by K. C. Archer
He smiled, cocked his head to one side, and drew his brows together as though deep in thought. “TeAnne? Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named TeAnne before.”
She played along. “Well, it’s an unusual name. A family name, actually. My mother’s TeJoan and my father’s TeJack.”
“Ah.” He grinned. “That explains it.”
She settled back in her chair. She knew how Vegas worked. She wasn’t naive enough to believe any of this was real. A guy like Nick could have any woman in the room. At the moment, she had all the sexual allure of a middle-school teacher with swollen ankles. No, he was trying to throw her off her game, win back some of his money. It wasn’t personal, just strategy.
“And you’re just plain ol’ Nick,” she said.
“Yup. Just plain ol’ Nick.”
“Well, just plain ol’ Nick, nice stack of chips you’ve got there.”
“Not as big as yours, though.”
“You don’t play as well as I do.”
“True,” he said. “Got any pointers?”
“Sure. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“That’s what you should do, TeAnne. Quit while you’re ahead.” Except he wasn’t smiling when he said it. Teddy flushed for a different reason altogether. Did he work for the casino? Or Sergei?
Teddy refocused her attention on the table. She noticed that the businessmen had left, replaced by two of the plastic blondes who had pulled up in the limo earlier. A fat stack of chips sat between them. It was time to get to work. She had been playing tight all night. No big moves, no showy hands. But with the addition of the plastic blondes, the mood at the table shifted, like when she’d hit the accelerator on her old Volvo. Stakes shot up with each hand. Her winnings grew. The rest of the players leaned in.
* * *
A little after two in the morning, Nick caught her eye. The last few heavy losses had been his, but he wasn’t backing down. She peeked at her hole cards and made up her mind: he was her next target.
She pushed every round. Raised big before and after the flop and again at the turn. She studied Nick. Again, Teddy waited for the feeling of anxiety to take hold, but nothing. Her body turned cold, so cold her skin pebbled. There was a faint metallic tang on her tongue.
She spun around to find that the African-American guy she’d noticed earlier had returned. She tried to focus on the game, but now she couldn’t get a read on anyone. She couldn’t tell who was holding, who was bluffing. Her head pounded. Not a seizure—not now. She reached for the meds in her bag, her throat suddenly dry. Her hands shook and she spilled pills on the carpet. She bent down to gather them.
When she looked up, she saw Sergei drifting by the tables, checking out the action. Teddy swallowed. He hadn’t noticed her, not yet, but if there was anything her bookie was good at, it was sniffing out weakness. Sure enough, his gaze landed on her. There was no recognition in his eyes, but his frown told her he was thinking. Teddy did not want to be the one to make Sergei Zharkov think.
“Ma’am?” the dealer said. “Your bet.”
Every sensation she experienced was magnified, the blast of the AC on her already cold skin, the itch of her wig, the feeling of pills in her hand. She could hear conversations from tables away as if they were unfolding next to her. Teddy’s vision swam as she tried to focus on her cards. A pair of jacks with one on the board, giving her three of a kind. She was up $50,000. A minute ago she’d thought her cards were enough to win, but now she wasn’t sure. She was playing blind. She shoved her entire stack of chips into the pot. It was an ugly move, but it was the only thing she could think to do. A gasp sounded around the table. Over one hundred thousand riding on a single card. The pit boss strolled over to watch. So did a pair of casino security guards.
The other players folded fast. All eyes shot to Nick. He waited a beat. Then, his gaze fixed on Teddy, he met her bet. “You know,” he drawled, “it’s funny. All my life, I’ve been lucky with the ladies.”
“That’s how the saying goes,” Teddy said. “Lucky in love, unlucky at—”
The corner of his lip twitched as if he was fighting a grin. He flipped his cards.
Two queens. A third sat on the board.
She’d lost it all. Everything. Gone.
CHAPTER TWO
TEDDY STUDIED THE CARDS SPREAD before her. She didn’t want to believe it, but there they were: three queens. Nick had taken her for everything.
