“Really?”

  “Pretty much. Cam did a check on him. He goes to church every Sunday. He volunteers at the local homeless shelter. And he has a prior for—get this—” Clay stopped to pause because it was funny as hell “—shoplifting.”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed as she spread lotion on her legs, fabulously on display in sexy black shorts. “Are you kidding me?”

  He held up his hands. “I kid you not. Cam just sent me the details. Happened when Tad was in college in Florida.”

  “Let me guess. He was lifting an Almond Joy from the local supermarket?”

  “Nope. It’s better than that. Brace yourself,” he said, leaning against the door as she looped the cord around the hairdryer. “The man stole a bottle of Bacardi from the liquor store.”

  She burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s fabulous. He steals rum and then goes on to work for a liquor company. How did that get past HR at Farrell?”

  “I’m going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing there are no background checks when your daddy works for the company.”

  Laughter continued to ring through the hotel suite. But then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. Julia’s face turned serious as she reached for her watch, sliding it onto her wrist like an elastic bracelet. She’d always said she hated watches that fastened like belts, or required loops and clasps. Funny, how a person who didn’t mind being restrained in bed had such strong opinions on other kinds of restraints. “Wait,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t be laughing. Maybe he really is this good, upstanding guy now. Reformed and all. It’s possible, right?”

  He nodded. “Of course. It’s entirely possible. Or it’s entirely possible that he’s the morals police because he has something to hide. Either way, I’ll talk to him on Monday. But I don’t think it’s a problem to sign the addendum anyway. It’s about future behavior. It’s not some retroactive clause, so they don’t have a say over your past connections with Charlie. It’s all about the future.”

  “Let’s just hope those guys I thought were tailing me aren’t working for Charlie then. I don’t want to be suspected by association,” she said, as she grabbed a small tin of lip balm from her makeup case, then swiped some of it on her lips before dropping the tin into her back pocket of her linen shorts.

  “They’re not following you. It’s just hotel security. Brent checked for me.”

  “All right, are you ready to go play some poker? Because I’ve been jonesing to play with you all week,” she said, reaching for his shirt collar and tapping her fingers against it. “Let’s hit the tables and win some money.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, gesturing to the door when his phone rang.

  Unknown number.

  He pumped a mental fist at Brent’s ability to go covert. Then, he did his best acting. Let his shoulders sag slightly. Turned his mouth into a hard, frustrated frown.

  “Damn. It’s Gino. From Comedy Nation,” he said to Julia, then gestured to the phone. “I gotta take this.” He answered. “Clay Nichols here.”

  Brent adopted his best asshole TV executive voice. “Hey dickhead. We gotta talk about this piece-of-shit contract. I had my cat pee on it this weekend because that’s what it’s worth to me.”

  Clay did everything to keep a straight face. “Hold on one second,” he said, then placed his hand over the phone. “Go downstairs and play a few hands, okay? This’ll take me fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. But I need to get it ironed out. I promise I’ll be there soon.”

  “Of course,” she said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek, then grabbing her clutch purse from the foyer table, and waving a sexy goodbye. “See you in twenty minutes.”

  “Text me. Let me know where to find you,” he whispered.

  She blew him a kiss and mouthed I will, and he followed her to the door, holding it open, and planting a quiet kiss on her lips. He waved goodbye as she walked down the hall and pressed the down button for the elevator.

  Once the door shut, he returned to his brother. “Okay, where are you?”

  “On the twentieth floor. Stairwell. I have the ring and the necklace.”

  “Come up in two minutes. She’s getting in the elevator right now.”

  Soon, his brother was in the room with him and Clay set his eyes on the ring he was going to put on Julia’s finger any minute. The damn thing near blinded him it was so bright.

  Perfect. He slid it into his pocket, along with the necklace.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Saturday, 1:12 p.m., Las Vegas

  She was feeling lucky today. But she wasn’t going to base her decision on which table to choose on something as capricious as that.

