Kitabı oku: «Count on Love»

Count on Love
Melinda Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my family, who never seem able to remember

we have trash cans and dirty clothes hampers

(no, the counter/floor won’t do), who always wait

until the last minute to complete assignments and

lesson plans (which need something they assume

I can miraculously produce from thin air) and who are my biggest fans. Love you guys!

To Calvin and Hobbs, who remind me it’s

break time by dropping a slobber-covered ball on

my bare feet. Even writers need exercise!

To Anna Stewart, Susan Floyd and Sigal Kremer

for listening, reading and occasionally

admitting that my writing shows talent.

The next bottle of wine is on me!

And to Dad. I hope I have your courage,

big heart and gumption when I’m eighty-one!

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

“I’LL SEE YOUR five hundred and raise you five hundred.” Vince’s grin was infuriatingly superior. He thought he was going to win. What a jamook.

Aldo rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, studying his grandson from behind a poker face he’d perfected more than fifty years ago, his bland expression giving no hint as to his cards or his irritation. All Aldo’s efforts to groom his heir seemed to be wasted.

You’d think by twenty-seven my grandson would have learned.

Aldo peered beneath the rim of his trifocals at his remaining chips. Vince hadn’t planned this well, raising the stakes to the point where the boy had to risk it all.

His fingers shaking with age, Aldo selected five one-hundred-dollar chips with the Sicilian Casino’s gold-and-black logo from one of his many stacks, and tossed them in.

“Call.”

With a flourish, Vince snapped his cards onto the green felt. Everything he did was loud and flashy, drawing attention when subtlety was called for. “Two pair. Kings and tens.”

Angling his head, Aldo glanced at his cards once more before fanning them gently in a row on the table. “Full house.” He hadn’t lost the touch. The same touch that had earned him the money to bankroll the Sicilian, one of the most opulent casinos on the Las Vegas Strip. He’d bought it over fifty years ago when he’d decided, with Rosalie’s help, which side of the law he wanted to be on. Definitely, the right side.

Vince’s face contorted. He was a good-looking young man when he wasn’t upset about something.

Aldo estimated his grandson had lost about five thousand dollars. That was as good a reason as any to be upset, particularly since it was close to a quarter of the salary Aldo overpaid him each month. Aldo wasn’t going to tell Vince what he’d lost was all going to charity. What was the point? He wouldn’t believe him, anyway.

Vince stood, kicking his chair back in the process.

It took more than that to make Aldo nervous, but Paulo took one step toward the table from his post near the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Aldo said calmly. “Same time. Blackjack.” For the past month, Aldo had insisted they gamble every night. He’d hoped that the card games would help mend the rift that had developed between them these past few months. Only they seemed to be doing the opposite. Perhaps a new approach was required.

“You won’t always beat me.” Vince scowled, his dark gaze centered on the pile of chips. “No one plays blackjack anymore. It’s an old man’s game.”

“You’d rather I fronted you the money to play in the World Series of Poker, with gimmicks and too much left to chance.” Aldo shook his head. “Blackjack is about beating the house, not another player.”

“And you’re the house.” Vince raised his black eyes to meet Aldo’s ever-watchful stare. “You’re beatable. A little girl fleeced you. And she was only twelve.”

“She had skill. Only a fool would side-bet against her.” Aldo hid his annoyance. “She quit the game a winner.” Che peccato. What a shame that episode had turned out so badly.

Muttering a curse, Vince stormed out of Aldo’s penthouse suite. Long after the heavy door slammed, Aldo sat pondering what he was going to do with his grandson. He had never felt so alone.

When he finally moved, Aldo’s legs were unsteady. They always were at the end of the day. Too many years pounding the casino floor. Too much regret in his old age. Aldo walked across the thick Oriental carpet to the bedroom, his knees giving out completely when he caught sight of his beautiful Rosalie.

He would have collapsed if not for Paulo’s quick, steadying grip. His bodyguard half carried Aldo across the room, easing him gently into a chair next to Rosalie’s hospital bed and the legion of machines that kept her alive. The private nurse on duty slipped discreetly out the door.

