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.

CHAPTER TWO

WHY COULDN’T SAM KNIGHT have been an old, cigarette-smoking P.I. Annie could easily charm? Instead, he was intimidatingly tall, with long limbs that outpaced and outreached a height-challenged woman like herself. His haunted green eyes hid a stubborn streak Annie hadn’t been able to break. And she didn’t want to acknowledge the solid curve of his biceps beneath the short sleeves of his shirt or the way her heart ka-thumped when his studied gaze roved beyond her face.

With one eye on Sam’s big black truck in front of her, Annie dug her phone out of her purse and called her dad. “May I speak to Maddy?”

“We’re doing fine, honey. How are things with you on the job?”

“Fine,” she lied. It wouldn’t be a lie when she convinced Sam to change his mind. “Is that…are you in a car?” Annie had to accelerate to keep up with Sam through a yellow light. “I forbid you to take Maddy to a card game.” Her father knew nothing about parental limits.

“We’re just going for ice cream. No cards for this little girl. I promise. Ain’t that right, puddin’?”

Annie’s heart lurched. He used to call her that. Back then she’d adored her dad and couldn’t wait to do whatever he asked. “Let me talk to Maddy.”

“I can’t turn this girl into a cardsharp in one afternoon, Annie,” he said, as if reading her mind. “And I’m not going to try. Here, talk to her.”

“Mommy, we’re going for ice cream.” Maddy’s excitement bubbled through the cell phone.

“Is everything okay, sweetie?”

“Yes, Mommy. We’re having fun. Grandpa borrowed a car seat from the lady who lives under him.”

Her dad said something Annie didn’t catch.

“Grandpa says I can hold the cell phone and call you anytime, okay?”

He knew just how to reassure Annie that everything was all right. How she wished she could believe him. “That’s great, sweetie. Tell Grandpa I’ll be another hour, maybe two.”

“Bye, Mommy!” And Maddy hung up just like an independent teenager. Annie wanted to call her back just so she could hear her five-year-old’s voice.

“DO I HAVE TO CALL the cops?” Sam demanded when he’d started up the stairs to his garage apartment and realized he had company.

Annie Raye walked up to him with her suit jacket buttoned up to her neck as if she was ready for a business meeting. “All I want is a chance to prove to you that I’m dependable.”

Sam’s cell phone rang. He checked the display but didn’t recognize the local number, and picked up.

“Sam? It’s Tiny Marquez. Aldo Patrizio said I should call. One of those card players just walked in. I’d throw him out but I need proof before I lay a finger on him.” Casinos had been sued for heavy-handed treatment of suspected counters. That’s why independent houses relied on third parties to I.D. and detain sharps.

So much for the small hope that he could wheedle his way out of Mr. Patrizio’s job. If Sam didn’t deliver those card counters’ identities his own name would soon be worth nothing in Vegas.

“I’m there.” Sam disconnected the call and then dialed Rick Sabatinni. When the retired gambler answered, Sam turned away from Annie, lowered his voice and quickly explained the situation.

“A group of card counters?” Sabatinni asked, an odd note in his voice.

“Yeah, why?”

“I’ll call you back.”

Swearing, Sam flipped his phone closed and clipped it to his belt. Something wasn’t right.

Tiny Marquez ran a small casino at the outskirts of the Strip. Vince had told Sam that his grandfather sometimes helped out the mom-and-pop casinos in the area. Sam had no idea why. What with running the Sicilian and taking care of his wife, Mr. Patrizio seemed to have his hands full.

“Where are you going?” Annie sidled between Sam and his truck. “We haven’t settled this.”

Sam refused to look at her, especially her legs. He didn’t like the way Mr. Patrizio had boxed him in, or the way Annie was trying to do the same. “I’ve got business,” Sam snapped. He closed the distance between them by one step.

She didn’t budge. “What about my job?”

“You’re trying my patience,” he warned, taking another step. Another two and he’d be able to touch her.

“Look, I’m nonthreatening. I’ll work for a trial period.” Annie smiled and tilted her head, trying to capture his gaze. With a face like that she could easily con people into believing she was the upstanding citizen she would’ve appeared to be, if it weren’t for the arrest record. “Carl Nunes said all it would take for him to hire me is your approval. I’ll disappear if you give it to me.”

