you’re always gonna lose.”
Hope thought about it. Weary was right. She’d fallen into Derek’s bad habits—chasing bad hands when she was down. She’d never played that way before, and she wouldn’t start now.
“Thanks, Weary. I’ll remember that, to play my strategy. Because I’m not going to lose here. I’m going to win.” She had to win. Losing just wasn’t an option.
“That’s the girl.” Weary put his arm around her shoulders and walked her out of the restroom. As they headed for the exit, they passed Tanner at the bar. He was fooling around with a deck of cards, and Hope saw with shock that he was practicing card tricks—dealing off the bottom and palming cards—that were illegal to use in play. She never would have recognized the slight movements for what they were, except that Derek had used—and taught her—those same moves many years ago.
Not that she should jump to conclusions. Lots of people practiced card tricks that they never planned to use in real card games. Lots of people practiced card tricks to wow their friends at parties. Not everyone who could cheat at cards, did cheat.
But for other people, playing was an addition, and cheating was an option when winning didn’t come naturally. When Tanner had lectured her, he’d obviously known what he was talking about. Not that he was in a position to preach.
She was glad she’d never have to play him. She’d never be able to compete against a card cheat.
Chapter 7
Refreshed and relaxed from a vigorous hour with a personal trainer followed by a ninety-minute hot stone and aromatherapy massage and a soothing eucalyptus sea salt body wrap and exfoliation, Marilyn Saladino stepped into the elevator at ten-thirty on Sunday morning feeling in need of breakfast. Although the trainer had advised a wheatgrass smoothie enhanced with probiotics for her first meal, Marilyn was thinking more along the lines of bacon and eggs. There was nothing like protein for long-lasting energy.
The Desert Dunes casino was almost quiet, and the elevators that served the upper suites for special guests were empty, except for one young woman who got off as Marilyn got on. The blonde was wearing a pair of white Capri pants so tight they looked like they’d been sprayed on, with a bright turquoise and yellow print blouse tied at her navel. Her fingernails and toenails were painted tangerine, she wore big, colorful earrings, she had a hat, she had a bag, she wore little mules with clear plastic high heels.
Marilyn sighed as the young woman stepped off. What she wouldn’t do to have that kind of figure again. That hair. That complexion. The young woman was a tramp, of course. Only someone who was looking for a sugar daddy would dye her hair that color and wear her clothes that tight. But Marilyn knew from bitter experience that men loved such brazen flaunting. Just weeks ago she’d learned that her own husband had had a fling with just such a hussy. Of course Marilyn had put a stop to that. But Big Julie had been so—
Marilyn slammed her hand between the elevator doors just as they were about to close and forced them apart. Just how many high-roller suites did the casino have? And what were the odds that a blonde tramp was there with someone else? Marilyn felt the seeds of suspicion grow. Had she really succeeded in halting Big Julie’s little fling? If he’d brought his tart to Vegas instead of her, his lawful, loving wife, she was going to kill him.
She hesitated for just a second. And then she took off after the blonde. She’d never seen the floozy Big Julie had been keeping out at the golf course, but the private detective she’d hired had taken some pictures. The image of the tart was grainy, but Marilyn had recognized her loving spouse when he was in flagrante delicto. Or even when his delicto was not so flagrante, as had been the situation last night. Last night, his delicto had practically gone into hiding, and after Marilyn had put all that effort into coaxing it out, too.
But Big Julie’s delicto had been flagrante enough for the blonde in the photos, and here was a blonde again. Even as Marilyn trailed after the woman in the white Capri pants, she realized that she might have overreacted. America was full of bottle blondes, and they probably weren’t all sleeping with Big Julie. Some of them probably just happened to be staying at the