Skintight (26 page)

By the time she reached the Avventurado a short while later she'd decided she'd rather take her chances being miserable in a group than be on her own one minute longer. Left to her own devices her thoughts kept spinning like a cartoon Tasmanian devil, and the day was difficult enough already without that added aggravation. Perhaps company would focus her mind on something other than herself.

She went straight to the dance troupe's favorite little bar in the heart of the casino—the same place she'd celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday. When she didn't find Carly and Eve there, she left to check out the other Avventurado watering holes.

Her friends weren't in any of them, either, and twenty minutes later she was back in the bar where she'd begun. A waitress she knew breezed by with a laden tray and Treena flagged her down. “Hey Carol, have you seen Carly tonight?”

“Yeah. She and half the troupe were in earlier. I think I heard them say something about catching the Thunder from Down Under show.”

Crap.
Thanking the cocktail waitress, Treena looked around for a clock. But this was a casino, so of course there were none. And truthfully, even if she had time to make it to the Excalibur before the show started she wasn't in the mood to watch a group of Australian hunks whip a crowd of females into a frenzy.

Maybe this was a sign she should just go back home,
after all. She clearly wasn't going to be satisfied no matter what she did—when she was alone she wanted company; when she had company she wanted to be alone. Newly determined to ride out the remainder of the evening in the comfort of her own bed, she headed for the exit.

When she hit the street, however, she found herself walking up the strip instead of collecting her car. Lightning cracked across the sky and dark clouds boiled out over the desert to the east. It was all flash and fire that didn't produce a drop of rain, and a short while later, she entered Bellagio.

She stopped just inside the lobby doors.
Oh, God, Treena. This is not a good idea.

It was, in fact, a spectacularly bad one, but the sudden compulsion to see Jax's final game was stronger than her sense of self-preservation. So she headed with a purposeful stride past the flashy Dale Chihuly hand-blown glass flowers ceiling, past the conservatory and botanical garden to wend her way through the complex hotel to the big ballroom where Jax had taken her the other day. When she arrived at her destination a few moments later and reached for the handle on one of the tall double doors, however, she found the room closed up tight.

“No.” Certain that couldn't be right, she set the gift bag on the floor and used both hands on both handles, rattling the doors furiously when they remained firmly locked. Panic danced a jittery little jig in her stomach. “No!”

“May I help you, miss?”

Skin hot, breath short, she whipped around to see a middle-aged black man approaching. He wore the Bellagio maintenance department uniform, and she
snatched up the bag and strode over to meet him, struggling to compose herself as the distance between them narrowed. Good God. How had Jax turned her into someone she didn't even recognize in the space of one day? And what difference did it make if she didn't see him play the last game anyway? It wasn't as if the outcome would change anything between them. Hell, the mere thought of coming face to face with him made her stomach hurt.

And yet…

“I came to watch the final game of the poker tournament but the doors are locked. Is it over already?” Had Jax packed up all his marbles and left town?

“No, ma'am—last I heard there were still three players in the game. Since they no longer need this much space, though, they pulled a wall down the middle of the smallest Degas room and moved the final table into one half. I'd be happy to show you the new location.” He led her back down the corridor the way she'd come. “The game's being televised so I'm afraid you won't be able to get anywhere near the actual table. But there's a live feed into a close-circuit TV in the other half where you can watch the action.”

Oh, even better. She could satisfy her curiosity about the outcome of the tournament without having to worry about running into Jax.

The maintenance man flashed her a smile that showcased a gold-crowned front tooth. “I caught part of the game a short while ago. They've got cameras that show you the players' hold cards, so you actually know more of what's going on than you would have if you were watching the game in person.” He stopped
in front of a door. “Here you go, Miss,” he said, opening it for her. “Enjoy.”

More people crowded the room than she anticipated, but she picked her way past a row of knees to take one of the remaining unoccupied seats. Heart drumming with apprehensive anticipation, she settled herself, fussed over wedging the bag with the baseball beneath her seat, then slowly raised her eyes to the big-screen TV. Her breath stopped up in her lungs at her first glimpse of Jax.