Aldo enveloped his wife’s cool, frail hand in both of his. “I don’t know what more I can do, cara mia.” And then he bent his head and prayed.

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS LIKE SOME small-town parade back home. Men, children, women carrying babies—everyone was smiling and singing as they passed the young American soldiers on a pitted street in Baghdad.

Trying to find relief in the shade of the awning above the bank entrance, Sam found himself humming along to their tune. Anything to distract himself from the oppressive heat.

“Gun! Shooter!” It was Vince. Clearly panicked.

Sam lifted his M16 and—

Sat bolt upright in bed. In Las Vegas. Drenched in sweat.

He peeled off his T-shirt as his cell phone rang. Sam checked the caller ID before answering. The call originated from the Sicilian Casino. Assuming it must be Vince, he answered, “Knight, here,” while he pressed his palm to his damp forehead, hoping to ease the ache behind his eyes.

“Hungover again?” Aldo Patrizio’s cold voice penetrated through his headache.

Half a beer could only account for the bad taste in his mouth, but Sam didn’t correct his friend’s grandfather. The call itself was unusual enough. “You wanted something?”

“I’ve got a job for you. There’s a group of card counters becoming more bothersome at small places up and down the Strip. I need you to find them.”

Cardsharps, or counters, kept track of the cards played in blackjack and increased their odds of winning by calculating the odds of cards coming into play. Casino managers considered playing by a system cheating. Sam thought being smart was fair, but who was he to judge when there was a paycheck involved? If only it wasn’t Vince’s grandfather asking.

“And don’t tell me you already have work. You could do those background checks in your sleep,” Patrizio added.

So much for that excuse. “Mr. Patrizio—”

“If you provide me with their names I’ll make it worth your while.” The older man named an attractive figure that would boost Sam’s sagging bank account. It was a fee nearly triple what Sam might have charged. There was more going on here than a request for services.

His jaw tensed. “Why me?”

Aldo’s laughter grated on Sam’s nerves. “If you’re anything like your father, you’re good at locating people. Call Sabatinni to confirm it’s them and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Rick Sabatinni was a retired cardsharp who consulted with the casinos. Sam had done some surveillance on Sabatinni’s wife—now ex—last winter, and still had his number. Of course, a man like Aldo Patrizio would know about that. The old man knew just about everything that went down in Vegas.

“Vince isn’t going to like this.” Sam was still toying with the idea of turning the casino owner down. Vince Patrizio wasn’t exactly on the best of terms with his grandfather and, having served with Vince in Iraq, Sam was protective of the younger man.

“He’ll like it a lot better than if I had hired you to follow him. Having family hire someone to investigate you is low, don’t you think?” Mr. Patrizio disconnected.

So the old man knew Vince had hired Sam to look into his activities…This did not bode well. Sam stumbled the few feet from his bed to his kitchen and swallowed more than the recommended dose of aspirin. At a rumbling beneath him, he squinted out the window, to see Vince backing his spanking-new black Porsche out of the garage.

Sam measured coffee, poured water and leaned against the counter while he waited for his first cup, waiting to feel the peace his Spartan garage apartment, uncluttered by reminders of his past, usually provided. Nada. Getting out of the job would be next to impossible. The trouble was Mr. Patrizio was setting Sam up.

His cell phone rang again, but it was his sister, and Sam let it go to voice mail. Restless, he paced the twenty steps from the kitchen to the front door, only pausing when his phone beeped to indicate there was a new message. One of several from his sister Sam wouldn’t pick up.

The stack of job applicants for Slotto Gaming Machines sat next to his computer on a round kitchen table, waiting for Sam’s approval. He really should get them done today so he could get paid. Plus it was the perfect excuse not to troll the casinos for Mr. Patrizio’s card counters. He opened the first folder.

Annie Raye. The name conjured up innocence and sunshine. Sam disliked her already. He sat at the table and logged on to his computer. Raye was her maiden name, but apparently she’d ping-ponged from Ms. Raye to Mrs. Jones and back to Ms. Raye.

