When she reached the poker tables, she scanned for one with a $25 minimum. Not too small potatoes, but nowhere near a high-roller location. She settled in with two other players, an older couple, both decked out in matching Hawaiian shirts and sipping on gigantic Pina Coladas.

  Placing a $100 bill on the green felt of the table, she nodded a hello to the dealer. He was dressed in a simple yet classy black shirt with a tan vest. “Change please.”

  He slid four green-and-white chips to her, tucked the cash into a drawer, and began dealing.

  “Welcome to our game. We’re celebrating our thirtieth anniversary,” the woman said in a cheery voice, flashing a bright smile at Julia.

  Raising an invisible glass, Julia toasted to the couple. “To another thirty. The best is yet to come,” she said.

  The woman dropped her hand on top of her husband’s, bumping shoulders with him and planting a kiss on his cheek. Julia smiled to herself, glad that her poker companions were a happy couple rather than a coterie of Charlie’s plants, brought in to pad the game as she took down unsuspecting high-rollers. There was none of that here. She was playing without a net, playing for fun.

  The way it should be.

  * * *

  He watched from a set of stairs by the entrance to the private club. The steps were bathed in the soft, golden glow from the bar lighting. Blending into the scenery in his Allegro-issued pit boss dress-pants and shirt, one hip rested against the brass railing on the stairs as he folded his arms over his sturdy chest.

  The redhead was here.

  He’d known she was coming. He’d gotten word from the front desk. She was on a list—a list that he checked regularly, and had his associates monitor too. A known hustler, she was one of the most wanted in the country. Rumor was that she had some kind of magic touch. Could take down nearly anyone. She was probably a card counter, too. He’d get closer soon enough, see if he could pick up on the telltale signs from her eyes. The very best card counters were hard to pinpoint, that was the point; their leopard spots blended into a thousand other leopards, whether it was the fanny packs on their waists to appear like other tourists, or the high-class designer clothes to seem like the big spenders. But if you knew what you were looking for, if you studied those bastards closely, you could find the cheating in their eyes, and in their foreheads. The Botoxed effect, he called it, because that kind of rocket-speed counting came from intense concentration. Their eyes would be steady, and focused, their brain fixed on numbers, and the net effect of that was visible in the forehead—no furrowed brows in the best of the best. They counted without the evidence on their face, so the evidence lay in the frozen stoicism of their features.

  It was all the easier to blend in when you were engaged in conversation with tablemates, and this hot piece of work had made fast friends with the silver-haired couple in their palm-treed shirts. Had she known them already? Were they her sidekicks? Plants to camouflage her hustle? He’d have to talk to the dealer later; see if he picked up on anything from her. For now, she was flashing wide smiles full of straight white teeth to the couple at her table. Then, she turned her focus back to her cards, appraising her hand, and laying down a bet.

  Ten minutes later, she’d doubled her money, scooped up eight green-and-white chips, and waved goodbye to the couple. He pressed a finger against the Bluetooth device in his ear, quickly ringing up one of his colleagues.

  “I need you to keep an eye on her. See where she goes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hung up without another word.

  Tucking the chips into a small purse, the redhead walked away from the table, her fine ass in those tight blue jeans looking quite the fodder for a shower jerk. He bet she liked it hard. He bet she liked things done to that fantastic ass. He’d love to yank down those jeans, run his hands over her smooth flesh, give her some of what he had packing. She’d probably never had it as good as what he could do.

  Then he nearly smacked his wandering mind. He wasn’t here for his dick. He had a job to do, and she was getting in the way of it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Friday, 2:12 p.m., Las Vegas

  A light breeze rippled across the cool blue waters of the pool, sleek and elegant with dark stone and classy wooden lounge chairs that surrounded it. A wrought-iron fence on one end sealed off the rooftop pool, but you could peer over it six stories below and watch the crowds roll by along the Strip, packs of sightseers and throngs of conventioneers jamming down the sidewalks of the city, popping in and out of the hotels and shopping malls that beckoned to them.

