Skin Game

by Ava Gray

  Half an hour later, Kyra took the ramp back to the interstate, a charcoal gray ribbon bounded in white lines that cut through the center of some bad country. This part of Texas sure is ugly. The scrubby land was uniformly dry and brown, broken only by occasional desert flora. As the day wore on, it got hotter, so she rolled down the windows, letting the wind roar through the Marquis like a contained cyclone. She threw back her head and laughed, mashing down on the accelerator.

  Live fast, die young. It worked for James Dean.

  With her peripheral vision, she caught Rey looking at her with dark and hungry eyes. The strength of her response astonished her. The things he could do to her with just a look should be illegal—and probably were—in the state of Texas. When he realized she knew he was watching her, he turned away. He could have lied back at the diner. He could have made up a background, or a sob story, and she would have never known the difference. Instead, he’d let her know he wasn’t ready to open up. She respected that.

  As she pulled off the highway, taking the road that led into Pecos, she smiled. He wasn’t so different from other men; he just restrained himself better. Oddly enough, that reassured her. If he could control his behavior in this area, he’d make a reliable partner. She needed someone she could count on to respond the same way, every time they played the game, no deviations. That was what made a con successful—even the smallest tell could cost them everything.

  You’re a crazy woman, looking for an honest liar.

  But maybe, just maybe, she’d found him.

  This was the fourth town they’d hit, but it was the first time she’d let him in on the game. By prior arrangement, Reyes arrived first at the bar they’d targeted: Lefty’s Tavern. It was a redneck dive, full of wildcatters and refinery workers. He ordered a beer and sat down to wait, as instructed.

  Kyra arrived half an hour later, and she drew the eye of every man in the place. He’d never seen those particular jeans on her before, but they were a work of art, strategically ripped down the backs of her thighs, and then laced together with black satin ribbon. The design showed cunning glimpses of skin.

  Her movement gave everyone in the room a peek down her black tank top. It would’ve been plain if not for the deep V and the slim line of sequins that drew attention to her cleavage even when she was standing up. When she leaned down to snag the keys that had “slipped” from her fingers, his temperature spiked. Along with ten other guys, Rey saw she was wearing a red scalloped bra with black polka dots and a cute little bow in between her breasts.

  The other guys had to be thinking about the matching underwear. Even though he knew it was a calculated display, meant to distract, he could no more prevent himself from picturing her in polka-dotted lingerie than he could stop his heart. And he was no Tibetan monk. Unfortunately, he had actual experience to draw upon, making his imagin ings painfully accurate. He even knew the way she sounded when she came.

  Physical satiation should have made it easier to focus. Instead, he could only think about having her again. And again. Reyes knew he was making progress with her by biding his time, increasing her levels of trust. He wanted to believe it was sheer perversity that made him want her so, knowing she was dangerous, the closest thing to a black widow he was ever likely to meet.

  He couldn’t wholly credit that, either.

  Reyes made sure not to stare too long, no longer than anyone else, before he went back to his beer. Sometimes she went for the Lolita look in braids and plain cotton. Tonight, she was someone else entirely. Since he’d been doing the same thing for more years than he could count, he admired her ability to slip from one skin to another. Like him, Kyra was pure chameleon; she could be whoever you wanted her to be.

  Her walk was smoke and honey; she could stop a train with those hips. Predictably one of the local Romeos headed for Kyra before she made it to the bar. He was tall, brown-haired, mostly fit, but Reyes noted he’d gone soft around the middle.

  “Buy you a drink?” the guy offered.

  Her mouth curved up. Only her eyes gave her away. Despite her smile, she wasn’t sweet; she was a tigress with tawny eyes to match.

  “You asking me or telling me?”

  “I thought I’d start by asking.” Her would-be one-night stand reached out a hand, like he meant to touch her, but she danced away, firefly light.

  Interesting. So it’s not just me. She doesn’t like being touched. Reyes filed that away under potentially useful tid bits about his target.

  “That works for me.” She flashed a smile, pure carnal sweetness.

