One More Night(11)

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.