Private Lies

by Wendy Etherington

  She gripped his fingers hard, though she seemed relaxed when she said, “I could use some fresh air.”

  Fresh air. Their signal that they needed to talk privately. Gage laid down his hand with the rest, noting the cowboy won easily with three-of-a-kind.

  He wrapped his arm protectively around her as they slipped through the doorway and into the humid night. Nuzzling her neck, he guided her along the upper deck toward the railing, hoping they looked like a couple wrapped up only in each other.

  Wasn’t pretending fun?

  He retrieved his silver cigarette case and lit one, blowing the smoke toward the river churning below them.

  “Do you have to smoke that?” she asked, her voice low and annoyed.

  “Yes.” He braced one arm against the railing and kept one around her waist, holding her tight against his body. All he needed now was her trying to bolt. “What’s with Blondie?”

  “Who?”

  “The pit boss.”

  “Oh, it’s not him.” She paused, considering. “Well, maybe it is. Anyway, when he and I walked up to the window, the cashier counted my chips like the other casino did, but then she opened a safe sitting on the floor and gave me the cash from there.”

  He remembered the cashier disappearing for a few moments. At least that could be explained. “She gave you a couple grand, right? Maybe she just didn’t want to deplete the cash box.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. That old lady ahead of me told everybody she won five thousand, and the cashier went straight to the drawer and the cash. She had to kneel to get to the safe. I would have noticed her doing that with the old lady.”

  “Maybe she did, and you missed it.”

  “My job was observation. She didn’t go to the safe.”

  Frankly, he couldn’t remember, so he kept silent and admired her attention to detail. That accounting background, he supposed. He flicked ash from his cigarette. “Did the pit boss go with the old lady?”

  “No. The only ones I saw him with before was the couple from Kansas.”

  “And did the cashier go straight to the drawer that time?”

  “No.” She smiled. “She disappeared for a few seconds. I’m on to something, aren’t I?”

  “It would seem so. Pit boss equals a disappearing cashier.” He pretended to inhale from the cigarette, blowing the majority of the smoke out instead of into his lungs—he hoped. This damn job was going to give him cancer as well as an ulcer and heartache. Then he remembered the flash. What had that been about? “Did he have any unusual characteristics?”

  Roxanne’s vivid green eyes glowed beneath the moonlight. “As a matter of fact, he did. It’s hard to see unless he smiles really big, but he has a diamond stud imbedded in one of his eye teeth.”

  Gage’s pulse skipped a beat.

  “You know him, don’t you?”

  “I know who he is, yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Stephano’s nephew.”

  “No kidding?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “No kidding. The hair threw me. The last picture we have of him, he’s got dark brown hair, with a mustache and goatee.”

  “They’re funneling the counterfeit money through this casino.”

  “It’s certainly a possibility.”

  She fumbled with her purse. “Well, here—Oh, God, it’s not in here. The money is—”

  “I have it.”

  “How—”

  “I slipped it into my pocket while we were talking.”

  “You think you’re pretty damn clever, don’t you?”

  “Mmm. Sometimes.” He flipped his cigarette into the river, then straightened, wrapping both arms around her waist. “We’re supposed to be making out,” he said, sliding his lips along her jaw.

  She glared at him, but said nothing.

  He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. Tasting her was akin to shooting adrenaline directly into his veins. He didn’t even want to consider there would come a time when he couldn’t touch her this way. He slid his tongue against hers and pulled her tighter against his chest. Her breathing quickened, and she returned his caress, sweet moans coming from the back of her throat.

  When he pulled back for a gulp of air, his body had hardened and his blood was roaring.

  “It’s like kissing a damn ashtray,” she muttered.

  Surprisingly amused rather than irritated, he leaned his forehead against hers. “Oh, baby, that’s so romantic.”

  She grabbed his hand and whispered, “Let’s go inspect some money.”

  They walked along the deck a few feet, then nearly ran into someone coming from the other direction. The cowboy from the poker game.

