by Jana DeLeon
"Whoo boy!" the voice of another dealer sounded right next to him. "That's enough to get a Cajun in some serious trouble."
Jake tore his eyes from the goddess leg display in a flash and started restacking his chips. "They're all right, I guess," he said, trying to cover his blatant ogling. The last thing he needed was trouble and given the length of her conversation with St. Claire and the proximity of their bodies as they talked, the owner of the sexy legs was potential trouble.
"You guess so?" The other dealer, Brad, jabbed him in the side and laughed. "From the way you was staring, I thought you was on the verge of proposing."
Jake stopped stacking the chips and stared at Brad, wondering already how he was supposed to concentrate on his work within ten feet of a man whose biggest ambition seemed to be getting his next beer. "The only thing I'm proposing I do is win some serious money."
Brad grinned and shrugged. "Ain't no one saying you can't win some money. Hell, win it all." He glanced over once more at the woman talking to St. Claire. "Might buy you some time with sexy legs there."
Jake sighed and forced himself to play along. "Yeah, money might buy some time." He shrugged. "I don't know, though. The better looking they are, the more trouble they bring."
Brad nodded. "Got that one right. I met this hot little number a year ago - hell, next thing I knew she'd got me to spending most everything in my savings and once I even thought about selling my bass boat." He shook his head, a chagrined look on his face. "Can you believe it - my bass boat? What the hell was I thinking?"
Jake held in a smile. Lifetime companionship with a hot little number versus a bass boat. He could definitely see where the problem would lie. "So what happened?"
"She took off with a lawyer from New Orleans. He had a ton of money and no fishing habits." Brad smiled. "It was a near miss."
Jake nodded in agreement. "That it was." He inclined his head toward sexy legs. "That's exactly why I might look at those legs from across the room, but don't want to be any closer than this or know any more about the woman attached to them than I already do."
Brad looked longingly at the legs again and sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Anyway, St. Claire would probably kill us for messing with the help, especially if he thinks it will affect our playing. Damn shame, though."
Jake just nodded. Yeah, right. Avoiding women seemed like the best idea in the world when he considered the collateral damage Mark's disappearance had caused. Damned if he was going to put a woman and child in the same position as Mark's family. Damned if he was going to put them in the same position as he and his mother had been all those years ago.
"Hey." Brad jabbed him in his ribs again and broke into his thoughts. "She's turning around. Check it out."
Despite his better judgment, Jake looked over at the set of legs just as the owner swung around. Jake tried to put on his poker face but knew he was giving everything away.
St. Claire walked around her and continued across the casino floor, pointing in Jake's direction. The vision with the legs walked beside him, an aggravated look on what was an otherwise gorgeous face.
Her features were strong, high cheekbones, wide-set eyes that he was positive were going to be light green before he even saw them. Her hair was a black, glossy mass, all twisted on top of her head, small tendrils brushing the sides of her cheeks and her neck. And the rest of the body - wow. Curvaceous hips were offset with an ample chest in a perfect balance of flesh. The waist was tiny and as they closed the distance, Jake could see that the firm and muscular condition of her legs extended to all other parts of her body.
He'd bet she even had a six-pack, and for some ungodly reason, he had an overwhelming desire to see it.
"They're coming this way," Brad said, yanking Jake from his thoughts. "Guess I better get back to my station."
Jake watched as Brad hustled over to his table, casting sideways glances at the woman while trying to appear he wasn't looking at all. And for the first time that day, Jake could hardly fault Brad for acting like a teenage boy. He needed to get a grip on his own thoughts and focus on the game.
He looked up just in time for St. Claire and the woman to step in front of his table. He gave them a nod and St. Claire pointed to him. "This is Jake McMillan," he said to the woman. "You'll be working his table. Jake's a ringer from Atlantic City."
The woman turned to St. Claire in a flash. "You hired a Yankee to deal to Silas?"
St. Claire paused for a moment, and Jake could tell this was an angle he hadn't thought of. One that didn't please him to think of now. Damn the woman. She was going to get him removed from the tournament before he even got started. Trouble. Women were always trouble.
"I don't really have Yankee tendencies," Jake said, trying to smooth things over and convince St. Claire and the woman, who obviously pulled some weight with the casino owner, that he was the right man for the job. "I don't have much of a northern accent and no one has to know where I'm from."
The woman didn't look convinced, but St. Claire studied him for a moment, obviously considering his words. "He's probably right," St. Claire said finally. "He doesn't sound much like a Yankee and probably no one will ask. They'll be concentrating on cards."
The woman shook her head and frowned. "Silas will ask."
St. Claire threw his hands in the air. "Hell, Mallory, so the old bastard will ask. Let him."
"I don't see what the issue is," Jake said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Why should it matter who's dealing?"
Mallory gave him a frustrated look. "Because Silas hates Yankees, and Reginald is well aware of that fact. I'd prefer not to start off this tournament by unnecessarily antagonizing the best poker player in the state. And if you think these men are going to sit quietly and concentrate on the cards, then it just proves my point that you know nothing about the South."
Jake shrugged. "So I'll have to talk a bit. Sports are an easy topic. I still don't see the problem."