  The warm air rustled her hair, blowing a few strands across her cheek. She pushed it back, then took a drink of her iced tea. Tad had an iced water. She wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t drinking. It was a business meeting, after all. What surprised her was his teetotaling attitude. When the waitress had stopped by the high table where they perched on cushions on bamboo stools, he’d held up his hands and waved off the idea of liquor like it was a virus.

  “Oh no, I never drink,” he’d said.

  Julia had wanted to make a joke about his age, but she’d bit her tongue. He did look like his mom drove him to the meeting—he had a tiny nose, the smooth, baby-face of a pre-teen and the skinny body of a boy barely in puberty. Add in the towhead blond hair, and she’d have carded him in a heartbeat at Speakeasy. But she knew from researching him in advance that he was twenty-nine, and the son of the company’s chief marketing officer.

  She’d gleaned too, from spending a few minutes with him that he was serious. Intensely serious. He placed his hands together, and she did the same. Tad’s all-business persona made her mirror him: serious, straightforward, and focused.

  “As you know, Ms. Bell,” he began, and Julia stifled a small laugh, because no one ever called her Ms. Bell. “We want to expand your role at Farrell Spirits. The Purple Snow Globe has been a big hit.” He proceeded to rattle off numbers and percentages that thrilled her. She was proud of her drink-baby; consumers loved it, and stores had picked it up and stocked it, then sold out of it.

  “I am delighted that it’s been doing right by you, and I so appreciate you taking a chance on my drink.”

  He held up his hands in deference. “No chance taken there. You deserve all the credit for creating it. In fact, our market research tells us that consumers both love the drink, and you. They want to know more about you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Market research about me?”

  “Not exactly about you. But the beverage, and what they like. Of course, they love the taste, but they also like you—the article Glen Mills ran about discovering your drink was one of the most popular in his magazine and drove hundreds of thousands of views online. We’ve been tracking the reviews and write-ups in blogs and across cocktail sites for those who try the drink in person at Speakeasy in New York. The bottom line is—they want more of you.”

  “Why on earth would someone want more of me?”

  He furrowed his brow at her as if her question didn’t compute. He reached inside his briefcase, took out a stack of papers, and stabbed his finger at it. “Because they call you the beautiful bartender. Because they like your . . .” He paused to read the notes again. “. . . charm. Your confidence. Your conversations.”

  He looked up as an extremely tall man in a black suit passed behind the table, sunglasses shielding his eyes. “After crunching the numbers and running a P&L, we’ve concluded that we can grow the Purple Snow Globe business significantly if the drink and you become synonymous,” he said linking his fingers together as if to demonstrate.

  She couldn’t resist. She simply couldn’t not touch that. “So they want to drink me?” she asked in a sexy purr.

  A blush crossed over his baby cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Poor guy. She’d been too bawdy when this young man clearly needed the safe-for-work Julia. “No, it’s okay. My apologies.”

  He took a deep breath, perhaps recalibrating. “So, we’d like you to appear in some ads, in the marketing materials, maybe even a TV spot, and on the packaging. We think it can help skyrocket the product even further, and we’re prepared to pay handsomely for the additional role we’d be asking you to take on,” he said, then shared a number that nearly made her jaw drop. But she’d mastered the poker face long ago, and it came in handy here as she gave a curt nod and let him continue. “There’s only one stipulation,” he said, then cleared his throat.

  Ah, the fine print. There was always a hoop to jump through. “And that stipulation is?”

  “It’s a morals clause,” he said, in a firm tone.

  “Morals? I’m a good girl,” she said, reverting back to jokes. But inside, she started spinning. Why on earth would he be concerned about her morals?

  “I’m sure you’re pristine, but the reason I bring this up is we are a spirits company, and while that may seem on the surface that we’re loose and fast, we actually have to be quite buttoned-up about the law, and the rules.”

  “I assure you, Tad. I am over twenty-one,” she said, flashing him a playful smile, because what the hell was he hinting at?