  Luck was here one minute, gone the next. A snap of the fingers, a wink of the eye, and luck drained faster than an iPhone battery. She had more than luck on her side. She had smarts, freedom, and most of all confidence, and she planned to use that full suite of tools as she tackled the tables. Weaving her way through the rattling of the roulette balls and the rolling of the craps dice, she fixed her eyes on the pai gow table ahead, and beyond that on the $100 minimum land. She’d had a good summer at Speakeasy, and her checks had been cashing quite nicely from the Purple Snow Globe award and drink contract, so she could afford this little luxury—a Saturday afternoon round or two at the Allegro.

  At the pai gow table, a tall and terribly blond man walked behind the players, moving closer than someone usually does, and Julia narrowed her eyes, as if she could read him from several feet away. Something about him felt oddly familiar, even though she couldn’t see his face. It was the shape of his shoulders, the straw shade of his hair. Some kind of gumshoe instinct flared deep in her, and she picked up her pace, walking fast across the carpet in her heels. He slipped past the gamblers, lifting his right arm a few inches then back down. She caught his profile, and instantly a name touched down on her tongue. She was very nearly sure who he was . . . but then he turned more, his large nose coming into view. As he moved, he reminded her of an eel slinking through the marshes unseen. No one noticed him, but when he turned away from the table, she zeroed in on his hand as he slid something into his pocket. She wouldn’t want to finger-point in a court of law, but as a betting woman, she was willing to lay many chips down on the chance that he’d just pocketed a few that weren’t his own.

  She tried to follow him, race-walking past the dealer, around a beam, then down an aisle between the tables, but in seconds he was gone, probably lost in the crowd at the casino.

  Damn. She nearly stomped her foot. But then, what would she have done if she’d caught up to him? “Excuse me, is that a handful of chips in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

  Enough of her detective daydreams. Time to win some money for the hell of it.

  She glanced at her watch. One-fifteen. Clay would be here in fifteen more minutes. She double backed to her destination. Settling in on a high-backed stool, she texted Clay her whereabouts, collected her chips and began placing her bets. Ten minutes later, she was $1000 richer.

  God, she loved Vegas.

  “Excuse me, you must be the very lovely Julia Bell.”

  The voice was smooth and honeyed—like a velvet lounge singer she could listen to all night. She turned to the face behind the voice and if she weren’t madly in love with someone else, she might have found the man attractive. Magnetic amber eyes, a crooner’s voice, and a tall, athletic build, with Jon Hamm-esque hair, wavy and gelled.

  “Yes,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at his line. But then, she was practiced at this kind of resistance having grown accustomed to a wide assortment of come-on lines at her bar. “What can I do for you, Don Draper?”

  She couldn’t help it. He had the whole Mad Men five-o-clock shadow thing working in spades, right down to the suit.

  He shot her a smile, showing off nice, white teeth. “I am Dominic Stevenson, the floor manager here at the Allegro. I was sent here by a gentleman named Clay Nichols. He has arranged a special game for you in the VIP room. Would you do me the favor of allowing me to escort you to him?” The man held out his arm, crooking his elbow for Julia, like an escort at a debutante ball, ready to guide a young woman down the stairs to present her.

  She could barely contain her smile. She couldn’t help it. She was damn near grinning like a fool. This was the moment she’d been holding her breath for. He’d planned it perfectly like she knew he would, and had taken her by surprise. She’d never expected he’d pick a Saturday afternoon, and yet this was pure Clay. He’d wanted to give her back her love of poker with this trip, and for him to do it with such a grand gesture made her heart pound with joy for him. Everything added up, him sending her ahead, then setting this up for her. She didn’t want to take this moment for granted, so she reminded herself to savor every second. She catalogued everything—the way her veins rushed fast with hope, the way the hair on her arms rose with goosebumps, the excitement that thrummed loudly through her bones like a vibration as she stood up from the table and took the gentleman’s arm. She was eager, so very eager to see what her man had in store for her.

  It all made sense—wonderful, blissful, gorgeous, sexy sense—that he’d somehow concocted a way to get down on one knee in the VIP poker room. She couldn’t wait to say yes.

