their breathing to mark the moment. It surprised him how much he wanted to hear his name on her lips . . . and she didn’t even know, at least not in its entirety. He’d almost forgotten his name wasn’t Rey.

  Reyes rolled away to dispose of the condom, and then he reached for her again, so needy that it frightened him. She curled into him, arm across his waist. It wasn’t that he wanted to screw her again—although he did—it was that he simply craved her closeness. He wanted to lie with her in the half-light and listen to her breathe, inhaling her scent.

  It was totally fucked up. Now he could only see one way to end her, assuming he wanted to complete the job. He’d cup her head in his hands, bestow one final kiss, and then twist. Clean. Fast. She wouldn’t feel much pain. Contrary to what he’d thought before, it had to be up close and personal, however great his distaste.

  He didn’t want to, but he’d taken money for this job. He couldn’t throw away years of work, establishing himself as the go-to man who always got the job done. He couldn’t walk away from this job with his reputation intact; Foster would see to that.

  Maybe there was some middle ground, some acceptable compromise.

  But he doubted it.

  No, if he let Kyra live, he had to commit to her cause. It would be all or nothing. Could he do that for a con woman with even less a sense of responsibility than he had? Did he want to?

  “That was amazing,” she said dreamily, rubbing her cheek against his chest.

  Reyes gazed down at her face, studying the fans her lashes made against freckled cheeks. “I hope you didn’t mind . . . I couldn’t wait for you to wake up.”

  She smiled. “I think that’s the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.”

  His heart clenched. “That’s pretty sad.”

  Her expression clouded. “It is, isn’t it?” Kyra dipped her chin, hiding her face from him then. Her words came out soft and abashed, muffled by his skin. “I think I’m falling in love with you. I’m probably not supposed to say it first because you’ll get all panicky thinking about mortgages or something, but . . . it’s true. And I get fed up with telling people what they want to hear. I won’t do that with you.”

  Each word struck him like a fist in the chest, and he couldn’t get his breath, not because he was freaked out by the idea of a mortgage—he owned his condo free and clear—but she’d given of herself so freely when he knew how closely she guarded her emotions. Hell, she wasn’t even used to being touched.

  And he was going to use that against her.

  “Are you saying you trust me?” he asked quietly.

  Kyra considered that and then nodded. “Yeah. You’ve been straight with me, told me things nobody else knows about you. You saved my life, and you listened when everyone else thinks I’m full of shit.”

  “Then don’t you think it’s time you leveled with me?” It was a calculated risk, but there would never come a more opportune moment.

  “What makes you think I haven’t?” She immediately went on the defensive, a tactic most liars utilized.

  “Your eyes slide ever so slightly over my left shoulder instead of making direct contact when you lie.” He’d noticed she didn’t do it with other people, which told him she didn’t enjoy deceiving him. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I’m just somebody you picked up along the road, but realize I know you haven’t been honest with me.” Now she’d think he hadn’t confessed like feelings due to her lack of faith in him. Reyes understood how women thought, and he held the silence and then added, “You know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does,” she said. “You’re right. I have my reasons for keeping quiet, nothing to do with you. But know this . . . you’re not a throwaway fuck to me.”

  He gathered her close. “You aren’t to me, either.”

  It wasn’t a declaration of love, but it was the closest she’d ever get from him. Now the seeds had been planted; he just needed to wait for them to bear fruit.

  CHAPTER 17

  Serrano never put all his eggs in one basket.

  He would’ve given a lot to see Foster’s face when the man realized he knew about his secret visits to the nursing home; then he’d know exactly how valuable the information was. Regardless, it never hurt to have leverage over somebody. He couldn’t have Foster thinking he ran things. Trouble started that way.

  Foster’s efficiency couldn’t be questioned, however. Serrano already had a dossier on his desk, detailing Ricci and Pasternak’s financial peccadilloes. He skimmed, underlining the more interesting transactions. Then he tapped his pen, thoughtful. There was something almost erotic about controlling someone else’s fate. He didn’t let himself think past that because he’d had some ridiculous, romantic idea about marrying a woman who was a virgin on their wedding night. Ruthlessly, he refocused his attention, refusing to acknowledge the bitter humiliation that lay beneath the surface.

  Based on the patterns, it looked to him like the idiots at the Pair-A-Dice were laundering for somebody. Just as well, they lacked the brains to succeed at anything requiring more initiative. If he could figure out who they worked for, it might be more fun—and more devastating—to wreck that relationship. The IRS would mean possible jail time and loss of revenue, but criminals . . . well, they could be real animals.

  Serrano smiled as an idea came to him. He rang through to his assistant and told her, “Hold my calls and cancel my ten-thirty. I don’t want to see anyone today.”

  “Even Mr. Foster? He’ll be up in the evening to check in with you before he takes over for the night.”

