by Ava Drake
Temptation, peril, and dirty poker.
“Mind if I join you? A redhead named Angeline seems to think I’m the most sexually deprived man on earth. I swear, she’s stalking me.”
Gun grinned broadly. “The tournament director’s paying for their services. You should take her up on undepriving you.”
“She plays for the wrong team,” Collin murmured low.
He glanced up quickly, catching Collin’s gray gaze on him. Dude, that man was easy on the eyeballs. The Brit was square-jawed and clean-cut in a movie-star kind of way. His dark hair was thick and wavy, in spite of being cut short on the sides, and painfully neat. The guy’s suit was conservative, effectively hiding most of the wholly fuckable brawn beneath. But then, there was a lot more to Collin Callahan than met the eye.
Collin was astronomically not his type. He liked them a little dim, a lot casual, no challenge in the mental acuity department, and no strings attached. Just a fuck.
Not that he dared even contemplate getting involved with one of his competitors here. This was perhaps the biggest poker tournament of all time. No way was he going to risk his shot at taking home what was surely a massive prize just for a hot piece of ass. Still. Collin’s was a damned tempting piece of ass.
Seven-Card Stud
By Ava Drake
A Wild Cards Novel
Temptation, peril, and dirty poker.
Love is a high-stakes game.
When Collin Callahan, British secret agent, goes up against math genius turned surfer bum Oliver Elliot, the battle is epic—and so is the attraction. They’re pitted against each other in an exclusive, ultrasecret—and ultraillegal—poker match in Gibraltar, but when players start dying and they could be next, they find a common goal: catch the killer before it’s too late.
Evenly matched at poker and romance, they each wrestle personal demons that threaten to consume them as the stakes climb. It’s an all-or-nothing gamble with both life and love on the line as they fight to be the last seven-card studs standing.
Table of Contents
Sneak Peek
Blurb
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
By Ava Drake
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Coming in December 2016
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Copyright Page
Chapter One
COLLIN Callahan stepped onto the beachside veranda and turned his face up to the warm sunshine. The south of Europe was a blessed relief after England, which was gray and dreary at this time of year. God knew, he was ready for more than a change in weather.
The Mediterranean Sea crashed against the seawall that formed the outer foundation of the veranda. A torrential rain had passed through last night, and the weather was still blustery today. In front of Gibraltar’s El Rocca Resort was a curving, man-made beach of pale gold sand. The waves were more gentle there. But here, the transition from stucco to sea was abrupt.
He spied a swimmer a ways out in the choppy water moving from right to left, blond hair bright against the black sea. The man wore a neon yellow wet suit and his swim strokes were angular and even. Strong swimmer. Christ, the water had to be freezing. What nutball would go out for a swim in that?
From the opposite direction, he heard the roar of a Jet Ski emerging at high speed out of the El Rocca marina at the far end of the sprawling beach. The driver wore a black wet suit and goggles. And his craft was headed directly for the swimmer.
Collin rushed over to the edge of the veranda in alarm and waved his arms, trying to get the Jet Skier’s attention, but to no avail. The guy seemed oblivious. In fact, as Collin looked on in dismay, the bastard turned slightly, lining himself up even more exactly with the swimmer.
Collin shouted futilely in hopes of the swimmer hearing the warning, but the fellow just kept his head down in a crawl and plowed onward, unaware that he was about to die.
The gap between Jet Ski and swimmer evaporated in an instant. Crap. That Jet Ski was flying.
He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t look away from the unfolding disaster. At the very last second, the swimmer lifted his head and then waved his arms frantically, but it was too late for the poor guy to do a damned thing to save himself. The Jet Ski ran directly over him. And the bastard driver kept right on going.
Surely the driver had seen the swimmer in those last few yards, when the guy would have been looming directly in front of him waving his arms. And yet there hadn’t been a swerve, a reduction of engine power, or even an attempt at a turn. Son of a bitch.
Staring at the spot where the swimmer had last been, Collin muttered, “C’mon. Surface, buddy. Pop up and lemme see you’re okay. Live, dammit.”
But no matter how he cajoled the swimmer, there was no sign of the guy. The seconds ticked away as panic built in his gut. He couldn’t wait any longer. He kicked off his shoes and stripped off his jacket and sweater. Down to just slacks and shirt, he climbed the railing and dived into the water.
The cold shocked him into immobility, but the trajectory of his dive had been shallow and he arced back up toward the surface, breaking through, gasping. He sighted off the corner of the veranda and headed for the spot he’d last seen the swimmer.
He’d never swum in full clothing that weighted down all his limbs, or in water that turned him into a human ice cube, numbing his fingers and setting his teeth chattering uncontrollably. But he pressed on determinedly. The swimmer would die if he didn’t find the guy and fast. He was the only one who’d seen the collision, the only person who knew the spot the swimmer had gone down, the only one with a chance to save the guy.
