High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1) (16 page)

“Really? Don’t you risk death every time you walk into one of these two-bit casinos to run a play for a few hundred bucks? One day your luck’s going to run out, Summer. There won’t be a prison sentence. It’ll just be…bang.”

“Yeah. My luck’s gunna run out. Cuz my life’s been blessed with so much luck. What you’re missing is how running a play makes me
feel
. No matter if it’s ten bucks or ten thousand.”

“Oh yeah? How’s it feel?”

“Like the bikers say: if I have to explain it, you wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re a class act, Summer Mason.”

“No one ever accused me of having any class.”

“So that’s it? Your answer’s a no? Fine. I get it. It’s not your game. But do me a favor? Tell a spoiled yuppie like me what it feels like to run a play.”

Summer looks at me. Her eyes are misted.

“Like for once in my life…I’m winning.”

A flash of anger and guilt tightens my throat and makes me clamp my hands on the wheel. “I caught you stealing, you know. Gave you a
break
. Cut you loose. I could’ve turned you in—”

“Whatever. You didn’t. You think that gives you leverage? Going to try and feast on that forever? No way. And let’s not forget…” Summer leans her neck in my direction. It’s covered in nasty blue-yellow bruises and a long, deep scratch mark.

“I
could
still turn you in,” I say. “I have video—”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen this alleged video today?”

I pause. “No.”

“Well. Don’t be so sure of yourself then, bucko.”

Right then I decide to double my offer.
 

“You hacked my security system.”

“My people did, yes.”

“The Mexican kid. Alfredo?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Shit.”

The outline of the retreat’s roofline appears over a low rise, silhouetted against a pale blue and violet sky and the first few emerging stars. It looks like it might be a beautiful night…if the wildwolves don’t scent us out.

“One now. Three more on completion. That’s my only offer.”

Summer scoffs. “Four thousand bucks for the whole job? No way. We’re talking the fucking Abatelli family. Try tripling—”

“One hundred thousand cash to start. Another three upon tangible result. Offer expires in one hour.”

MY BREATH CATCHES in my throat.
 

“Did you say…a hundred thousand cash up front?”

Landon nods.

“Riiight. Okay. Now I
know
you’re full of shit. You can take me home, Landon.”

“I’m not full of shit. I have the cash. You can get it tonight.”

That gets me thinking.

A hundred thousand cash is solid bank. For someone like me, it’s a life changing amount of money. Enough to pay all my debt. Buy a house for moms and me somewhere far away from this town. Not a huge house, but good enough. Maybe with a park nearby. It’s enough to buy mom’s meds and put me through school—

A multi-tiered roofline appears up ahead. Landon’s desert getaway is built in a small valley between two hills of jumbled boulders. There’s not another building or person for miles. We could be on the moon. The only sign of civilization are the airplane lights arcing across the twilight sky. Planes carrying winners and losers to and from Sin City.

Suddenly the last few hundred yards of road lights up. Small, motion-sensor LED lights have been spaced along the road. Then the lights in the hideaway flicker on and the building glows, dream-like in the darkness. It’s much larger than I expected, level after level built into the slope. Entire walls are made of nothing but windows. The design hugs the landscape, seems like a natural part of it. Beautiful gleaming redwood interiors walls are offset by polished white concrete countertops. The main living area is two stories tall. There’s a gorgeous modernist chandelier made of glass or crystal hanging from the ceiling, and obviously expensive art on the walls.
 

I grew up in Vegas. I know what money is.
 

But still.
 

Four hundred thousand dollars to sniff out a potential scheme? On nothing more than an old family rivalry and a hunch? And Landon’s dropping the cash like it’s pocket change. Which it is, to him. It’s easy to forget just how rich the rich are. How different they live.

I need to keep that in mind.
 

When I’m dealing with Landon.

Best not to get swept up in the fantasy.
 

Best not to fall into the trap of believing I belong here.

