by Ava Drake
He ducked into a public restroom after the meal to wash his hands. The lobster that had been served tonight was messy, and he had butter all over his fingers. He’d been in the empty bathroom for about thirty seconds when someone slipped in and disappeared into a stall. The door was closed for about ten seconds, and then in the mirror he spied a masked figure surging out toward him.
He spun and ducked, lashing out with his foot and connecting hard with his attacker’s knee. The guy grunted and swore in Spanish as Collin attacked aggressively, his elbows and fists jabbing in a fast flurry. His years of training took over, and he attacked, not stopping to think about anything. A fist connected hard with his jaw, and then something sharp and searing hot slashed his side.
He got in a punishing punch that broke his attacker’s nose with a loud crunch, and the guy staggered back, blood spouting everywhere. Hand over masked face, the guy turned and fled, with Collin in hot pursuit. But only a few steps beyond the bathroom door, the stitch in his side became so excruciating he was forced to stop, gripping his waist.
Hot wetness under his hand made him look down, startled. A bright red stain was spreading fast through his shirt. He’d been cut.
Swearing under his breath, he made for the elevator and punched in Oliver’s floor. Holding his side as best he could, he hurried down the hall and banged on Oliver’s door.
“What the hell are you doing here? It’s not the top of the hour—”
He barged past and pushed into the room, heading straight for the bathroom. “I’ve been stabbed.”
“What the hell?” Oliver exclaimed.
Collin stripped off his shirt and mopped at the six-inch-long cut that was bleeding freely. “It’s a surface wound, but it’s deep enough to need stitches.”
“Christ, that’s a lot of blood!” Oliver exclaimed in alarm.
“I promise you, I’m not dying. I’ve seen a lot worse than this.” He didn’t add that he’d only seen such wounds by remote camera feed and that his training in trauma medicine was entirely theoretical. “I need you to clean the wound, slow the bleeding, and stitch it closed. I would do it myself, but it’s in an awkward place, and I can’t reach it.”
Truth be told, he had no idea if he could stitch his own skin without passing out. He’d seen field operatives do it before. Most stayed conscious. But a few did not.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Oliver, I need your help.”
“You need a hospital!”
“And yet you’re all I’ve got. We’ll need your vodka and the hotel’s sewing kit from the nightstand. I’ll talk you through it.”
Oliver hustled around the room, getting all the supplies Collin listed.
Meanwhile, he lay down on the bed with a bunch of towels under him and another one pressed hard over the wound. “It’s a slice-style cut, so it’s all about getting the wound closed in order to stop the bleeding.”
“This is so gross.”
“Emergency field medicine. Just do it,” he ground out.
Oliver pulled a face, but with determination soaked the thread and needle in vodka. “Ready?” he asked grimly.
“Do it.” Collin gritted his teeth together, bracing himself. But nothing could have prepared him for the breathtaking agony as Oliver poured vodka over the open wound. He cried out in spite of his resolve not to and frantically grabbed for a washcloth to stuff it in his mouth. He clamped down on the dry terry cloth in blinding pain.
Oliver leaned down over his side and commenced sewing. The first pierce of the needle through his flesh felt like a hot volcano erupting against his side, and he panted in a valiant effort to maintain consciousness.
The next thing he remembered, he blinked up at Oliver, who was staring worriedly at him. “Welcome back, Collin. Don’t pass out on me again, okay? You scared the hell out of me, and I don’t know what to do next.”
“How long was I out?”
“Couple minutes. Long enough for me to, umm, sew you together.”
“Is it still bleeding?” The pain was back, but now it was more of a sharp ache underlying the searing heat from before.
“It’s seeping.”
Collin considered. “Let’s go ahead and bandage it, then. I’m not likely to pass out while you do that. I may swear a bit, though.”
“Swearing I can handle. But, um, what are we bandaging it with?”
Dammit. All the field operatives he usually worked with carried small first aid kits in their gear. “I guess you’ll have to go down to the front desk and claim an injury. Get antibiotic cream, some gauze pads, and tape.”
“Collin, I’m not a moron. I know what it takes to bandage a boo-boo.”
He smiled up crookedly. “Sorry. I can be a bit of a micromanager when I’m under stress.”
“You don’t say.”
It took upward of a half hour for Oliver to go downstairs, come back with a first aid kit, and bandage his wound. But at the end of it, Collin had a reasonably repaired side and a gray-faced Oliver who looked ready to pass out himself.
Collin stood up carefully and borrowed a clean shirt from Oliver. “Get some sleep. I have to go back to my room, since the cameras saw me come in here.”
“What you need to do is quit the damned tournament and go home,” Oliver declared forcefully. “I’ll win the thing, and when I do, I promise to tell you what the mystery prize is.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m holding my own very nicely, thank you very much.”
“You’re not a professional, and you’re not a crook. This crowd is too rough for you.”
“And you are a crook?” Collin shot back.
“I’ve played with these guys before. I know how they roll.”
“In case you forgot, my job is to study guys exactly like these and predict their actions. I likely know them better than you do.”