Her driving record and credit history were clean. It would be a waste of time to check for a criminal record, but Sam did it anyway. While the computer chugged through several databases, he got himself a cup of coffee. He should just rubber stamp Annie Raye’s application so she could get that exciting finance director job at Slotto’s. Conducting a complete search was a waste of his time. He’d been doing background checks for Slotto’s for months and he’d never found information to recommend not hiring anyone.

Sam sat back down, looked at the search results and nearly dropped his coffee mug.

ANNIE TURNED EAST AND headed toward the apartment complex her dad said he was living in now. Located near the airport, it wasn’t the nicest area, but Annie and her daughter needed a place to stay until her first paycheck came in.

“One, two, three green traffic lights ahead.” Maddy crooned softly from the backseat. “One, two, three, four red cars. Why are there so many red cars?”

Because it was Sin City—the desert metropolis where dreams were made and broken—and red cars symbolized the flashiness of risk and stupidity. Annie’s knuckles whitened on the cracked steering wheel as traffic slowed to a halt, leaving her stranded midintersection two blocks from her destination. Horns honked as the green light turned yellow, then red. The jaywalkers jogged out of the way and Annie pressed on the accelerator.

“Big black cars. One, two-o-o!” Maddy wailed, kicking at the front seat. “You’re going too fast, Mommy. I can’t count.”

“Maddy, when we get to Grandpa’s house, could you stop counting out loud?” Annie’s first priority upon moving back to Vegas was to find a babysitter. For now, she’d have to make do with her dad while she stopped by Slotto Gaming Machines to sign the paperwork before starting her new job. She wouldn’t trust her dad with Maddy for more than an hour, two max. Not that he wouldn’t keep her safe, but Brett Raye had a way of presenting gambling as a fun, exciting lifestyle.

“No, Mommy,” Maddy said. “I love to count.”

Annie struggled to keep her voice calm. “Grandpa doesn’t like it when people count.”

“Why not?”

Think fast, Annie. The last thing she needed was for her dad to discover her daughter’s talents and mold them in ways that would scar poor Maddy for life. “Because…he can’t count and it makes him sad to hear other people do it.”

“I can teach him, Mommy. I have good numbers.”

“Yes, you do, but Grandpa is too old to learn.” If he knew Maddy had skill, he’d be up to his old tricks faster than Annie could say boo.

“Okay.” Maddy sounded reluctant.

Annie turned into the Harvard Arms, an apartment complex aspiring to be a dump with its faded rock-and-cactus garden, cracked windows and peeling paint. The 1992 Toyota she’d paid eight hundred dollars for when they repossessed her Mercedes looked like the newest vehicle in the lot. Annie parked and let the car idle, reluctant to get out.

“Is this where Grandpa lives?” Maddy asked.

“We can’t stay here.” Annie’s stomach soured. This was no place for her little girl. Why couldn’t she get a break?

“Is that Grandpa? He has whiskers.”

Sure enough, Brett trundled down the concrete steps from the second story with a huge smile on his gaunt, wrinkled face. His wavy hair was gray and sparse. The years hadn’t been kind. He looked far older than fifty-five.

“Annie!” He opened her car door, leaving her no choice but to turn off the engine and get out.

Her father grabbed her so tight that Annie felt his breath hitch, as if he might cry. Maybe she’d been wrong to keep her distance all these years…. Her doubt dissipated as her father held her at arm’s length with that half grin he always used to give her just before he announced his latest scheme.

No. Annie had had enough of scheming men.

Her dad released her and opened the rear door, leaning in to see his granddaughter better. “And this must be Maddy. With those blond curls and bright blue eyes, you’re as beautiful as your mother was at your age.” Then her father ruined it by adding, “Do you play cards, Maddy?”

