With anyone else, Jax might have written the affectation off as a ploy to psych out his fellow players. But Kirov was dead serious about paying homage to the late, great King of Rock and Roll. He had a passion for all things American from Elvis Presley to baseball. He also had the money to indulge in his obsessions. Jax looked at the tangle of gold chains that glinted in the V where Kirov’s jumpsuit was unzipped nearly to his navel and shook his head.
“I want that ball,” the Russian said.
“And you’ll get it. But as I explained before, my dad’s estate turned out to be more complicated than I anticipated.” He didn’t mention that the baseball hadn’t actually been left to him. And he sure as hell wasn’t about to bring up Treena’s name. Rumor had it Kirov’s money had its origins in the Russian mafia, and as much as Jax figured the showgirl for a scheming gold digger, he had no intention of seeing her injured—which was a distinct possibility if Sergei ever learned it was she who stood between him and the baseball. “I’ll have it for you by the end of the tournament, just as we agreed.”
“See you do,” Kirov ordered. When he snapped his fingers his companions wheeled around and marched off on either side of him, looking like two black crows flanking a Russian Elvis wannabe in a glittering white jumpsuit.
Jax blew out his breath and sagged back against the post. He’d behaved like a rank amateur when he’d allowed Kirov to maneuver him into losing the baseball.
In fact he hadn’t made so many dumb moves since he was a kid trying to be the athlete his father wanted. He shouldn’t have even told Sergei about his dad’s baseball in the first place. Never volunteering the details of his personal life was a code he lived by on the circuit, or had been until the night in Geneva when Kirov’s eternal bragging had rubbed him the wrong way one time too many.
His response to it, however, had been all out of proportion. Yes, he had received bad news about his father, but it wasn’t as if he and the old man had ever been close. Big Jim hadn’t been around much when Jax’s mother was still alive, and after her death Jax had futilely tried to please him. Life had been tough enough for a brainy kid who’d skipped three grades and didn’t know how to interact with his older peers. He’d hoped that at least his dad would be as proud of him as his mother had always been. Instead, Big Jim had wanted him to be one of the “regular” kids.
It just hadn’t been in the cards, Jax reflected bitterly. They’d fought over everything. It was no surprise he had jumped at a full scholarship to the school of engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology when he was fourteen, and not merely because MIT was his university of choice. The bigger incentive had been the fact that it was about as far away within the continental United States as he could get from Big Jim.
It had been a good move for him, too. He’d been suffocating in Las Vegas, trying to fulfill his father’s expectations. In Cambridge he’d discovered that it didn’t matter if he sucked at organized sports. The other students appreciated his mathematical mind. And once away from his father’s badgering he’d lost his perpetual clumsiness and gained more physical grace over the course of his three-year accelerated program than he could ever have imagined. After that, he’d avoided as much as possible going back to the environment that had made him feel like such a loser.
Of course he’d still been an adolescent in an adult world. When classes were over, it hadn’t mattered if he’d dazzled his fellow students with his brilliance. They’d gone off to grab a beer; he’d headed back to the dorm to play video games. Yet their appreciation of his mind—not to mention that of the think tank that had snapped him up after graduation—had made him feel like a winner most of the time.
That was more than he’d ever been able to say of his dad. Which only made that night in Geneva that much harder to accept.
Jax shook his head. Thinking about it was a huge waste of time and energy. Yet, even as he stared blankly into the middle distance, he couldn’t get the night that had set him on his current path out of his mind.
HIS FATHER WAS DEAD. Jax shook his head to clear it, then read the letter from the attorney again, certain he must have misunderstood. Yet, not only did it state that his old man was gone, it explained that he’d passed away almost four months earlier. No one had been able to locate Jax right away to notify him—and for that he had no one to blame but himself, since he hadn’t bothered to keep Big Jim and the Bimbo Bride informed of his whereabouts.