It took a never-gonna-be-warm-again eternity to get to the spot where he estimated the crash had happened, and he treaded water, turning in a circle in search of a body. Hell, he’d settle for a blood slick. Nothing.
Crap. He took a deep breath and dived. The visibility sucked, and the icy salt water burned his eyes, but he doggedly stayed under, searching until his lungs felt like they would explode. He popped up to the surface, took several deep, gasping breaths, and went down again. The water was deeper than he expected, and around fifteen feet down, if the painful pressure in his ears was any indication, it got too dark for him to see a thing.
If the swimmer had already lost all buoyancy and gone down to the bottom, the man was a goner anyway. He had to confine his search to the first twelve feet or so of water but widen the search area.
Collin ran out of air, his lungs screaming for oxygen, and swam for the surface, bursting clear at the last possible instant before his chest exploded. He took a bunch of fast breaths and went down a third time.
He wasn’t able to stay down as long this time, but he swam in a wide circle around the impact point. No sign of the swimmer. Dammit!
Surfacing again, he paid close attention to the current, trying to sense which direction the guy’s body might have drifted. Time was running out for the swimmer. He had to find the guy, and soon, or resuscitation wouldn’t do any good.
He dived yet again, angling toward the current flow, his body growing sluggish with the cold and oxygen starvation. But a man’s life depended on him. He pushed through the pain with grim determination.
Despair heavy in his mind, he was rising toward the surface yet again when something large ro
cketed at him from above. He jolted, fearing the return of the Jet Ski. The object slammed into him, knocking what little breath he still had out of his chest. Something gripped his left arm in a viselike grip.
Crap. Were there sharks out here? Panic for his own survival roared through him. He punched at the attacking fish with his free fist, writhing and twisting to free himself of its grip.
The beast breached, yanking him up and breaking the surface of the water. He dragged in a desperately needed lungful of air. He managed another breath before the beast tried to roll him over onto his back. Muscles temporarily refueled with oxygen, he fought harder to release himself. He must get free before too much damage was done. Before he bled out.
“Jeez, quit fighting already!” a voice complained behind him.
It took his cold-numbed mind a moment to register that a human being had spoken the words, not a great white shark.
He grabbed for the chokehold around his throat and realized it was an arm. Not a tooth-filled jaw. And that was a big, warm, hard body spooning against his in a way that would have been provocative as hell in any other circumstances.
“Let me go!” he rasped past saltwater and that damned arm all but choking him to death.
“You need help to stay afloat. I’ve got you.”
“A swimmer got hit by a Jet Ski, you moron. I’m out here to save him!”
“You’re drowning, dude.”
“I was diving. Intentionally. Let me go and help me find the guy before he dies!”
“I’m the guy that asshole almost ran over.”
Collin’s already sluggish mind went blank. “He hit the swimmer. I saw it. The guy went down.”
The arm around his neck finally loosened enough for Collin to tear away and tread water under his own power. He spun to face a blond guy with a deep tan who floated easily behind him.
The blond said, “The Jet Ski almost hit me. I dived and got out of the way at the last second.”
“But you didn’t come up. I watched for well over a minute.”
“I’m a surfer, man. I can hold my breath for three minutes, easy. I stayed under and swam away from where he hit me in case he circled back to check on me and accidentally hit me the second time around.”
“But—” Collin broke off, at a loss for words. His brain was barely functional in the icy cold grip of the sea. “So you’re okay?”
“I’m great. You, however, look like shit. Your lips are blue, and your arms are noodling bad.”
If, by that, the swimmer meant Collin’s arms were weakening and starting to feel like noodles, the chap was entirely correct, dammit.
The swimmer added helpfully, “This water’s too cold for anyone to be out here without a wet suit.”
“No. Fucking. Kidding,” he managed between chatters of his teeth. “I was trying… to save… your life.”
“If we don’t get you to shore pretty quick, I’m going to have to save yours. C’mon. I’ll swim you in.”
“I can… swim by… myself.” Although the way his arms and legs were abruptly refusing to cooperate, he might be overstating the truth.
The blond guided him toward the beach, swimming easily alongside him as he flailed like a wet dog. To distract himself from the frigid misery, Collin asked, “How did… you find… me underwater?”
“Easy. I’m wearing goggles. Visibility’s not bad here. I saw you surface and then go down again. Looked for all the world like you were drowning, so I came and got you.”
“I was diving.”
“Yeah, I got that Snapchat. Tell me something. Did you see where the Jet Ski came from?”
Between exhausted pulls with his arms in a modified breaststroke that kept his head out of the water, he gasped, “Marina. Came flying out.”
“Interesting. Did you see where in the marina it came from?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
Something in the swimmer’s voice sounded like more than idle curiosity. Collin struggled to make sense of why that was important, but his mind wouldn’t compute complex logic analysis right now.
“It was insane of you to jump into the Med after me, you know.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“No, really. The water’s freezing cold at this time of year.”
“So I noticed,” Collin managed to retort.
“You got a death wish or something?”