  “Yeah, even Foster. As far as the world’s concerned, I’m in Barbados.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He made a few calls and worked through lunch. The faxes started coming through around noon, sources that owed him money and knew they’d better keep him happy. Serrano had Sandy bring him a sandwich and kept digging. A good brain had separated him from the rest of the punks in Philly, which was why they were dead and he was rich.

  By half past five, he had a good idea who Pasternak and Ricci worked for. He gathered up all the financial documents—illegal, of course—and stashed them in a briefcase, intending to have someone reputable validate his conclusions. At this hour, he knew where to find Bobby.

  Next, Serrano grabbed his coat and shrugged into it on the way out the door. Sandy had gone home at five, after poking a nervous head in the door to say good-bye to him. Generally, he would wait around until Foster arrived in the evening, exchange info, and then he’d head for home himself. Tonight he had another destination in mind.

  His driver came out of the bar as Serrano strode toward the doors. He shook his head at Tonio. “I won’t need you. You can take the night off.”

  “Really? Sweet.” The other man returned the way he’d come, presumably to finish a conversation he’d abandoned when he heard Serrano was on the way down.

  In the garage, the limo was parked next to his silver Lexus SC430. He had a whole section devoted to his cars, as he occupied the top floor of the casino. Tonight flash would be important, however. Sliding behind the wheel of an expensive sports car always m
ade him appreciate every dime.

  Traffic was heavy since he’d come out near rush hour. With the light spiking crimson over the palms, he made his way to a club at the outskirts of town. No tourist would ever find this place. From the outside, it looked like an office building—no neon, no flashing dice, no showgirls in silhouette, just a low-rise white building with mirrored windows. You had to flash a membership card to get into the lot, and if you got close to the building, it simply read “Farraday’s” in elegant copperplate on the brass plaque.

  Serrano flashed his card again at the door, where a uniformed servant became obsequious at seeing the VIP symbol beside his name. “The dining room just opened, sir. For dinner tonight we have lamb with rosemary-mint sauce.”

  That sounded good, but he hadn’t come for dinner. Whether he stayed depended on how his errand went. “Is Bobby here?”

  “At his usual table, sir.”

  He smiled his thanks and stepped past into an open space that borrowed heavily from exclusive gentleman’s clubs so popular in Victorian times. From the subtly patterned rug to the maroon leather chairs and heavy paneling, you expected to be surrounded with men in bowlers, bristling with mutton chops. Instead the patrons all shared a certain sharkish slickness.

  Serrano let his eyes adjust to the contrast between sunset brightness and oblique light thrown from strategically placed sconces. He found Bobby Rabinowitz without difficulty. The man was short and round with a balding fringe so neat it could’ve been a tonsure. In different times he would surely be wearing a rough brown robe and skimming from the parish take.

  Black framed spectacles sat on a short, broad nose, and rosacea spattered his round cheeks. He was also one of the few people who looked genuinely delighted anytime Gerard Serrano entered a room. He should since he’d been doing his books for the last ten years—and had made a pretty penny off them.

  “Ger,” Rabinowitz said, half-standing from the padded leather chair. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Please, sit. Do we have business?”

  Serrano patted his briefcase as he complied. “We do. But it can wait until you finish your dinner.”

  “Have you eaten? The lamb is to die for.”

  “I could eat,” he admitted.

  His accountant signaled for another plate. This wasn’t the kind of place where they offered a menu. If a person wanted buffet choices, he could go elsewhere. For the best cuts of meat and exquisite side dishes, a man came to Farraday’s, if he could afford the annual membership.

  A waiter spread a snowy white napkin in his lap, something that always made Serrano slightly uneasy. The wrong sort of guy could take advantage of that proximity, and not just in a gay way. It would be fast and easy to slip up to somebody, stoop to serve, and stick a knife in his neck. He didn’t relax until the man moved off by a good ten feet, leaving him with Bobby.

  Rabinowitz waited until they’d brought him a plate of lamb with artichoke and new potatoes on the side and then resumed his own meal. They made small talk while they ate, as he’d learned the hard way that gentlemen never put business before good food. There was a time and place for such things; money matters went perfectly with cigars and cognac, for instance.

  After they cleared the table, Serrano lit up a Black Dragon cigar and leaned back in his chair, exhaling in a perfect circle. Bobby enjoyed that little trick. The bean counter didn’t smoke, but he liked the smell.

  “So what did you bring me?” Rabinowitz asked, practically rubbing his hands together. “Fodder for a tax shelter? Shell corporation? Dummy import/export business? I could use something juicy. Work’s been dull lately.”

  “I think,” he said, pushing the briefcase across the table, “this might be better.”

  Bobby snatched it up, nearly pegging a waiter who’d brought a silver tray full of coffee fixings and flavored liqueurs. Serrano accepted a shot of espresso and waved the rest away. He sat, patient, while the other man read.

  At last Rabinowitz looked up. “Where did you get all this?”

  He raised his brows. “You really want to know?”

  “Better if I don’t, actually, so I’ll ask a different question. To whom do these records pertain?”