He set the letter carefully on the hotel desk then crossed the room to the courtesy bar. Digging out two mini bottles, he poured their contents into a glass. Not bothering to dilute it, he knocked back the drink, then poured another double and carried it over to the window. Sipping this one, he stared out the window at the Alps. The view that had knocked his socks off yesterday barely registered now.
He caught himself rubbing his chest, feeling as if he had a huge gaping hole where his heart should be.
Considering his estrangement from his father, the depth of his grief didn’t seem logical and it sure as hell wasn’t probable. His entire adult life had been built around logic and probabilities, so he was at a dead loss to understand the way he felt now. But the hole spread and the gnawing grief dug deeper until he experienced an inexplicable urge to howl.
Swearing, he grabbed his key card and headed down to the hotel bar in search of distraction.
Twenty minutes later Sergei Kirov walked into the lounge. Ordinarily, Jax went out of his way to avoid the Russian, but he was on his fourth drink, no one else spoke English and he was desperate to avoid the emotions that had his stomach in a knot. He greeted the other man like a long lost friend.
Kirov swerved from the counter where he’d been heading and came over to the table. “Hello, Jax. It is unusual to see you in bar.”
“Yeah, well, I got tired of my own company.” He studied the other man, taking in his black denim suit with its white topstitching and the boldly striped black and white T-shirt beneath. “Lemme guess. The King’s Jailhouse Rock period?”
“Very good.” Sergei beamed his approval of Jax’s keen eye. “Not everyone picks that up. You like?”
“Very cool.”
“Thank you. Thanyouveramuch. I am best Elvis.”
According to Sergei he was the best at everything. Jax bit back a smart-ass put-down, reminding himself that, in the scheme of things, the Russian was a minor irritation. “Whatever. So what have you been up to today?”
Kirov gave his order to the waitress who appeared then turned his attention back to Jax. “I finally—how do you say?—score the baseball card to complete my 1927 World Series collection.”
Jax’s heart lurched at hearing the pennant championship that had haunted his childhood mentioned, but he regarded the man across the table without expression. “I didn’t know you were a collector.”
“I have the best collection of all. Nobody has better. I own the official program of Worlds Championship series, the bat Herb Pennock used to win the fourth and final game, the New York Yankees team picture and every Pirates baseball card. I had every Yankee baseball card, too, except one. Today I buy rare Earle Combs card to complete my set.” He smiled smugly. “Is most important collection in the world.”
Jax had managed to shrug off Kirov’s constant boasting in the past; he’d shrugged it off two minutes ago. He was no longer in the mood. Raising his drink, he looked at Sergei over its rim. “I own the first home run ball of the series.” He took a sip.
Sergei stared at him. “Babe Ruth’s ball? The one in third game that brought in three runs?”
“Yep. Signed by the entire Murderers’ Row.”
“I will buy from you.” Kirov slapped both hands down on the tabletop. “Name your price. Sergei will pay.”
“Oh, it’s not for sale.” In a far off corner of his mind he knew he was taking just a little too much pleasure in saying no. But it had been a crappy afternoon, so he’d grab his jollies where he could. “It has great sentimental value, don’tcha know. My grandfa
ther caught that ball and when he died it passed to my father. Now the fucker belongs to me.” Fresh pain stabbed deep and he killed off his bourbon.
To his surprise Sergei let it go and signaled the waitress. They had a couple more drinks. When the Russian suggested a friendly game of straight draw poker, Jax dragged his wandering attention back to the other man, grateful for a focal point that wasn’t Big Jim’s death. His inner professional whispered the number one cardinal sin of poker in his ear: never play when you’re too preoccupied to give the game your complete attention. Hell, he never played cards with his competitors during off-hours, period. He flashed Sergei a big loose smile. “Sounds like a plan.”
Five minutes later they were up in his room, clearing the small table by the window of everything except a deck of cards and the money from their wallets. Kirov carried significantly more cash than he and Jax crossed to the room safe, staggering once before he caught himself. When he turned back with the difference from his stash clutched in his hand, Sergei was standing at the desk, reading the letter from Big Jim’s lawyer.