More like a hero complex, but that was none of this fellow’s business. “Why were… you swimming… out here… if it’s so cold?”
“Because I’m wearing a wet suit, and the temperature of the water won’t kill me.”
Irritation warmed Collin enough to say all in one burst, “If I knew it would be so cold, I’d have let you drown.” His teeth started chattering again, and he finished lamely, “There. D… does that… make you… f… feel better?”
“You’re lying,” the swimmer declared. “You’d have jumped in anyway.”
“How do you know?” Collin exclaimed.
“You’re a terrible liar. Even half frozen to death, you have tells all over your face. I sure hope you’re not here to play in the poker tournament because the other players will eat you alive, the way you give up a bluff.”
He stared in dismay at the swimmer. Of course, he’d read in the poker manuals he’d been frantically studying for the past two weeks how important it was to control his facial features and expressions, not to give away when he was bluffing or really had cards. The books said experienced poker players were masters of reading facial nuance, but he’d had no idea how masterful until this exact moment.
If he hadn’t already been chilled to the bone before, he was now.
“You need some help there, Skippy?” the swimmer asked. “I don’t mind pulling you in. You look totally wiped.”
The swimmer would be correct. But damned if he would let the man whom he’d dived in to save rescue him instead. He had a little pride, after all.
It took considerably longer for him to make his way to shore than it had for him to get out to the crash site. But the swimmer stayed with him patiently as he labored ashore. Whether or not he’d have made it back on his own without the motivation of anger and stung pride, he would never know. As it was, he was deeply resentful of the gratitude he was forced to acknowledge toward the swimmer. The one-night stand had called him ungrateful after their one and only hookup two months ago. Hell, maybe the guy was right. Maybe he didn’t know how to show vulnerability.
By the time his feet touched the sandy bottom, Collin would have been hard-pressed to spell his own name. He staggered through the waist-deep surf, which was more a swaying of the water than actual waves rolling in. But still, it was enough to knock him off his feet.
“Easy there, dude. I’ve got you.”
The swimmer he’d set out to save wrapped a powerful arm around his waist and helped him the last few yards to shore. It galled him to allow it, but he didn’t have the strength to fight the guy off.
Left to his own devices, Collin would have collapsed to the sand to rest and catch his breath. But swimmer dude was having none of that.
“You’re hypothermic as hell. We’ve got to get you inside and warmed up. No resting for you. Upsy-daisy, English.”
“Upsy-daisy?” he echoed wryly.
“Hey. Whatever works. One foot in front of the other.”
“My jacket. Jumper. Shoes. That way—” he mumbled, gesturing at the veranda to their left.
“My room. Hot shower. This way,” the swimmer retorted. “C’mon.”
With that shockingly strong arm forcibly pulling him along, Collin didn’t have much choice in the matter. His entire body was so exhausted and cramped with cold, it could barely move. The guy dragged him through the lobby of the resort and pushed him into an elevator. If the other guests noticed him or gave a damn for his half-drowned state, he couldn’t tell and didn’t care. The idea of a hot shower sounded better than just about anything in life right now.
He had n
o idea where his room key was or what his own room number was at the moment. He was only vaguely aware of going to an unfamiliar floor in the resort and of being herded down a long hallway into a strange room.
“Can you get your clothes off and get in the shower by yourself, or do you need help?” the swimmer asked.
“I got it,” Collin mumbled. He shambled into the guy’s bathroom and managed to get the faucet turned on, but the buttons on his shirt almost did him in. He might have torn off the last couple of them, he wasn’t sure. But eventually he got the damned shirt off and peeled down his sodden wool trousers.
He stepped into the shower.
Too hot. Too hot!
He cooled the shower down until his chilled skin could stand the temperature, and then gradually warmed up the water as his body could take the heat. Convinced he was never going to feel warm again, he turned the water up hotter and hotter until steam filled the shower. The water flowed over his head and beat at his neck and shoulders, releasing the terrible tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The panic of seeing that swimmer go down and then of thinking he was under attack and going to die seeped away under the pounding water.
At length he began to feel semihuman. Normal brain function reengaged. He felt waterlogged but reasonably close to the temperature he was supposed to be. He climbed out of the shower, toweled off, and looked down in dismay at his wet, ruined clothing in a pile on the floor. No way could he put that stuff back on.
Irritated at needing help from the swimmer yet again, Collin wrapped a towel around his hips and stepped out into the hotel room.
His rescuer had stripped the wet suit down to his waist, revealing a tantalizing line of light brown hair running down toward that impressive bulge of neoprene-clad junk Collin couldn’t help but notice. The swimmer ran to the lanky side, but he looked hard and fit from head to, umm, crotch. His shoulders were broad and bony, but when he moved, Collin realized they were sheathed in more muscle than initially met the eye. Maybe it was the guy’s height that made him look deceptively lean. He had to be six foot two. Abruptly Collin recalled feeling that hard body pressed against his from neck to ass in the water when the swimmer had mistakenly thought he was drowning.