  He returned her smile, not showing any teeth. “I am referring to who you associate with. The people you consort with. As I understand, you were involved with Dillon Whittaker, and he is now in prison for tax evasion,” he said. Her shoulders tightened and she gritted her teeth just from hearing the name of her ex. The fucker was finally behind bars where he belonged and she so did not need him messing with her future.

  “Dillon is not a part of my life at all,” she said crisply.

  Tad nodded. “That is good to hear. Our spokespeople need to be above reproach. We would still like you to sign this morals clause to ensure that you uphold a proper reputation, including but not limited to no public intoxication, and no involvement with any sort of criminal element.”

  She held her breath, waiting for him to breathe Charlie’s name, the mobster she’d previously owed money to. But perhaps only the Dillon connection had been flagged? Would Farrell have any way of knowing that she’d pretty much been in the mob’s back pocket when she lived in San Francisco? She’d had no choice, of course. She wasn’t a mob wife—she was a woman who’d been screwed over by an ex and had clawed her way out of that trouble. She resented the implication that she was a cause for concern for Farrell, so she strapped on her best tough-chick smile, and said, “I am squeaky clean, Mr. Herman. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  She took the papers and said farewell to him as he gathered his bag and phone. As soon as he was out of sight, she ordered a big, fat drink. She crossed her arms over her chest, still huffing at Tad’s not-so-subtle finger-jabbing.

  She stared at the water, trying to let it calm her, and the cool sheet of blue soon became a balm to her frustrations. The sun beat down overhead, warming her skin, and reminding her to let it go. Tad’s attitude wasn’t what mattered here. She had a golden chance to expand her role as a business partner with Farrell and she’d be downright exemplary. She wasn’t a criminal, she didn’t have a record, and she played by the rules.

  She uncrossed her arms and breathed out, imagining her frustrations blowing away in the breeze.

  She surveyed the other pool-goers, mostly packs of single women in barely-there bikinis and groups of bachelor-party-esque men moving in to hit on them. Off in the distance she noticed someone who didn’t fit either bill—the tall man in the suit who’d walked past her table earlier. He was parked on the other side of the pool, alone: no iPad in front of him, no phone in his hands, and dressed for the shade rather than the sun. She couldn’t tell where he was looking, but when her spine tingled like a warning, she had the distinct feeling that he was watching her. His attire reminded her of Charlie, who’d dressed in black suits. Was he part of Charlie’s crew? Maybe the Vegas arm of his operations?

  Oh shit.

  Her mind went racing at sixty miles per hour. Charlie had to have sent someone to check up on her. In a flash, she rose from the stool, and made her way out of the pool area, and into an indoor hall, forgetting about the waiter bringing her the drink. As nerves prickled over her skin, she picked up the pace, making a beeline for the elevators. Glancing behind her once, her eyes latched onto a flash of black fabric, then it was gone. She spun around, hunting for the man in the suit who’d been watching her. Where was he? She didn’t see him anywhere.

  Maybe he’d darted down a dark hallway out of sight. Perhaps, he was lying in wait for her. Ready to pounce.

  She picked up the pace.

  Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she was imagining things, but her heart was beating a frantic rhythm. As soon as she reached the room, she called Clay, locking the door, and bolting it shut as his number rang.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Friday, 2:36 p.m., Los Angeles

  He hated ignoring Julia, but his client was in tears.

  Tears of happiness, but still. He didn’t want to be a dick, and cut Grant off while the man was having his moment. Besides, Julia was probably calling to share good news about her Farrell meeting, and good news could keep for five more minutes.

  “Grant, I couldn’t be happier for you. This is what we wanted—to get you back in the saddle,” Clay said as the cab driver dodged and darted L.A. traffic.

  “My wife is crying too. She’s so damn happy,” Grant said in a blubbery voice that pulled even harder at Clay’s heartstrings.