He shared the screen with two men, but she didn't give the other players more than a cursory glance. Jax sat, his face expressionless and his body still except for one long-fingered hand that riffled a stack of chips. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and all he needed, she thought with forced sarcasm as she stared at the shades' black rims and his dark suit jacket, was a black fedora and he could have passed as a Blues Brother. As she watched, he took several chips off the stack he'd been toying with, then pushed the remainder into the pot in the middle of the table.

“Christ almighty,” a man one row forward of Treena and two seats over muttered. “What the hell is the
matter
with him tonight?”

Her skin going cold, she leaned forward and tapped the man on the shoulder.

“Hey!” he snarled. “Hands off.” When he turned in his seat to look at her, however, his attitude changed. “Oh. Say. I take it back—you can touch me whenever you like.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded. When he gave her a blank look, she prompted, “About Gallagher?”

“Who? Oh! Gallagher.” He shook his head in disgust.
“He's been sleepwalking his way through the game ever since he sat down. That bet he made just now?” He tipped his head toward the screen. “He drew a seven of clubs and a two of diamonds. He should've folded.”

“Maybe he's bluffing. He told me once that he won a tournament in Paris because he's usually a conservative better—so when he went all in his competition folded.”

“Well, that's not gonna happen this time,” the man said at the same time the television announcer exclaimed, “Whoa! Do you believe that? Smith tossed in his hand.”

The man shrugged and gave her a slight smile. “Okay, it is. But I stand by my earlier statement—Gallagher's playing a crap game tonight. It's like his mind is somewhere else.”

The man next to him agreed, but the first man ignored him in favor of giving Treena a slow up-and-down. “So, you know Gallagher?”

“I thought I did,” she said bitterly. The man's confused blink made her rein herself in, however, and she amended levelly, “I used to.”

“How 'bout that.” His gaze skimmed over her, pausing on her breasts for a moment before rising to meet her eyes. “Buy you a drink?”

“I appreciate the offer, but no, thanks.” She softened the refusal with a slight smile.

He shrugged and turned back to the screen.

Jax tossed in his cards on the next hand and one of the players went all in on three aces but lost the hand when the last card turned over gave his opponent a full house.

Then there were two players left in the game.

A huge fanfare ensued as three beautiful women
wheeled in the million-dollar prize money and built a pyramid of cash on one end of the kidney-shaped table. Treena recognized the tall unsmiling man unobtrusively guarding it as Carly's new neighbor.

The theatrical production underscored the fact that the game was down to the final two contestants. But the guy in front of Treena was right. Jax clearly didn't have his mind on the game and, to the disgust of everyone around her, he kept making one bad move after another. His stacks of chips rapidly shrank down to a single column.

Treena thought his misfortune should have pleased her no end, that she ought to feel like dancing in the street at seeing him get what was coming to him. Instead it made her stomach knot. Jax was clearly every bit as messed up and unhappy as she, but rather than revel in the knowledge she merely felt colorless and depressed, as if all the joy had been sucked out of her world.

Then he played his last pile of chips. And lost.

She sat there for a moment while all around her people began gathering their belongings and filing from the room.
So what?
she silently demanded as she watched his onscreen image rise from the table and walk out of camera range.
So he lost. Second place still wins him more money than I made in the last four years combined. Go home, have some wine, and think about selling the ball like he told you to. Think about what kind of dance studio you could start.

But she knew she wasn't going to listen to her own advice. On some level she'd probably known it all along.

Forgetting her intention to avoid Jax at all costs, she fished the gift bag out from under her seat and went to find him.

J
AX STRODE OUT
of the tourney room and straight into the crowd making an exodus from the other side of the divider where they'd set up the visitors' gallery. He paused to let a group go by.

One of the departing spectators gave him a commiserating look. “Tough break, man.”