  “Is he there now?” she asked Dominic.

  “Yes. Ready for you,” he said. They rounded the corner and entered the private room. He gripped her arm harder and dug his fingers in. The edges of her watch scraped roughly against her wrist. She tried to pull her arm away, but his hand was now a steel vise, and he wouldn’t let go.

  “Excuse me,” she said, trying to wriggle out of his grip as they walked past an oval table and rich brown chairs, with opulent mirrors strategically angled to hide hands. “That’s a bit too rough. Can you let up?”

  “Not a chance in hell,” he said, and his voice was no longer honey. It was malice.

  Like a painful injection, all her excitement was erased, replaced by ice-cold fear coursing through her body as he clasped his hand over mouth, and shoved her hard through a doorway.

  Then locked the door.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Saturday, 1:34 p.m., Las Vegas

  The $100 table with the dealer with cropped black hair and one diamond earring.

  He read the text from her one more time, studying the message as if it would reveal a clue as to where she could possibly be.

  But there were only five $100 tables and he’d circled them fifty times each, looking for her. She was nowhere to be seen. He desperately wanted to believe he’d simply missed her.

  He returned to the table she was supposed to be at. The dealer nodded at him this time as he dealt to four players. It was an I-see-you-look, an I’m-memorizing-your-face look. Clay nodded back, and paced more, his eyes roaming the casino, scanning the tables, checking out the nooks and crannies, the bars, the lounge chairs. He paced like a caged lion. He was sure he’d have security swarming him any second because he looked suspicious as hell. Checking his watch. Checking his phone. Running his hand roughly through his hair. Dialing, over and over.

  He spun around in another circle, hunting for signs for the nearest ladies room. Hell, maybe she was taking a piss. A long fucking piss. He marched over to the sign, and waited twenty seconds until a woman with dark hair, kind eyes and laugh lines made a beeline for the restroom.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for my–” he paused for a split second, the words catching in his throat because he was about to say wife when he stopped himself. “–my date, and I was supposed to meet her ten minutes ago. Would you mind asking if there’s a Julia in the bathroom? Redhead, wearing black shorts and heels.”

  “Sure,” the woman said, but she gave him a look as if he were crazy to ask, pathetic maybe. A pathetic guy who’d been stood up. Maybe he was. Hell, he sounded like a desperate man who’d been ditched by a woman. But he knew that wasn’t the case.

  He waited and called her again. Five rings then voicemail. Maybe she’d turned it on vibrate during the game. Maybe she’d even turned down the volume, figuring that was proper poker behavior or something.

  But then, where was she? He held out hope that nature had called. That maybe she’d taken a long restroom trip.

  A minute later, the dark-haired woman with laugh lines emerged, patted him on the arm, and shook her head ruefully. “Sorry, hon. No one was in there. I hope you find your lady. And if she’s run out on you, you come find me and I’ll be happy to be your date,” she said, then winked at him and headed off.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, and shook his head at her proposition.

  He could case the joint for all the ladies rooms, but instead he marched right back to the table with the diamond-earringed dealer. After he laid the last card down, Clay cleared his throat, and said, “Excuse me.”

  The dealer looked at him, his face impassive. “Yes?”

  “Was there a redhead here a few minutes ago?” he asked then gave a quick description of Julia.

  The dealer nodded.

  “Any idea when she left? Where she went?”

  “Played a few hands. Took off a few minutes ago,” he said, his voice even, unreadable. Clay suspected dealers in Vegas were trained to reveal nothing—not while dealing, not while playing, and not when asked questions by patrons. Maybe even especially when asked by patrons.

  “Did she happen to say where she was going?” he pressed.

  “C’mon, man,” said one of the guys at the table. “She’s not here. Leave him alone so we can play.”

  Clay shot him a dirty look; a young, fratty guy who he wanted to punch for no rightful reason except that he was pissed, and worried, and starting to panic. He walked away from the table, looking for clues anywhere. He wanted the simple answer. The I-got-stuck-in-the-elevator answer. But as the minutes ticked by, those easy answers felt less likely. Unease deepened in his chest, spreading quickly like laundry soap overflowing from a washing machine.