“No.” Annie gave him a scathing look. “No cards.” When his face fell, she had no trouble remembering why she’d kept her distance for six years. She took a deep breath. “Let me look at your place. If it’s fine, I’ll only be gone an hour or two.” She unbuckled Maddy from her car seat. “I hope your bathroom is sanitary.”

“It’s not the Taj Majal, but it’s clean, I swear.” He led them upstairs, smiling in a way that made Annie realize how much this visit meant to him.

To her dismay, she noticed Maddy’s lips moving as she climbed. She was counting the number of stairs to the top. Annie placed her finger briefly on her daughter’s mouth and the little girl pressed her lips together.

“Did you lose the house, Dad?” Annie knew she shouldn’t have bought it for him. She’d hoped her father would have changed. He was probably still hanging out with the same crowd of “could-have-beens” who wagered every nickel on the flip of a card and didn’t seem to care where they lived, what they lost or if they had enough to retire on.

“This is only temporary.” He looked up as a jumbo jet barnstormed Harvard Arms on its way to land at McCarran International Airport and shrugged apologetically. “You get used to that.”

“SORRY, I GOT BACKLOGGED, Carl.” Sam set the stack of candidate files on the man’s desk. Carl Nunes, Slotto’s director of human resources, stared at Sam, who stood like a kid in the principal’s office awaiting sentencing.

“It’s all right. We haven’t gotten the drug testing results back for most of these, anyway.” The fluorescent lighting glinted off Carl’s bald head as he turned the pile around with his short, plump fingers. “I hadn’t realized your stack had gotten so large.”

Like hell he hadn’t. But Sam knew when to keep quiet. He turned away, pretending to admire the photos of Carl’s family on a bookshelf by the door. The older man had three girls with toothy grins. Sam swallowed and sat in one of Carl’s plastic visitor chairs, his back to the bookshelf.

“My practice is more demanding now.” Sam had spent the early part of the week out at Lake Mead with his WaveRunner, practicing jumps.

“Good for you. We’ll always be here for you, Sam…as long as you’re here for us.”

As hints went, it wasn’t very subtle. Sam mumbled something reassuring and stared at his boots. Background checks were a lucrative business Vince had gotten him into after their stint in the war. Too bad Sam had to deal with Mr. College Graduate, I’m-better-than-you types.

If he took that job for Mr. Patrizio—

“Any surprises?”

This was where Sam usually said no, unfolded his invoice, handed it to Carl and bolted for the exit. Carl was so used to the routine that he was already hefting the files onto the credenza behind him.

Sam leaned forward with a creak of plastic. “Actually, there’s a problem with one.”

Carl’s pale forehead wrinkled. “What kind of problem?”

“Annie Raye. She’s got an arrest record.”

“Annie? There must be some mistake.” Carl didn’t need to search for Annie’s file. Sam had kept it on top of the stack. “Everyone loves her. I already approved her moving expenses.”

Damn if Carl didn’t sound like the forgiving type. “She was arrested for embezzling. I think that makes her a bad choice as your new finance director.” Sam pulled the invoice out of his pocket, smoothed out the creases and set it on Carl’s fake-wood desktop. “Should I pick up more files from Winona on my way out?”

“YOU HAVE THREE DOORS in this house.” Maddy looked up with big, blue unblinking eyes from the ball of Play-Doh she was rolling. Her short blond hair curled around her ears with a wildness reminiscent of Annie’s at that age.

“Have you started school?” Brett asked, unable to stop smiling. His granddaughter was as sharp as a tack.

“I went for thirty-three days before we left to come here. I was in Mrs. Guichard’s kindergarten class. We had twenty-one chairs in room sixteen.” She fluffed up her cotton dress before studying him again as if he were a lab specimen. “You have a lot of whiskers. So many I don’t think I could count them all.” Maddy reached up and touched his stubbled cheek, her fingers soft and warm.

Brett chuckled. He could listen to her talk all day. And if he played his cards right, he’d be able to. “I bet you learned a lot in room sixteen.” And taught her teacher a thing or two.

Maddy nodded. “We learned about numbers and counting. How come I haven’t seen you before?”

