High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1) (27 page)

“Fifty-eight percent,” I whisper, the color draining from my face.
 

“I’m sorry, Landon,” Rachael says, taking a step backward as my animal fights for freedom. “Whoever’s snatching up your stock…it’s a ruthless and orchestrated campaign. They found a target and they were aggressive in acquiring it. It was one of the most efficient hostile takeovers I’ve ever witnes—”

“I’ve lost my fucking company,” I say, my heart bolting to my throat and my skin suddenly slick with cold sweat. “I’ve lost
everything
.”

No one in the room says a word.

Not everything, I remind myself as I leap from my chair and begin pacing the room. My lion’s prowling in me, threatening to break free. My claws slip from my fingers and I fight to hold him down, keep him caged—

Summer
.
 

The thought makes me freeze. Horror creeps over me, making my skin tingle and my breath quicken. I should’ve seen it. Fucking hell. How could I be so blind? That feeling in my gut that someone’s been conspiring against me. I thought it was the stress of the casino opening. But no. My animal sensed danger. And I ignored his warnings—

I’ve blundered right into his trap.

The sharp, drilling pain in my head returns.
 

It’s the kind of pain that could drive a man—or an animal—mad for a kill.
 

“Blake,” I snarl. “The traitorous son-of-a-bitch. This is him.”

Rachael, who was putting the files back in the file box, lifts her head to meet my eyes. She looks distraught. Her brow furrowed. Her lips a tense line across her jaw. “I’m not sure what you mean—”

“This was Blake!” I yell, motioning at the file box. “All of this! The hostile takeover. He’s…I don’t know how he did it. But he
did
. The fucker’s always despised me. Envied me. He wants to claim his place as pride alpha. He was always physically weaker. But that’s changed. If he has Summer, she’ll strengthen him—”

“Summer?” Elliot says, his eyes lighting up. “You mean your…new acquaintance? The Whisperer girl?”

I turn to face down my brother. “You stay the fuck away from her, Elliot. You touch her…I swear on my name I’ll rip out your throat—”

Elliot raises his hands in mock surrender. “Not everyone is your enemy, Landon. Unless you make it so.”

I blink.

Not everyone is your enemy.

There’s a part of me, buried and nearly forgotten, that hears those words and wonders if I’ve lost all control. Is Elliot right? Have I become something ugly and brutal and bloodthirsty? But as quick as it surfaces the thought vanishes.

This was Blake. It
had
to be.

No one stands to benefit so much from my fall—
 

“This was
him
,” I say. “I scent it. Now. Where the fuck is he?”

Elliot flicks me a thin smile, returns to batting the hacky sack between his hands. He seems…different somehow. Changed in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. Stronger. Elliot’s always been capable. But he lacked ambition. If that’s changed—

“No,” Rachael says, shaking her head firmly. “This was
you
, Landon. You have no one to blame but yourself for losing Blue Line.”

I swallow a vicious curse. “Where is Blake?”

“We need to discuss a counter strategy, Landon,” Elliot says. “You still own a substantial portion—”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Then I know where Blake is.

The motherfucker.

Before I can stop myself I smash my clawed fists on the boardroom table, cracking it in two, completely overcome with rage. Elliot shouts a warning and leaps from his chair. Rachael flinches back. The file box goes flying, hits the far wall, explodes open. Files flutter through the air. A terrible pain, as quick and sharp as a bone snapping, hits me in my lower back.

My animal’s arrived for the hunt.

I loose a roar that makes the floor-to-ceiling pane of glass Cole’s peering through tremble and threaten to burst. My lion senses prey, the heady scent of a fresh kill.
 

My brother.

I know where he is.
 

What he’s doing.

Making a play for pride alpha.
 

He destroyed my life’s work. Schemed to ruin me.
 

Now…he’s after my
lifemate
.

I’M TRYING TO relax.
 

Really I am.
 

I mean, I’m in a spa. Everything about the place is designed to help me relax. It’s quite. Peaceful. I’ve got avocado and some sort of mashed tropical tuber smeared on my skin. What could be more relaxing, right?

That’s the thing.
 

The harder you
try
to relax the less you can.
 

The trying becomes another source of stress.

Bodhi
. Enlightenment.
 

As much as I dislike the condescending twit, maybe Elliot’s on to something about the whole release your attachment to the physical world thing. I’ve never had…belief in my life. Faith in something bigger than what I can see or touch. Never had anywhere to turn other than myself. That’s made me strong, in some ways.
 

But also vulnerable.
 

I hear people talk about inner strength. A wellspring they draw from. Some immutable core that keeps them going when life grinds you down.

I’ve never felt that.

Most of it’s bullshit, of course. Another sales job from some shyster pimping the latest self-help trend on daytime television. Improve yourself! Be a better person! Make more! Spend more!

Then you’ll be happy
 

Hey. I was born in Vegas. Conning marks into parting with their money is what I do. I learned to tune that junk out long ago.
 

But still. I have this…
need
.
 

A sense of being unfulfilled that manifests in my mind as a question.
 

I’m only in my early twenties and already I can feel it, a question nagging at me when I’m half asleep, drifting between the dream world and this one, like I am now.

Is this all there is?

The hustle. Day after day.
 

Trying to make a living. Put food in the fridge.
 

Trying to get by.

And then we’re dead.

There’s exhaustion and despair in that question.
 

It haunts me.
 

Won’t let me rest or relax.

It’s a demon whispering:
you might live another sixty years. Will this be the sum total of your life? And if so…is it worth living?

