But the prospect of that ever happening seemed very unlikely. Once Ty had the amulet safely in his hands, that was it. He’d leave, disappearing into the night—or whatever time of day it’d happen to be—never to see Cary again.
He tried to shake off his preoccupation and continued his walk, noting the position of the escalators and the security cameras. They weren’t planning on reaching this area of the hotel, but he liked to establish all possible escape routes ahead of time. You never knew when you’d have to scramble for one in the thick of things.
His gaze kept slipping, though, trying to catch a glimpse of the other man among the throng of tourists and shoppers. It was distracting. That was all Cary was—a distraction.
There was no denying it was a pleasant distraction, at times. A small but sweet shiver ran down Ty’s spine as he recalled the silky smoothness of Cary’s skin, flushed with desire, and the little needy noises he’d made when Ty moved inside him. His brain helpfully conjured up half a dozen images of things they could be doing, given a chance, but Ty couldn’t afford being invested in anything other than the task at hand. With an effort, he shifted his focus back to watching the flow of people and calculating the distance to the exits.
“How’s the recon going?”
Cary’s voice came through loud and clear. They were using this opportunity to test the audio equipment, with both of them wearing concealed mics. Of course, Cary couldn’t chance wearing an earpiece during the poker game, but it came in handy for scoping out the main hotel levels. They didn’t want any of Giordano’s posse to spot them there together.
“Pretty good. I don’t see any major deviations from the map,” Ty said. “Think I got most of the camera positions figured out.”
“Haven’t you been here before?”
“I have, but it was some time ago. They do renovations—things change. It pays off to be thorough when possible.”
“Were you here alone?” Cary asked with a peculiar inflection in his voice.
Ty glanced in his direction. Cary was standing right by the stairs leading to the dainty little bridge that spanned the faux canal. People were walking past him, chatting and snapping pictures with their phones.
“I rarely work with partners,” Ty said very carefully. “And I don’t do romantic partners at all.”
Cary turned to lean on the rail, looking down at the green-blue water.
“Why not?”
Ty wasn’t planning on having this conversation right now. He wasn’t planning on having it at all, and now it had caught him off guard, and he didn’t quite know what to say. Years of self-preservation had taught him to be cautious and mistrustful.
“It’s just easier that way. No expectations, no complications. People will always bail on you when it’s convenient, even those who say they’re your friends, or that they love you.”
“That’s…jaded.”
Ty barely stopped himself from shrugging. “It’s realistic.”
And yet some unexplored, visceral part of him whispered that Cary might be different. Ty liked him. Cary was funny, intelligent, and capable, even if at times he was prickly as a hedgehog. And Ty was edging precariously toward wishing there could be more to their relationship than mutual exploitation, which was something he was afraid to admit even to himself.
“We should continue,” he said when Cary didn’t respond.
They both started back toward the escalators, keeping their distance. For some reason, Ty couldn’t shake the persistent feeling of being watched. Usually his instincts were pretty sharp about these things, but this time it was more of a nagging suspicion than a certainty. He cast about casually, but nothing stood out in any way. He couldn’t pick up on the source of his discomfort—which had nothing to do with the awkward conversation they’d had earlier.
Perhaps it was just fancy, or nerves. Ty had never been the jumpy type, but he couldn’t deny that the sheer number of people gathered in such a relatively confined space made him uncomfortable, despite the masterful imitation of open skies on the ceiling.
But despite his self-admonitions, the sensation of someone’s gaze fixed on the back of his neck refused to go away. Ty recalled the white sedan that had briefly appeared to be tailing them in San Francisco after they’d left Bas’s place. It had seemed like a false alarm at the time, but perhaps there was something more to all of this.
“Keep your eyes open,” Ty said quietly as he descended after Cary to the main casino floor. Cary grunted in agreement.