Brett swallowed past a lump in his throat. “You lived so far away.”

“We have eight houses on our street. You never came to visit, even at Christmas. I would remember.”

Annie hadn’t wanted him to come. He’d only visited her once after she’d been married. Brett might have screwed up his relationship with Annie, but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. “The important thing is that you’re here now.”

His cell phone chimed.

“Where are you? I went by your house and you weren’t there.” Ernie’s anger vibrated through the phone.

Brett rented cheap, furnished apartments close to the Strip when he was working. He paid cash for the temporary space and registered under a different name. He’d been living in this dump for nearly a week. Being a career cardsharp was hard. If a casino identified him he’d be out of the game for good—banned with the aid of a security program that identified his features for the larger casinos, and a newsletter distributed to the smaller gaming houses.

“I needed a day off.” Brett tried to sound casual. He and his friends had just ten more days to raise twenty thousand dollars. He didn’t have time to sit and fiddle with Play-Doh, but he couldn’t let this opportunity with Maddy and Annie pass, either.

“Grandpa, I need yours.” Maddy stretched out her hand and waved it. He’d been helping her make a string of Play-Doh pearls on the coffee table.

“Who’s there with you?”

“No one.” Brett handed Maddy the dough ball and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “It’s the TV.”

“Grandpa?” In the ensuing silence, Brett hoped he’d lost the connection. “She came back, didn’t she?”

“No.” Brett denied it too quickly. He’d wanted to ask Annie to help the moment she arrived, but she’d made it clear she disapproved of anything to do with cards. He clutched the small cell phone tighter. Although they could use her help, Brett didn’t want to risk losing her again. “Annie quit, remember? She won’t help us.”

“You shouldn’t assume anything. Chauncey needs this.”

Brett snapped the cell phone closed and returned to the living room. Chauncey might need money, but Brett needed his daughter back in his life. It was selfish of him to have wanted to see Annie again and to meet his granddaughter, foolish to think they could try to build a relationship when he’d agreed to such high stakes.

“How about an ice cream?”

“Isn’t Mommy going to be home soon?”

But Brett didn’t answer. He was too busy grabbing his car keys.

“I FAILEDMY BACKGROUND check?” Annie’s fingers were so numb from clasping her hands together, it was hard to believe it was a balmy eighty-degree October day.

“Annie, the committee made its final review of your application.” Carl paused to clear his throat. “Unfortunately, we’ve decided to pursue another candidate because of this blip in your background check.”

“What?” She barely had enough breath in her lungs to question the decision. “You said the job was mine. I packed up and moved.”

“I’m sorry. We’ll reimburse your expenses, but we can’t offer you the job.” His voice had lost its usual warmth and he wouldn’t look her in the eye.

The shock of losing something she’d thought was hers, had based so many life-changing decisions on and looked forward to, left Annie speechless. She’d sold everything of value Frank hadn’t already pawned or the courts hadn’t taken, and left Los Angeles with two hundred dollars and barely enough possessions to fill two suitcases. She’d thought she couldn’t sink any lower.

“You’re a qualified individual,” Carl was saying, when Annie’s mind was capable of comprehending. “I’m sure you’ll find something else soon.”

“There must be some mistake. May I see the report, please?” At least then she’d know why she’d failed. But really, there was only one reason not to hire her. She suspected she hadn’t run far enough away from Frank and the mess he’d made of her life.

“We don’t give out that information.” But Annie noticed a company logo on a piece of paper on top of a file with her name on the tab—an invoice from Sam Knight Investigations.

When she arrived, there’d been a tall man outside waiting for Winona to give him something. He’d had thick black hair and a face with features that probably inspired plenty of female fantasies, despite the gaunt look in his eyes, rumpled khakis and a well-worn polo shirt. He’d looked like an unscrupulous private investigator standing at the edge of a sea of sad gray cubicles. The secretary may have even called him Sam.

