by Sara Forbes
“Good God, I’ll give you my assistant’s details. He’ll sort all that out with you.”
I grin. That was way too easy. I should’ve been more unreasonable. My mistake.
Egan scans our faces again. “That’s it for now. I’ll contact you for the next meeting. Please leave here in last-in-first-out fashion, cars are waiting, no loitering, no discussions that can be overheard, and please allow five minutes between your exits. Jack and Felix first. Then Sean and Liam. Then Axel. Paul and I will leave last.”
“Holy moly;” I say when Jack and I escape into the fresh air again and we head for the top of the queue of cars. “All that way for, like, twenty minutes of Godfather III?”
“You’re getting a lambo, don’t complain.”
“At what price?” I open the door of the black Audi. “You’re going to have to fill me in on this Cara dame. You reckon she’s the type that can be persuaded into revealing client secrets?”
“Nope.”
“Right.”
Jack rubs his forehead as we slide into the back seat. “I don’t like this, Felix. I didn’t come here expecting you to get roped into doing anything. I shouldn’t have suggested you attend. If you’d stayed at home, it wouldn’t have come to this. This is all my fault. I’m sorry. I’d no idea they were so damn competitive. I thought they were passively sitting on their fortune, just holding.”
“Well, we’re in it now,” I say. “I’m too intrigued to back out. Paul must be a genius trader to generate so much money from so little. I can definitely learn from him.” I glance at the back of the driver’s head, wondering if he’s a spy for Egan. Like the last driver, this one is stocky, taciturn and has a buzz cut. I’m not even going to bother trying to make small talk with him.
Jack leans closer to speak to me in a murmur. “How can we trust their judgement? For all we know they’re harboring criminals, or Snowdon types, what have you.”
“Guess we can’t trust any of them really, can we? Least ‘til we find out more.”
Jack sighs. “I’m not as risk tolerant as you.”
“That’s okay Jacky, I’m the one in the hot seat.”
“Yeah, you’re going to have her following you. Cara’s one sharp cookie; she abandoned Mia and me on an island last year and made it look like an accident.”
“Yes,” I rub my palms. “I love that story.”
“Just be careful, Felix. I don’t like the sound of these people she’s working for. We don’t know what they’re capable of. If someone gets in their way—”
“And we know this about Egan?”
He pulls out his phone and switches it on. “Another reason to be careful.”
He’s talking to his lady on the phone now and I stare out the window at leafy London suburbia. We could back out now if we wanted to. Nothing is actually stopping us. Sure, Jack feels he owes his whole existence to them because the Bitcoin windfall enabled him to start his movie production business and the guilt of indebtedness is weighing him down. But me, I feel no such guilt. I’d have won and lost my fortunes anyway, even without that three million.
My whole life was destined to be spent gambling ever since I won $100 playing poker against my dad at age eight and he showered me with praise and snuck me out of school the following week to attend the poker world championships in Vegas—much to the horror of my poor mother who vowed to divorce him for that. She never did and he died four years later. But ever since that day, I was on a course. I dropped out of school at sixteen, as soon as legally possible. Tragically, none of the teachers tried to persuade me to stay, not even Mr. Charles my math teacher who used to laugh at the fact that I’d get an A one week in algebra and an F the next in trigonometry.
Gambling is all I know what to do. And I know how to do it fucking well. And, now that Dad’s gone, I don’t owe anyone anything.
We’re coming up to the Tate gallery and Jack’s gathering up his phone and wallet in preparation for getting out. He and Mia are staying on in London for a few days of couple’s fun. I’m getting the next plane back to LAX.
It’s my last chance to say something. If I were sensible I’d just walk away from this Bitcoin Billionaire group. But I’m intrigued, and I haven’t been intrigued for a long time. And I’m definitely not sensible. The Bitcoin game is all just one of greed and bluffing, not unlike poker, and we seven guys constitute one of the biggest players at the table. It’s a game where keeping cool and following the rules pays off. I already know I’ll feel comfortable playing this game.
