Authors: Kay Keppler
“Hey, Marty,” he said approaching the table.
Marty the Sneak looked up, nodded, and stretched his hand out to shake.
“Tanner,” he said.
The other men nodded, too. They’d all met many times over the years in clubs and casinos all over the world, although Tanner mostly stuck to Vegas because he hadn’t wanted to travel much while his daughter, Troy, was young
Tanner caught Hope’s eye and then his breath.
Close up, her skin was luminous and lightly tanned, so clear and soft that she seemed to radiate light. She had high cheekbones and delicate ears with a beautiful curve to her neck.
Who ever realized that bone structure could do that to a face?
He felt a rush through his head and a yearning that was way deeper than attraction. More painful, too.
She has blue eyes
.
Big, blue eyes.
Which were, he realized, now that she was looking at him, expressive. She had opinions. Hope might not play cards, but she might play other games. Games that entailed whips. Handcuffs. Tight leather cutaway outfits.
He wanted to sit at her table, too.
“Let me introduce myself,” he asked, when he’d been standing there way too long and it looked like Marty never would. He held out his hand to her. “Tanner Wingate.”
“Hope McNaughton,” Hope said, as she shook his hand. “Have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, holding her hand, feeling a roughness that no amount of moisturizing could smooth over.
She works with her hands.
“I’m sure I’d remember.”
“Your name sounds familiar.”
“Well—I win sometimes. Maybe that’s it.”
“You’re a professional card player?” Hope asked, taking her hand back, her voice suddenly twenty degrees cooler.
Now what brought that on?
Tanner smiled, he hoped, winsomely. “I know a card player named McNaughton,” he said. “Derek McNaughton. You related to him?”
“No,” Hope said.
Tanner watched in amazement as the pupils in her eyes constricted. She was lying to him. She was sitting there with that angel’s face and those you-can-trust-me eyes and butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth look, and she flat out
lied
to him. Her eyes—those big, blue, wide-open eyes—gave her away.
She was hiding something. And he wanted to find out what it was.
He glanced over at Marty, to see if he could pick up anything from him. Marty was watching the green felt on the table. Marty knew how to hide his tells.
“So how do you guys know each other?” Tanner asked.
The men all looked at Hope.
“They’re my uncles,” she said.
The pupils of her eyes had enlarged, back to the size they were before they’d started this conversation. So now she was telling the truth? She lied about knowing Derek McNaughton, but she was telling the truth about these guys being her uncles? Because
no way
were these guys her uncles.
The “Jersey boys” were all in their fifties or sixties. Marty was single, and as far as Tanner knew, without family. Sharp Eddie was married with a couple of grown kids. Weary Blastell and Isaiah Rush were African American and had met when they’d played football for Ohio State. Isaiah had been a fullback with visions of the pros until he tore out his knee, but Weary played with the Green Bay Packers for seven seasons until injuries and cold weather forced him into retirement. Pete Wisniewski, despite his father’s Polish name, got his looks from his Chinese mother. And Jim Thickpenny, the disgraced former Congressman, had gambled with his career and lost, which gained him a shock of prematurely white hair. Now he gambled for a living.
They were her
uncles?
No way.
“They’re your uncles,” he repeated. “Really. Everybody?”
“Yes,” Hope said, her pupils now filling the normal amount of space in her violet iris. “Everybody.”
“Listen, Tanner,” Marty said, impatiently. “We got to get going here. Call me later. You got my cell.”
“You want me to join you?” Tanner asked, looking at Hope, wanting to stay with her. “You could use another player at the table.”
“Another time,” Marty said.
“Okay. Nice to meet you, Hope.” He heard the blonde sniff as he walked over to a table that was getting a little action. He’d call Marty. And he was
definitely
calling Hope.
Chapter 3
“Let’s play,” Marty told the dealer. He turned to Hope. “Tanner’s all right, Hope. But he’s a player.”
“I can see that.” Hope glanced over to the table where Tanner was taking a seat. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, all easy animal grace. He had an untamed look about him, with shaggy dark hair worn a little long, and his big body compact with muscle. His hands had been marked with many small scars and nicks. He didn’t stay indoors all the time, and he used his hands for something other than playing cards.
She watched him ante up at the four hundred dollar table before she turned away. In the Hold’em game Tanner had just joined, four hundred dollars was the minimum bet. In the second round of betting, bets doubled.
Eight hundred dollars
. Just thinking about it made her feel dizzy. She didn’t see how that kind of game could be fun, with so much money riding on each hand.
“I don’t mean he plays cards,” Marty said. “I mean he plays women.”
“Oh.” Hope picked up the two cards the dealer had spun her way, looked at them, and smiled. She turned back to Marty. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t date card players.”
Isaiah, sitting to the left of the dealer, had been watching them. Now he glanced at his cards and tossed them back, folding his hand.
Pete Wisniewski was next. “Fold,” he said.
“He’s never serious,” Marty said.
“Pete?” Hope asked.
“
Tanner
,” Marty said. “Who we’re talking about. He’s not serious about the women he dates. And you’re a family type of gal. Always were.”
Sharp Eddie tossed his cards in. “Bing, bing, bing,” he said to Hope. “Marty’s right there.”
“Are you taking over Derek’s job now? I’m thirty-two years old, and
I don’t date card players
,” Hope said. “Thanks for the warning, though.”
Weary tossed his cards in.
“Just so you know,” Marty said, flipping his cards in.
“You’re all folding?” Hope said. “You must have
some
cards. That’s what you guys do—you bet. You raise. What’s going on here?” It was her turn and she tossed a chip into the pot, the highest allowable bet, three dollars.
“If circumstances were otherwise, I wouldn’t be at all adverse to investigating my potential positive outcome,” Jim Thickpenny said, tossing in his cards. “But in this case, discretion has overcome valor.”