“I need this job, Carl. I can do good things for Slotto.” Annie smoothed her skirt and tried to compose herself, tried to sound like the qualified, unruffled businesswoman she’d been before Frank was arrested. “If there’s been a mistake, you’d still hire me, right?”

“Of course, if there’s been a mistake—”

“I’m sure there has been.” Standing, Annie cut Carl off. She was just desperate enough to face Sam Knight and get the truth out of him. If only he hadn’t left yet…

SAM PULLED A HOT DOG from the warming rack at the 7-Eleven across the street from Slotto, feeling pretty damn good about the morning.

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, buster,” a woman next to him said. Sam had been called much worse than buster by more threatening babes, but this taunt threw him for a loop. The woman looked like a petite Swedish schoolteacher. Short ruffled blond hair, boring if well-filled suit, plenty of leg, pearls around her neck. Just the right combination of good girl and sex appeal.

Sam turned his back on her and filled a soda cup with ice.

She sidled closer to him, invading his personal space, whispering as if what she had to say was for his ears only. “You’re a disgrace to…to…the private investigator profession…and men in general.”

Wait a minute. He remembered seeing her in the reception area of Slotto. “Lady—”

“My name is Annie Raye. Ring any bells?”

She was sexier than he’d expected, the kind of woman who was hot and didn’t know it. He disliked her all over again. “How did you…? What are you…?” Smooth, Knight. He filled his cup with Pepsi.

Annie looked him up and down. “You deep-sixed my background check and I want to know why.”

He used to be polished with the ladies, in control, on top…or whatever position suited him. But that was before Iraq. “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

She glared at him. Given her Hilary Clinton suit, she probably thought men could actually ignore her well-proportioned body and take her seriously. “How long did it take you to do my background check? A week? A day?”

He wasn’t going to admit fifteen minutes. But it had been one of the most enjoyable fifteen minutes he’d spent in a long time.

“That’s what I thought. You should spend more time getting the answers right. Now, call up Carl Nunes and let’s straighten this mess out.”

“You didn’t pass the screen,” Sam said lamely. What was wrong with him? He tried to sound firm. “There is no recount, no redo, no make goods. Not for embezzlers.”

“My husband…” Her cheeks lost some of their color. “My ex-husband is the crook. I was booked on suspicion, but no charges were ever filed against me. Didn’t your so-called background check pick that up? There’s no reason Slotto shouldn’t hire me.” Annie glowered at him, but the look was ruined by the bedroom huskiness of her voice as she whispered, “In fact, it’s illegal for you to even use that information against me.”

“It’s illegal in California, but we’re much more lenient in Nevada, sweetheart.”

She made a huffing noise. “That’s not a good enough reason, darling.”

He stared at her a moment, then cleared his throat. “How about this? Your father is a professional gambler, and probably a petty crook who hasn’t yet been caught scamming tourists.” There was no way Annie Raye could work in any field even remotely connected to gambling when her father made his less-than-successful living playing cards.

“Slotto doesn’t want to hire my dad.” She pushed out her lower lip, which was pink, plump and tempting.

Annie Raye represented everything a man wanted. Spunky, pretty with a cute little figure—all wrapped up in that virginal package that said home-cooking and flowered sheets. No wonder Carl Nunes had been fooled. But she couldn’t put one over on Sam.

He finally came to his senses and headed to the cashier.

Annie lacked the bravado to stand in his way, but she doggedly trailed after him. “I packed everything I own in my car, left at five this morning and drove four hours to get here. And do you know why?”

“No, and I don’t care. Go peddle your résumé somewhere else. I need breakfast.”

“A hot dog and a soda? No wonder you look like a truck ran you over.”

His hot dog was no longer hot. Wearily, Sam turned back to her. “You might get better results explaining all this to Carl or a reporter. Maybe Slotto is the type of company that would hire you just to escape bad press. Of course, you’d have to be willing to bare your soul and your past. But, hey, Vegas loves gamblers, right?” He found himself caught in her vivid blue gaze. There was more than anger in her eyes. There was fear, as well.

Sam may not have discovered all the skeletons in Annie Raye’s closet.