“Sure.”
Later, after her nails and hair were styled, he watched her slip on the yellow dress at his hotel room. The material was soft and silky. As he handed her a glass of champagne, his smile was mild. She started to relax. And then it all went black.
Struggling now to sit, she realized she still wo
re the yellow dress, as well as gold teardrop earrings and silver high-heeled shoes. She wasn’t bleeding, hurting, or sore. What the hell?
“Is she awake?” the old man asked.
“Yes, she’s awake.” The second voice was familiar. Kevin.
“Where am I?” she asked. Her words rumbled in her head, crashing into the sides of her skull. “What did you do to me?”
Kevin shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nothing. You’ve been sleeping.”
“Good, she’s focusing,” the old man said. “It’s important she’s aware.”
Aware of what?
She craned her neck to see a large round mahogany table surrounded by four tufted chairs. Playing cards lay in three neat piles, suggesting two players and a dealer. In the center of the table lay a pile of light-blue and a few brown poker chips, and on top of the chips, a torn sheet of notebook paper. A marker.
“Water,” she said. “My throat is dry.”
Kevin’s smooth fingers pushed a water bottle into her hand, and she drank without thinking. Cool liquid slid down her throat and eased the thirst. The familiar dread of facing a new john returned.
When she finished drinking, Kevin took the bottle. She looked up into Kevin’s dark, now-worried eyes. Stubble darkened his chin. His loosened red tie dangled against a white rumpled shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. How long had she been out?
This didn’t make sense. “What happened to me?”
A smile tipped the edges of Kevin’s lips. “Like I said, you’ve been sleeping.”
They might not have hurt her yet, but that didn’t mean shit. Get the hell out of here.
The warning voice echoed in her head. She moistened her lips. “Jax is gonna be mad if I don’t call him. I’m supposed to call him every hour.”
As if she’d not spoken, the old man said, “It’s time. I won and winner chooses life or death.”
“He’ll hurt me if I don’t call,” Vicky said. “He’s got a bad temper. I’ll do whatever you want, but just let me check in with Jax.”
“You and I could play another hand,” Kevin said. “Double or nothing?”
“No.” Impatience sharpened the word. “This was the last hand. You lost. Now I choose . . . death.”
Death. The word jacked up her heart rate. Vicky pushed herself up on wobbly legs. “I need to get out of here. I’m going to be sick.” Not true, but if they thought she’d barf on their floor, they might let her rush out of here. She took a step and her legs shook. Running was impossible. Walking a stretch.
The old man had a face pale as milk, but his eyes were black as coal. “Kevin, pay up now or I shoot you. You know how the game is played. We all agreed to the terms before the first card was dealt.”
“I know. I know,” he stammered.
The old man raised a gun and laid it on the table. A white shirt billowed over a thinning chest. “Do this or I’ll kill everyone you love first. Your wife, Jennifer. Your brother, Nate, who just got out of jail. Then you die.”
Hearing the names of his family robbed Kevin of words. And then, “Why does she have to die? I’ll talk to her. She’ll be quiet.”
The old man rubbed his thumb against his clenched fist. “I thought you were ready for the game. I thought you wanted the high stakes.”
He picked up a single chip and turned it over. “I do. I did. I thought . . .”
“That you’d win. Everyone thinks they’ll win.” He leaned back in his chair, gently turning a poker chip over. A thick cigar dangled from his other hand, the smoke trailing from the glowing tip. Trimmed nails and a gold signet ring caught the light.
Vicky’s attention was so focused on the old man at the table, she didn’t see Kevin approach. When she noticed his fine leather shoes standing beside her, she pivoted to run. Too quickly. Dizziness. She fell to her knees.
Kevin’s trembling hands moved quickly, wrapping a thin strap of leather around her neck. He twisted. Tightened.
She coughed and grabbed the leather. “Kevin. Don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Vicky,” he whispered close to her ear. “But I agreed. Winner chooses.”
“Please.” Her windpipe closed.
“Forgive me.”
Her hands groped at the cord, and when she couldn’t wedge her fingers under it, she reached for his wrists. She scratched and pulled but didn’t have the strength to loosen the binding.
She gagged. Coughed. Thrashed.
Kevin hesitated, the cord slackened, and she drew in a desperate breath as she caught his reflection in the mirror. “Please,” she said with the last wisp of air from her lungs.
His eyes were a swirl of regret and sorrow. “I have to do this.” He leaned closer, nestling his lips close to her ears. “Don’t fight, and the end will come faster.”