“Jeez, we didn’t even get to the flop, and I had great cards, too,” she said, looking at the tiny pot that the dealer pushed her way.
Marty grinned. “Pair of aces?”
Hope turned to him, her eyes widening. “How did you know?”
“Thought so,” Isaiah said.
Hope jerked her head his way, feeling a sudden rush. These guys were among the best players in the world, and they’d all spotted her first mistake right away. Somehow she’d given away her hand. Even though she’d played badly, the tingle that she’d felt when she used to play cards with Derek so long ago was back. She was getting her game back.
She felt thrilled. Terrified.
“What did I do?” she asked.
“You smiled,” Sharp Eddie said. “When you picked up your cards.”
Hope closed her eyes. The most basic tell in the world. The giveaway that anyone—the rankest beginner—would make and understand.
“That’s stopping right now,” she said. “Thanks.”
Lesson one remembered and relearned.
If she’d played her hand better, they would have stuck in a little longer—made a few bets and fattened the pot—so she’d have earned more when she won. The first rule of card players probably was that winning was good, but winning big was better. And you didn’t even always need the best cards to win. You needed the most confidence. The most courage. To bluff when the chips were down. And you needed to pay attention, figure out what the other players had, and learn their style of play.
In Hold’em, Big Julie’s game, strategy and skill were as important—maybe more important—than luck. And that’s what the uncles were here to help her with.
The dealer swept the cards into a pile, shuffled, and dealt.
This hand, Hope remembered the proper etiquette and left her cards on the table, just lifting the corners to see their number and suit. As she looked at them she spoke to the men. “I appreciate your time for this,” she said. “I know it’s got to be boring for you.”
“Embarrassing, is what it is,” Pete Wisniewski said.
“Yeah, the three-dollar table,” Weary said. “
In public
.”
Isaiah shook his head. “Could it get any worse?”
“You could lose,” Hope said, scowling at them. “You could lose to a
girl
.”
They all laughed.
“No chance of that, Little Hope,” Sharp Eddie said, grinning widely.
“The tutoring session is only for a short duration of time,” Jim Thickpenny said soothingly. “We can manage our obligations so that in effect we are engaging in a high-stakes poker vacation. We anticipate that we’ll enjoy the unique Vegas experience. And when you engage in your customary obligations, we’ll play some serious cards.”
Hope smiled at him fondly. Jim had never really gotten over being a politician
.
She glanced at her cards again, seeing a five of spades and a two of clubs. The only thing she could do with small, unsuited cards was fold, taking herself out of play and losing the chance to win the pot.
She tossed in her cards when her turn came.
She watched the play develop, trying to assess what the other players had and why they’d played their cards the way they did. She knew that on a given day, bad luck and bad cards could bring down a good player. But over time, a good player would make money playing cards because skill eventually and regularly trumped luck.
The dealer shoved the pot over to Marty.
“You looked at your cards twice,” he said. “And you had a bad hand. You didn’t look twice when you had a good hand. It’s too soon to know if that’s another tell, but watch out for that, Hope.”
“Maybe she should wear bracelets,” Isaiah suggested. “So that when she moves her hands, they’ll jingle and she’ll remember to hold still.”
“Good idea,” Pete Wisniewski said. “Maybe a hat, too. Or sunglasses. Something to hide the eyes.”
“Do my eyes give me away?” Hope asked.
“Not that we can see,” Sharp Eddie said. “Not yet. Just saying. Common problem. Eyes give away a lot of people. Eyes and hands.”
The dealer scooped up the cards and shuffled, and Hope sat back, waiting for her two cards. A skitter of nerves ran through her fingers. She had a lot to learn—and a lot to shop for—before she’d be ready to play Big Julie for the ranch.
But she’d get there if she had to work twenty-four hours a day and buy out Las Vegas’s entire stock of sunglasses, hats, and bracelets. Because she wasn’t letting a little thing like accessories keep her from getting the ranch back.
By late afternoon Tanner was slumped in a chair in the interview room of the FBI’s Las Vegas bureau, watching his future fade before his eyes. After the last time he’d worked for the agency, he’d hoped he’d never have to do another job for these hapless twerps. FBI demands didn’t come often, but when they came he could never say no. Today his luck had run out, so here he was. Deep in the belly of the beast, with no chance of getting out or getting off.
“Face it, Wingate,” Special Agent Roy Frelly said to him now. “We got you.” He sat across from Tanner and leaned back in satisfaction. He was a big guy, with a spongy pot belly, beefy shoulders, heavy jowls, and short hair gone gray. Judging from his appearance, he was looking at retirement in two weeks at the most.
He’s showing extreme confidence,
Tanner thought.
Can’t be good.
“Yeah, I’m unclear exactly what you think you’ve got,” he said.
Where the hell was his lawyer?
He’d called Jack a half-hour ago. But maybe traffic had held him up. Traffic could be a killer any time of day.
“We got a gig for you,” agent Lee Gauger said. He was shorter, stringier, and younger than Frelly, but his hair was just as short, his confidence just as annoying. “You’ll love it, because you love cheating at poker.”
“I haven’t cheated in almost twenty years, which you know,” Tanner said, wondering what the agents wanted and not liking any of the possibilities.
“Tanner, not another word.” Jack Sievers, his best friend since kindergarten and his lawyer since he graduated law school, breezed into the interview room and plunked his briefcase on the table. “Now, what’s this supposed to be about?”
“Your client.” Frelly stabbed a pencil in Tanner’s direction. “We got a job for him. He’s uniquely qualified because he cheats at cards. That’s why we been enjoying his free consulting services for the last almost twenty years. Probation. Gotta love it.” He chuckled, a sound Tanner found really irritating.