Dealing Her Final Card(3)

“Mr. Hudson will make me scrub his floors for free?” she replied weakly.

Coming around the closet door, Bree stared at her in disbelief. “Scrub his floors?”

“What else can he do?”

Bree turned away, muttering to herself. Josie didn’t understand the situation she was dealing with. How could she? Bree had made it her mission in life to protect her from knowing.

She’d hoped they would find peace in Hawaii, three thousand miles away from the ice and snow of Alaska. She’d prayed she would find her own peace, and finally stop dreaming of the blue-eyed, dark-haired man she’d once loved. But it hadn’t worked. Every night, she still felt Vladimir’s arms around her, still heard his low, sensual voice. I love you, Breanna. She still saw the brightness of his eyes as he held up a sparkling diamond beneath the Christmas tree. Will you marry me?

Ugh. Furiously, Bree pushed the memory away. No wonder she still hated Christmas. Let other women go home to their turkeys and children and brightly lit trees. To Bree, yesterday had been just another workday. She never let herself remember that one magical Christmas night when she was eighteen, when she’d wanted to change her life to be worthy of Vladimir’s love. The night she’d promised herself that she would never—for any reason—gamble or cheat or lie again. Even though he’d left her, she’d kept that promise.

Until now. She reached into the back of her closet, pulling out her black boots with the sharp stiletto heels.

“Bree?” Josie said anxiously.

Not answering, Bree sat down heavily on the bed. Putting her feet into her boots, she zipped up the backs. It was the first time she’d worn these stiletto boots since she was a rebellious teenager with a flexible conscience and a greedy heart. It took Bree back to the woman she’d never thought she would be again. The woman she’d have to be tonight to save her sister. She glanced at the illuminated red letters of the clock. Three in the morning. A perfect time to start.

“Please, you don’t have to do this,” her sister whimpered. Her voice choked as she whispered helplessly, “I have a plan.”

Ignoring the guilt and anguish in her sister’s voice, Bree rose to her feet. “Stay here.” Squaring her shoulders, she severed the connection between her brain and her pounding heart. Emotion would only be a liability from here on out. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No! It’s my fault, Bree, and I can fix it. Listen. On Christmas Eve, I met a man who told me how...”

But Bree didn’t wait to hear whatever cockamamy sob story someone might have fed her softhearted sister this time. She grabbed her black leather motorcycle jacket and headed for the door.

“Bree, wait!”

She didn’t look back. She walked out of the tiny apartment and went down the open-air hallway to the moss-covered, crumbling concrete steps of the aging building where all the Hale Ka’nani Resort’s staff lived.

It’s just like riding a bike, Bree told herself fiercely as she raced down the steps. Even after ten years away from the game, she could win at poker. She could.

Warm trade winds blew against her cold skin. Pulling on her black leather jacket, she went down the illuminated paths of the five-star resort toward the beautiful, brand-new buildings used by wealthy tourists and the even wealthier villa owners, clustered around the edge of a private, white-sand beach.

My heart is cold, she repeated to herself. I feel nothing.

The moon was full over the Pacific, leaving a ghostly trail across the black water. Palm trees swayed in the warmth of the Hawaiian breeze. She heard the distant call of night birds, smelled the exotic scent of fruit and spice mingling with the salt of the sea.

Above her, dark silhouettes of tall, slender palm trees swayed in a violet sky twinkling with stars. Even with the bright full moon, the night seemed black to her, wide and endless as the sea. She followed the illuminated path around the deserted pool between the beach and the main lobby. As she grew closer to the beach, she heard the sound of the surf build to a roar.

The open-air bar was nearly empty beneath its long thatched roof. Hanging lights swayed in the breeze over a few drunk tourists and cuddling honeymooners. Bree nodded at the tired-eyed bartender, then went past the bar into a connecting hall that led to the private rooms reserved for the villa owners and their guests. Where rich men brought their cheap mistresses and played private, illegal games.

Opening the door, Bree stumbled in her stiletto boots.

Clenching her hands at her sides, she took a deep breath and told her heart to be a lump of ice. Cold. Cold. Cold. She had no feelings of any kind. Poker was easy. By the time she was fourteen, she’d been fleecing tourists in Alaskan ports. And she’d learned the best way not to show emotion was not to feel it in the first place.