Love in the Cards (Whole Lotta Love #1)

by Sahara Kelly

  LOVE IN THE CARDS

  S.L. Carpenter

  Sahara Kelly

  Content © S.L. Carpenter and Sahara Kelly, 2016

  Cover © S.L. Carpenter for P and N Graphics, LLC, 2016

  This work was previously published elsewhere as ‘Lady Luck’, but has been re-edited for this edition. Please note: we didn’t mess with the ending!!!

  Dedication

  To our readers—those great folks who’ve either never asked or don’t care what the hell we’re smokin’ when we write this stuff— our sincere thanks!

  Prologue

  Sunset was the time of day Donnie Cartwright loved best. And when he had the chance to walk away into the scrubland and enjoy it… Well, his day was damn near perfect.

  This one classed right up there with the rest of his perfect days, the sun dipping low toward the distant mountains and the air soft with the promise of a slight chill to come with the darkness. He turned around and looked at the tall building that was starting to glow in the rays of the dying sun.

  It was his. All his. And wasn’t that just a freakin’ miracle? An ordinary guy with nothing special in his resume had turned an almost abandoned stretch of land into a humming, vibrant place where other ordinary people could come and have a good time.

  Donnie knew he’d been damn lucky. Dropping out of college to join the military had taught him discipline and patience along with a number of other abilities for which he had little use these days. Field stripping an AK-47 didn’t count for much on a resume. But taking his honorable discharge along with his accumulated marine pay and leaping onto the dot-com bandwagon—well that had been the result of youthful stupidity, enthusiasm and intuition, but it had paid off handsomely, putting a hefty six figures into his bank account within an amazingly short space of time. And he’d sold out before the whole thing went bust, unlike some of his contemporaries.

  It had been that simple civilian act of folly that had enabled him to get into his car one day, wave goodbye to Richmond, Virginia, and head west with no particular destination in mind. He was free to follow his nose and he did—until he stumbled into this serenely majestic little corner of Nevada and found himself looking at a tumbledown collection of buildings masquerading as a casino and with a “For Sale” sign prominently displayed.

  He’d made a wrong turn onto Route 50, but wondered now if the hand of fate hadn’t steered him that way. Once again, Donnie got that tickle at the back of his neck that told him here was something he should take a closer look at. And, being the kind of man he was, Donnie followed his instincts.

  Fifteen years later, here he was, sitting amidst the sagebrush, breathing in the dusky air and watching the sky paint itself with colors that he couldn’t even begin to describe. It had been a long fifteen years in some ways, a blink of the eye in others. But it was fifteen years he’d never regretted. And in front of him was his lifetime achievement—The Last Resort.

  The casino portion thrust skyward, its native stonework picking up the sunlight yet blending with the mountains in the distance. Beside it were the sparkling glass skylights of the convention center, starting to glow as the shadows increased and darkness crept across the land. All around were smaller buildings, and a little further away was the development that had grown around the heart of his project. His workers needed a place to call home—and so did he. Donnie had tapped an old friend, an architect who was only too happy to mastermind the design and had ended up buying one of the smaller homes for himself. He came out with his family a couple of times a year just to get away.

  The result? A glowing jewel tucked off the main highway, a place where gamblers could gamble, conventions could afford to occupy all the rooms without blowing their budget and—well, there were other pleasures to be had as well. More discreetly, of course.

  Known to insiders as Beaver Canyon, a low-roofed building nestled on its own little corner of his land. The address was, appropriately, 69 Beaver Canyon Road. Donnie grinned. It was a natural adjunct to any kind of Nevada complex and he was extremely proud of it. And the girls who lived there.

  But tonight his focus was on the casino. It would be starting to buzz with excited customers and soon filling with eager clients whose headlights were even now making trails down the access road into the rapidly filling parking lot.