  Gage had to look up to meet his dark gaze, shadowed by the black Stetson. He’d seemed large at the table, but on his feet Gage judged him to be about six-five and two hundred–plus pounds. Muscles bulged from his forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his tan, Western-style shirt.

  “You play a hell of a poker game, slick,” he said, inclining his head.

  His senses already on heightened alert, Gage tightened his hold on Roxanne’s hand. “Thanks.”

  Smiling, the cowboy stuck out his hand, which Gage shook without releasing Roxanne. “I’m Steele Rogers. Well, actually, my real name’s Nathan, but nobody calls me that if they wanna continue to walk upright. Aren’t you Gage?” Before Gage could do more than freeze, the cowboy continued, “We have a mutual friend—Campbell Devereaux.”

  “Oh, yeah, good ol’ Campbell.” Even as relief coursed through him, he cursed his father. He’d said he would send an agent to watch Roxanne while Gage searched Stephano’s “florist” and said only that Gage would know him. He’d never seen Steele here in his life, but he was no doubt his father’s man. Campbell was his father’s middle name and Devereaux was his mother’s maiden name. “How about I buy you a drink?”

  “I could use a whiskey.”

  As the trio walked toward the bar, Gage took a brief moment to admire Agent Rogers’s easy demeanor and efficient approach. He could fault his father for plenty, but training top-notch undercover agents wasn’t one of them.

  Roxanne squeezed his arm, and he glanced at her, noting the worried look in her eyes. “You want some more champagne, baby?”

  She smiled weakly. “Sure.”

  He kissed her cheek. “It’s fine,” he said low. “Steele’s a close buddy of my dad’s.”

  Her gaze cut to his, understanding dawned, and she mutely nodded.

  Once they were seated at the semicircle bar, Gage made the introductions between Marina and Steele. He had no doubt his father had briefed the agent extensively on Roxanne, their relationship and the mess of this weekend, but he wanted her to understand Steele could be trusted—with her life, if necessary.

  Especially since he was about to leave her with him.

  ROXANNE STUDIED the profile of Nathan “Steele” Rogers—Agent Rogers, she assumed—and wondered where, exactly, he hid his gun.

  This information was critical, since, as soon as she found an appropriate weapon, she was going to shoot one of his fellow agents. Several times, if she could get away with it.

  She sipped her champagne, fuming over how thoroughly she’d been duped. Gage knew her too well. He’d abandoned her in public, making sure the bartender and the other customers around them heard his extra-loud announcement that he had to run to the office to pick up a fax and would his “good buddy” Steele watch over his “lady.” She might be furious enough to storm out of the casino, jeopardizing Gage’s case, but she’d never sacrifice Agent Rogers as well. He thought she was so smart.

  Of course, Gage likely didn’t know his exit had also been observed by someone else they knew—Toni. That interfering little blonde had darted after him like a slippery cat. What if one of Stephano’s men had also seen her? What if she confronted Gage? The possibilities had her heart racing in anger and fear.

  Through a rushed and whispered conversation with Steele,
she’d tried to convince him of the danger. She had to get to her friend. She had to warn Gage. The stubborn giant had simply smiled and assured her everything would be all right and wouldn’t the little lady like another glass of champagne?

  Of all the nerve. Well, she fully intended to get out of this casino, with or without the cowboy next to her, find her best friend before she got them all killed, then find her ex-fiancé, who was no doubt skulking about Stephano’s warehouse, and give them both a piece of her mind.

  “That’s a lovely necklace, Marina,” Steele said cheerfully.

  Her hand automatically reached for the pendant. “Thanks.” She didn’t want to think about the guilt connected with the jewelry or remember the hurt and anger in Gage’s eyes when she’d rejected his gift. She was having a hard enough time justifying sneaking away and making Agent Rogers look bad in the process. Maybe Gage had noticed Toni and sent her on her way.

  Maybe, but she couldn’t take that chance.

  She glanced toward the exit, calculating its distance and her chances against Steele’s long legs and her speed in four-inch heels.