What have I got to lose? Unlike Jack, nothing. Having done the poker world circuit for close on fifteen years, seeing the same old faces, the same old haunts, even running into the same old ex-girlfriends, I could do with a new challenge.
“Final word?” Jack unbuckles the safety belt.
“I’m in. You?”
He nods. And then he’s gone.
“Airport, please,” I say to the driver.
I’ll accept Egan’s all-expenses paid challenge. I’ll use my amateur acting skills to play the big Bitcoin whale who plays poker—badly—in his spare time. I’ll charm this Cara woman into revealing her client’s identity and motivations.
I suspect that what Egan really wants is for me to keep her from finding out anything more about him so he can trade and make more money without interference. Fine, Cara Cole is just one woman. I know I can use her to eliminate her client from the game. How hard can it be?
3
CARA
IT’S DAY 14 OF THE POKER WORLD SERIES in Vegas and I’m bumping my way through the crowds in the Rio hotel. I had no idea what to expect of a world series poker tournament and I sure didn’t expect this number of people, or the crazy convention-style enthusiasm. Turns out tons of people of all demographics watch this as a spectator sport, not only online, but also in brick and mortar casinos. The climax of the event is the end table with the multimillion dollar pot where a bunch of experts, mainly guys, sit almost motionless around a brightly lit table that looks it was ripped from the bridge of Star Trek.
If it wasn’t for the weird sponsors lining the carpeted hallways, it would be like any other Vegas convention. Here, the biggest stands are selling vapes and poker swag along with phone chargers and energy drinks. The crowds skew male, mid-thirties to forties, white. My sleek black outfit and olive skin earns me a good deal of unwanted attention.
By now, anyone who’s been following the serious contenders has taken notice of Felix Palmer. With his handsome face, artfully waved golden hair, suave tailored tux, gleaming white shirt and teeth to match, the six times World Series bracelet winner cuts an elegant figure among all the leisurewear and baseball caps. I suspect he’d rock a grungy T-shirt and jeans though just as well.
He has a killer smile and unlike his brother Jack, knows how to use it. He smiles when he wins and he smiles when he loses. I mean, why wouldn’t he? The guy is sitting on so much money that losing a million here or there means absolutely nothing to him. I just wish I didn’t keep losing my concentration and daydreaming of running my hands through that flaxen hair, mussing him up, unbuttoning those shirt buttons and exploring whether what’s underneath is all that’s hinted at. I bet it is. I have to stop thinking like this. It’s unprofessional and I’m better than this.
Step one of my dastardly plan to get to know Felix Palmer is simply to approach him and find out whether he knows me or not. No doubt his brother talked about me and showed him photos from the movie-set last year. It was impossible to avoid all cameras so he’ll have seen my image. I’ll pretend I’m here because of a general passion for poker and that our meeting is just a coincidence, ha ha.
Two hours later, it’s down to the final two. Playing opposite Palmer is Ernie Belkov, a brash Australian in a denim baseball cap and sparse goatee who’s attracted attention for just how awful he is. A relentless trash talker, Belkov keeps going even when his opponents ignore him. He’s slowing the game down, making it excruciating for the spectators. I guess he’s j
ust trying to fool his opponent into thinking he’s an amateur by faking blowouts, giving the impression that he’s fuming.
Felix Palmer clearly wants no part of Belkov’s antics though. Belkov was dealt pocket kings and Palmer got pocket aces. Palmer raised, Belkov re-raised and Palmer bet again. As Belkov was contemplating what to do about Palmer’s $2.5 million chip raise, he started talking. Granted, I probably would too. I’d be babbling incoherently. I’m sweating at the thought of how much cash is changing hands here. And for something so meaningless as bits of card with numbers on them.
“What do you want me to do? Do you want me to go all-in or fold? Talk to me,” Belkov’s Aussie voice is belligerent, goading Palmer to break his silence. “You don’t say anything, I’m going to have to ship you.”