Unlike the brightly lit square and canal promenade of the fake Venice above, the casino was set in a perpetually glittering duskiness that was just illuminated enough by flashing lights and huge chandeliers as to not be oppressing. The beeps and blares of the slot machines, the cheers of the spectators around the roulette tables, and the precise calls of the dealers blended into a background cacophony, as constant as the sound of waves crashing against a rocky shore. It also made blending in with the crowd that much easier, though Ty wasn’t fooled about their ability to go unnoticed here—the floor was more tightly monitored by the casino security than some airports. The subtle magic that worked on people didn’t fool surveillance cameras. But as long as they didn’t stir up any trouble, the security folks didn’t care who they were. Ty wasn’t worried about being watched from this particular quarter. It was the other kind of attention he wished to avoid.
They made their way along the plush red carpet, keeping to opposite sides of the room.
“Check out the craps,” Ty said, and Cary stopped to look at the table where a crowd of players and spectators had gathered for what was apparently a lively game in progress.
While he was pretty savvy about card games, Ty had only a vague notion of how craps was played. The swankier forms of table gambling, like craps or baccarat, just weren’t his forte. From what he could gather, the game was dependent entirely on the shooter’s luck, and it seemed like luck was on the current shooter’s side. This wasn’t at all surprising, given that the person throwing the dice in an elaborate flourish was, in fact, none other than Sebastian Monroe. A considerable amount of chips was stacked on the table’s edge in front of him. Judging by the colors, there was about one hundred grand in that pile. Cary whistled softly in Ty’s ear, no doubt having made the same calculation.
“Winner, seven,” the stickman announced, and the people around the table cheered as Bas smiled his dazzling smile and kissed the hand of the beautiful tall blonde girl in a shimmering green dress who was practically draped around him. Apparently, a glamorous escort was as much a part of the “rich businessman on a romp” disguise as a tailored suit and an expensive haircut.
“That’s impressive,” Cary said in a low voice as the stickman deftly moved the chips on the table when the players placed their bets. Of course, as a sleight-of-hand artist himself, he was bound to recognize the telltale signs of manipulation that were too subtle for the dealers to notice, and which were enhanced by whatever spells Bas was currently reciting in his head.
“That’s the idea,” Ty said, keeping his attention on the folks jostling around Bas. He couldn’t actually see magic at work, but after so many years of practice, he could feel its flow enveloping Sebastian, gently tugging at the people around him, making them stop and look. Even those who huddled around the far tables occasionally raised their heads and glanced in his direction.
“Well, he’s certainly arousing interest,” Cary said. He turned his head from side to side, assessing the situation. Ty could tell Cary was sensing it too—the pull of vaguely familiar power, even though he probably couldn’t understand what it was he was feeling. “But isn’t the point spending money rather than winning over the house by using magic?”
“Oh, don’t worry. When he reaches a critical point, he’ll lose quite spectacularly. Watch.”
As they observed the game from afar, the crowd of spectators was growing steadily, as were the colorful piles of chips thrown on the green felt. Sebastian pushed a hefty-looking st
ack on the pass line to the applause of the onlookers and other players, who hastened to place new bets.
The numbers and words shouted by the players and the dealers seemed completely random to Ty, and he wished Bas had picked a different table to exhibit his ostensible gambling addiction, something simple and fast-paced, like blackjack or the roulette. Even though Ty had no stake in the game, he hated not being able to follow the moves. At least the reactions of the spectators made him aware that Bas was aiming for something rather entirely too straightforward for local tastes.
Ty saw Cary approach the table and followed him discreetly. Thanks to the larger crowd, they could risk drawing closer, if only for a minute. Cary’s pull proved as impossible for him to resist as the tug of magic emanating from Bas was for the onlookers.
From his new position, Ty could spot the casino security folks in the wings, with their nondescript dark suits and earpieces, but for now, they stayed back, simply watching the proceedings around the table. If there were other “professional” observers, he didn’t spot them. Bas continued to throw the dice, apparently on a winning streak with the bets growing bolder and the sums getting higher with each pass. Ty had given up on trying to follow the rules. It was high time for Bas to step down, anyway. They hadn’t come to rob the casino, after all—just establish Bas as an ambitious but perhaps not very savvy high roller.
