Unlucky (7 page)

With that momentary concern alleviated, number two for her table was bound to be a breeze. She could hardly contain her relief when Two turned out to be a small-time mob man for the Monceaux family out of New Orleans. She'd seen him numerous times on the news. Always smiling, always touting his innocence. Apparently he was right, since he was still walking around and playing poker. Or he had even deeper pockets than the banker. Either way, he was mostly wanted for racketeering and hadn't had any violent offenses that she'd heard of.

But as the third player approached the table, Mallory felt a chill run through her. Silas Hebert. And for just a moment, her confidence wavered.

Silas Hebert was no small-time racketeer or foolish banker. The man was tall, almost imposing, and there was none of the flab to his body like her uncle. This was a man who worked out and worked out hard. His black hair was thinner than the pictures she'd seen of him when he was younger, but the eyes were the same, the same shade as his hair. And his glare could cut right through you.

There was no denying it--Silas Hebert was a force to be reckoned with.

Mallory sucked in a breath and tried to calm her nerves.
You can handle this. He's just a man. So what if he's a professional gambler and he's usually wanted for very scary stuff? He's here to play poker, not kill someone
,
and you're not even playing
. He'll
never even suspect you're involved with his run of bad luck
.

She hoped.

Because for the second time that day and probably only the third or fourth time in her entire adult life, Mallory felt a small quiver of fear pass through her. Her flight instincts were kicking into overdrive and she knew that before this was over, she'd probably have wished a thousand times she'd never come.

She nodded briefly to Silas as he took a seat in the stool next to her at the end of the table. She stiffened a bit as he chose a position so close to her but quickly realized the advantage that presented. Sometimes close proximity wasn't quite enough to ensure a real run of bad luck. At least this way, Silas was near enough for an accidental brush of the hand or foot. And it would be far less obvious than traipsing around the table, patting grown men on the heads like an adult version of duck-duck-goose.

She reached down to fiddle with the strap on her shoes, and could feel Silas's gaze on her. She didn't want to look him straight in the eye. Not yet. Not until she had reached a calmer place. If Silas even suspected for a moment the fix was on, there would be hell to pay, even if he couldn't prove a thing.

"Good morning, gentlemen." Jake's voice sounded next to her and she rose up a bit surprised that she hadn't heard him approach.

Jake looked around the table and nodded to the men, then glanced at the remaining empty stool. "I'm told our fifth has been slightly delayed but should be here any moment. Perhaps Ms. Devereaux would like to begin with drink orders."

Mallory stopped her sideways assessment of Silas when Jake said her name and rose from her stool, irritated that the dealer had to point out her job because she was too busy trying to size up Silas without him noticing. Looking around the table at the men, she gave them a broad smile. "Would anyone like some coffee this morning? The kitchen also has a nice selection of fruit and Danish if that interests anyone."

She pulled out her pad and pen, ready to write, but not a single player said a word. In fact, they weren't even looking at her. They were all staring at Jake.

"You a Yankee?" the banker asked.

Jake looked at the man in dismay, then scanned the other players, but it was obvious the banker had asked the one thing on everyone's mind.

"I'm from Atlantic City," he said finally.

"A Yankee," the mobster confirmed. "What the hell kind of insult is St. Claire going for here?"

Jake blinked once and stared at the man, obviously unsure how to proceed. He glanced over at Mallory and she shrugged. She'd tried to warn him.

"I assure you, gentlemen," Jake offered, "that I am well versed in poker and you will find nothing lacking in my dealing capabilities."

The mobster glared at him. "Ain't nobody worried about your 'capabilities,' stiff shirt. The fact is, this tournament is full of important men. We got our reputations to protect."

"I was born in Oklahoma City," Jake offered. "Does that help?"

The mobster shook his head. "If it's north of Interstate 10, you're still a Yankee."

Mallory bit her lip to hold in a laugh. Although she was enjoying Jake's discomfort more than she should, it was time to reel the situation back in or Reginald would let her have it. "C'mon, guys," she said. "His chips play like everyone else's. Besides, Reginald's the only one who needs to worry about looking foolish here. He's the one who put up his own money for a Yankee to play with. Why should you care who you take it from?"

There was dead silence for a moment, and all the men continued to stare. Finally, the banker shrugged. "Whatever."

The mobster studied Jake a minute longer. "I guess I'll live with it." He pointed one finger at Jake. "But you're not allowed to start any topic of conversation, understand? I know what y'all do up in those big cities--ballet, theater--bunch of girly stuff. If it doesn't involve a racing engine or killing something, I don't want to hear a word out of you except cards."

The beginning of a flush started at the base of Jake's neck, and Mallory could tell he was losing patience fast. His jaw set in a hard line and she couldn't stop herself from thinking that he looked sexy when he was mad.