Palmer’s broad brow remains clear, his eyes peaceful, as serene as a Botticelli angel, lounging on a cloud, strumming a harp, while I and the rest of the live audience are held transfixed in our seats, breathless.
There’s silence but then, as if he can’t bear the tension, Belkov starts up again. “Play for the win, right? You doing the same? You gonna wait for the next pay jump?”
The woman beside me is dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief. The girl beside her is gnawing her knuckles. The man to my other side is muttering curses under his breath.
In previous rounds, Belkov’s opponents got red-faced and started to whine at this point, making themselves as unlikeable as Belkov into the bargain but not Palmer, cool as this triple crushed ice Margarita I’m nursing. I’m starting to see a pattern here. Last time he grinned like this, it was game over for his opponent.
Sure enough, Palmer’s full house beats Belkov’s crappy two pair. There’s a mix of cheers and moans from the crowd all around me, mostly cheers though. Amidst the kerfuffle of the game being over, I stroll away from the crowd to a quiet corner, fanning myself with a sales brochure for NJOY vapes.
I join a poker table way down the main hall for something to do. The basic idea, when I planned this in the comfort of my office a week ago, was to slide up to Palmer when the fans dwindled. He’s sure to be going for a celebration drink, if not going full overboard and “making it rain” on the Vegas strip by throwing money out the window, as is sometimes his habit when he wins.
But I have stiff competition. Glamorous women hover around him in droves, sniffing his wealth, and one particular brunette in a dazzling blue wrap dress with bouncing wavy hair and a sensuously feminine figure seems to be claiming him as her own—her hand moving to clutch his shoulder as she gives the dagger eyes to anyone within a five feet radius of him.
If that’s his type, then it’s going to make my task a whole lot harder. I’m more tomboy. My black hair’s dead straight and the curves under my t-shirt and skinny jeans are mere hints of the feminine identity I wish I had. I like my clothes dark and non-revealing because there’s not much to reveal. My concession to the glitzy environment today is a little black dress that shows more leg than usual, silver jewelry and a diamanté clip in my hair.
“Ready?” The dealer asks, shuffling cards, catching my eye. He can’t be more than eighteen.
I nod. I watched those YouTube vids so I’m not totally useless. The others around the table seem like relaxed touristy types rather than hardcore. Hey, maybe I can win some money playing this, and if I do, I’ll buy the deluxe sushi from the room-service menu. But I’ll pull out if I lose more than this starting pot of a hundred bucks. My daily budget doesn’t cover gambling.
After three rounds of crappy pairs of tens and eights, I’m down to my last ten dollars. That clawing feeling of losing and yet not wanting to give up is creeping up my spine. It’s like when someone I’ve tailed has disappeared into private property and I want so badly to follow them illegally and get my evidence of their wrong doing. Luckily, I never act on such feelings.
A middle-aged woman beside me in a pink Chanel jacket shudders and with a huff of resignation, turns abruptly from the table, trotting fast. I wonder how much she started with because she’s leaving with precisely nothing.
A tall man sidles up and takes her place beside me. I register a subtle scent of lime and musk. That smell—it whisks me straight back to a Caribbean island. I glance up and I look square into the aquamarine pools that are the eyes of Felix Palmer.
I blink. I double-blink. I gasp a breath. My reaction is giving me away but I can’t help it. It’s him. He wears the exact same cologne as his brother, triggering memories of my time on a sandy, hot Caribbean island. But Felix Palmer is a whole different animal to his brother. His presence is different. My whole nervous system is tingling with him standing so close.
Oh God. Why is this happening?
All right, game on.
I glance up again. His eyes twinkle down at me.
I try to make my eyes twinkle back. I’m probably just squinting though. My dark eyes are not known for their twinkling ability.
His gaze flickers from my face to my cards and back again. I stare down at my double pairs. Tens and nines this time.
Shaking only a tiny bit, I reach for my nine of hearts. His weight shifts so that the crease of his blazer tickles the back of my hand like a tiny caress. That was deliberate. I freeze, unsure whether to glare at him or ignore him. My over-sensitized nerves still jangle from his briefest of touches.