  “Don’t try it,” he said low, his gaze fixed on hers.

  She clenched her hand around the stem of her glass. “What?”

  “Makin’ a break for it.”

  Damn, damn, damn. So the muscle-bound cowboy wasn’t near as easygoing as he seemed. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Steele sipped his whiskey, glancing casually around. “Gage knows what he’s doin’. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “I’m not worried.” Well, she was, but mostly she knew she was missing all the action. She wanted to be there when he uncovered the counterfeiting equipment, when he found boxes of paper and supplies…when Toni surprised him, and one of Stephano’s goons caught him snooping around and—

  She squeezed Steele’s forearm—well, as much as one could squeeze steel—and whispered urgently, “Can’t we at least call him? Warn him?”

  He shook his head. “He won’t have his phone on.”

  A ringing phone, even a vibrating phone, could interrupt warehouse snooping, she guessed. “Come with me,” she begged. “I know where he is. He needs help. My friend—”

  “No.” He tipped his hat back, so she could finally see his eyes. They were a very vivid light blue and somehow communicated hardness and sympathy at the same time. She also noted a lock of wavy, jet-black hair had fallen over his forehead. Steele was one hunk of man. “He’ll notice her. He’s very good at his job,” he went on. “Practically a legend in the service.”

  An odd sense of pride moved through her. “A legend, really?”

  He patted her hand. “Really. We have orders that must be followed.”

  “And you always follow orders?”

  He didn’t even blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She sincerely doubted that, but her mind was still too busy spinning an escape to worry about questioning.

  In between small sips of whiskey, Steele launched into a monologue about poker and the wild fun of Bourbon Street, which she only half listened to, but figured the topic was more for the benefit of the patrons around them instead of her anyway.

  Clearly, running wasn’t an option. The vision of her tripping across the casino in her heels, then being jerked off her feet in one fell swoop by the long arm of Agent Steele wasn’t her idea of wise. She’d have to be more subtle and clever.

  She was jolted from her thoughts when a woman fell against her, spilling her cup of nickels on the floor. Steele steadied her, and Roxanne helped her retrieve her nickels.

  “Th-thank you,” she said as she took the cup, leaning heavily on Steele and giving him a glassy smile.

  Good grief, that woman didn’t need more time at the slots. She needed a nice long nap and some Extra Strength Tylenol.

  The moment the thought was out, Roxanne cut her gaze to her own glass of champagne. Ah-ha.

  While Steele continued his efforts to keep the woman on her feet, Roxanne jumped back on her stool, picked up her glass, pretended to drink, then poured the contents into the ficus tree next to her.

  The bartender had set a full glass in front of her as Steele returned to his seat.

  “So,” she said brightly, “you’re a good poker player?”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he launched into a story about some casino in Vegas where he’d won ten thousand dollars on one hand. Roxanne only half listened. Mostly, she drank champagne, turning away from Steele every so often on the pretense of looking around the room to pour some into the plant.

  After draining two glasses in ten minutes and in the process of asking for a third, Steele commented, “You ought to slow down.”

  She gulped down nearly half the glass. “No thanks.” Then her head promptly spun. She gripped the bar. At this rate, she really was going to be sick. “You ever been to Atlantic City?”

  Off to another story, Roxanne had to wonder if the man really was a world champion gambler, or if he was making up all this stuff on the spot.

  When ten more minutes had passed, she clutched her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Steele just sighed. “Told ya.”

  “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

  Steele rose, assisting her off her stool. “Come on.”

  She’d figured she wouldn’t be lucky enough to go alone, so she could only pray there was a back way out of the bathroom.

  “Do you want me to call someone for help?” he asked as they stopped outside the ladies’-room door.

  “No.” She gripped the doorknob and tried to smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  Crossing his arms over his massive chest, he leaned against the wall. “I’ll be here.”

  Naturally. She wobbled a bit for effect as she walked through the doorway, though she didn’t have to fake the shaking of her hands. In truth, her stomach jumped around as if a family of frogs had decided to take up residence. She was about to evade a Federal Officer. What would her father say?

