Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (Kitty Norville 5)

“What?” Evan said, like he hadn’t heard right.

“I’m going to play some poker. Stake me a hundred and I’ll double it.”

“What has this got to do with being a werewolf?” Brenda said.

“Trust me.”

Evan shrugged. “I’m game.”

“You’re crazy,” Brenda said.

“Let’s go,” Ben said, marching toward the elevators.

I trailed after him, nervous because Brenda and Evan flanked me. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Ben said. “You guys going to shoot me?”

“Only if I see your claws,” Evan said.

“Deal.”

This could only end badly.

On the elevator ride down, Ben was pure lupine bravado, back straight, shoulders square, glare in place. His tail, if he’d had it, would have been straight up. Maybe even wagging.

I eyed the two bounty hunters, who eyed me back. “I don’t trust them. I want to stay with you.” Even though I was wearing nothing but a bikini, a wraparound skirt, and sandals. I’d be out of place in the poker room.

“Kitty, you’ve been talking about sitting by the pool for weeks. You should go. I’ll be fine.”

I looked at Evan and Brenda. “If anything happens to him, Cormac’ll go after you guys.”

They actually flinched at that and looked a tiny bit nervous. Even Brenda.

“He’s in jail,” she said.

“That’ll just give you a couple years to let your guard down before he gets you.” I gave her a wolf smile.

“Nothing will happen to Ben,” Evan said.

“Unless he sprouts claws,” Brenda added.

The freaks.

The elevator doors opened. Ben gave me a light kiss. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” I said weakly. The three of them marched off toward the casino.

Which left me with nothing to do but check out the pool. Ben was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

Couldn’t say I cared much for his friends.

Chapter 11

Finally, I was poolside. Morning sun. Strawberry margarita. Bliss. The only thing missing was Ben rubbing lotion onto my back.

The place was done up like the courtyard of a luxurious Italian villa. Mosaic tiles lined the rectangular pool and the deck around it. Shrubs and trees trimmed into geometric topiaries lined the area, blocking out the view of the surrounding streets and buildings, along with pots filled with ivy and flowering vines. More neoclassical statuary, made of plaster or concrete or whatever, lurked here and there: half-nude nymphs playing pan pipes and dropping grapes into the mouths of satyrs, luscious stone lads and lasses making eyes at one another, and so forth. It was all a little much. The place had an interesting tapestry of smells: chlorine and pool chemicals, sharp and tangy; lotions and oils; alcohol and sugar, enough to make me feel a little tipsy just breathing. Twisting paths led to hidden areas where people could sit and sunbathe in peace and quiet if they chose, away from the main pool with its swim-up bars and blackjack tables. I chose a place on a little patio area off to the side, still with a view of the pool—and anyone who might try to sneak up on me—but peaceful. Vegas, I decided, would be great if it didn’t have so many people.

Despite all Ben’s efforts to distract me and help me relax last night, my anxiety had returned. That creeping stiffness between my shoulder blades, the feeling that someone was watching me and I needed to look over my shoulder. I lay back, listening to splashing in the water, letting it calm me, then sat up abruptly because I could have sworn someone was standing next to my chair, looking down at me. No one was.