  Tonight was one of the biggest events for the Last Resort casino. The grand Poker Championship, offering a half-million dollar prize to one lucky winner. It wasn’t on the scale of some of the big bad boys in Las Vegas, of course. But to the locals and the regular clients of the Last Resort—well, it was something pretty special and definitely worth the trip down a dusty highway into the foothills.

  A half a million bucks wasn’t to be dismissed lightly and neither were the players who were about to go head-to-head in an attempt to win it. The tournament was exciting, pushing up the adrenaline level and electrifying the atmosphere, even for those who came only to watch or shove a few coins into a slot machine.

  Donnie’s fingers itched and he flexed them, knowing he was about to go back inside to mingle and maybe deal a hand or two at some of the tables. He enjoyed the camaraderie of blackjack every bit as much as the intensity of the poker games. He’d reserved the right to deal the final hands himself. Owning the place came with perks and that was one of them.

  Yeah, it was gonna be a great weekend, with throngs of gamblers, fascinated onlookers and all the fun and excitement anyone could ask for. Let alone the owner.

  With a sigh of contentment, Donnie Cartwright retraced his steps back toward his pride and joy.

  Life, he mused as the stars began to shine above him, was pretty fucking good.

  Chapter One

  “Hit me.”

  It occurred to Maggie French that a casino was one of the few places in the world where a woman could say those words and not worry about the results. She rested her arms on the leather edge of the blackjack table and watched as the dealer flipped two cards onto the pair of eights she’d doubled down.

  “Lookin’ good.” The man grinned at her, showing white teeth beneath a dark moustache.

  A ten and a four. Not bad. Her brain whirred through the possibilities as she sipped her soda casually.

  She’d stand on the eighteen. She tapped the four with a short, unvarnished fingernail and was rewarded for her patience with a nine. Niiiice.

  Now all she had to do was wait until the other three players had made their calls, see what the dealer drew, and with any luck she’d be up a couple hundred dollars more.

  He turned the cards with ease, his large hands caressing the little squares of cardboard with consummate skill. His nametag said “Donnie”, but his short haircut screamed military, as did the unwavering confidence and control he radiated from behind the table.

  She fidgeted a little on her chair. Too much soda along with an earlier margarita filled her bladder, and those enchiladas she’d had for lunch were making their presence known by bubbling in her ass. She squeezed her butt tight against a fart, crossed her legs to hold in her kidneys and figured she probably looked like an accordion being squished by an enthusiastic amateur musician.

  But these inconveniences were minor and she put them out of her mind. Because Maggie French was, before anything else, a gambler.

  Not that anyone would know it to look at her—no indeed. A quietly dressed woman in clean blue jeans, white shirt unbuttoned over a pale blue tank top and minimal jewelry. Her brunette hair wasn’t anything out of the ordinary and her makeup little more than a dash of lipstick, some mascara and the inevitable moisturizer. It could be desert dry at times, so she indulged in a good brand every
now and again. But that was as far as she went. She blended in with the general rabble thronging the tables and that was just the way she liked it.

  She laughed and cheered with the rest of the table when the dealer bust out, scooping up her chips with all the enthusiasm of a suburban housewife on bingo night. And truthfully, it was a thrill. Small potatoes, a couple of fifty dollar chips and four twenty-five dollar ones, but it was a win.

  And winning was what it was all about.

  Whether at Trivial Pursuit—she was good at it unless the category was “sports”— Monopoly, which she occasionally lost unless she had all four railroad stations, thumb wars or any card game ever invented, Maggie played to win.

  When she’d discovered poker, Maggie discovered heaven. The cards seemed to fit her hands perfectly, her mind grasped the concepts with the instant familiarity of an old friend and she loved the shapes and colors that danced from the deck.

  And that was why she was sitting in the casino of the Last Resort, holding in several bodily functions, and exchanging grins with a seventy-year-old grandmother who’d probably just doubled her Social Security check for the week.

  Maggie was going to win the poker championship and go home with half a million dollars.

  There wasn’t a doubt in her mind.