The edges of her vision went dark, and for one mortifying moment she thought she might pass out—just fall face-first on the center of one of the Bellagio’s best tables. She did a quick mental check: no tingling in her fingers, no nausea. It wasn’t a seizure, just plain ol’ terrifying panic, brought on by the psychotic amusement-park ride that was her life.
“Hey,” she heard Nick say, as though speaking to her from a great distance. “You okay?”
She caught his eye and quickly looked away. “Fine,” she said, pushing back from the table. If this were an amusement-park ride, she wanted off. Her legs felt like Jell-O, just as they had when she’d been twelve and ridden the Tower of Terror at Disneyland with her dad.
Oh, God, my dad.
She didn’t want to think about him. Teddy searched for a comeback to brush off Nick’s concern, but she had nothing. She didn’t even know what her next move would be—all she knew was that she had to get out of the casino. Now.
“I’m done for the night, I think,” she said, gesturing toward her cards.
From the corner of her eye, Teddy caught another glimpse of Sergei. She grabbed her purse and moved toward the exit that would take her out of the poker room and onto the casino’s main floor.
“Just a minute, ma’am,” the pit boss called after her. She glanced back to see him standing with one finger pressed against his earpiece—an earpiece that connected him to the security team monitoring the overhead surveillance cameras. He was nodding and frowning.
She’d been made. Goddamn facial recognition software. Didn’t matter if she wore a rainbow wig.
Teddy shoved her way through the poker room, picking up speed as she went. The fat suit slowed her down, the dense foam slipping around her thighs and stomach. When she felt her wig falling off, she didn’t even bother trying to grab it. She was too terrified to care.
The theater doors flew open, releasing the late show. Teddy threw herself into the crowd, letting the flow of people carry her to the front exit. For thirty blissful, life-affirming seconds, the tactic worked brilliantly. She could see the casino entrance and, beyond it, the glittering neon expanse of the Vegas night.
Until Sergei smiled his crooked smile and blocked her way.
He really needs to see a dentist.
Teddy veered right, heading for the ladies’ room. She would ditch what was left of her disguise and make a run for it.
Just as she reached the restroom door, someone grabbed her by the shoulder. She tilted her head to see the NFL linebacker who’d been watching her so intently back at the poker table. He steered her into a service area blocked off from the general public by a tall rattan trifold screen.
Over/under on someone thinking this guy is kidnapping me if I start screaming?
Before she could open her mouth, he stopped her. “I’m not going to kidnap you,” he said, his voice even. The calmness of his demeanor startled her. She tried to twist free. If this guy was going to hurt her—
“Teddy, I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her jaw dropped open. Had her fear been written so clearly on her face? And how did this guy know her name? Then it hit her: he wasn’t some pervert or hustler—he was a cop. “What do you want?” she said.
“For starters, keep your mouth shut.”
He didn’t act like any cop she’d met before. Even if he didn’t read her the Miranda, she knew that everything she said could and would be used against her. Especially since she’d broken the restraining order that banned her from entering the Bellagio. She would be wearin
g an orange jumpsuit for the next six months.
Teddy could already picture her mom’s face, red from crying. She could hear her dad’s “I’m disappointed in you” speech. Teddy hated letting her parents down. But it seemed like that was all she had done her entire life. She imagined them visiting her in jail and felt her stomach drop again: there wasn’t anything that could make her sink any lower in her parents’ eyes. Well, maybe something: it started with Sergei and ended with Zharkov.
As she tried again to free herself from the man’s grasp, a new thought formed: If this guy really were a cop, I’d be in handcuffs by now.
“I’m serious this time. Let go of my arm or I’ll scream,” she said.
“I wouldn’t suggest it.” He pulled her out from behind the screen, and she looked up to see Sergei heading straight toward her. The angry pit boss and his security team were close behind. Teddy took a sharp breath. She was trapped in plain sight.
“Easy,” the linebacker said, his voice low and soothing, as though he were talking to a skittish horse. “Just stay quiet and they won’t notice us.”