Mallory laughed. "Sports are easy, huh? Well, Mr. McMillan, if I were fishing in the big saltwater tournament next weekend and I were to ask you which reel you recommended, what would you suggest-the Quantum or the Mudbug?"
Jake frowned. Who the hell cared? But from the look on the woman's face, she cared, and she thought Silas would care. "I guess the Mudbug," he said, figuring he had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right one and the latter of the two seemed to match the description of the dirty bayou the casino floated upon.
Mallory shook her head and sighed. "The correct choice was the Quantum. You just suggested I enter the tournament using a crawfish as a reel." She turned back to St. Claire. "Good Lord, Reginald. You've got to give me something better than this to work with. He probably doesn't even watch NASCAR."
St. Claire jammed the cigar back in his mouth and studied Jake for a moment, the uncertainty in his eyes clear as day. Jake felt his insides clench. To hell with manners, he finally decided. He had nothing to lose at this point and everything to gain.
Jake turned to face the woman. "Excuse me, miss, but isn't Mr. St. Claire paying you to distract the players? Or should I assume that the practically nonexistent skirt and the push-up bra is your normal dress?"
Mallory locked eyes with Jake, her expression hard, the green eyes studying him like a lab rat. And for a moment, Jake decided he had underestimated this woman, but in a matter of seconds, her expression cleared into a fake smile.
"Of course that's what he's paying me for, Mr. McMillan," she said. "Whatever was I thinking?"
St. Claire laughed, but she ignored him and continued to smile at Jake. "My name is Mallory Devereaux. It's a pleasure to meet you." She stuck one hand out and Jake lifted his own, wondering what she was up to now. But before he could get it across the table, St. Claire grabbed his arm and yanked it down.
"You'll want to watch touching my niece," he said.
His niece? "Of course," Jake said, trying to process this bit of information and decide how it affected his plans. "I didn't m
ean to offend anyone."
St. Claire laughed. "You didn't offend me, boy. I'm just saving your ass. Mallory's a cooler. One touch of her hand and your playing would be reduced to that of a five-year-old." St. Claire shook his head and pointed a finger at Mallory. "You know better."
Mallory shrugged and tried for an apologetic look, but Jake knew she had been deliberate. "Sorry, Uncle Reginald," she said. "It slipped my mind."
St. Claire narrowed his eyes at her. "Well, don't let it slip again. Remember our agreement." With that, St. Claire turned and stalked off across the casino.
Mallory cast one final cutting look at Jake. "For the record, Mr. McMillan, I don't even wear a bra."
Mallory sat on her stool at the end of the poker table, wishing for the first time in her life that she smoked. Right now, something to take the edge off would be wonderful, and a beer at nine o'clock in the morning was pushing it unless you were fishing. This situation was much more complicated than she had planned when she'd agreed to cool, and the players hadn't even entered the room yet.
She looked across the room and saw Jake McMillan talking to her uncle-probably trying to figure out a way to get rid of her. Mallory had seen the look he'd given her when Reginald had announced her card-cooling ability. Skeptical was a polite way of putting it. Mallory got the impression Jake would prefer a dim-witted, big-boobed blonde working his table. A mute Pamela Anderson.
Which was a shame, really, because Jake McMillan wasn't a bad-looking man, and in different circumstances, Mallory might have considered taking a shot at him.
He was taller than the other men she'd dated since college-well, all two of them - lean legs, broad shoulders and a muscular build that could be seen even beneath his white button-up shirt and black slacks. His face was rugged, a man's man sort of face, with brown hair cut in one of those short "ready for action" sort of cuts that suited him well. She'd felt a small jolt when he'd first turned his amber eyes on her, studying her with the precision of a cat stalking prey, and she couldn't help wondering how a dealer from Atlantic City had found his way to Royal Flush and her uncle's tournament.
She was just starting to wonder when the players would arrive, when the double doors to the casino opened and Louisiana's Most Wanted began to enter the room. Studying them carefully, she tried to place who they were, what they did for public record, and what they were suspected of doing otherwise. After the first ten or so had received their seating placement from the hostess and headed toward their tables, Mallory decided Reginald had been wise to put in the metal detector.
Five of the first ten had been suspects in murder investigations and the fact that one of them was a current Louisiana politician didn't deter her from believing the man would do anything to get what he wanted, public eye or no. She cringed for a moment as the men made their way across the casino and hoped like hell she got a murderer instead of the politician.
Even in Louisiana, a girl still had standards.
A smile played on her lips as the politician headed to Amy's table. How appropriate. He might as well get used to her now since she planned on running the country in a few years.
The politician stood at the edge of the table and stared at Amy as if uncertain how to proceed. Amy gave him a dazzling smile and extended her hand. The politician narrowed his eyes at her and said something that Mallory couldn't hear from across the room. Amy looked bewildered for a moment, and then her expression turned to irritated. She yanked her purse out from under the table and presented the politician with her driver's license.
It was all Mallory could do not to laugh.
Served Amy right for putting herself in a situation like this. Certainly Mallory didn't doubt her card-playing ability. Amy had blown her mind with some of the tricks she did with numbers, and it wasn't exactly like Mallory was a slouch. Most engineers were fairly adept at math but she wasn't anywhere near Amy's league.