“Not happening.” Sam tried Sabatinni’s number again. Still no answer. This time he left a message. “Knight, here. Meet me ASAP at Tiny House of Cards.”

As he took another step forward, Annie ran to her wreck of a car, leaving a hint of strawberries in the air. His blood pressure soared. It had been too long since he’d been around a woman like her…the woman she appeared to be.

“What?” she asked, holding the car door open when she noticed Sam staring. “I’m leaving just like you asked.” She smiled as if they were best buds.

He wasn’t falling for that act.

“Are you working on a case?” she asked too casually.

Sam grunted.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“No.” Then he was in his truck and gunning it down the street, all thoughts of strawberry scent and blond hair left far behind.

Until he hopped out of his truck at Tiny House of Cards.

“I’m intrigued by what you do,” a familiar voice said behind him.

Annie Raye.

“Go away.” Sam clenched his cell phone before redialing Sabatinni. No answer, and his car wasn’t in the lot. He’d probably chosen today to come out of retirement, and was in some blackjack tournament. Why else would he blow Sam and Mr. Patrizio off? Sam swore and wished the professional gambler bad luck times five.

“A girl’s allowed to go where she wants. And right now, I want a drink.” Annie pointed at the small casino. “In here.” Then she sauntered in as if she was going to a PTA meeting, leaving Sam no choice but to follow.

Sam and Annie ended up standing together inside the entrance to Tiny’s, near the obligatory row of slot machines. Four of the seven machines were occupied, and the cacophony of beeping and music annoyed him already. From where they stood they could see a lone player at the blackjack table, his face barely visible across the smoky lounge.

From behind the long, curving bar, Tiny, a huge, cue ball-headed Hispanic, gave Sam a slight nod, followed by a significant glance in the direction of the card table. Tiny was probably expecting Sam to be fully prepared. Without Sabatinni, this was going to be a royal waste of time.

As they walked deeper into the lounge, Sam cataloged the distinguishing features of the blackjack player. He wore a nice pair of khakis and a high-end bowling shirt at odds with his scraggly appearance. His frizzy salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a thin ponytail. Mirrored sunglasses with large tortoiseshell rims hid his eyes and much of his face. A shaggy gray mustache sprouted near a liver-colored growth the size of a malted milk ball below his left nostril. As disguises went, it was minimal but effective. The growth alone would keep most attention politely away from his other facial features. Most people wouldn’t look anyone disfigured directly in the face, making recall of the details of his or her appearance difficult.

“What are we here for?” Annie trotted to keep up with him.

“None of your business. This isn’t going down as planned. If I were you, I’d leave before Tiny gets angry.” Slowing, Sam indicated with a nod who Tiny was. He’d met the proprietor a few months ago at a back room card game at the Sicilian, after which Tiny had knocked out the man who cleaned him out. With one punch. “I’m going to have to talk fast. Why don’t you go on home to California?”

“And miss all the fun? Nah.”

Weighing in at about three hundred pounds and in desperate need of anger management therapy, Tiny wasn’t someone Sam wanted to piss off. He hoped Tiny wasn’t losing enough money to pound his frustration out on Sam. Wouldn’t that cap the day?

Annie looked worriedly at the large proprietor, at the blackjack table, and then back to Sam. She rubbed a hand over her stomach, as if she wasn’t feeling well. “Does Tiny have a gun?”

“Guys like him don’t need guns.”

“You’re joking, right?” she asked, her blue eyes looming large in her pale face as she caught Sam’s arm.

“Ah, no. When you’ve got fists as big as ham hocks, guns aren’t nearly as scary. Tiny expects results, not excuses. Excuses just make him mad. And when he’s mad…”

Still holding Sam, Annie’s eyes darted to the player. “Is he counting? Is that why you’re here?”

“A rocket scientist in the making. Very good. My expert resource is a no-show, so the best I can do is make this guy nervous and follow him to try and find out who he is.” Sam raked a hand through his hair. Worst case? Tiny would pulverize him and spread the word that Sam was worthless. Soon even Carl wouldn’t give him background checks. “This isn’t going to be pretty. Really. Why don’t you wait outside?”

Biting her lip, Annie stared at Tiny, then the player, then Tiny. Her face was nearly chalk-white now. She turned back toward the door, mumbling something Sam didn’t catch.

