to follow. “Peanuts are everywhere. A person’s got to be careful.”
Tanner cut through the casino, thinking that if the action looked good he might as well play a few hands, when he saw Hope McNaughton, sitting alone at the bar, still wearing that ridiculous navy suit, clutching a glass and looking like she was going to throw up.
It was a man’s duty, not to mention his pleasure, to rescue a damsel in distress, so Tanner changed course and headed her way. Not that Hope, who must be five eight at least, was his idea of a damsel, exactly. In that suit, with that bright pink top underneath, she looked more like a really hot accountant, who, when she wanted to balance her ledgers with you, just took off her glasses and let down her hair before she really, really cooked your books.
Tanner shook his head, trying to get a grip, and then he slid onto the stool next to her, signaling the bartender for a beer before he nudged her elbow gently with his own.
“Tanner Wingate, remember me? We met today? Friend of Marty’s?”
Hope turned and looked at him blankly.
“I guess I didn’t make that good an impression.”
Hope blinked and seemed to come back into focus. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Tanner Wingate,” Tanner said again. “We met earlier.”
“Oh, right.” She sat up a little straighter. “The card player.”
“That’s me. So, what’s up?”
“Not much.” Hope took a pull out of her drink and set the glass back on the bar, smacking it against the edge as she did so. Some of the drink slopped onto the polished surface, and the bartended wiped it up as he set down Tanner’s beer.
She was just unbelievably beautiful. She looked like a tipsy Botticelli angel as she sat there, all lush hips and thighs and breasts and wavy blonde hair. But Botticelli angels rose naked from the sea and plucked spring fruit under the threat of cupid’s bow. They didn’t wear navy suits and camp out on bar stools, and now that he thought about it, Botticelli angels didn’t seem so cranky, either. The Botticelli vision faded, but duty still called. And if he rescued Hope, maybe she’d be really, really grateful. Another vision—one of black leather thongs and whips—entered his mind.
“I know something’s wrong,” he said, trying to exude empathy. “Want to tell me what it is?”
Hope closed her eyes and leaned into the bar, holding her head in her hands. “I’m fine,” she said. “Really. Thank you for your concern. I don’t need any help. You can go now.”
Oh-kay. No Botticelli angels. No leather thongs. Not for him, not tonight. One of the cable TV stations had scheduled a weeklong marathon of Perry Mason reruns; maybe if he went home now he could catch the start. Old television programs and a bowl of popcorn were starting to look good compared to his evening so far.
“You want me to call Marty for you? Since you’re, well, upset.”
Hope took another pull from her drink. “I’m not upset,” she said. “Don’t call Marty on my account. I have to do this myself.”
Tanner looked at her. Hope was an adult, and she was a friend of Marty the Sneak and all those Jersey people, so she had to have a head on her shoulders because Marty was a pro and he didn’t fool around with losers. But people who sat on barstools clutching drinks and telling others that they can handle their problems themselves, usually couldn’t.
Tanner took a sip of his beer, wondering what he could do, what he should do. He probably should just call Marty and have him come and take care of Hope. Whatever the problem was, Marty clearly was already involved in it.
“It’s a long story,” Hope said.
Finally. “I love long stories,” Tanner said, smiling to encourage her. “Tell me.”
The bartender hovered and Tanner waved him away.
“I need to raise a lot of money,” Hope began.
Tanner’s heart sank. Too many lives had been ruined by people who thought they could get rich by gambling or playing cards. It just didn’t happen. In the casino games like roulette, the game was slanted so the house usually won. In cards, winning depended on the players’ skill and the luck of the draw. Tanner himself had played professionally for almost twenty years and had done very well overall. Still, he’d had many, many losing nights. All professional card players had ups and downs.
And now here was Hope McNaughton, with her nice sister Faith, the organic farmer, and niece,