Unfortunately, a fight, verbal or physical, was not going to move either of them toward their goals. It was time to wrap this up and get on to the business of playing cards. "Mr. Hebert," she finished roll call, "you in or out?"

She tensed a bit, waiting for his response, but Silas surprised her by giving Jake an amused look and waving one hand for him to proceed. "See," Mallory said. "That wasn't so hard. Now if you'd like to give me your drink orders, I'll get those started for you."

There was a momentary pause, apparently none of the buffoons wanting to be the first to speak, but finally the banker barked out his order and the rest followed suit. All coffee, all black. Mallory shoved her pad back into her jacket pocket. Didn't take a genius to remember four black coffees.

"Mr. McMillan?" She turned to Jake before leaving. "Can I bring you anything?"

He continued to stare at the players and for a moment, Mallory wondered if he was going to answer at all. The expression on his face was an interesting mixture of aggravation and disbelief. Apparently Jake McMillan had run into far more than he bargained for in southeast Louisiana, and he was having a bit of difficulty adjusting.

Finally, he turned his gaze to her and his expression shifted to one of mild appreciation. "A bottled water would be great," he said, and gave her a nod, apparently his way of admitting that she'd been right about the whole Yankee thing.

Mallory smiled at him and couldn't help wondering how much that tiny acknowledgement had hurt Jake McMillan's ego. She turned to leave when the double doors to the casino opened and Father Thomas walked through. Kind of. It was a bit more of a stagger, but it managed to propel him into the casino.

"Blessed are the poor in wallet, for theirs is the King of Hearts," Father Thomas shouted, and Mallory stifled a groan. A quick look at the other tables, all filled with their requisite four players plus dealer, let her know in a heartbeat that the drunken priest was their latecomer.

She shot a look over at Amy, who was trying, quite unsuccessfully to hide a smile as she watched Father Thomas make his way to Mallory's table. Laugh it up, underage girl, Mallory thought and turned her attention back to the priest. It could have been worse, she decided. He was wearing his ceremonial robes in black, collar and all, which was enough to stand out, but the camouflage sweat pants, purple and gold socks and red sandals completing the bottom of his outfit were a bit of a worry. Not to mention where he'd gotten the cash for this kind of tournament in the first place.

How drunk is he
? She pondered for a moment over whether she should speak to her uncle before the priest managed to get all the way across the casino and take a seat. Why in the world would Reginald put a local, someone who knew everything about her, at her table?

She scanned the room for Reginald, who was at a table in the far corner of the casino. Just as she was about to cross the room and confront him, Father Thomas caught sight of her.

"Mallory, my child," his voice boomed across the casino. "I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you got me Jack Daniel's."

"What in God's name," Jake said, and stared at Father Thomas, a confused expression on his face.

"I believe that's our final player," the Mafia guy said, and smirked. "This ought to be fun."

"Surely not," Jake said, and looked over at Mallory, apparently hoping she would explain away the nightmare crossing the casino.

Mallory shrugged, not about to let her own doubts show. "Father Thomas likes his card games. I guess he was invited."

Jake stared at Mallory, then looked back at Father Thomas. "But he's clearly drunk, and it's not even ten a.m." He stared at the priest, dumbfounded. "It will be a miracle if he stays awake for the game."

Mallory gave the priest a quick assessment and shook her head, his drunkenness actually a plus for her given the situation. "Nah, he's really not that bad considering everything he drank this weekend. The miracle will be if he spends one day sober."

And
if he
doesn't
give away my cooling ability by lunch
.

By the time Mallory managed to get the swaggering priest onto the bar stool and facing the poker table, she'd lost sight of Reginald and needed to get the drinks. She wanted to spread her ill will as soon as possible, and the appearance of the priest at her table made expediency even more important.

Damn it, what had Reginald been thinking?

Pushing through the doors to the kitchen, she almost ran headfirst into Scooter.

"What's the hurry, Mai?" Scooter asked as he grabbed the door before it could slam into him. "People can't want a drink that bad. It's not even ten o'clock yet."

Mallory pointed to the beer in Scooter's shirt pocket. "Then what's that for? The fish?"

Scooter grinned. "Hell, I'm not most people. Besides, Reginald told me I could have all the free food and drink I want if I would stay on the boat for the whole thing. It's just like one of those all-inclusive vacations to Cancun. 'Cept no one's naked and I ain't gotta speak Mexican. Anyways, I plan on getting my money's worth on the drinking part since I'm sorta missing out on the whole naked thing."

Mallory took one look at the grinning Scooter and held in a sigh. She wasn't about to explain that he could hardly get his money's worth since not only wasn't he paying--he was being paid to take the ride. And since most of the poker players were men--unattractive, older men--she didn't think he was really missing much on the naked end of things, either. "That's great, Scooter. Listen, I need to find Reginald and I'm kind of in a hurry. Did you see which way he went?"