  “Cal, get the lady whatever she wants.” The guy tossed a crumpled bill onto the counter. Reyes couldn’t make out the denomination from where he stood.

  “Can I get some Anakin?” Kyra asked.

  The ’tender frowned. “Like . . . Skywalker? I don’t do fancy mixed drinks.”

  She bit her lip, adorably confused. Her body language practically shouted: I’m cute, but not very bright. Take advantage of me. Oh yeah, she was good, all right.

  “You mean Heineken?” her “date” offered.

  “Yes!” She beamed up at him. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Rick. And you are . . .?”

  “Sasha,” she told him without a single tell. “I just moved here from Reno.”

  While Reyes watched, Kyra sipped her beer and worked her new friend for a good half an hour, milking him for information about the other patrons. She did it without apparent guile or intent, encouraging him to ply his wit. Within an hour, she knew who had money, who wished he had money, and who deserved to lose some.

  “I feel like a game of pool,” she said eventually.

  That was his cue.

  “I’ll play.” Reyes pushed away from the bar, sauntering toward her. “But why not make it interesting? Five bucks says you can’t beat me.”

  Rick sized him up and immediately protested. “Leave her alone. She’s with me.”

  That set up a slow burn down low in his gut. He had to force himself not to curl his hands into fists. “So you don’t want to play?” he asked Kyra.

  She gave a sweet, confused smile. “No, I do. This won’t take long.”

  He beat her by a landslide, which was the point. With a tremulous lower lip, Kyra turned over a crinkled five-dollar bill. “I thought I was getting better,” she said with a sad little sigh.

  “You’re so pretty, you don’t need to be good at a dumb game like that.” Rick had it bad already.

  In response, Kyra let him buy her another beer, adorably despondent. “I wish that was true. Maybe my daddy would have more time for me if I could play the games he likes. I can’t throw a football, either.”

  That’s genius, Reyes decided. Now she’d tugged on Rick’s heartstrings. The man would be filling in all kinds of scenarios, wanting to play white knight.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?” the guy asked.

  She shook her head. “Nope. I’m an only child. I think he’d have been happier if I was a boy.”

  “That would’ve been a crying shame, sweetheart.”

  Reyes ground his teeth. Something dark and primitive swept over him at hearing this asshole practice his sloppy endearments on her. It was all Reyes could do not to punch the son of a bitch in the face, which told him he had a problem. No wonder she’d played Serrano—and so well. Kyra was a pro, all right, well schooled in manipulating a man’s emotions. And that made him twice the fool—because even knowing what she did, he found himself susceptible.

  The con went down as planned. After she’d established herself as cute and harmless by losing a few games of pool, she challenged the champion thug to a game of darts. Reyes watched as she brushed her hands over his forearm, eyes imploring. As predicted, the man couldn’t say no. Rick watched with a half frown, not seeming to understand why the woman he’d wanted was playing with someone else.

  “Let’s do a pool,” Reyes suggested, as the two competitors lined up. “I’ll put my money on the lady.”

 
Kyra flashed him a smile. “That’s so sweet, but I wouldn’t. My daddy says I can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

  “He’s an asshole,” Rick said, supportive.

  A few of the guys took the bet, kicking in money. The rest bet on the local dart champ, who according to Rick, also did some drug running on the side. The pot swelled to five hundred bucks, wagered on a single toss.

  Kyra let the champ go first, and he barely hit the board. Everyone booed, and then somebody said, “Maybe he’s too drunk.”

  “Shit. I wish I’d known. I’d have bet on her.”

  She fretted her lower lip, supposedly sighting and aiming. Then she gave a girlie toss, but the dart soared true, striking the center of the target. Scattered whoops went up, and then Reyes counted out the winnings to the two guys who’d bet on her. Rick was one of them.

  He liked this particular con because it spread the money around. This was the first time they’d tried it, but she’d explained the premise in detail. Nobody could cry “hustle” if a few locals made a little cash, too. He pocketed the rest, knowing Kyra had to trust him to turn up at their rendezvous point on his own, carrying her cut. It would be the first time she’d done so.