Shame, like a shard of glass, pierced his general detachment, but he managed a nonchalant shrug. “Thanks. You win some, you lose some.”

A couple of tournament groupies rushed up to him. “Hey, Jax,” purred the blonder, bustier of the young women as they sandwiched him between them. “Sign an autograph for us?”

“Yeah, sure.”
Shit.
He had to get out of here. But he forced a smile for his two fans, pulled his Cross Matrix from the inside pocket of his jacket and scribbled his signature on the slips of paper the women handed him. Then, he turned and walked directly opposite the way he'd intended to go.

He'd give the crowd streaming toward the public thoroughfare a few minutes to clear before he set out in that direction himself. God knew he was in no mood to chat. He'd never played a lousier game in his entire ca
reer, and the last thing he was up for at the moment was to hear a bunch of poker fans hold a postmortem on his lackluster performance all the way to the lobby. Not that he didn't deserve every criticism that could be leveled at him. His party manners simply didn't stretch far enough to deal with them right now.

He didn't have a problem admitting to himself, however, that there was plenty of cause for complaint. Poker demanded strict attention, and he hadn't paid today's game even a fraction of what it required. He'd played, in fact, like an amateur on downers—and all because he couldn't get his mind off Treena long enough to focus.

Damn, he hated the almost grieflike pain that the mere thought of her pumped through his system. Love sucked.

No. He halted midstride. Love was great, and he'd been damn lucky to have a little come his way. He wasn't exactly known for being the happiest man in the universe, but for a brief time he'd been happy with Treena. What sucked was the way he had handled it. And if he'd been reduced to skulking down casino hallways like a damn weasel to avoid having his crappy execution of the final game shoved down his throat, he had no one to blame but himself. He turned on his heel and strode back the way he'd come.

It was high time to stop feeling sorry for himself and face his future like a man.

 

T
REENA THOUGHT FOR
sure she'd catch up with Jax in Bellagio's lush lobby, but when she arrived, slightly out of breath, he was nowhere in sight. How on earth had she missed him? A wedding party decked out in all
their finery crossed the lobby toward the chapel. Folks checked in and out of the hotel at the registration desk across the spacious vestibule, and a group of women laughed as they sat on the tasseled velvet settees beneath the Chihuly ceiling showing each other their purchases from upscale shopping bags. But nowhere did Treena see a big, broad-shouldered man in an impeccably tailored jacket and broken-in jeans.

She didn't get it. She couldn't have been more than a minute or two behind him.

Her shoulders slumped and she was suddenly so exhausted she could barely hold her head upright. She sank into a nearby chair, the gift bag thumping to the floor at her feet.

She'd always been so pragmatic—yet here she was in blind, optimistic pursuit of Jax. It had seemed like such a swell idea in the visitors' gallery after the game. Now it simply suggested she was a lot more starry-eyed than she ever would have believed possible.

Not for the first time in this very long and tiring day, she realized she didn't know what she had expected—didn't have a clue what she might have done if she'd found him as easily as she'd assumed she would. Why had she taken for granted that everything would fall into place? It was so unlike her and, tired to the bone, she was ready to call it a night.

She was beyond ready. Her feet felt like lead, her head hurt like hell, and she really needed to get off this emotional roller coaster and haul her weary butt home.

Then she saw him. He was strolling her way, easy as you please, from the same direction she'd just come. How she'd gotten ahead of him was anyone's guess, but
the sight of him was like mainlining a double shot of espresso, and her tiredness washed away beneath the sudden rush of energy. She rose to her feet.

Before she had an opportunity to let Jax know she was there, however, two men closed in on either side of him, and she sat down again, blowing out an impatient breath. Leaning forward, she tapped her foot against the carpeted floor. Then she forced herself to sit back. His fans looked similar enough to be brothers, and they were intense about whatever they were saying to him. So she'd give them one minute—maybe two if she could stand it—then she was going over there. She didn't know exactly what she'd say to Jax once she was face to face with him, but she was restless and on edge and ready to find out.

