Pros & Cons

by Sydney Logan

  Copyright © 2015 Sydney Logan

  Published by Mountain Media

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.

  Any book, song, movie, television, or product references included in this book are the property of the respective copyright holders. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover design by T.M. Franklin

  Cover image by sonia.eps/Shutterstock

  Book formatting by Lindsey Gray Formatting Services

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sydney Logan

  Connect with Sydney

  To the online community who read a previous version of this story all those years ago.

  Thank you for letting me share it with everybody else.

  “Hit me.”

  The dealer places another card on the table. My face falls when I see the king.

  Bust.

  “The queen of hearts is always your best bet,” a smooth voice whispers in my ear.

  Really? Does this millionaire think he’s the first guy to quote The Eagles at a blackjack table?

  I smile anyway, because the guy sitting to my right is Bradley Jones. A graduate of Yale, Brad is forty years old and a married father of three. He’s handsome enough—if you’re into tall, dark, and athletic men who just happen to own the most successful and profitable mortgage company in North America.

  It’s the profitable part that I find most attractive about Bradley Jones.

  Smiling, I bat my brown eyes and twirl a strand of my red, curly hair around my finger. Normally, I wouldn’t participate in such theatrics, but I’m bored. My Vegas trip has been a total bummer, thanks to the eye-in-the-sky cams that have been newly installed in my favorite casino. I’d nearly wept when I saw the little blackened globes hanging from the ceiling of the Viper Casino, because I know tucked inside each plastic dome is a camera. Thanks to the Viper’s unfortunate progress in casino security, I’ve been forced to play by the rules.

  All weekend long.

  Don’t get me wrong. I can hold my own in a casino. I’d just been expecting a more challenging—not to mention profitable—gambling experience, and that’s why I’m now sitting next to one of the richest men in the country, batting my eyelashes and hiking my skirt a little higher.

  Modern technology can be such a pain in the ass.

  “So,” Bradley says, leaning closer as we finish the hand. “I have a suite. Care to join me for a nightcap?”

  “I don’t think so.” I smile shyly and smooth my hand down my thigh. Of course his eyes watch as I tug on the hem of my skirt. “I have an early meeting in the morning.”

  “Come on. Just one drink? How else can I apologize for beating you at Blackjack?”

  The only reason you won is because I let you.

  I pretend to ponder it. “Well . . .”

  “Please?”

  With a shrug, I climb down from the chair.

  “Okay. But only one drink.”

  He grins and offers me his arm. “I’m Bradley Jones.”

  I hook my arm through his, and he leads me through the crowded casino and toward the elevators. Only when the doors have closed do I offer him my name.

  “My name’s Katie.”

  Did I mention I’m a thief and a liar?

  I’m also a walking pharmacy, because an hour later, I’m whispering an apology to the sleeping millionaire as I quickly scan his wallet with my handheld credit card reader. The idiot has a few thousand in cash, so I take that, as well.

  As I slip quietly out of his suite and rush toward the elevators, I can’t deny I’m feeling a little better about my trip to Vegas.

  That is, until the elevator doors open.

  Standing there, leaning against the stainless steel wall with a cocky smile on his face, is the one person I really didn’t want to see this weekend.

  With a miserable groan, I step inside and furiously stab the button.

  “Are you following me, Summers?”

  “I’d follow your dimples anywhere, York.”

  Ethan Summers is infuriatingly charming and handsome. Both assets have proven to be beneficial to his career and detrimental to mine.

  “Well, these dimples just lifted Bradley Jones’ credit card numbers.”

  “Impressive. Although, one might argue that a more superior con artist would be capable of accomplishing such a feat without showing a little skin. Really, Jenna, I’m disappointed.”

  He rarely calls me by my first name. Last names have always been our thing.

  “Were you watching me?”

  “Every heterosexual man in the casino was watching your little performance. Nice legs, by the way.”

  Crap.

  “Not good,” I mutter.

  “No, but I enjoyed it.”

  Ethan grins as the elevator doors open. I don’t protest when he grabs me by the elbow and leads me toward the nearest exit. It’s not brightly lit, but there’s a very nice bouncer that Ethan greets by name who allows us to walk right out the door and into the starry Nevada night. He doesn’t let go of my arm as we hurry toward a black SUV.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “You drugged a millionaire and stole his credit card info. I think it’s best we get you out of town.”

  That doesn’t really answer my question, but I can’t argue with his logic.

  Ethan opens the passenger door and helps me inside.

  “Nice stilettos.”

  I glare at him, and he shoots me a sexy smile before slamming my door.

  It’s really too bad that I hate his guts.