The thought is disturbing enough to make me remove the sliced cucumbers from my eyes. I hear some muffled conversations from the hall. The private room I’m in is paneled in some kind of exotic hardwood that gives off a rich, almost citrus scent. The floors are polished black slate. There’s a single round window in the corner of the room. The stars are out. Framed by the round window. It’s like I’m peering through a porthole on a ship adrift in space—

I reach up and wipe a bit of expensive muck from my cheek.

As much as I hate to admit it, the mud bath and steam room and massage and essential oils have left me feeling damned good, in body if not in spirit. There are no clocks in the room and I left my cell phone in my backpack, which the spa attendant tried to have me put in a locker.
 

I said thanks but no thanks.
 

My backpack’s there, on a European-looking wooden bench beside a cactus with tiny pink flowers and a few art and fashion magazines.

A hundred grand. A gun.
 

All a girl needs.

That’s what I used to think.
 

Shit, I took
pride
in it.

It’s rich people who say money can’t make you happy.

People who’ve never known what it means to be hungry.
 

I’ve never believed in anything but getting mine.
 

But now?
 

I think…I’m beginning to believe in love.

The thought
terrifies
me.

I close my eyes and sink deeper into the lightly scented bathwater, pretending—just for a second—that what I feel for Landon is enough to save me from myself.

***

A polite rapping on the door and someone calling “Miss? Miss?” inspires me to wash the cleansing mud off my face, drag myself out of the bath, wrap a towel around my waist open the door.

“Yes?” I say to the massage therapist, a slight woman with wide eyes and an easy smile.
 

“Landon Stone has arranged a gift.”

“A gift?”

For a moment I thought she said: Landon Stone
is
a gift.
 

The therapist nods to someone around the corner. An elegantly dressed, mustachioed man emerges, pushing a chrome clothes rack heavy with gorgeous clothing. I step aside while the man wheels the rack into the room, then introduces himself as the owner of Lush Boutique, one of the casino’s higher-end clothing stores.

“What am I supposed to do with those?” I ask, slightly irritated by the interruption.

“Mr. Stone urges you to select an outfit,” the clothing store owner says, pausing to look at my figure with a discerning eye. “If you’d like I can help—”

“No. I’m good. I’ll take a look. Thanks.”

I close the door on the therapist and the store owner, lean into it and sigh. I’m not used to all the attention. Being waited on hand and foot…in some ways it’s a dream come true. In others…it’s just a hassle.

I drop the towel and step to the rack of clothes. There are lovely retro-styled evening gowns. Sophisticated blouses that have been artfully distressed. No tank tops, but a few t-shirts with limited-edition prints silkscreened on them. I’m not much of a fashionista, but I know the rack of clothing is worth more than most people’s homes. I pul out an evening gown. It’s knee-length, a gorgeous and super-trendy umber orange. Very trendy in an urban hipster sort of way.

Landon’s favorite color.
 

I walk to a full-length mirror and hold the dress up. It draws out the nicest shades of my coppery hair and helps lighten the brown in my eyes. It kind of makes my skin look a little sallow, though. I imagine myself sweeping into Landon’s opening gala wearing this dress. I know he’d love the color. Then my eyes narrow. It just doesn’t fit. I’d be uncomfortable and self-conscious the entire night.

Shit.

What the hell’s wrong with me? I’ve never dressed up just to catch a cock. I’ve always worn whatever I want, however I want to wear it. It’s worked for me so far. Last thing I want to become is one of those posing, preening, overly-done-up gold diggers prowling up and down the Vegas Strip, teetering on their ridiculous heels and hunting married men with fat wallets and no clue. And besides, something tells me…I could go to the opening gala wearing a burlap sack and Landon wouldn’t mind. In fact I can already see the mirthful sparkle in his eyes—

No use trying to be something I’m not.

I settle the dress onto the rack, pull out a few pairs of blue jeans and begin trying them on, careful not to snag my broken pinkie. It’s still aching, but the pain’s mostly background noise now. The hot bath seemed to help. But the injury reminds me of that asshole Blake. How he had me by the throat. The thought makes me tug a pair of jeans on, not bothering with panties. I find a cool belt with a crossed six-shooter buckle, fully old West style, and tug it on.
 

My mind’s a jumbled mess.
 

I’m doing my best not to remember what happened at the speedway. Like if I want it bad enough maybe I can convince myself I imagined the whole thing. Landon’s not some kind of fucked-up animal monster. Nope. Just your run-of-the-mill billionaire with a thing for a broke-ass grifter girl—

In a hurry, I jam my pinkie into the chrome clothing rack, wincing in anticipation of pain.
 

But there’s nothing.

Huh.
 

I rub the break, right below my second knuckle. No pain. In fact there’s no pain at all. It’s like the broken bone is…completely healed.

Whisperer
.

Shit.

What did Landon say? Some kind of supernatural medium. Able to intensify a Wildblood’s power. What a load of junk. More likely I’ve severed some kind of nerve—

A sound filters from under the spa door.
 

A man’s voice.
 

Quickly, without pausing to think it through, I snatch one of the t-shirts from the rack and throw it on. Glance at the shoe rack. Shit. Platforms and heels and…a single pair of boots, the kind motorbike chicks wear. I pull them on, hopping on one foot, panic building in my chest—

The man’s voice is getting louder. He’s coming down the hall. Quickly.
 

He’s still too far away for me to hear clearly.
 

It could be anyone. Going to any room in the spa.
 

But I know it’s him. I feel it in my gut.

Blake Stone.

I’ll hunt you down on my own time…

The shock of Blake’s threat makes bile rise in my throat.
 

Where the hell is Landon? Oh shit. Oh shit. I barely know the guy and already I’m expecting him to swoop down and save me like I’m some fairytale princess—

I’m not a princess. I’m a lifelong grifter.