Was this guy delusional? Though the light peppering of gray in his hair pegged him as middle-aged, he was big, and with one good swing, he could probably knock Sergei flat. But two armed security guards and a pit boss, too? Unless . . . Her gaze snapped to his jacket, searching for some sign of a bulky holster strapped across his chest. She did not want to be caught in a casino cross fire.
Her thoughts were so tangled she almost missed what happened next. Which was . . . nothing. Sergei slowed. His grin faded. Teddy looked into Sergei’s eyes, expecting to see the same cold fury she had encountered minutes ago. Instead, his eyes were blank, pupils like black holes. Teddy looked from him to the pit boss and his crew—all wore identical vacant expressions. Her gaze swung to the linebacker, watching as the group passed by. His stare held the same pointed intensity with which he’d watched her play poker.
Her heart picked up. She didn’t want to believe, but had this guy just cast a spell? Like real-life magic? She’d have been more freaked out if she hadn’t been so impressed. As soon as the men were out of earshot, Teddy broke her silence. “What the hell was that?”
He released her. “We’ve got two, maybe three, minutes before they remember who they’re looking for.”
“How did you—”
“Later. First things first: I’m not here to arrest you.”
She took a shaky breath. “You’re a cop, though, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “Ex-cop. Retired detective from the Las Vegas Metro PD.”
She tilted her chin up defiantly, despite the fact that she in no way had the upper hand. “If you’re a cop—or ex-cop—then why should I trust you?”
“I would start at the beginning if we had time, Teddy. But we don’t. I’m Clint, by the way. Clint Corbett.” He held out his hand, and when Teddy ignored it, he sighed. “I’m not here to arrest you. I’m here to recruit you.”
“For a poker game or something?” Teddy asked. “You must know by now that I’m banned from the Bellagio. As well as most casinos in Vegas. So I wouldn’t be very useful.”
“Not for poker.” He looked around the hallway. “I work for a school in San Francisco. And we want you.”
Why me?
Teddy didn’t voice her thought, one that had haunted her since she’d found out she was adopted, since she had realized she’d been given up as a baby. After her parents died, no one from her extended family, none of her parents’ friends, even, had come forward to claim her. But it seemed like Clint heard it anyway.
“You’re one of the best candidates I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m not all that great at school,” she said, as if her problems were academic, not borderline criminal.
Clearly, he has no idea I was kicked out of Stanford for starting that gambling ring.
“I’m not talking about Stanford,” he said. “I’m with the Whitfield Institute for Law Enforcement Training and Development. I’m offering you a chance out of this mess.”
“Law enforcement?” She gave a choked laugh. The idea was so absurd that a measure of relief poured through her. So much for reading her mind. “You obviously have no idea who you’re talking to.”
“Theodora Delaney Cannon, I know exactly who I’m talking to.”
“Hey, look, thanks for your help with those thugs, and for the offer”—she made a vague gesture—“at the Whitfern Institute, but you’ve got the wrong person. I don’t like cops. Cops don’t like me. It’s a relationship built on mutual disdain.”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why you’re so good at guessing your opponents’ hands? Predicting their next moves? Haven’t you wondered why you can do things other people can’t?”
Of course she had. Every day of her life. Rationalization had been her default. Believing otherwise meant confronting something inexplicable.
“There’s no simple way to put this,” he continued, “so I’ll just say it: we train psychics.”
Teddy stared at him. Psychics? She wasn’t psychic. She just had good instincts, that was all. And right now her instincts were telling her to run. She returned her attention to the casino floor. If she bolted, she might able to get away clean.
Clint stepped in front of her, his massive frame blocking her exit. “You, Teddy Cannon, are psychic.”
She shook her head. “If you had any idea how—”
“How screwed up your life is? I know, Teddy. It’s because you’ve never learned how to handle your power.”
