The Player (The Game Maker #3) - Kresley Cole Page 0,22
he had a kind smile and was a softie for a grifter.
My mom and dad were freaking symbiotic. If anything happened to him, I’d lose both parents.
Our only other option was to rabbit. The problem with that? We had dozens of people at Sunday dinner. Would everyone in our extended family go into hiding? What if someone wanted to remain?
To the grave. “You’re right. When the Russian calls tomorrow, I’ll do what I need to do.”
CHAPTER 9
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As I skulked in platform high-heeled boots and a party dress through the dark, I could have sworn I was being watched.
I narrowed my eyes and surveyed the murky brush around our prop house, a.k.a. the badger den. I strained to hear, but A2B continued to wheeze and rattle long after I’d turned off the ignition.
For months, I’d been feeling paranoid like this. Probably because I was jinxed.
Dmitri hadn’t called today, had written me only one cold line of text.
DSevastyan: I will contact you tomorrow.
My sixth busted mark.
At the back door, I glanced over my shoulder again, unable to shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Maybe one of the cartel’s henchmen was following me until we paid.
Surely it couldn’t be Brett. . . .
I slipped inside and headed toward the camera room. Recording equipment crowded the small area. Benji was already here, manning a desk with a mic and several monitors. The screens played streams from video cameras all around the exterior—and interior—of the house, but I didn’t spot anyone outside.
Benji swiveled around in his chair. “I thought you were meeting us later.” Like me, he was dressed up to go out afterward. His stovepipe pants and fitted jacket accentuated his tall frame. He’d shaved his lean face.
“Got stir-crazy.” I couldn’t stand my lonely apartment any longer.
Earlier, Pete had texted me not to come in, that the VIP lounge was dead.
Vice: I can still take a shift.
P3X: We’ll celebrate tonight and let off steam. Tomorrow huge group of Canadian high rollers.
Trying not to appear desperate for news on Dmitri, I’d asked about Nigel.
P3X: He checked out.
Seriously?? Vice: Dmitri? How could a one-word text be so pathetic?
P3X: No one’s come down from the penthouse. Not a peep from them. But I know he’ll call you.
Vice: Two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it.
I dropped my false-bottomed purse on the couch, then plopped down beside it. I would’ve gone biking in Red Rock Canyon today to burn off some energy, but A2B might not have made it back, and I’d worried about spotty telephone reception. Not that I’d needed to.
One sentence, Dmitri? After he’d spanked me so much I still felt it? I didn’t know if I should be pissed or worried, so I’d settled on pissed.
Benji said, “Well, you’re just in time. Karin’s ten minutes out.”
Like clockwork. In less than an hour, I’d be on a dance floor. Vegas was the capital of electronic dance music; even our local club had EDM Saturdays. After so much work, I craved one wild night out—and I’d dressed accordingly.
I pulled my Bee deck of playing cards from my purse, then mindlessly cut and shuffled for comfort, warming up with basics. Pinky cut, false cut, double cut, the false riffle shuffle.
“Bad day?” My brother knew me all too well.
“It was fine.” It was shit. Though I should’ve caught up on sleep, I kept replaying what the Russian had done to me.
When I’d pictured the look in Dmitri’s smoldering eyes—and the glint of his piercing—I’d gotten so horny I’d had to take the edge off. Repeatedly.
Then I’d broken down and looked up Vika. It was a Russian diminutive of Victoria, an endearment. I’d sighed like a sap.
Yet all that had been before I’d known he wouldn’t call me the entire day. I flashed cards from my right palm to my left, lifting a king of hearts.
Benji asked, “You never heard from him?”
Everyone in the family now knew I’d fooled around with the richest mark we could ever imagine—but hadn’t set my claws. Why had I even expected him to call? Talk about reaching for the stars! I’d reached for a different galaxy!
Roughly eighteen hundred male billionaires existed in the world. Only one out of every four million people was that rich.
My suggestion that we cut him loose now embarrassed me. “He texted that one time.” I gave Benji a breezy nod that would convince anyone but a fellow grifter. “He’ll call tomorrow.” Long cons had taught me to be patient. I drew on that inner well.