“Wow,” Cary said in a hushed voice that echoed in Ty’s earpiece as Bas bet a tall stack of thousand-dollar chips on a single roll. If Ty had to stake a guess, he’d say this was the one Bas intended to lose.
But Cary didn’t know that, and as the dice flew over the table, Ty felt the magic surge within Cary, trickling down to his fingertips in an involuntary resistance to the possibility of Bas making the wrong move. Cary’s instinct was to help Bas keep his money, and the magic responded to his unspoken, unformed command. Ty stepped up and grabbed his hand, willing him to stop before the power of his intent interfered with the throw. The runes in Ty’s fingertips prickled, as if an electric current passed between them at the contact, but the magic receded as quickly as it had welled.
The dice hit the table wall and rolled onto the felt.
“Soft eight,” the stickman said, which apparently was a bad outcome, since it elicited a collective sigh of disappointment from everyone around the table. Next to him, Cary inhaled sharply, and even Ty couldn’t help wincing. Even though he knew the loss was premeditated, it was hard watching all that money disappear back into the house’s pockets.
Sebastian stood up, smiled apologetically, and made his way to the roulette, escorted by the tall blond girl. Several spectators trailed after him, no doubt expecting to be treated to another show.
Ty and Cary hung to the back, behind a row of slot machines, as they surveyed the crowd. There were quite a number of people watching the game go down, but Ty couldn’t pinpoint any of them as members of Tony’s entourage. But the night—figuratively speaking, as it was only a Thursday afternoon—was still young, and Bas had a lot more money to burn and attention to garner. Ty was pretty confident about their plan working, especially since Bas had the means to tip the scales in their favor by making sure it was the right kind of attention he was attracting.
But there were other problems they were currently facing.
Cary’s fingers flexed in Ty’s grip, and he looked at him, as if noticing for the first time their hands were still touching. Cary must have misunderstood the intent behind the gesture, because his gaze, when he directed it at Ty, was a little bewildered. But he didn’t remove his hand immediately, and his expression changed slightly, into something less guarded, less world-weary.
Their eyes locked, and Ty wouldn’t have been surprised to feel the same sort of electricity in the air as had moments ago coursed through their clasped hands. Cary’s eyes darkened with promise—just a fraction, but it was enough to set Ty’s blood on fire. Heat crept up his cheeks, and he leaned infinitesimally toward Cary, the scent of his warm skin suddenly overwhelming the smell of stale air and expensive perfume, and Ty’s resolve.
A slot machine jangled a few feet away, the loud noise shattering the strange, fragile moment. Cary blinked, and Ty took the opportunity to take a hasty step back, breaking both the visual and physical contact.
Risk of exposure aside, he couldn’t let himself go down that path, especially after the whole “not doing romantic partners” talk. He had to get a grip before he let himself fall for a mark like some stupid sap from a sappy movie. They were only together until they relieved Giordano of the stolen amulet. After that, it was every man for himself.
“We should talk,” he said, his voice sounding unexpectedly hoarse.
He didn’t want to discuss the confusing things he was feeling. There was no future for Cary and him, no possibility that he could see of them ever exploring that tentative, surprising attraction that had somehow grown in a place he thought to be barren. And even if there was, Cary deserved so much better than Ty. It was safer, wiser, to save them both the heartache of disappointment.
But there was no doubt he should have a very frank and honest chat with Cary regarding his magical potential. The power was so ripe inside him that it brimmed just under the surface, threatening to erupt at the wrong moment, taking them all down if they weren’t careful. He owed it to Cary to let him know.
“Sure,” Cary said. Hurt flickered in his eyes before his expression closed off again.