“Are you okay?” Was it too much to hope that the gambler would get up and leave?

Annie spun back. “Do you have twenty dollars?”

“What?” Did she want ringside seats? Oh, yeah. She’d come in for a drink, probably a nonalcoholic iced tea, just another attempt to make Sam believe she didn’t have a crafty bone in her body. “If you need a drink that bad, I’ll stop at the liquor store on the way home. I’ll need an ice pack by then anyway.” But Sam took a twenty out of his wallet. “Get me a beer.”

“Thanks.” Instead of going to the bar, Annie walked over to the blackjack table and sat two seats away from the man. She placed the twenty-dollar bill on the felt and smiled as sweetly as a churchgoer at the dealer. The player took one look at her and began coughing on his cigar. Annie hopped off her bar stool and pounded his back like the squeaky-clean Good Samaritan she would have been if her dad wasn’t addicted to risk and her ex hadn’t been so fond of other people’s money.

THE MAN SAM SUSPECTED OF being a card counter smelled oddly familiar, but it was hard to tell with the cyst on his face. Annie didn’t want to embarrass him by looking too closely. The combination of cigar smoke and cheap cologne irritated her nostrils and turned her anxious stomach. She wiggled her nose and tried not to sneeze, sneaking a glance at the man as the dealer, a thin Hispanic woman with sharp, cast-iron features, flicked out cards.

Annie wouldn’t have jumped into this if it hadn’t looked like Tiny might clobber Sam. He might be a sloppy P.I., but no one deserved to be punished like that. Besides, saving him from a beating might just get her that job. Still, she couldn’t look at her cards yet, couldn’t look anywhere but at the green felt in front of her. Annie hadn’t gone near a deck for more than fourteen years and might have lost her touch, might have forgotten what it took to count.

In her dreams.

When she was younger, she’d gained her father’s approval by playing cards for him. She had a knack for numbers, was able to memorize telephone numbers, dollar amounts and cards played with an ease her father envied and bragged about in his little girl. Annie’d spent much of the summer between sixth and seventh grade in smoky back rooms beating card players as much as fifty years her senior. She’d hoped finally having money would make her mother as happy as it seemed to make her father. Unfortunately, her mom had seen things differently. She’d left that summer. Annie hadn’t heard from her since.

Now, as she finally picked them up, the cards felt awkward in her sweaty hands, as if she might drop them at any moment. Why had she jumped in like this? She had no idea when the dealer had last shuffled, and you couldn’t start counting cards midgame.

Her mother’s pearls around her neck were like a choke chain. Was Sam wondering how to get the two of them out of the Tiny House of Cards? Thinking about leaving without her? Or waiting for her to show her stuff? Sam didn’t care that she had a little girl to provide for, that she’d been fired when she and Frank were first arrested. Annie wasn’t getting any child support checks from Frank. If she wanted to eat, she was going to have to get a grip, get a job and get on with her life.

Two tens came reassuringly into focus. A solid hand. Ignoring Sam, Tiny, the smelly man at the table and the all-too-familiar atmosphere around her, Annie concentrated on the game.

SAM COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. What was Annie thinking? For all she knew, this guy was dangerous. But dragging her away now would only tip him off and make it that much harder to nail him when Sabatinni got here. If Sabatinni ever showed. Maybe Sam should call Vince to see if he knew where Sabatinni was.

But Vince would only get annoyed that he was working for his grandfather, so Sam retreated to the end of the long curvy bar, where he could observe Annie without turning. He signaled Tiny for a beer, and to occupy himself, he kept hitting Redial on his cell phone until someone called him.

“Knight, here.”

“Hey, it’s Vince. What’s up?”

This was where Sam admitted he was working for Vince’s grandfather—albeit reluctantly—and Vince, who was about the only friend Sam had left in the world, washed his hands of him.

“I’m working.” Sam glanced over at Annie.

“Want to get a beer tonight at Tassels?”

Vince was obsessively suspicious that the manager of Tassels Galore and his grandfather had conspired to arrange the hit-and-run that had put his grandmother into a coma, despite Sam’s inability to prove anything.