She took one final look at her friend and shook her head. If she hadn't been trying so hard to be sneaky, Mallory could have given her a bit of advice concerning high-stakes poker playing. Starting with, a black skirt with white daisies and a ruffled white lace blouse were not exactly dealer dress standard. And you never, ever shook hands with the players. Stern nods were the most common fare.
A man sat down at the far end of her table and Mallory gave him a nod and a smile, trying to get a feel for him from his looks alone. He reminded her of someone she'd seen before and it took her a minute to realize that she'd seen him on television and not in person. An evening news item. Banker fired for suspected embezzling of funds, but the whole story had disappeared as quickly as it had hit the public eye, making Mallory wonder exactly which judge or upper law-enforcement figure the banker had on his private payroll.
Not a bad first player. An overweight businessman whose weapon of choice was a computer didn't pose much threat to her as she saw things. Peering at the doors, she wondered if she'd fare as well on the second round.
She did a double take when the next man to walk through the doors was none other than her nemesis, Walter Royal. Her mouth went dry, and she clenched her fists as he smiled at the hostess and tipped his cowboy hat. The idiot was always wearing that damned cowboy hat, even though she'd bet all of her forty-thousand that he'd never even touched a horse, much less ridden one.
Immediately, she was angry with herself for not seeing this one coming. J.T. had told her straight off that some locals were included in the mix. Walter Royal was an important man in Royal Flush, whether she or anyone else liked it. Her uncle would have been remiss not to include him in the players' list. Not to mention that only a handful of people in Royal Flush could afford the stakes of this tournament.
Still, she hoped her uncle had been wise enough to place Royal far, far away from her, where she couldn't be distracted from play by thoughts of dumping him overboard somewhere in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. She let out a sigh of relief when the hostess pointed her enemy to the far side of the room to a table next to Amy's.
With that momentary concern alleviated, number two for her table was bound to be a breeze. She could hardly contain her relief when Two turned out to be a small-time mob man for the Monceaux family out of New Orleans. She'd seen him numerous times on the news. Always smiling, always touting his innocence. Apparently he was right, since he was still walking around and playing poker. Or he had even deeper pockets than the banker. Either way, he was mostly wanted for racketeering and hadn't had any violent offenses that she'd heard of.
But as the third player approached the table, Mallory felt a chill run through her. Silas Hebert. And for just a moment, her confidence wavered.
Silas Hebert was no small-time racketeer or foolish banker. The man was tall, almost imposing, and there was none of the flab to his body like her uncle. This was a man who worked out and worked out hard. His black hair was thinner than the pictures she'd seen of him when he was younger, but the eyes were the same, the same shade as his hair. And his glare could cut right through you.
There was no denying it-Silas Hebert was a force to be reckoned with.
Mallory sucked in a breath and tried to calm her nerves. You can handle this. He's just a man. So what if he's a professional gambler and he's usually wanted for very scary stuff? He's here to play poker, not kill someone, and you're not even playing. He'll never even suspect you're involved with his run of bad luck.
She hoped.
Because for the second time that day and probably only the third or fourth time in her entire adult life, Mallory felt a small quiver of fear pass through her. Her flight instincts were kicking into overdrive and she knew that before this was over, she'd probably have wished a thousand times she'd never come.
She nodded briefly to Silas as he took a seat in the stool next to her at the end of the table. She stiffened a bit as he chose a position so close to her but quickly realized the advantage that presented. Sometimes close proximity wasn't quite enough to ensure a real run of bad luck. At least this way, Si
las was near enough for an accidental brush of the hand or foot. And it would be far less obvious than traipsing around the table, patting grown men on the heads like an adult version of duck-duck-goose.
She reached down to fiddle with the strap on her shoes, and could feel Silas's gaze on her. She didn't want to look him straight in the eye. Not yet. Not until she had reached a calmer place. If Silas even suspected for a moment the fix was on, there would be hell to pay, even if he couldn't prove a thing.
"Good morning, gentlemen." Jake's voice sounded next to her and she rose up a bit surprised that she hadn't heard him approach.
Jake looked around the table and nodded to the men, then glanced at the remaining empty stool. "I'm told our fifth has been slightly delayed but should be here any moment. Perhaps Ms. Devereaux would like to begin with drink orders."
Mallory stopped her sideways assessment of Silas when Jake said her name and rose from her stool, irritated that the dealer had to point out her job because she was too busy trying to size up Silas without him noticing. Looking around the table at the men, she gave them a broad smile. "Would anyone like some coffee this morning? The kitchen also has a nice selection of fruit and Danish if that interests anyone."
She pulled out her pad and pen, ready to write, but not a single player said a word. In fact, they weren't even looking at her. They were all staring at Jake.
"You a Yankee?" the banker asked.
Jake looked at the man in dismay, then scanned the other players, but it was obvious the banker had asked the one thing on everyone's mind.
"I'm from Atlantic City," he said finally.
"A Yankee," the mobster confirmed. "What the hell kind of insult is St. Claire going for here?"