I look at the hideaway again, then force myself to remember my apartment. The ratty carpet and roaches. The single bedroom and the fold-out couch I usually sleep on.
 

Hunger makes me sharp.
 

Knowing where I come from—who I am—keeps me on my toes.

I need to be on my toes if I’m going to keep from getting myself killed during this job. I wasn’t exaggerating about the Abatelli family to frighten Landon off. They’re vicious.

I could go to them. Tell them what Landon suspects. Rat him out. The family will be in this town long after Vegas crushes Landon Stone. Trouble is, it’s tough to gauge how Luca Abatelli would react. He might give me a few bucks. Say thanks kid. Or he might have a meathead put a gun in my mouth. No one likes a rat.

Still, between Il Potere and Landon..they’re the surer bet, by a long shot.

I’m not part of Landon’s world. I never will be.
 

I’m a trespasser.
 

Here on his blessing only.
 

He waves his hand and the beautiful illusion vanishes.

That makes me vulnerable.

So I get what I can from him while the dream lasts. That’s the only goal with him and me. Take what I can, and fast.
 

He’s a fat sow waiting to be milked.

“It’s lovely,” I say, deliberately not answering his offer. “You come out here a lot?”

“First time I’ve seen it except for the design schematics the architect emailed.”

“You bought it why?”

“Because I wanted to.”

There’s an edge in Landon’s voice. He’s not a braggart. Not showy. In fact I’m getting the feeling he doesn’t like talking about his money. I’m sure he feels terribly misunderstood by us little people. Whatever. First world problem. I’d trade places with him any day. Trade not wanting to talk about my money to not having any to talk about.

Landon’s hand is still on my thigh. I reach down and slip my hand in his. He’s nice and warm. His palms are oddly rough. Calloused. I expected the manicured hands of an office worker. Baby-bottom smooth.
 

I can’t figure this guy out. What makes him tick. Usually I have someone pegged within a few minutes of meeting them. I like to think my grifter bullshit detector is fairly accurate.

Landon’s different. More complex.
 

He’s like this odd collision of sophisticated and rough-edged. Just like this Range Rover. A sturdy truck, all meat and muscle, with the world’s sleekest, most advanced power system hidden inside. Except for Landon it’s the other way around. The outside’s all charm and money. The inside…the part I need to figure out…is what really drives him.
 

It’s rough. Even wild.

He tries to hide that part of him. But I see it.

Landon’s buttoned-down rich-boy life is wearing thin.

He longs for…freedom.

From responsibility and expectation.
 

Then it hits me. Maybe that’s all this is. Landon’s slumming. Dirtying himself with me so he can return to his high thread-count silk sheets and million dollar watches feeling like he’s not a prisoner in a posh cell.
 

We all want what we can’t have.

If that’s the case, I need to make sure he never thinks he has me.

Shit. He might even be borderline nuts. Cooked up the whole family rivalry thing in his head out of boredom or paranoia. Now we’re out here chasing phantoms. Trouble is, these phantoms might wind up getting me killed—
 

We pull to a stop. Landon turns the truck off, but it’s hard to tell because the engine’s so quiet. “That’s gunna take some getting used to.”

Landon nods. “It’s an issue. We’re developing ways to create engine noise. People love the sound of a gasoline engine burning through fuel. It’s hardwired into us. Even if this vehicle is much faster and more efficient—”

“They wanna hear the roar.”

Landon smiles. “Should we go in?”

“Please.”
 

I follow him into the entry foyer, trying not to gawk at the expansive spaces and gorgeous furniture, a mix of roughly-textured refurbished antiques and sleek ultra-modern. Industrial chic. I saw an article about it in a home decor magazine while I waiting at the doctor’s office during one of my mom’s frequent visits. I always wondered who switches out an entire houseful of furnishings based on seasonal styles.

People like Landon Stone, that’s who.
 

The hideaway has clearly never been lived in. We’re probably the first people inside since the contractors finished.