Since Vince was younger than him, Sam often found himself in the awkward position of being the voice of reason. “Maybe we could go somewhere else—”

“She’ll make a mistake,” Vince interrupted. “And I’ll be there.” He hung up before Sam could protest again.

The beer came and did nothing for Sam’s nerves. Normally, the adrenaline rush of intense situations calmed him, focused his mental energy on the job at hand. But he didn’t know anything about the man puffing on a cigar two feet from Annie. Was he a cool gambler or a paranoid cheat? Was Annie in danger? And what was Vince going to do when he found out about this?

Annie peeled off her jacket, revealing skimpy lace and a lot of bare skin.

It’s been far too long since I had sex.

Sam took another sip of his beer and tried to observe the action without letting his mind wander.

He was far enough away that he couldn’t make out the exact cards on the table, but he could see whether the players won or lost, and catch their expressions. The man kept his eyes on the cards the entire time, but still managed to sneak sideways glances at a fidgety Annie.

Jealousy he had no right to tingled in Sam’s veins. Maybe he should rescind that background check and let Carl deal with her. Annie Raye was turning out to be nothing but trouble.

He needed Sabatinni. Sam started dialing through his contact list. Somebody must know where Sabatinni was.

ANNIE STIFLED HER WORRY as she won another hand. The table held a four-dollar minimum bet. The object of her scrutiny was betting ten to fifteen dollars a hand, while Annie was sticking to four dollars. So far, they’d both won just as much as they’d lost, and the dealer hadn’t shuffled. Annie hadn’t seen anything to make her think the guy was counting cards. She was starting to believe that she wouldn’t be able to spot him if he was.

The dealer’s top card was a two. Annie glanced at her cards again, an amateur’s habit. They wouldn’t change. She had a ten and a nine this time. “I’ll stay.”

The smelly man must have liked his hand, too. He waved the dealer off, eyes glued to the dealer’s cards.

The dealer turned over her remaining card. An eight. Adding to her two, it gave the dealer ten points. Not good from where Annie sat. At ten, a face card or ace would beat her hand. So far Annie hadn’t seen too many high cards played, so they were due.

The dealer snapped out another two with barely a change in her expression. Twelve points. Then a four. Sixteen points. Annie tightened her grip on her cards. This was getting better for her and the man who shared the table. The dealer couldn’t hold until seventeen. She had to give herself another card, and she flipped over…a six. Twenty-two.

The nickname for blackjack wasn’t “twenty-one” for nothing. You couldn’t accumulate more than twenty-one points. The house had lost, which meant that the players doubled their money as soon as they proved to the dealer they had twenty-one points or less.

Annie wiped her palms on her skirt and watched the man reveal his cards. A nine and a seven. Any combination from twelve to sixteen was a stiff hand, one that would require taking a chance on another card. Not a smart bet, yet he’d come up a winner this round. That didn’t mean he wasn’t counting. Card counters often lost a little or made intentional mistakes to throw off any suspicions and to reassess the probabilities of the cards.

“If you see a lot of high cards come out—tens, face cards or aces—and you’ve lost count, start betting low,” her father had often said as he snapped cards onto their rickety kitchen table. “Chances are, a lot of low cards will be dealt, and low cards can kill you in blackjack. On the other hand, if you see a lot of low cards being dealt, bet big. That means the big cards are coming out and you’re due for a win.” He’d tugged one of her pigtails gently. “But you don’t lose track, do you, puddin’?”

Since Annie had sat down, there had been only seven significant high cards dealt. If this guy knew anything about gambling, he’d increase his bet. If he’d been counting cards and calculating probabilities, he’d start firing chips onto the table.

After a quick glance around, the dealer looked sourly at the deck, probably trying to decide if she should shuffle or deal another hand. If she shuffled, the odds favored the house, because the card counter would have to start a new tally. With a put-upon sigh, she chose not to shuffle. The hair on the back of Annie’s neck prickled.

Annie’s eight dollars in chips still sat in the betting area. The other player bumped his bet to an uncharacteristic forty. Annie cast a worried glance at Sam. Though she didn’t think what this guy was doing was wrong, she had to signal Sam so that Tiny’s fist wouldn’t end up in his face, and she’d get that job at Slotto.

But what would happen to this man if she did finger him? Annie couldn’t repress the memory of fists pummeling her father’s flesh, accented by her own terrified screams. She’d vowed to never let her gambling skills be responsible for someone else’s welfare again.