  Nothing. Since she never intended for him to find out.

  The second the door was closed behind her, she picked up the pace, finding two women applying lipstick at the mirror in the lounge area. Scooting around them, she rushed into the room with the stalls—three on one side, two on the other.

  And, on the back wall, a small window.

  She clenched her fists. “Yes.”

  The window was about four feet off the ground, and it was small, so she’d have to get up there and wriggle through the opening, but she’d manage.

  She darted toward the back wall, flicking the locks open, then she gripped the ledge and hoisted herself up. Through the glass, she saw the sparkling night sky and the riverboat railing. Oh, yes.

  Heart pounding, she braced herself on the ledge with her forearms and lifted the window. A brisk, cooling breeze rushed in from outside. Freedom, Toni and Gage were within her reach. She dropped back to the floor of the bathroom to remove her shoes, thanking God she’d worn pants and wouldn’t be exposing all her parts to anyone who happened to walk by the window in the next couple of minutes. Including Steele.

  Urged on by that thought, she gripped her shoes in one hand and levered herself back up. With a bit of straining, she managed to rest the edge of her butt on the windowsill, then swing her legs through the opening.

  Her feet dangled above the deck. Her pulse pounded. She was almost there.

  “Anyone in here named Marina?” a lady called from the other room.

  Well, hell.

  Before she’d barely had time to swear, the same lady gasped, “Oh, my.”

  Roxanne turned to see an elderly lady in a pale blue pantsuit, clutching a large straw bag and staring in her direction. “Hot in here, huh?” she said lamely.

  “I, uh—Yes.” Looking a bit wary, she walked a few steps closer. “Are you Marina?”

  Roxanne thought about lying, or saying nothing at all and jus
t wiggling through the window. But Steele had undoubtedly sent the lady to check on her, and if she reported her escape through the window, he’d be after her in a blink. Damn. She had to get to Gage and Toni. She could be confronting him at this very moment, blowing his cover, risking way more than she knew about.

  She glanced back at the lady. Her blue eyes were dark with concern. Then again maybe this could work to her advantage and buy her some time.

  Roxanne bit her lip, trying to look frightened. “Steele sent you, didn’t he?”

  “A large gentleman in a cowboy hat asked me to come in and check on you. He seemed to think you were sick.” Her look communicated how skeptical she’d become with this scenario.

  Roxanne cast her gaze downward. “He’s my boyfriend, but he…he hits me.”

  The lady gasped, laying her small, veiny hand on Roxanne’s arm. “Oh, dear. Is there anything I can do? Should we call the police? I can’t believe…He seemed so nice and concerned.”

  “He’s like that sometimes. But then he’ll start drinking again and…and…” She pretended to choke up with emotion.

  “Tell me no more, dear.” The lady fumbled through her bag. “I have a Glock 9 mm in here somewhere—”

  “No, no. Oh, please, no.” Roxanne waved her hand. “I just need a few minutes to get away. I already moved my stuff out of the apartment. I’m moving back home with my mother.”

  The lady smiled. “You sweet girl. I have three of my own, grown now, of course, with four lovely grandchildren. I have pictures.”

  Roxanne gripped the edge of the sill, readying herself for the drop to the ground. “Maybe some other time. Just tell him I’m getting sick, but I think I’ll be fine. Ask him to get me some ice water.”

  “Are you sure I can’t do anything else?” She reached into her bag again. “I have some money.”

  “No, thank you.” She really hated deceiving this sweet woman, but she had to get to Gage. He needed her. He was in danger. And he was dead meat for deserting her. “Just stall.”

  Then, before the lady could say anything more, Roxanne arched her back and slithered through the open window. Barefoot, she dropped to the deck of the boat. She was near the back, and the area was deserted. After closing the window, she padded to the corner, peeked around as she slid on her shoes, then casually, but quickly, strode toward the gangplank. Even as her knees shook and her heart pounded, she forced herself to keep her face forward and not draw undue attention to herself.