  Ethan Summers and I have crossed paths many times throughout the past couple years. It’s unavoidable, considering we’re two of the finest criminal minds in the world.

  That’s what the news says, anyway.

  Even my dad’s impressed whenever he sees my name scrolling across the bottom ticker of his big-screen TV—a gift from his one and only daughter.

  That’s the great thing about my dad. We have a strict don’t ask, don’t tell policy which keeps us both happy.

  “Let me guess,” Ethan says as he pulls the SUV out onto the highway. “You used Rohypnol on Jones?”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m a thief, not a sexual predator.”

  “Well, you obviously slipped something into his drink.”

  “S
leeping pill.”

  Ethan hums his disapproval. I can’t argue with him. Slipping Bradley a sedative is so . . . amateur.

  “I was desperate. The entire weekend has been a complete waste of time. When did the Viper install dome cams?”

  “A few weeks ago. The casino’s hosting the U.S. Poker Championship next month. Ceiling cams are a requirement.”

  “Super.”

  “I know.”

  “So, if you knew about the cameras, what were you doing at the casino?”

  “Let’s just say a little birdie told me you were hitting the Viper tonight. I had a feeling you might need my assistance.”

  “So you’ve been talking to Abby.”

  He remains silent and keeps his eyes trained on the freeway, giving me the chance to study his profile. Ethan has a mop of unruly dark hair and deep blue eyes that make most girls go weak in the knees.

  Not this girl. Nope.

  “Like what you see?”

  My face heats. I hate when he catches me ogling him.

  “You’re an ass.”

  He laughs. “Someday, Jenna, you’re going to stop fighting this attraction between us. I’m really looking forward to that.”

  “There’s no attraction,” I mutter stubbornly and stare blankly out the window. Truthfully, there’s something there. Even Abby, my partner and best friend, has noticed it. But I prefer to dismiss it as intense hatred instead. Admitting that I’m somewhat attracted to my biggest professional rival would be mortifying.

  We really need a change of subject.

  “So, Summers, what are you doing in Vegas?”

  “Just visiting a friend.”

  Suddenly we exit the freeway and head down a two-lane highway.

  “You don’t have any friends.”

  “I have one.”

  “So you have been talking to Abby.”

  “No, I’ve been talking to Coop.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Essentially.”

  The fact that my best friend is in love with his best friend makes our jobs monumentally more difficult.

  “So you rode in on your black SUV to save me. I’m touched, Summers, really.”

  He shrugs. “I owed you one.”

  It’s true. About three months ago, I saved his sorry ass from what could have been a particularly embarrassing art heist. The idiots had planned to break into my aunt’s Manhattan art gallery, completely unaware of the vibration sensors her security team had installed the week before.

  “Thanks again for not letting me go to prison,” he says.

  “I regret it every day.”

  The twinkling lights of a tiny airport appear on the right side of the highway.

  “Wow, you really are getting me out of town.”

  He grins and drives us closer to the hangar. The SUV stops just yards away from a small plane. When the two of us climb out of the vehicle, we’re immediately welcomed by a tall, muscular man. His hair is cut short—almost military-style. Ethan makes the introductions.

  “This is Gabriel, my pilot . . . among other things. He’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  “This way, Miss York.”

  Gabriel smiles warmly and ushers me onboard the plane. Ethan follows, but instead of taking the chair next to mine, he reaches for my seatbelt. His hand so close to my lap sends my imagination into overdrive.

  Maybe I’d misjudged Ethan Summers. He really has no reason to help me, and yet here he is, plotting my escape and making sure I’m buckled up for safety.

  “It’s a little tight.”

  He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. I just want you to be very secure. Gabe is carrying precious cargo tonight. I’d be deeply disappointed if you were harmed in any way.”

  “That’s . . . kind of sweet.”

  “I keep telling you I’m a sweet guy.” Ethan grins. “Anyway, this should hold you. Have a safe flight.”

  What?

  “Wait! You aren’t coming?”

  Ethan shakes his head. He also tightens my seatbelt a little more. I’m immediately suspicious.

  “Summers . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Why aren’t you coming?”

  “Well, Coop and I have plans. It seems there’s another casino on the strip that has yet to embrace the wonder of the dome cams. There’s a tournament there tonight. High rollers. High stakes. I knew you wouldn’t be interested.”

  I struggle against the restraint. “Damn you! Let me off this plane.”

  “Take good care of her, Gabe,” he shouts toward the pilot. Ethan then lifts his hand and gently ghosts his fingertips across my cheek. “My world wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without her in it.”

  He shoots me one last cocky smile before slamming the hatch.

  I smile up at the sunshine and sip my fruity drink. The moment my glass is empty is the exact moment our waiter appears, holding a fresh one. This time, he made sure to include the little umbrella.