  “I’m just sorry we couldn’t get Comedy Nation to go up. Had to take a bit of a hit on some points, but Gino’s a tough one,” Clay said, deliberately softening his report on the negotiations. Gino wasn’t merely a tough one—that was a euphemism. Gino was an asshole. A grade-A, top-choice, piece of fucking work that reminded him of an angry gorilla in a suit. Come to think of it, Gino looked a bit like a gorilla too with hair everywhere. Clay chuckled to himself at that picture, and it did wonders to tamp down his anger over being shoved into a corner during that deal.

  “Don’t apologize,” Grant said. “I wanted this deal no matter what, and you got it for me. That’s what matters. I would have taken half the money and still happily signed, so there. You should feel like you doubled my money.”

  Clay smiled, and already Gino’s jackass ways were fading into the rearview mirror. “All right. He’s sending me the contract, and I’ll take a final look Monday morning and then send you a digital copy to sign. You go out and celebrate with your wife. Give her my best.”

  “I will. And if there’s ever anything I can do for you, let me know. I owe you big time,” Grant said. “Now aren’t you supposed to be in Vegas this weekend?”

  “I am. And I should be there in about an hour. Talk to you soon,” he said, hanging up just as an email landed in his inbox from Etsy. The screen flashed the message—Package en route to Allegro Hotel. Will bring to room by seven p.m.

  Damn.

  That wouldn’t do. He’d have to get back in touch with the buyer and have the box left at the front desk, as he’d specified when he placed the same-day delivery order. But first things first. He wanted to talk to Julia, so he clicked on her number.

  When she answered, her voice sounded strained.

  “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” she said.

  “Wait. Something is wrong?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know,” she said, a worried sigh following her. “I’m probably overreacting or freaking out, and you’re going to laugh at me, but I promised you I’d be honest with you and not hide things,” she started, and he was both thrilled that she continued to lay her heart on the line every day, but also nervous about where she was going. Words like freaking out and hide things weren’t his favorites. Call him crazy, but they didn’t usually signal the good stuff in life. But still, given the troubles they’d had in the past over truths and lies, he needed to be supportive.

  “What is it Julia? I’m not going to laugh,” he said gently, as the cab hopped over a lane, then sped down the exit ramp leading to the Van Nuys airport where the jet was waiting for him.

  “Okay, so I was just with Tad from Farrell at the poolside bar, and when the meeting ended I had the weirdest sensation that there was a guy watching me.”

  “I take it you mean more than checking you out because you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire city of sin?”

  She didn’t even laugh at his compliment, or sass him back. “No. I felt his eyes on me. Like the guy was watching me and following me, Clay. When I left and walked down the hallway to the elevators, I swore he was behind me. I turned around, but he must have moved so quickly because then he was gone.”

  “Well that’s good that he was gone,” Clay said as they passed a sign for the airport.

  “But do you think . . .” she said, letting her voice trail off and he knew what she meant.

  “That it was one of Charlie’s men?” he supplied.

  “Maybe?” she offered up, uncertain, unsure.

  “I doubt it, Julia. Charlie, strangely enough, is a man of his word. He said he’d leave you alone. Was it just hotel security, maybe?”

  “Maybe,” she said but didn’t sound convinced. “I did sit down at one of the poker tables before the meeting. Met a sweet couple from Florida celebrating their anniversary. I played a few hands and won all of them, and they didn’t even blanch when I took their money. Even asked me to teach them how to play better.”

  He laughed. “Of course you won. And now the Allegro is probably watching out for the newest poker shark in town, so the casino will have eyes on you.”

  “I suppose it was nothing then,” she said, and she seemed to believe it this time.

  “It has to be nothing. There’s no reason for anyone to follow you. Besides, Charlie’s been expanding into New York, and we’ve never had any trouble there. I don’t want you to worry, and I would never say you’re worrying for nothing, but I think it’s just that this hotel is teeming with security. Brent even told me so. New hotel, high-end, lots of money coming through. He has some friends that run security firms in Vegas and they were practically tripping over themselves to get the contract. His buddy won the contract though, so let me call Brent, and I’m sure he’ll say the same. That it’s nothing but the hotel having extra precautions with all the attention it’s getting,” he said, swaying to the right as the driver took a sharp turn on the road to the airport.