“Then you know they won’t hesitate to kill you if they find out who you really work for and what you’re doing here,” Oliver said. “My father, or Stacy Kiern, or whoever sent that attacker after you, will try again. And I can’t—I won’t—stand around and watch you be killed.” His voice sounded a little ragged. The catch in it made Collin’s heart flip-flop. Oliver really cared about his safety. Well, hell.
“I feel the same way about you, Oliver.”
“And that’s sweet of you, Collin. I never thought I’d meet a man like you and have you actually think I’m not a total asshole….”
Collin didn’t like where this was going. He sensed regret in Oliver’s voice and opened his mouth to tell Oliver not to make any rash decisions after the shock of seeing one of them wounded.
But Oliver cut him off before he could speak, saying grimly, “Don’t come to my room again. You had the right idea before. We need to be done with each other for both our sakes. I can’t be your Girl Friday and sew you up anymore. And I refuse to watch you die. We are done, Collin. It’s over between us.”
Panic exploded in Collin’s gut. Please God, let this just be the shock of blood and having to sew up Collin’s side talking. “The tournament will be over soon,” Collin soothed. “We’ll talk then.”
Oliver’s jaw was set stubbornly, and he refused to answer, turning away to stare out the window at the Mediterranean.
Collin took a tiny sliver of comfort in Oliver’s pained expression. At least there was still passion between them in some form. He’d long held that hate was not the opposite of love. Apathy was. If Oliver was upset or even hated him a little, they still stood a chance of transforming that anger into more congenial passion. Later. After this madness concluded and they were well away from Oliver’s father.
But as he let himself out of the room, Collin had to wonder what would really happen after the tournament ended. Would Oliver go back to his big waves and meaningless existence, or would he come out of retirement and travel the world, playing cards wherever he could get permission to play? Either way, an intelligence analyst based in England didn’t fit into the pi
cture. More than just his side ached as he trudged dejectedly back to his room.
Chapter Twelve
OLIVER was startled the next afternoon when he and the other players filed into the ballroom to play. Only four tables were set up with six seats at each. What the hell? Obviously this had something to do with the rules change that had been announced at the beginning of the tournament. The ninety-plus remaining players milled around in consternation. Numerous players sidled up to him and muttered, “Any idea what’s up?”
He gave them all the same answer. “Nope.”
The tournament emcee spoke into a wireless microphone. “As some of you have surmised, this is not just a simple poker tournament, and what all of you are playing for is not merely money or luxury prizes, although those will certainly come with the package. Indeed, all of you have been auditioning, as it were. The winner of the tournament will be offered an exclusive opportunity to earn wealth, prestige, and power beyond your wildest imaginings. It will, literally, transform your life.”
An interested buzz broke out, and the emcee waited patiently for it to subside. When it had, he continued. “As you may recall, I said at the beginning of the tournament that the rules would change after we got down to one hundred players. And, indeed, they will. The organizers of this tournament are looking for someone bold and courageous who prefers to run from the front of the pack. We are aware that, for various reasons, many of you have chosen to lag behind the leaders intentionally. For those of you who have done that, we are not interested in your caution and willingness to perform at less than your best for the sake of blending in. Therefore, the bottom seventy players are dismissed. You may pack your bags and leave. Two buses are waiting in front of El Rocca to take you to the airport.”
An outraged outburst accompanied this bombshell. Voices shouted that they’d intentionally been staying out of the top ranks because someone had been trying to kill them.
The emcee was unmoved. But then, he was only a mouthpiece for whoever was running this circus. Twenty-four players would duke it out for the prize, huh? The tournament should wrap up in no more than a day or two, then. The remaining players would get down to serious business now and start playing full-out, going for each other’s throats.
Sure, most professional poker players spouted a big line about how all they could do was play the cards they were dealt. The game was nothing personal. Just math. But that was a lie. Poker players were sharks at heart, and they went for blood.
Thankfully, he and Collin were seated at different tables. He could not handle Collin’s wistful glances, nor would he have been able to contain his own seething resentment at Collin’s refusal to leave the damned tournament and save his lousy neck. Yeah, yeah, he knew Collin was just doing his job, and furthermore, that Collin was determined to see Oliver win the stupid tournament. But Collin’s stubborn determination to get himself killed in the process pissed him off. If Collin truly loved him, surely he would have chosen to stay safe for both their sakes and left the poker to Oliver.
Oliver scoped out the other five players who sat down beside him and was not surprised to see them measuring him carefully as well. The carnage he’d wrought to get to the top of the chip leader board had clearly made them all cautious of him. Which he could use to his own advantage, of course.
Interestingly enough, by cutting off the bottom seventy players, the tournament directors had actually gotten rid of a number of the best card players in the bunch. Which would make his job easier—
He cautioned himself about getting cocky. These were still some of the best poker players in the world. Turning his baseball cap around backward, he sprawled sloppily in his seat. Putting on his best stoned-surfer drawl, he said, “Whacked, man, all those players getting cut like that.”
Brows twitched around the table.