He didn’t move. After everything she’d been through, now she was trapped in a service bar with an enormous, crazy—
“Why do you think you win so consistently at poker?” he said. “Because you get lucky? No. You win because you read the other players at the table, and I’m not talking about tells. You know who’s bluffing. You know. Every time, all the time.”
“Not all the time. Seems to me I just lost pretty big back there.” But even as she said it, she was uncomfortably aware that she had been winning, just like she always did, until he turned up.
“What do you think I did back there?” Clint said.
At that moment, it started—the familiar trembling. She felt the old pins and needles in her hands and feet, the chills. A seizure wouldn’t be far behind. Emotional stress always did this to her. She reached up to drag her fingers through her hair, encountering the sticky glue and bobby pins from the wig.
“I need to get out of here,” she said, digging in her purse for her pills.
“You’re not epileptic, Teddy. You’re psychic. Like me. This is just how your body reacts to sensory—and extrasensory—overload when you don’t know how to channel the energy.”
“You’re crazy,” Teddy said.
He tilted his head to one side, studying her the way her teachers always had. The way her parents did. (And her parents’ friends and her friends’ parents and basically every adult who had known her for longer than twenty minutes.) The look that conveyed how much potential she might have had if only she hadn’t, well, been herself. “You’re out of moves, Teddy. Sergei will come after your parents next. You do understand that? You lost tonight. Someone’s got to pay.”
Of course she understood. And no, she could not, would not, put her parents in danger. She’d already put them through enough.
“Teddy,” Clint said, pulling her attention back to him, “listen carefully. At the Whitfield Institute, we work with psychics like you from all around the country. We train them in law enforcement techniques and teach them how to channel their gifts to make the world a better place. If you accept, I’ll make sure that your record is wiped clean and that Sergei will never bother you or your parents again. I’m giving you another move—not Sergei, not jail, but school.”
“I already told you,” she said, “I’m not psychic.”
He looked at her. “You can stay and face Sergei and casino security, or you can follow me out. I’m parked under the main entrance
awning. Dark blue Taurus sedan, California plates. I hope you make the right choice.”
Since when is getting into a car with a stranger the right choice?
Teddy watched Clint leave the casino. If she defaulted to rationalization now, she’d have to admit that epilepsy had never accounted for all her symptoms; her medication had never worked like it was supposed to.
Psychic.
Teddy tried to dismiss what he’d said. And she might have succeeded if she hadn’t felt something coursing through her body—not anxiety, not the signs of a seizure, but something different, something new. Hope.
CHAPTER THREE
“WAIT UP!” TEDDY RAN TO catch up with Clint, scanning the crowd for the dark blue Taurus by the curb. She rapped her knuckles on the driver’s-side window. Rapped so hard she hoped to startle Clint, but he simply pushed the button to lower the glass. “Let me see it,” she said.
“See what?”
“You said you were a cop. I assume you’ve got ID to prove it.” She would have checked to see if he was lying, but she still couldn’t get a read on Clint.
Clint pulled a small leather case from his pocket and flipped it open. His Metropolitan Police badge filled the left side of the case; his police ID, stamped Retired, filled the right. He also had a CCW—a permit to carry concealed weapons. Teddy grabbed her phone and snapped a photo. She typed a message, hit send, then trotted around the car and got in.
“Care to explain what that was about?” he asked.
Teddy held up her phone to show him the text message—leaving Bellagio with this asshole—along with a photo of Clint’s badge and ID. “I sent that to two of my friends. You’re also on the casino’s surveillance cameras. So good luck trying to pull any shit.” He didn’t need to know that she had just texted the photo to herself.
Clint checked his side-view mirror, then swung out into traffic. “I know how surveillance cameras work.”
She checked her own side mirror, half expecting to see Sergei running after her. Or maybe one of the Bellagio’s security vehicles, lights flashing. Instead, they slipped seamlessly onto the Strip, merging with the other late-night traffic. Teddy sank deeper into her seat. The car was quiet, nothing but the steady hum of tires against pavement, until Clint broke the silence by turning on the radio. Sitting down, he was far less intimidating than he’d been in the casino.