  I really love the little umbrellas.

  Our waiter’s name is Pablo, and Pablo is a shameless flirt. He isn’t my type at all, but that doesn’t stop me from flirting right back.

  It’s shameful the levels to which I’ll stoop for free cocktails.

  I grin at my best friend after the pretty boy walks away. “You know, the only thing that would make this vacation complete would be if Summers was paying for the drinks.”

  “He paid for the flight and hotel,” Abby reminds me.

  “True.”

  With a nod, Abby licks her fingertip and turns the page of her book. I don’t know what she’s reading, but it must be fascinating. Not even our hot waiter can divert her attention from it. Do people still read actual books? I make a mental note to get her an e-reader for Christmas.

  “You know, Jenna, you could be a little nicer to the guy. He did save your ass in Vegas.”

  “I could have saved my own ass. Besides, he only rescued me because he wanted to get me out of town. How much did they make, anyway?”

  “Coop said they split about five million.

  “We could have gotten ten.”

  Abby laughs. “I know. Apparently security was all over them. It was the best they could do.”

  “Poor babies.”

  She sighs dreamily. “Coop was in such a good mood that night.”

  “I’m not listening to this.”

  I reach for my iPod, insert my earbuds, and scroll through my playlist for something relaxing. Abby giggles and continues her reading. I close my eyes and pray for sleep.

  I met Abigail Moore, a blonde bombshell from Austin, Texas, when we were both juniors at Davidson Tech. I was hustling pool at a campus bowling alley when I first heard her name. Abby ran an underground gambling ring from her dorm room, raking in thousands each week thanks to our football team and their particularly crappy season. She had every player, not to mention the coaches, in her back pocket because they refused to ever bet against themselves. By the time we were seniors, we’d joined forces and expanded our campus empire to include the basketball and soccer teams. When we graduated with our worthless liberal arts degrees, the underclassmen breathed a sigh of relief, knowing their money was safe once again.

  I’m awakened by someone’s strong hands on my arms. Inhaling deeply, I smell the sweet scent of coconut and something that smells suspiciously like . . .

  “I know you’re awake, Jenna.”

  Crap.

  “Are you touching me, Summers?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “May I ask why you’re touching me?”

  “Sunburns are a bitch, York.”

  With a disgusted sigh, I raise my sunglasses, letting them rest on my head. I open my eyes against the blinding sunlight, and sure enough, I’m greeted by Ethan Summers and his cocky grin.

  “Let me do your back,” he says.

  “I can do my own back.”

  “Really? I mean, I know you’re flexible. I’ve seen you in action. But rubbing sunscreen onto your ow
n back would be quite impressive and clearly a waste of natural talent. I can think of far more interesting ways to demonstrate your flexibility.”

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Is it working?”

  “No,” I mutter, but I turn over on the lounger and halfheartedly grant him access to my back. He’s right. Sunburn—especially on my pale skin—wouldn’t be fun at all.

  “I guess I’ll have to keep trying.”

  “Maybe you’re losing your touch.”

  “I think my touch is just fine.”

  His strong hands gently massage my shoulders, and I have to bite my lip to keep a whimper from escaping. After a few minutes, I finally realize he’s sitting in my best friend’s lounger.

  “Where’s Abby?”

  “Where do you think?”

  Of course she’d ditch me for a make-out session with Coop.

  “I hate them both.”

  “Me, too.” Ethan chuckles as his fingers gently caress my skin. “I’m gonna need to undo your top.”

  “You do and you die.”

  “I thought girls hated tan lines?”

  “This girl doesn’t care.”

  “So stubborn.” Ethan sighs and hands me the lotion. “There. Now your fair skin will stay beautiful.”

  I lean back and place my sunglasses back on my face. “You’re such a charmer.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But not today.”

  He shakes his head. “You know, you might be a little more appreciative, considering I’m financing this little Mexican vacation. When I said Gabe would take you anywhere you wanted to go, I assumed you’d pick somewhere within the continental United States.”

  “Gabe was very accommodating.” I grin, remembering the pilot’s laughter when I told him to fly me to the beautiful—and very expensive—Acapulco resort. “Besides, I needed a vacation. That last visit to Vegas was quite stressful.”

  “Speaking of Vegas, I heard Bradley Jones is now in divorce court. His wife left him for an investment banker.”

  “I’m not surprised. Love is fleeting, especially when the money runs out.”

  I finish my drink. On cue, Pablo reappears. He winks at me, and I giggle like a teenager. One glance at Ethan assures me he isn’t impressed with our little display. I stifle my laughter and take a long sip.

  “You’re shameless, York.”