  If only he knew how she’d been so certain she’d win. Instinctively, he knew it had something to do with the way she’d touched the guy. She never did that; she went out of her way to avoid physical contact.

  Still brooding over that, Reyes headed out. He knew it would be driving her crazy—the fact that she couldn’t just follow him and make sure he didn’t split with her money. She had to be patient. She had to trust him.

  Two hours later, when she came knocking at his door, he smiled.

  CHAPTER 8

  An awe-inspiring view, Serrano thought.

  He gazed out over white mountaintops up into the impossibly blue sky. St. Moritz was such an intriguing dichotomy of cosmopolitan and quaint ski village. From up here, the view was positively panoramic. He was staying at Badrutt’s Palace Hotel, ostensibly enjoying a long-overdue vacation. His detractors said he’d fled town, not wanting to deal with the fallout from being bested by the woman he’d asked to marry him.

  To some degree both were true, but neither comprised his chief aim. Among other things, he was in Switzerland because he anticipated needing an ironclad alibi. And what better place than a famous hotel? The hotel swarmed with staff as well as old-world charm. He’d make sure to order room service and let himself be seen now and again, quietly nursing his wounds. It was all rather poetic, actually.

  He’d taken the penthouse suite of course. Though he had no need for three bedrooms or a one-hundred-fifty-meter wraparound terrace, he’d gotten into the habit of living ostentatiously. His lip curled as he took in the heavy stone and dark woodwork. The carpet was old and expensive; everything was a bit too European for him, but that was to be expected, here. He preferred the clean lines of his Vegas condo.

  At least the bedchamber he’d taken as his own wasn’t too formal. It had heavy cream and blue patterned tapestries pulled back from the windows, a soft floral rug, an enormous bed, and a dusty blue armchair. Serrano regretted that he’d be sleeping alone, but companionship wasn’t part of the plan.

  If he was to put on a convincing show of grieving for his lost relationship, he couldn’t bring any women up here. No, he meant to be the picture of a spurned lover, saddened but not angry, lonely but not vengeful. Image was everything, after all.

  It still stung, remembering how much he’d wanted her. How much he’d ached for her. That damned woman’s smile made his heart twist. At one point, he’d have done anything for her, anything at all. Which was how he’d wound up on one knee, offering her a four-carat diamond.

  He didn’t like to admit his judgment could be faulty but in this case, it had gone completely off the rails. It galled him that he missed her. Rachel—Kyra—had been a good listener, and he’d thought she would make a fine mother. God, she’d sunk her teeth into him but good.

  But business was business.

  A young man came out of the second bedroom, tying his tie. His name was Wayne Sweet, and until twenty-four hours ago, he’d worked security at the Silver Lady. “I’m almost ready. It was so cool of you to bring me with you.”

  Serrano allowed himself a tight smile. “Think nothing of it. I needed a bodyguard; you wanted the credential for your résumé. It all works out very neatly, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It sure does, sir.”

  “Shall we go?”

  They made their way to the funicular. At this hour, people were heading for the pubs and discos downtown, but he had other plans. They took the train first to the Chantarella station, and then continued upward again to Corviglia. There were a number of mountain restaurants open, if that had been his aim.

  “Before dinner, I want to show you the highest point,” Serrano said, smiling.

  He led his employee along a little-used hiking path, not toward the viewing area. It was cold up here. Dark. When the trail ended in a steep drop that could only be navigated by angels and mountain goats, Sweet said, “I think we came the wrong way.”

  “No, this is it. Turn around. Take a look.”

  Like a lamb to the slaughter, obedient, Sweet spun around, gazing out. Serrano drew a pistol, a cheap .22 fitted with a silencer, and plugged his former employee in the back of the head. Sound carried a long way in the mountains, and he preferred not to take chances. He liked a .22 for executions; it wasn’t a high enough caliber for an exit wound, so there was no blood spatter, no messy cleanup. In the same motion, he gave Sweet a nudge forward, enough to topple him off the cliff.