Rather than separate, with Jax's fans going one way while he went the other, the three men began walking in her direction.

And Treena realized something wasn't right. The men with Jax didn't look anything like the poker fans she'd seen in the viewing room. These two were huge enough to make Jax look almost slight by comparison; they were beefy in the way of bodybuilders or bouncers and had low, prominent brow bones. Plus they crowded too closely on either side of Jax, almost as if they were shepherding him in this direction. Almost as if…

Oh, crap. It was after the tournament. She didn't know why she hadn't remembered before this moment that the men threatening Jax would be waiting for him.

They were almost upon her, and she wondered frantically what to do. Should she make a scene? Call the cops?

But what if she was reading this all wrong? Talk
about typecasting, after all—the two men were just too cliché to be real live villains. If she ended up making a big stink over a couple of dentists from Poughkeepsie, she was going to be mighty embarrassed.

But, oh, God, if she was right and sat here doing nothing she'd never forgive herself. Pulling her cell phone out of her purse, she punched the button to get an open line even as she was opening her mouth to yell the house down. If those were the only two options she had, she would run with them.

Then before a peep made its way past her lips or she managed to punch more than 9-1 on her cell's numerical pad, Jax glanced up, straight into her eyes.

He stopped in his tracks. Almost immediately he caught himself and started to take another step forward. But the two men flanking him didn't wait for him to get going again under his own steam. They jerked him into motion so roughly he stumbled.

And Treena was left without a shred of doubt that her first concern had been correct.

Still, she was relieved to make eye contact with Jax, figuring two heads really were better than one. To her surprise, though, he looked anything but happy or gratified to see her. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and gave his chin a subtle jerk toward the hotel entrance, as if he wanted her to take a hike through it. Certain she must have misunderstood, she shook her head and indicated the two of them, then pointed to the phone in her hand.

No!
he mouthed and, abandoning subtlety, jerked his chin forcefully at the door, frowning at her.
Get lost.

“Look,” Treena heard the man on Jax's right say. “The big-shot poker player has palsy like old man.”
The thick-necked man sneered at Jax. “You're not gonna mess your pants, are you, Gallagher?”

“Maybe is just doing a little Saint Vitus's dance,” the man on his left said and the two of them laughed uproariously at their own humor.

Then, with Jax inserted securely between them, they walked past Treena, almost close enough for her to reach out and touch the thug nearest her. As she was deciding how she could best help—with or without Jax's consent—she heard him say in a bored voice, “You two really should take that act on the road. Talent this special has gotta be wasted on Sergei.”

Within seconds the three men had crossed the lobby and disappeared from view through the exit to the parking garage.

Treena started after them. She was several strides away from her chair before she remembered the baseball.

Then it sank in.
Dear God. The baseball!
Jubilation filled her. She'd been packing the damn thing around with her all evening, and it turned out to have been for a reason after all.
Screw the dance studio. I've got the means to get Jax out of this!
She ran back and swept the bag up in one fist, then walked briskly toward the door where she'd last seen him wedged between the two rough-looking men.

Entering the stairwell a moment later, she paused to listen. Over the sound of her own heartbeat thumping in her ears, she heard several sets of footsteps climbing the stairs. As softly and quietly as she could manage, she began climbing them, as well. She also brought her cell phone to her ear and punched the talk button. She
didn't care what Jax had indicated—she thought it was a good idea to call the police. Just in case.

But there was no dial tone, and pulling it away from her ear she stared down in disbelief at the message on its lighted screen.
No signal,
it read.

Fury, fueled by fear, threatened to buckle her knees. “Useless piece of shit!” she breathed fiercely and, snapping the phone shut, tossed it back into her purse. That would teach her to buy the cheap model. Or maybe it was the cheap service provider. Either way, unless she wanted to return to the lobby, where she'd be more likely to catch a microwave signal not blocked by acres of concrete, she was clearly on her own. Taking a deep breath and swallowing her trepidation, she continued up the stairs.

