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.