Ty turned away. Something heavy was lodged in his chest, an unfamiliar emotion he did his best to ignore. Soon, he told himself as they split up again and continued their walk through the casino, trying very hard not to accidentally bump into each other. Soon he’d have his ring, Westfield’s amulet, and his peace of mind back, free to return to his solitary existence, uncomplicated by all these ridiculous feelings toward a man who should have been nothing more than a mark, but who was so much more than that.
Soon.
For some reason, the thought wasn’t as comforting as he wanted it to be.
Chapter Twelve
CARY TUGGED NERVOUSLY at the crisp white collar of his uniform shirt and glanced at himself in the mirror behind the corner bar. It’s going to be all right, he told his reflection silently. It’s just another performance. Just another feat of sleight of hand. Only this time, the audience was a murderous psychopath who had no idea he was square in the middle of a magic show.
He straightened his bow tie one last time and turned to face the room. As private gaming rooms went, this was as private as one could wish for. It was decorated extravagantly, like everything else, in red, cream, and gold, and there was only one poker table with six chairs around it. Aside from the wet bar, there was a large flat-screen TV on one of the walls, a lounge area, and an en suite bathroom—in short, everything needed for a few uninterrupted hours of high-stakes gambling.
Cary’s job as a private-room bartender meant he had to be as unobtrusive as possible, and so far, that worked to his advantage. He’d spent all morning practicing mixing drinks and was reasonably confident he could handle the players’ requests. So, as long as he stayed quiet and served the men promptly, he could watch them without anyone looking at him twice. That included the casino dealer, who must have known Cary wasn’t an employee, but said nothing. Cary assumed money had changed hands there as well, but he could hardly ask the guy if he’d been bribed to let him slide. Cary knew that no amount of money would convince a professional dealer to cheat in a camera-monitored, casino-endorsed game with such heavy rollers. The cheating was Sebastian Monroe’s job, if such need arose.
To be perfectly honest, Cary’d had doubts that particular part of the plan would work. There was no shortage of people with money at the casino, and most of them were willing to lose said money just for the thrill of it. That Giordano would latch on to Bas, out of all these potential cash cows, was rather dubious, but Cary couldn’t argue with results. Whether it was skill, natural charm, magic, or a strange combination of all of the above
, Sebastian had gotten in.
Aside from the dealer, there were five more people in the room, seated around the table. Tony Giordano, with his slick hair and toothy smile, reminded him of a particularly handsome reptile. The chair on his right remained empty. Cary watched him closely at first, careful to avoid eye contact and looking away every time the man glanced in his general direction. But despite his apprehension, Tony didn’t show any signs of recognizing him.
There was actually a greater chance of Angelo Rossi, Tony’s right-hand man, recognizing Cary. Rossi was a medium-height, nondescript fellow with thick dark hair, sharp eyes, and a superficial resemblance to Giordano that spoke of a familial connection. According to Ty’s briefing, he was the one who handled Tony’s more questionable enterprises, so there was a better chance of him knowing Cary by sight. But he gave Cary no more than a cursory glance when calling for his whiskey, and after that, he ignored him altogether. Cary noticed he and Frank Biagi, Giordano’s rival “pal” from New York, were eying each other like two male tigers suddenly forced to share a cage. Clearly no love was lost there, but Tony seemed unperturbed by the palpable animosity. Cary wondered what was going on there, but it was hardly important at the moment.
Gladden, the arms company consultant, wasn’t unlike Tony in that he was attractive and slippery. But whereas Tony commanded the room with a genuine intensity, despite his relatively young age and well-groomed appearance, this guy was as fake as loaded dice. He chatted easily and fluidly, all the while wearing a big smile that showed rows of white teeth that looked a little too perfect.
It might seem that somebody like Sebastian would be the odd man out in this company. Perhaps he was, in the participants’ minds, but it certainly didn’t look like it from the outside. Sebastian was holding his cards with all the suave elegance of a bored modern-day aristocrat seeking expensive thrills, like he wasn’t bothered by the proximity of all these dangerous people and their bodyguards waiting outside.
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