  “Lady, you’ve either just hit a big jackpot or you’ve gotta pee real bad.” An amused voice sounded from behind her and Maggie turned in surprise to find herself face-to-chest with a patron of the casino who’d been standing at her back during the last hand.

  And fuck it, he was too damn observant. She relaxed a little. He wouldn’t have a clue who she was. “Nice guess, Mister. I really do need the little girls’ room.” She glanced back at the dealer and nodded her thanks, tossing a chip across the table and sliding off the stool.

  “Hey, Miss.” Donnie was pushing something across the table. “Here. Enjoy a drink on the house. Tell the bartender I comped you.”

  “I—well, thanks. Thanks, Donnie. That’s very kind of you.” Maggie picked up the chit.

  “My pleasure. You’ve got a nice smile.”

  “Don’t I have a nice smile?” The older guy a couple of seats away from Maggie whined plaintively.

  “You, sir, have a blackjack. That’s even better.” Donnie the dealer went back to his game and Maggie moved away.

  Blocking her from leaving, the stranger stood motionless. “You ever see Niagara Falls? The water just runs on and on. Sort of like a dripping faucet. You know…drip, trickle, drip. Always made me feel like going to the bathroom myself.” He had a shit-eating grin on his face, watching her squirm. “Oh sorry. Am I in your way?”

  “Another verse of ‘Singin’ In The Rain’ and we’ll have golden showers, so move.”

  “Well, when you’re done, you want to fill up again by having a drink with me?”

  She sized him up. Not too tall, but clean-shaven and with shiny brown hair that was a tad longer than it needed to be, something that Maggie found appealing. He was flashing her a nice smile, wearing tidy clothes…he looked about as threatening as a happy golden retriever. Awww…what the hell. He might try to hump her leg but he seemed harmless. They were in a public place, surrounded by crowds of gamblers and in all likelihood there was more security than at the White House. A drink couldn’t hurt, right? She needed something to take the edge off before tomorrow’s game began.

  “That sounds good. Thanks. I’ll meet you at the bar?”

  “Sure.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You gonna run out on me? It’s not like we’ve been introduced or anything. And it’s just a drink. We can wait to pick out curtains in the morning.”

  The challenge in his words and the teasing expression got to her and she smiled back. “Nope. My name’s Maggie and I’m not running out. I’m going to pee and then I’ll be back. Okay?”

  He grinned. “Okay.”

  Shit. He’s got a helluva cute smile.

  “And wash your hands, Maggie.” He looked sternly at her.