Rage rose in a bitter tide up his throat. “Put that down.”
The Russian did so, carefully, then turned to him. “I am sorry for your loss.”
He shrugged. “We weren’t that close.” He indicated the table. “Let’s play.”
He lost consistently. He had no business playing at all and looking down at his fifth hand, he had just enough functioning brain cells left to realize it was time to fold and call it a night.
Kirov, who had been talking nonstop, studied him across the table. “Is funny thing about fathers and sons,” he said.
A red mist fogged his already cloudy mind. “I don’t want to talk about my old man.”
“Mine was old-time Communist. I didn’t like him worth a damn but I wanted his approval anyway. How many cards you want?”
He studied his hand. He had to draw to an inside straight and that was never the most promising odds.
“Did you—how you say—chase your father’s approval, too?”
“Seek. Seek my father’s approval. And what’s it to you? Are you gonna talk all night or play cards?” he demanded. Extracting the card that didn’t fit his straight, he skimmed it across the table. “I’ll take one.”
He actually drew the card he needed to fill out his belly-buster straight draw. After Sergei dealt himself two cards, Jax tossed three one hundred dollar bills into the pot.
Sergei saw his bet and raised it seven thousand.
He counted his remaining cash. He didn’t have enough and knew he ought to toss in his hand.
“Sergei is best poker player,” the Russian crowed. “You may as well save your money and skip Las Vegas. I am going to win.”
Shit. He didn’t have enough left in the safe and he knew without asking that Kirov wouldn’t allow him to leave to visit an ATM machine. “Will you take my IOU?”
“For ball.”
What the hell, he thought blurrily. He had a good hand. “Gimme a piece of paper.”
He wrote the IOU and tossed it into the pot. Then he turned over his king-high straight.
Sergei turned over four twos.
For a minute Jax thought he was seeing double. God knew he’d been having a tough time focusing. But then he realized he’d just lost his grandfather’s World Series baseball. His gut twisted and he felt sick. Still, a bet was a bet.
Long after the Russian left, Jax remained at the table thinking about losing the ball and wondering what difference it made to him. It wasn’t as if he wanted the damn thing himself. It had been the frigging bane of his existence for as long as he could remember, a symbol of everything that was wrong between him and his old man.
So why the hell did losing it bite so deep? He assured himself it was merely because he’d been outmaneuvered by someone he didn’t respect. It had nothing to do with the way he’d carelessly tossed aside a memento his father had put a lot of stock in.
That was his story.
And he was sticking to it.
JAX GAVE HIMSELF a shake. Enough of this trip down memory lane. He didn’t want to think about things he couldn’t change.
Maybe he’d cashed in his chips too soon. Because what he needed right now was the slick feel of a new deck of cards in his hands, the tink and click of a stack of chips sliding through his fingers. He needed to inhale the scent of green felt and nervous players.
The game had been his one constant companion for the past dozen or so years, and if there was one thing it had taught him it was that some days things just went to shit despite his best efforts.
But there was always another poker game.
“HEY, TREEN,” the dancer named Jerrilyn called from across the dressing room. “I heard some interesting news about your hot new beau.”
Treena finished wiping greasepaint from her face, then lowered the hand towel, aware that the backstage chatter had softened. In the mirror she saw the other woman walk toward her; then, before Treena could even swivel to face her, Jerrilyn bent down and met her gaze in the mirror.
“You missed a spot.” Jerrilyn indicated a patch in front of Treena’s left ear where a smear of stage makeup remained. “So, anyhow,” she continued as Treena scrubbed at the splotch, “I’ve got a new honey, too. His name is Donny and he’s a huge World Poker fan. I’m talking a guy who lives for the televised tournaments, if you can imagine such a thing.” Shaking her head, she plopped down on the vacated stool next to Treena. “It’s sure as hell lucky he’s good between the sheets or we wouldn’t have anything in common.” Then she flapped her hand. “But that’s neither here nor there. What I wanted to tell you is that when I was telling him about how you and Jax met last night and got to the part where you said, ‘Well, Gallagher, Jax Gallagher, I believe I would like to have breakfast with you,’ Donny went ape-shit. Did you know your boy Jax is part of the big poker tournament that’s gonna be held over at Bellagio at the end of the month?”
