Back in Her Husband's Bed

Now she had nothing. Yes, she might walk away with the championship tomorrow, but there was no glory when she didn’t earn it.

Defeated, she flopped down in front of a slot machine and stared blankly at the flashing lights of the screen that beckoned her to play. She wasn’t interested. She preferred games of skill over games of chance. She liked having some control over her fate.

Her finger ran softly over the blinking buttons as she chuckled bitterly. Maybe she should give up poker for slots. She’d relinquished control in all the other areas of her life. Why not this, too?

“Ms. Baracas?”

Annie turned, surprised at being addressed by her maiden name for the first time in a week. Everyone in the hotel had been calling her Mrs. Reed. Apparently bad news traveled faster than the good.

It was a bellhop, dressed in the navy-and-gold uniform of the hotel. His name tag said his name was Ryan. “Mr. Reed requested that I bring you this.” He held out one of the disposable room key cards. “Your new room is suite eleven fifty-three, up the west elevators near the keno lounge.” With a quick, polite nod, he turned and vanished into the crowd.

Annie frowned and rotated the plastic key in her fingers. She should’ve known that Nate would think of everything. He always did. Even as upset as he’d appeared to be, he had managed to take care of all the loose ends. Her pride stung a bit for it. A part of her was hoping he’d be too distraught by her leaving, but what did she expect? He’d managed to build a great hotel after she left the first time. Why would this be any different?

She was angry at him, although she had no right to be. She’d been the one to walk away. But it still hurt.

Annie stood up and headed toward her new room. She moved quickly, not wanting to run into anyone she knew right now. As it was, it felt as if every employee in blue was eyeballing her with contempt. Maybe it was just the guilt making her paranoid. She doubted a company-wide memo had been distributed in the last fifteen minutes.

As she reached the elevators, she was dismayed to find Jerry there, waiting for her. “I don’t want to speak to you right now.” Turning from him, she forcefully pressed the up button and crossed her arms over her chest.

He ignored her irritation and patted her on the shoulder in a paternal way that was completely alien to her. It was probably meant to be soothing and encouraging, but it wasn’t. A real father wouldn’t force her to do the things she’d done today.

“You’re a good girl,” he said before disappearing into the keno lounge.

Twelve

This was it.

Annie should be proud. This was the first time she’d ever made it to the final table of a main event. Unfortunately, what would’ve been a feather in her cap was tainted by what she was about to do today.

She sat down at the table, taking her assigned chair. As the others gathered, she pulled her compact from her purse and did a quick once-over of her makeup. The cameras and lights would be on her all day.

“You look like hell, kiddo.” The Captain took his seat at the table, decked out in his favorite Hawaiian shirt. He always wore the blue one with the pink hyacinths at the final table. “Trouble in paradise?”

Annie tried to smile and dismiss his concerns, although she had to agree. The concealer did its best to cover the dark circles, but there was no hiding the drooping of her eyelids or the sleep-deprived fog that clouded her blue gaze. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Just nervous about today, I think.”

“Just focus on your game, Annie. Deal with the rest later.”

They were wise words. She wished that she could, but “the rest” had literally made its way into her game. She looked up at the Captain, a man who was probably as close to a father figure as she’d ever have. His blue-gray eyes saw straight through her in a way few people could. There was no way he could know what was really going on, but he had no trouble reading the strain etched into every inch of her body.

It probably wasn’t hard, if she looked as bad as she felt. The granola bar and coffee she’d scarfed down were turning somersaults in her stomach. Her hands were shaking. She felt a sheen of nervous perspiration forming at her hairline and the nape of her neck. The needling sensation of anxiety was running up and down her spine. She was going to look like a nervous, sweaty, female version of Richard Nixon on national television, and that was the least of her problems.

“Thanks. Good luck, Captain.”