He grinned stupidly. “I’ve been lucky as shit so far with the cards. I sure hope it holds up. Think about all the chicks who’ll wanna lay me if I win me some real cash.”
“Have you been enjoying the girls here?” a Japanese player asked in careful English from across the table.
He shrugged. “They’re not bad. But I’m talking about the serious talent. The chicks from eastern Europe who look hot as hell and will do anything—and I mean anything—you can imagine. They’ll go for stuff that’s twisted as shit, man.”
Being a male himself, he knew that every mind at the table immediately veered off into thinking about the most twisted thing it could think of to do with or to someone else. He kept up a patter of sexual acts he’d always wanted to try as the dealer got set up and the chips were delivered to the tables. He counted his chips sloppily and had to start over twice, even though in his mind he added them up with quick efficiency the first time.
The cards were dealt, and play began. No more pussyfooting around. It was time to crush his opponents. And crush them he did, all the while rambling on about Lady Luck having the serious hots for him.
COLLIN sat quietly as play began. He seriously doubted anyone at his table took him seriously. Someone always got lucky and performed well above his or her skill level for a while, according to Oliver. And at this tournament, that player was Collin. Which was fine with him. He lay low, did the math, and watched his opponents carefully, verifying the quirks and tells he and Oliver had discovered from the play tapes. About halfway through the session, he finally started seriously betting, interspersing bluffs and legitimate hands.
Nobody at the table had any idea what to make of him. Collin would like to think he wasn’t giving away any decent tells, and the failure of the other players to read him suggested he might be right. When play ended, he was second in chips at his table, and the two bottom players had busted out. Not a bad showing for an amateur.
His side hurt like hell, and he headed straight back to his room, popped a bunch of painkillers, and crashed.
And so it went for the next night’s play as well. The field was winnowed down to twelve players, and the third day, only two tables sat in the middle of the now cavernously empty ballroom. The space was dark except for spotlights shining on the two tables. A haze of smoke danced in the beams of light, and the mood was grim as the twelve remaining players filed into the room.
Yet again, he and Oliver were seated at different tables. How they’d managed to avoid competing head-to-head for all this time, he had no idea. Maybe it was luck, or maybe George Elliot had a hand in keeping them apart. Either way, he was grateful as hell for it. Oliver hadn’t bothered to respond when Collin had smiled tentatively and wished him luck on the way into the room. He could only hope the disdain was an act for George Elliot and not a reflection of how Oliver really felt. But panic still perched nervously in Collin’s breast, ready to fly at a moment’s notice.
Play began, and over the next few hours, the two short-stacked players at Collin’s table were eliminated from play. Meanwhile, Oliver obliterated four players at his table. The field was now down to six.
The emcee called an end to play early and told everyone to get a good night’s sleep before resuming single-table play tomorrow. There would be no more days off to recuperate. From here on out, it would be a marathon to the end.
Oliver was still in first place, although two of the other players weren’t far behind him in chip totals. Then there was a good-sized gap in chip count down to Collin and the other two players.
Tomorrow, he and Oliver would finally play against each other.
As they filed into the restaurant for a late supper, Collin grimly considered his options. He could bust out intentionally, throwing all his chips to Oliver. Otherwise, he would need to reverse his luck strongly to survive the next night’s play. He would have to go for broke, play courageously, and hope the cards fell his way. Undecided, he went for a walk on the beach after the meal to clear his head and think. He walked away from the marina, away from the suffocating opulence of George Elliot’s yacht and the threat it represented.
The air was damp and chilly beside
the sea, the sand wet and heavy beneath his shoes. He moved down by the water where the waves had pounded the sand flat and hard enough to walk on, heading for a rocky outcropping that looked like scree calved off the face of the looming Rock of Gibraltar. As he neared it, he saw the rocks were actually gigantic boulders the size of cars, piled haphazardly. Only a narrow strip of sand separated the rocks from the water, and he hesitated to go past it and then get trapped by a change in the winds that might drive the water up onto the rocks.
What the hell. After all, look where being cautious had gotten him. The only man he’d ever deeply cared about refused to speak to him, let alone be with him. Maybe it was time he stepped out of his comfort zone and took a few risks in life.
He rounded the point and was startled to see that the beach ended abruptly a dozen yards ahead of him in a sheer cliff. He turned around to head back when a dark shape rose up out of the water only a few yards offshore. It was a big man in a wet suit and mask. Fuck! Collin looked around frantically for a stick of driftwood or a rock, anything to defend himself with as the swimmer came ashore purposefully, striding directly toward him.
He backed up the tiny strip of beach until his shoulder blades touched cold rock, rough through his shirt, reviewing his self-defense training frantically. Watch the body mass, keep hands and weapons outside of his own arms at all costs. Stay vertical. Accept injuries as part of staying alive—
“What the hell are you doing out here?” the swimmer demanded.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Oliver. Collin almost peed himself in his relief. “What happened to your neon yellow wet suit?” he asked, stupid in his relief that this wasn’t an assassination attempt.
Oliver stalked forward threateningly. Or maybe it was an assassination attempt. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing out here?”