  His mind raced in rewind over the last twenty-four hours—her worries about being followed, the men in the suits, the pilot and the trouble with the plane, his own sense of being watched last night, and most of all—Charlie. Angry, pissed-off, mad-as-hell Charlie.

  The dread in Clay grew roots, clawing through his organs, tearing up his insides like twisting, deadly weeds.

  He prayed for that simple answer, the I-had-to-take-an-unexpected-call-from-my-sister-and-I’m-so-sorry-it-worried-you answer. But deep down, he knew something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.

  Grabbing his phone, he started to dial Brent to ask to be put in touch with hotel security when Julia’s name flashed across his screen.

  He released ten thousand breaths and answered in a nanosecond.

  “Are you okay? Where are you?” he asked, not bothering to mask the worry.

  But it wasn’t Julia who was calling.

  * * *

  “How long have you been hustling here on my turf, Julia Bell? Just this weekend? Or have you been here longer?”

  She sneered at him. “I’m not hustling.”

  He smacked her shoulder. Not too hard, more like the swat a kid brother gave his sister, but still, she didn’t like it. Not one bit. They were in a small office behind the fancy VIP room, but it felt more like an interrogation cell given the circumstances.

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” she snarled, calling on her best poker skills because she didn’t want this man to smell her fear. That was all she had—faking it. Inside, she was quivering, but she’d been trained—unintentionally—by the best of them. Being Charlie Stravinsky’s pawn had taught her to show no fear. Even if her entire being was coated in terror right now.

  “Don’t scream,” he warned. “If you scream . . .”

  She didn’t know what he’d do, or what else he had at his disposal in this tiny room. He had cuffs though, because once he’d slammed the door, the smooth-talking man pushed her down hard on a chair, and locked one hand to the slats of it. With her other hand free, she wasn’t at the terrified level yet. But she sure as hell wasn’t a fan of his bully cop routine. Who was he, though? Who did he work for? He’d said he was the floor manager, but was that a ruse? All she knew was he was a loose cannon, so she didn’t scream.

  Yet.

  “I’ll take my hands off you when you get the hell out of town,” he added.

  “Don’t you worry. I don’t have any interest in staying,” she hissed. “And if you keep me here any longer I will scream. Let me go.”

  He raised a hand, stopping sharply in the air, but making it clear he’d hit. She flinched deep inside, but on the outside she barely showed a twitch.

  “I run the games in this town. Not him. And I want you out of the games.”

  She furrowed her brow, and pointed with her free hand to the door. “The casino games out there?”

  “No,” he said crisply, punctuating the word. “And put that hand down,” he said, pointing to her rebel left hand. She listened. For now. “The ones where we get the real money.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I know who you are. You were Charlie’s girl. You took down his guys.”

  Her body tightened. She said nothing. She wasn’t going to admit to anything, and not because of that dumb morality clause from Tad. She was admitting to nothing because that had been her policy when it came to her past—it was hers and hers alone. She owned it, and she kept her trap shut about it.

  “And Michael had a deal with him. This is Michael’s town, and Michael runs the games, and when you show up it pisses him off.”

  She drew a sharp breath and rolled her eyes. She wasn’t acting when she said, “I have no clue who you’re talking about. I don’t know a Michael.”

  He scoffed at her, spittle flying dangerously near her face. Wincing, she raised her free hand to wipe her cheek. The irony, the absolute irony of her being cuffed twice in twenty-four hours was not lost on her, but she wasn’t laughing over it. Nope, even though she was only bound by one hand as he peppered her with questions, she was quaking in her bones. She didn’t know how the hell she was going to claw her way out of this heap of trouble, or if he simply planned to let her go after he shook her down. She cycled through her options. The door was several feet away. If she just freed her hand, she could make a run for it, grab the handle and run like hell out of here. She tried to slide her wrist from the cuff somehow, twisting and turning her hand. Maybe she could find the ideal angle to slip out.