  He glanced down. Hell of a drop. Casually, he tossed the weapon. It would be spring before they found him, if something didn’t drag him off and eat him first. And let that be a lesson to all the men who worked for him. They’d know the score when he came back from Switzerland alone; some things didn’t need to be spelled out. Sweet had been dead wrong for thinking he could get away with posting that video on the Internet. He hadn’t done a guy himself in years, but this would prove to everyone he hadn’t gone soft.

  Nobody would miss the guy.

  Though it was cold at this altitude, Serrano stripped off his leather gloves. He’d incinerate them later. Calmly, he retraced his steps to the funicular station, and then chose a path at random. He would have a nice dinner up here, where everyone could see him. Then he’d head for home.

  Later, he’d order room service for Sweet, enjoying a free week on the boss in St. Moritz. When the authorities checked things out, they would discover that Sweet had gone missing long after Serrano had returned to the States. It would be impossible for anyone to tie him to this, no matter what they suspected.

  “Looks like a nice place,” he said aloud, and strolled into the lodge to dine.

  Several hours later, replete with truffles, venison in po lenta, and caviar, he returned to his suite and powered up his laptop. It would be the middle of the night in Vegas, but Foster should be at work for another hour or two yet. The Silver Lady needed constant attention, and his chief of security would be extra careful in Serrano’s absence.

  Foster took his sweet time answering the request for a video conference. By his watch, which never ran fast, it took fifteen full minutes. He tapped his fingers, gently impatient, until the call sprang to live feed.

  “Took you long enough.”

  From his side of the camera, the chief of security regarded him with cool blue eyes. “I have twice the workload with you on vacation, but the Silver Lady is doing well. How can I help you, sir?”

  “Has your guy checked in this week?” He knew he didn’t need to elaborate. In fact, he wouldn’t. Never say anything on the phone that could be used against you.

  “Not yet.” Foster frowned, just a flicker of twin lines between his well-groomed brows, and then the look vanished, but not before Serrano saw it.

  “What does that mean?” he demanded. “Is there a problem? I need this finished.”


  “He’s a pro. At this point, he’s trying to unearth the answer to your first pressing question, sir.” Such as where she’d hid his money. Serrano appreciated Foster’s discretion. “If you want to disregard that inquiry, we can step up the timetable.”

  And put an end to the irritation named Kyra Marie Beckwith.

  That was tempting. He’d like to forget this ever happened, but conceding the loss would send a lesser message to his competitors. At this point, he couldn’t afford weakness. He’d have to be patient a little longer.

  “No,” he said finally. “Give him a little more rope. What do we know about this guy anyway?”

  Foster had handled the hire. Serrano didn’t want certain details. As long as he didn’t, he could pass a polygraph if he had to. Being able to say, “I really don’t know” sometimes offered immeasurable value.

  After a minute’s hesitation, Foster said, “I’ll send you the personnel data. You should have it in the morning. I think you’ll find his résumé fascinating.”

  Foster would use a private, bonded Swiss courier. Documents like this should never be trusted to FedEx. He was breaking his policy of noninvolvement, guaranteeing him plausible deniability, but he needed to know what kind of contractor was handling his business. If the man was employing finesse, that was fine, but if he thought he could stretch this task, and add billable hours, Serrano would show him the error of his ways.

  “That’ll do. I’ll let you know if I have further questions about our new hire. See you in a few days.”

  It irked him that Foster rang off without another word, but like the best Germanic stock, the man was nothing if not efficient. With everything handled to his satisfaction, he straightened his tie, ran a hand through his dark hair, and headed for the bar downstairs. He needed to make sure people remembered seeing him tonight.

  It wouldn’t be hard. Serrano hid a smile. If these people knew where he’d been born, they’d choke on their caviar. He nursed a drink, held on to his receipt. Within the hour, he had a glamorous redhead trying to convince him she could heal his broken heart.