Staring into his beer, Sam took no notice of Annie. His lips were moving. Was he singing? No. Talking on his cell phone. Tiny’s dark eyes, on the other hand, bored into Annie, a shot glass barely visible in his fist.

The dealer flicked cards out onto the table. Annie didn’t touch hers. She willed Sam to look at her, but he didn’t as much as glance her way to settle her nerves.

“Taking one?” the older woman asked, her voice raspy. It was the first time she’d spoken since Annie had sat down.

“What? Oh, sorry. I need a drink,” Annie mumbled, stalling as she looked at her cards for the first time. A jack and an ace, twenty-one in a natural hand that was unbeatable. The ace could count as one or eleven. Annie flipped her cards faceup. She didn’t need to play anymore.

The dealer stacked eight dollars in chips in front of Annie. The remaining player chewed on his cigar and brushed his cards across the felt to indicate he wanted another one. The dealer snapped out a seven. He laid his cards down. No smile, no frown. Cool as an ice cube. Annie could remember playing with that kind of composure when she was twelve and thought she was invincible. At twenty-six, she knew every decision came with a risk and a price.

She shot another nervous look Sam’s way. From here he looked gorgeous, the trace of sadness in his eyes not evident. He gave no sign that he was aware of her predicament. She was on her own. Next time she’d pick a man who was a good protector and good father material.

Next time? Annie’s breath came in near panicked pants. She couldn’t wait for a next time. Maddy’s toothy grin came to mind, a calming beacon. Annie inhaled deeply.

The dealer had an eight showing, and flicked her hole card over. A six, giving her a stiff fourteen. The rules dictated she had to take another card, and she snapped one down. Another eight. Once again she was busted.

The guy beside Annie turned over his two original cards with a puff of smoke from his cigar. A seven and a five added to the seven dealt him gave nineteen. He gathered up his chips, tossed one to the dealer and headed to the cashier window.

Annie slipped her jacket on, collected her winnings and followed him, curious as to how much he’d won. She tried to stand unobtrusively behind him in the cashier’s line, but had to step closer to hear the attendant count out his money. A quick glance showed her Sam was still engrossed in his call.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight hundred and eighty-five dollars.”

That much? He’d either been slipping his winnings into his pockets or he’d started out with a lot of chips. Only fifty dollars in chips had been out on the green felt. He hadn’t bragged or otherwise given away in the least the fact that he’d won and won big. Only disciplined pros gambled like that. They had to be if they wanted to remain inconspicuous. Occasional players couldn’t keep their good fortune to themselves. At a larger casino with extensive video cameras and pit bosses, the man’s image would have been compared to a bank of known card counters and if a match was made, he’d be escorted out soon after his next win. The gambler certainly knew casino limits.

Moving quickly, he stepped back, almost on top of Annie. She scrambled out of the way and dropped some of her chips.

“Excuse me,” she said as she crouched to pick them up, avoiding looking into his eyes.

His penny loafers paused too close in front of her face. She just knew that he knew that she knew what he’d been doing. At any moment, Annie expected him to drag her up by her hair and use her for a shield as he made his escape, or knock her aside so that she wouldn’t follow him.

As if she had the courage to stop him. Annie’s heart hammered. She crouched, frozen.

The brown loafers shifted, then quickly moved away.

Annie sighed and stood, knees spongy with relief, forcing herself not to turn around to see where the man had gone. That was Sam’s job.

She poured her chips out to the cashier, who frowned at the obvious breach in protocol.

“Sorry,” Annie said with an apologetic smile, helping the woman stack the chips.

CHAPTER THREE

ANNIE THRUST THIRTY-SIX dollars at Sam, who was still huddled over his beer with the cell phone glued to his ear. At the other end of the bar, the cashier who’d handled Annie’s chips whispered in Tiny’s ear.

“I need you,” he said, before hanging up and pushing her hand away with a frown. Obviously, she’d interrupted him making a hot date. “What did you think you were doing out there?”

“What did I…” For the love of Pete. “I thought I was helping you out.” What did he think she was doing? Annie tossed the bills he’d refused on the scarred, dark wood bar.

Sam leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. “He could have made you.”