 

J
AX DIDN'T FIGHT
Kirov's hired muscle as they towed him up flight after flight of parking garage steps. He was still sweating bullets over seeing Treena, and the more space he put between her and the Brothers Ivanov, the happier he'd be. He didn't know what had prompted her to act out that little charade in the lobby, but he knew he wanted nothing to do with it. He wasn't even sure what she'd meant when she'd gestured between the two of them and her cell phone. She'd obviously figured out he wasn't taking a voluntary stroll with Sergei's trained gorillas, but what had she possibly thought she could do to improve the situation?

He was the one who'd made this mess—no one else. He'd mishandled the situation from A to Z, from throwing the fucking ball into the pot in the first place to lying to Treena in order to get his hands on it. It was his debt
to pay—he didn't want her anywhere within a ten-mile radius of Sergei Kirov. The mere thought of the Russian learning she was in possession of the ball made him break out in a cold sweat.

For the first time he actually blessed the fact he'd driven her away.

He didn't understand why she'd looked so hell-bent on helping him now, but once he'd mouthed
Get lost
at her, he doubted it had taken her more than a second or two to come to her senses…a fact for which he knew he ought to be eternally grateful.

Hell, he oughtta be dancing in the stairwell knowing that Treena was safe. But he was so goddamn lonesome for her that dancing was simply beyond him at the moment.

Dumb and Dumber hauled him out onto the fourth-floor parking area and a lightly accented voice said, “Welcome, Jax,” from the shadows. Sergei stepped out from behind the squared off hood of a freakishly long Humvee limousine a few rows over from the stairwell. “So kind of you to join us.”

“Yeah,” he agreed drily as the two henchmen muscled him over to where the Russian stood. “‘Kind' is my middle name. Although I must admit I did plan to send my regrets at first and go get laid instead. It's been a long day, you know? But it turns out I was unable to refuse such a gracious invitation.” Glancing at the Lowbrow Boys who had released him but only taken a few steps away on either side, he essayed indifference with a quirk of his lips and added, deadpan, “Imagine my surprise.”

Sergei appeared unamused and Jax shrugged. He
eyed the other man's dyed-black pompadour and pristine white rhinestone-studded jumpsuit and flowing scarf. “You're looking mighty resplendent.”

For just a second, the Elvis buff preened and answered with his favorite King of Rock and Roll impression. “Thank you. Thankyouverramuch.” But upon studying Jax's empty hands, the Russian's momentary pleasure turned to a scowl. “The tournament is finished. Where is my World Series ball?”

Jax had thought he was prepared to take his punishment like a man, but still he heard himself prevaricate. “I didn't know you expected it the minute the tourney was over.”

“You do not have it with you?”

“No.”

Kirov looked him over, then nodded slowly. “I suppose is too much to expect a man to watch so valuable a treasure and play in final game, as well. Which, by the way, you played—how do you Americans say it?—piss poor.”

“Not my best effort,” he agreed.

“But you now have nothing to distract you. So you and I, we take a little ride. Go collect my ball.”

He wasn't big on pain—especially his own—but there was no sense putting off the inevitable. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels and looked the other man in the eye. “Well, the ride part is doable. Collecting the ball's gonna be a bit problematic, though.”

Kirov went very still, his eyes narrowing. “What do you say?”

“I don't have it. Turns out the ball didn't belong to me, after all.”

Dangerous color crept up the other man's face. “And you know this fact how long?”

“A while. But I thought I had a chance of getting it for you, anyhow.” He grimaced. “I was wrong.”

Kirov nodded to his enforcers and the Russian brothers moved in on either side of Jax once more. They muscled him over to the nearest wall and each pinned one of his arms against the cool cement at his back. Sergei snapped his fingers and a uniform-clad chauffeur got out of the car and walked around to the rear door. Opening it, he rummaged inside, then removed something and brought it around to Sergei.