The old man rose and moved toward them. More smoke coiled like a serpent as he raised the cigar to his mouth. His eyes danced with fascination and triumph. She thought this might be how he got off. Watching women suffer did it for some. But he wasn’t hard and he made no move to touch himself. What kind of game was this?
The question must have reflected in her gaze as she looked at him. He smiled. “You were his stake in the poker game. His Lady Luck.” His voice sounded as if it were rubbed raw with sandpaper. “We don’t play for money. Too boring. We play for life and death.”
Kevin tightened his grip quickly this time, cutting off her oxygen. Her vision blurred. She blinked, realizing she was going to die.
“I’m sorry,” Kevin whispered. “It was a sure bet.”
“They’re all sure,” the old man said. His hand trembled slightly as he stared at the glowing tip of the cigar. “Everyone thinks Lady Luck will give them the winning hand. Amateurs. Lady Luck screws us all in the end. Best we can do is squeeze the luck out of her as long as we can.”
“I’m sorry.” Kevin’s fingers twisted the rope tighter.
She couldn’t pull in any air. All her mother’s warnings replayed alongside her father’s predictions that she’d die young.
“Don’t be sorry,” the old man said. “You’re doing her a favor. They’re never the same after they’ve been on the streets.”
With a determined grunt, Kevin yanked the strap deeper into her skin, crushing her windpipe. She arched back, her hands clawing at his arms. Veins in her neck bulged as her heart pounded in her chest, and her lungs hungry for oxygen burned.
She would have begged, pleaded, or traded her body or her soul to live. But Kevin’s reflection in the mirror told her words would have no effect.
The old man reached for her hand and took it in a weak grip. Frustration burned in his eyes. As her vision blurred, she realized he wanted to be the one doing the killing, but he couldn’t. Age or illness had robbed him of the ability.
The old man kissed her softly on the back of her hand. And more to himself, he said, “You look like my Lady Luck.”
She was dying because she looked like someone else?
Vicky’s world dimmed and her eyes closed. As her body slackened toward the ground, Kevin wept. One of his tears dripped on her cheek. And the abyss swallowed her.
Clay Bowman stood outside the small brick rancher, taking note of Riley Tatum’s police cruiser parked in her driveway. The house was dark, but there was enough light from the sliver of moon to tell him something about the woman who had spent the better part of the day tracking in the woods. The lawn was cut and shrubs trimmed, but the three flowerpots clustered on the side of the house were an empty testament to a failed gardening attempt. He never imagined her tending flowers or a vegetable garden. Domesticity wasn’t her style.
A second car in the driveway had him wondering if that car was hers or if she lived with someone. When he conjured up her image, he always pictured her single, but a woman like her didn’t stay alone long. When he had spoken to her in the woods, she’d looked at him as if she recognized him, but the situation hadn’t allowed room for the past. Not that it mattered. He’d had a chance to love he
r once and had tossed it away.
Yesterday’s mission was to track her in the woods. Keep her safe. And he had done it, glad he was there for the takedown, which had sent a thrill of much-needed adrenaline through his body. Retirement, as it turned out, didn’t suit him. Lazy days on the front porch, fixing up the old house, savoring sunsets—all sounded good when he was part of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team hoofing it through the woods, carrying a one-hundred-pound pack, and chasing fugitives. When he’d turned in his badge, he thought he was done with the cops-and-robbers shit.
But three weeks of downtime was his limit. When Shield Security had offered him the job, he took it on the spot.
He was back in the game. So what the hell was he doing standing outside Riley’s house like a crazed stalker?
As he turned to leave, a light clicked on in the house and he drew back toward the shadows. He checked his watch: 3:00 a.m. A silhouette of a woman passed in front of a window, and he recognized her long, lean frame.
She moved into the kitchen, dressed in a running top and jogging shorts. She switched on the coffeepot and threaded her fingers through her long dark hair, arching back slightly as she knotted it all into a ponytail. Minutes later she was sipping coffee, leaning against the counter and staring into the night. He took another step back.
Bowman had first met Riley five years ago. It had been six months after his wife died and he was training a group of police officers in search-and-rescue techniques at Quantico. Riley was one of his best students, and he noticed her the first day of class. He also caught her stealing glances at him. Several times she asked questions about the training, and it took effort for him to keep his gaze off the rise and swell of her breasts under the regulation T-shirt.
But they kept their distance until her last night at the school. She showed up at his motel room. Kissed him. And they fell into bed, pulling off clothes and going at it as if possessed. He drove into her, savoring the feel of her. She was so passionate.
He still remembered when he woke up, Riley nestled by his side, feeling happy for the first time since Karen’s diagnosis. However, on the heels of this happiness was guilt. He felt disloyal to a dead wife who had loved him unconditionally.