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed. What a cute idiot. And then hurried off before the silent fart that finally escaped made its presence known.

  ~~~~~

  Deuce watched her walk away with a smile. Then he blinked a few times at a seriously foul scent in the air. Surreptitiously sniffing under both arms, he shrugged and turned to see an empty spot at another blackjack table.

  “Is this seat open?” Nobody complained, so he took the stool. “Hey buddy, I need some chips.” Deuce reached behind him to get his wallet and tossed a couple of twenty-dollar bills on the table.

  “Sir, there’s a fifty dollar minimum here.” The tall, skinny dealer looked down his nose at Deuce with a glare that seriously bugged him.

  Motioning to a waitress, Deuce put a twenty on her tray. “Sweetheart, can you get me a rum and Coke?” He turned back to the table and tossed down a handful of bills. “Gimme three one-thousand-dollar chips. This’ll be quick.”

  The dealer slid the chips over and then began to deal.

  Deuce sat two chips on one square, and one chip on another, playing two hands at once. As the cards were dealt face down he peeked at the ones on his right.

  Ten and a king. That’s good.

  He pushed the cards under the one chip. When he peeled up his second hand under the two chips he smiled. The dealer had an eight showing and as the other gamblers made their plays, he studied them. He watched their gestures, the way they held cards. Deuce lived up to his slightly strange name—he knew cards. He knew how to read the players who held them and note their little “tells” when the hand was good—or not, as the case might be.

  “I’ll stand.” Deuce stared impassively at the dealer’s sly smirk, which got even bigger when the guy flipped over his second card, revealing an ace. “Dealer has nineteen.”

  The other people groaned, paying the dealer for their nineteens and under. Deuce sat patiently, waiting his turn. He flipped over the ten followed by the king, then turned up the ace of spades to go with his jack for a twenty-one.

  “Pay up, buddy.”

  The dealer grudgingly stacked the appropriate number of chips as Deuce took a twenty-dollar chip and held it loosely in his hand. The dealer reached politely across the table for it, but Deuce pulled it back. “Whoops, I forgot. There’s a fifty-dollar minimum. Asshole.” He took his winnings and headed for the bar.

  He saw her coming back into the main casino as his gaze roamed across the large room. It wasn’t so much the way she dressed or the way the light caught some red highlights in her dark hair, although both were a definite plus. It was the way she carried herself along with her calm confidence that attracted Deuce. And her nice rack. He was a sucker for a well-stacked pair and this woman was high on his list of best pairs ever, right behind the queens he’d been holding one momentous night. Of course, he’d had two pairs of queens in the card game. But the pair Maggie was blessed with worked just fine right at this moment.

  When their eyes met, his vision blurred for a second or two. Distracted, he paid no attention to where he was going, with the result that an elderly man accidentally rammed the arm of his wheelchair hard into Deuce’s balls.

  Deuce cringed in pain and crumpled over, wheezing and trying to catch his breath.

  Completely blind for a second or two, he bumped into a waitress holding a tray with drinks on it—and they inevitably spilled all over the leg of his pants. Trying to steady himself, his hand caught on her uniform and ripped the front, revealing a splendid pair of 44DD enhanced breasts that popped out as she tripped over Deuce.

  She toppled forward into the old man in the wheelchair, surrounding his face with her silicon twins. The wrinkled eyes widened, he mumbled “Mommy”, and seized the chance to suck her nipple with his toothless gums.

  The bouncer ran over to help the waitress, pushing the old man’s head away from her breast. Unfortunately for the bouncer, this was the wrong senior citizen to pick on, since he was enjoying himself more than he had in the last tw
enty years. Once more, the old man rammed the arm of his wheelchair into a set of balls, but this time he sped off as fast as his battery-operated cart would take him. The bouncer was a tad too big for a senior to take on.

  Deuce finally caught his breath and staggered up to the bar where he could see Maggie holding back a laugh.

  “That was graceful.”

  Deuce winced. “Bartender?

  Chapter Two

  “Margarita, please.” Maggie nodded at the bartender. “The dealer over there said to give you this.” She pushed the slip of paper across the bar.

  “Yep. That’s good. Donnie likes to make his guests happy.”

  “His guests?” Maggie raised her eyebrows.

  “He’s the owner. Donnie Cartwright. This place belongs to him, lock, stock and slot machines.” The man mixed things and worked magic with salt around the rim of a glass. “Says it’s his dream come true.”

  “Ex-Marine?” Maggie glanced back at the large man with the short hair and military bearing.

  “Lady, there’s no such thing as an ex-Marine.”

  Maggie noticed the broad shoulders of the bartender, the ironic gaze he was giving her and a tattoo barely hidden by his sleeve.

  She nodded in acknowledgement and raised her glass. “Semper Fi.”

  Deuce slid onto the stool beside her with a muffled groan and she turned to look at him. “So what brings you here besides the urge to get neutered by a handicapped senior citizen?” Maggie sipped her drink.

  “Beaver. I’m just a sucker for this place—anyplace that’s on a road named Beaver Canyon. I love Beaver. Been a fan of Beaver for most of my life. In fact, if it wasn’t for Beaver…I wouldn’t be here today.”

  “Cute, real cute.” She laughed, she couldn’t help it. It was funny and the margarita was going down very smoothly.