“It’s…lovely,” I say, uncertain what else to tell him. Truth is I could give two shits about the decor. The events of the last two days hit me as we walk a few steps into the house and suddenly I’m wavering on my feet, bone tired, dizzy, slightly nauseous. “Landon? I need to rest. Then eat. Low blood sugar makes me feel like I’m gunna pass out.”

So much for pretending to be more sophisticated than I am. Oh well. Dude wants to slum with us peons? Here we are.

Landon looks at me with concern. “Your room’s upstairs on the left. How about we wash off the road dust and meet in the living room?”

“Sounds great.”

After we both get cleaned up and changed, Landon hands me an energy drink and an apple and leads me on a brief tour. He seems distant, like he’s reading from a script when he talks. Or maybe he’s just preoccupied.

We walk through the retreat’s gleaming kitchen. Landon says a few words about the art on the walls. The chandelier I spotted from outside is a Dale Chihuly, a famous westcoast glass artist whose work is popular in Vegas. Landon’s eyes only really light up when he takes me to the basement utility room and shows me the Blue Line fuel cell mounted on the wall.
 

It looks like an oversized Macbook.

“Entire house is off grid. Solar panels on the roof. Artesian well. And this, our first home unit. This will revolutionize home energy consumption.”

“It looks…neat.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be boring.”

We’re at this awkward spot where we’re both uncertain what the hell this relationship is. I sigh inwardly. Smartest move is to keep it strictly professional. There’s four hundred K on the line, not to mention both our lives.
 

But the bitch is…I want him.
 

I’m not one for denying myself what I want. In fact usually I’m out there, working to get it. So instead of saying I’m exhausted and need some shut-eye, which is the truth, I lean in close to Landon and say, “Show me that wood burning hot tub. Sounds like a treat.”

Landon smiles. Damn. It’d be great if he was a lot less handsome. Or had some horrible physical flaw I could focus on. Or was a total asshole, like his brother. But he’s not. He’s wearing a simple white t-shirt and bluejeans. Barefoot. Super casual. I was afraid he’d come down wearing pleated pastel shorts and a golf shirt. Without the power suit or the lackeys hanging on his every word he looks even more like a toned and tanned surfer dude. His golden hair brings out the color in his eyes. His features tend to sharp, especially his jaw, but that’s fine by me. I’ve never gone in for boyish good looks. I like my men chiseled hard—

Landon reaches down and holds my hand. Tugs me out of the stupid utility room. Hands me a leather bomber jacket as we pass through the foyer and leads me outside. It’s quite late, maybe around midnight. The stars are absolutely stunning, a sparkling ceiling mural spreading from one distant shadowed horizon line to the next.
 

“It’s take a few minutes to light the fire and warm the water,” Landon says, running a hose into a cedar tub built for two. “There’s a bar in the kitchen.”

“Do I look like a serving girl?”

Landon’s head jerks up.

I burst into laughter. “Jokes, Landon. Lighten up. Jeesh.”

“I can’t tell with you. When you’re serious and when you’re joking.”

Landon leans down to stoke the fire in the chofu stove. The stove’s a small metal drum with a chimney and two metal pipes connecting it to the hot tub. The fire glows red-gold against Landon’s face as he blows the sparks to flame.

“Simple design,” Landon says. “The heat from the stove draws the cold water through the intake pipe. It circulates in a chamber until it’s warmed by the stove, then flows back into the hot tub.” Landon stands. Brushes the sand off his hands. “Simple and elegant. Cool, huh?”

He’s grinning. For an instant I let myself imagine we’re on a date. We met at a bar and came back here. He’s a nice, normal guy. Maybe not even married, for once.
 

Then I remember the wolves.
 

“What can I get you?” I say,
 

“Scotch. Neat.”

Off over the hills, a coyote howls. Then another, then suddenly there’s a yipping, yelping cacophony of them. I hug my arms to my chest.
 

“You want to ask if we’re safe here,” Landon says, stacking wood beside the stove. For an instant the red-orange flame illuminates his face and I have to bite down a scream.