“Yeah, he mentioned that this morning.”
“Did he mention his ranking? Because apparently he is big on this circuit. Donny says he’s probably one of the top five winners of the past couple years. And according to my guy, that equates to huge—and I’m talking mega—winnings.”
“And he’s a hottie, too,” Michelle piped in from down the row of stools in front of the long lighted mirror.
“Um, um, um,” Eve murmured and grinned at Treena. “Money and sex appeal. Sugar, I’m thinking you definitely hit the jackpot with this one.”
“Did I tell you all about the television special I’m going to be in?” Julie-Ann asked.
“Ad nauseam,” Carly said, strolling into the dressing area from the shower room. Reaching her station next to Treena’s she dropped her towel and picked up a pair of silky undies from the countertop. She raised a brow at Treena as she stepped into them and adjusted the thong’s fit. “So what are you going to wear on your date?”
Treena removed the nylon skullcap that enabled her to fit all her hair under the wig from the final act and rose to her feet. Fluffing out her curls with both hands, she strode over to the garment rack. She stopped in front of it and slid aside a couple of costumes that the wardrobe mistress hadn’t yet collected for repair. Unhooking the hanger containing the cocktail dress she’d brought from home, she swung around and held the garment against her front for her friends to see. “What do you think? He indicated I should dress up.”
It was an above-the-knee, empire-waisted, black-and-gold crocheted dress that was cut low in front. It had a slip-dress lining and tiny capped sleeves, and its bias-cut hem was finished with silky eight-inch knotted fringe that swayed with the least little movement. She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Oh, hell, yeah,” Juney breathed, coming over to inspect the dress. “Where did you get this?” She fingered the fringe. “This is totally hot. I’m going to have to borrow it sometime.”
“Whenever you want,” she agreed. She’d gotten it when she and Big Jim had fir
st gotten married, but she refused to dwell on that. She’d realized this afternoon that it had been ages since she’d anticipated anything the way she was looking forward to her date with Jax tonight—and she was damned if she was going to let guilt ruin her evening. She hooked the hanger back on the rack and returned to her station to get ready.
A few moments later Julie-Ann said admiringly, “It sure is nice the way you can just forget your husband’s only been dead a few months.”
Carly half rose from her stool. “Listen, you little bi—”
Treena reached up and halted her with a hand on her arm. “It’s okay,” she said quietly, and turned to Julie-Ann. “My husband has been dead for over four months,” she said evenly, “and he was ill practically our entire marriage before that. I was faithful to him while he was alive, and I hardly think going out with another man now can be considered dancing on his grave.”
“Of course not,” Julie-Ann agreed with an innocent blink of her eyes. “That’s what I said. It’s nice that you can just forget all about him and have fun with another guy.”
No guilt, no guilt, she reminded herself and returned Julie-Ann’s saccharine smile with an equally insincere one of her own. “Isn’t it?” she agreed, and turned back to finish applying her makeup.
Despite her best intentions, Treena knew Julie-Ann had introduced a faint niggle of unease into her anticipation. It disappeared, however, the moment she clapped eyes on Jax when she entered the main salon a short while later.
He straightened away from the pillar he’d been leaning against, his gaze frankly admiring her. “Yowsa,” he said, stepping forward to meet her. “You look fantastic.”
“Thanks. You’re looking mighty spiff, yourself.” And he was. Carly’s description of big and built accurately described him in his pin-striped, double-breasted suit coat that stretched wide across his broad shoulders. Once again he was wearing jeans, but tonight he’d paired the two items with an elegantly knotted, subtly striped silk tie and a fitted royal blue dress shirt that accentuated the shade of his eyes.
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