  “Ricci and Pasternak.”

  “So you figured out that they’re working for the Armenians now?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I wanted you to double-check the paper trail. I might make a mistake in following the patterns, but you never do.”

  The other man looked positively cherubic. “Everybody has a gift. That’s mine. But damn . . . the Armenians—”

  “Split from Odessa in 2006,” he supplied. “Odessa has San Fran locked up. The Armenians took L.A., and they’re rolling east.”

  The other man whistled. “Shit. This is a landmine, Ger. If we found this info, anybody else could. It could start a real bloody turf war, if the wrong people found out. What do you want to do about it?”

  The old Vegas was gone, no question. Mobsters no longer ran the casinos, at least on paper. Everything was corporate-held, but corporations had officers; there was a hierarchy, in fact, and Bobby Rabinowitz was his CFO on paper. A guy could order his business according to the old ways if he wanted to, give thugs titles such as, Vice President of Marketing for breaking heads, and pay everybody a fat executive salary.

  “An excellent question,” he said, smiling. “But I have some ideas.”

  As Rabinowitz ate a slice of pie, he outlined them.

  Mia Sauter looked as lovely as she had the day before, but this time she sported a lemon pantsuit paired with a retro silk blouse. On anyone else, the pattern would be too bold, but with her dark coloring, she pulled it off. She wore her lustrous dark hair pulled into a complex and daring chi gnon, no doubt intending to convey the message that she intended to be all business with him, but she was showing a little too much cleavage for the hairstyle to be compellingly persuasive.

  “I don’t remember agreeing to date you,” Mia snapped, as Foster strode up.

  He didn’t smile. “This isn’t a date. We broke off our discussion yesterday so you could sleep, and I worked last night. Today we should be able to complete our business.”

  For the last five minutes, he’d watched her waiting with ill-concealed impatience outside the Venetian. She was agitated; he could tell that. Despite what he’d said the day before, he hadn’t terminated their discussion due to her exhaustion. Foster had wanted to give her another day to stew, worrying about what might be happening to her friend. It was a trouble-free way to soften her up. He always liked to begin negotiations from a position of strength.

  He signaled the valet, who hadn’t even bothered to park his car. Foster tipped him well and set off without waiting to see whether Mia would follow. The answer was obvious, and when she slammed into the car beside him, he smiled. Since he kept it well maintained, the Altima purred to life.

  “I’m starting to actively dislike you,” she muttered.

  “And here I’ve gone to such trouble to make myself pleasant,” he returned with a delicately ironic inflection. “I hate wasted effort.”

  She subsided into silence that might have seemed sullen if he hadn’t caught her twisting her purse straps in a subtle manifestation of her anxiety. Good. That meant Mia took the situation seriously. She should. They left the Strip behind, taking Las Vegas Boulevard to Flamingo and then he headed for I-15.

  “Where are we going?”

  Given how much trouble her friend was in, she’d trusted him too readily. Lucky for her, damage to Mia Sauter didn’t fit into his agenda. No, she was a means to an end.

  “My apartment,” he said briefly.

  “No. Oh no. I want to do this somewhere public. For all I know, Kyra went off with you and nobody’s seen her since.”

  Foster smiled. “You should have thought of that before you got into my car.”

  He accelerated as they merged onto the interstate. Beside him, she stiffened, dark eyes wide and livid with fear. “Stop. Pull over and let me out.”
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br />   “You know I can’t do that.” Foster pointed at a “no stopping, standing, or parking” sign as they blew past. “Not here. Shortly I’ll be taking 215 toward McCarran. From there I’ll exit at Stephanie Street, which is about a mile from my apartment. If you still want to leave, I’ll drop you off at a gas station. I’m not going to make you talk to me.”

  “You promise?”

  What value she thought his promises had, Foster couldn’t imagine, but he nodded nonetheless. Her panic seemed to scale back. He drove in silence, tracking her body language in his peripheral vision.

  “We’re almost there,” he said eventually. “Are we doing this or not?”

  Mia parried with: “Why does it have to be your apartment?”

  “Honestly? It’s the one place I’m sure we won’t be overheard. And I can’t risk being seen with you.” It was an intentional swipe at her feminine vanity, but she didn’t respond to that portion of what he’d said.

  “You think somebody might be spying on you?”

  “I have reliable evidence,” he muttered, thinking of his monitored visits.

  “Then it has to be your place,” she decided. “I can’t put Kyra at risk.”

  Nice. Loyal.

  In response, he navigated the last mile to his apartment, checked the parking lot, and then led the way up the stairs. On the surface, everything appeared quiet. Nothing seemed to have been touched, but looks could be deceiving.

  “Don’t move,” he whispered to her. “I mean it, stay right here.”

  While she watched in bewilderment, he went through the rooms, checking all the little traps and landmines that he left for anybody who might be dumb enough to break in. In the bedroom he found the thread he always tied across the threshold snapped. It was so thin, nobody would feel it break, but somebody had been here.