Then he leans in closer, his arm gently nudging my elbow causing my finger to slide onto the adjacent card—the ten of spades, which I was going to keep. My gaze flickers over the other players frowning at their hands. Nobody has noticed our little charade. A world class player is trying to tell me something, so I listen. His head dips a fraction. Without reengaging eye contact, I chose the ten of spades and slap it down.
I steal another look at him but he’s focused on the dealer and the other players. To my surprise, or not really, I get dealt another nine to match my pair, and I win the round. As I scrape in my tokens, his face is bathed in a beatific smile, like he’s in command of the sunshine for this evening and if I just stick around, he may even shine some upon me. He’s just shone a whole pile of money on me.
I nod, jump off my stool, and draw away from the table. I won’t be able to keep my cool with him standing there beside me nudging me like that. It’s almost foreplay.
I stand a few feet away from the table, watching him play, feeling like I’ve already lost round one. My body hums with awareness of his masculine frame, and the memory of his accidental touches. He’s a man who clearly knows how to play a woman and that, in itself, is attractive—and thrilling. But if I want to push him for information, I have to quench these stupid cavewoman impulses.
“Why’d you stop?” he asks, approaching me when the round is over. He casually takes the barstool beside me as if we’re old friends.
I laugh because his voice is just as I’d expect—a silkier version of his brother’s, a more relaxed drawl, less bossy, but infinitely more cocky.
“I reached my target. I said I’d stop when that happened.”
“Do you always stop when you say you will?” There’s wickedness in his grin as his blue-eyes devour me. If he’s pretending to be interested in what he sees, he’s doing a damn fine job. My cavewoman feels utterly flattered even if my twenty-first Century rational side is pissed off that he’s the one driving the conversation right now.
“Usually, yes.” I say. We’re strolling aimlessly between the cards tables. Felix has to wave off two servers who want to give us free drinks. I’m careful to keep my distance from him so our hands don’t brush together.
“How about that drink?” he says.
“What drink?”
“The drink that you’ve been chasing me for three days to enjoy with me?” he says with a wicked grin.
I smile back. His arrogance bothers me way less than it should. Charm goes a long way when it’s done properly.
“I suppose there’s no point in me denying it.”
“None,” he agrees. “I know a good place.”
I recognize this for the opportunity it is. “That’s settled then. And I guess you could use a drink? Belkov gave you quite an earful today.”
“Oh, I’m used to him. I just feel bad for the audience. They’ve paid money to watch a card game, not a circus.”
“And you care about that?” I ask not quite managing to keep incredulity out of my tone.
“Yes of course. I take entertainment very seriously.”
His face is relaxed and devoid of emotion so I don’t know whether he means this or not.
“Well I was hoping for a fist fight.” I say. I survey him boldly. I bet the body under all the expensive fabric is hard as nails. I’d love to see him all disheveled in a fist fight. His suaveness is just a veneer after all, a veneer for the ugliness underneath, which I am going to force to come to the surface and show itself sooner or later. Preferably sooner.
He laughs as if reading my thoughts. “How about this place?”
We’re at Sam’s Cocktail bar—a little enclave of calm where the din of the casino floor is muted to a background hum, overlaid with tasteful piano music. The seats are in plush red velvet. The Casablanca posters hanging behind the bar remind me with a pang of Dad. “I approve,” I say.
Felix wanders off to the bar where he strikes up a conversation with the barman who, guessing from the body language, he seems to know. He returns with the Margarita I would have ordered if I’d been given the choice. He must have spotted me drinking it earlier. It bothers me that he’s observant. It makes my job that much harder.
He clinks his glass with mine as he takes the high chair opposite me. “I suppose we can dispense with the introductions. You obviously know who I am and I also happen to know who you are, Cara Cole.”
I quirk my eyebrows, holding his gaze for a few silent seconds. “Well I’m glad that’s all sorted.”
“And your idea of fun is abandoning people on desert islands. I must say, I admire your sense of humor.”