It didn’t matter that Annie’s own imagination had tumbled in similar directions just moments ago. What had Sam done about his fears? Nothing. Never mind that he had broad shoulders made for defending others. He was only interested in protecting his tush, not hers. “Well, the least you could do is back me up if you thought he was such a threat.”

“I never left the room.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Did you even notice he’s gone? What do I need to do to get your attention, bare my breasts?” She had been stripped of her prospects, classified as an unacceptable employee and given the heebie-jeebies by a professional gambler. Events had pushed her beyond the rules of propriety she’d conditioned herself to live by.

“Que pasa, Knight?” a deep voice boomed from the other side of the bar. Tiny filled the space behind the counter. “Was the guy a cheat or just lucky?” He cracked his knuckles just by squeezing his hands into fists.

“We can’t say for sure,” Sam said at the same time Annie declared, “Oh, yeah.”

The two of them exchanged frustrated glances.

Sam recovered first. “This is Annie Raye, my card-counting expert.”

She arched a brow at Sam before extending a hand across the bar, to be swallowed in Tiny’s giant one. “Nice to meet you.”

The man’s shadowy eyes looked her up and down, then up and down again with a glance meant to put her in her place. And then he scowled. “Wait a minute. Brett Raye’s daughter?”

The way Tiny said it, as if he’d heard of her before, made Annie queasy. By now her name should have meant nothing. Which could only mean one thing.

Dad.

Why couldn’t he let her reputation fade?

“You’ve heard of her?” Sam asked, looking slightly perplexed.

Annie started to sweat again.

“Brett Raye isn’t welcome here.” Staring in the area of Annie’s cleavage, Tiny rolled his tongue around in his mouth as if searching for some bit of food he’d missed at lunchtime, to make room for a bit of Annie. “And after today—”

“He’s a player,” Annie interrupted, fighting the urge to slump her shoulders and hide behind Sam. Instead, she buttoned her jacket up to her neck, even though the combination of pearls and material nearly choked her. She wasn’t a woman men stared at like that, or someone who got tossed out of casinos. At least not anymore. “Isn’t that what you wanted to know?”

“Is he better than you?” Tiny asked.

Sam’s laugh came out in a sharp burst of disbelief, unexpectedly refueling Annie’s temper.

“Mr. Tiny, I don’t gamble for a living,” she stated, refusing to look at Sam. What did he find so amusing? “Besides, it’s not a point of being better than anybody. Professional gamblers know which dealers they can beat and what days they work. They know which house managers will toss them out right away and which will let them get by. They may play thirty minutes one day and then not play for as many as five days. They stop playing before the amount they win attracts unwanted attention. They’re inconspicuously efficient.”

Tiny looked over at his blackjack dealer, who was leaning against the table and studying her nails. “Are you saying Yolanda ain’t doin’ her job?”

“No, no, no.” Of all the things she’d said, Tiny had to focus in on the one negative he could most easily deal with. Annie didn’t want to get the older dealer fired. This was just as much Tiny’s fault as Yolanda’s since he’d made the counter.

Tiny eyed the bills on the bar. “How much did you win?”

“Just sixteen dollars.”

He shook his head. “In less than ten minutes, betting the minimum. I’d fire her ass if she weren’t my old lady’s aunt.”

“Here,” Annie scooped up the pile of bills. “Take the sixteen back. It’ll cover Sam’s beer and a tip for you and Yolanda.” She handed Sam his twenty. “Thanks for spotting me.”

Tiny squinted at her. “Is she for real?”

“Down to her blond roots,” Sam said unhappily, pushing away his nearly untouched beer.

Was it any wonder Sam annoyed Annie?

“Maybe I should hire me a blonde.” Tiny gazed out at his bored dealer.

“Yolanda is doing the best she can,” Annie said. “She just needs more training.”

“Tell me about this guy,” Sam said, ignoring Annie. “Have you seen him before?”

“I don’t know about him specifically. They look like everyone else who gambles down here—older, worn-out. Me and the other houses, we want these guys gone. We called Aldo for advice and he said you were the go-to guy.”

“We can deter them from frequenting your card tables by making sure they don’t feel welcome, making it harder to win against your dealers,” Annie suggested. “You don’t just want to end the current problem, but also protect yourself against future gamers.”

Sam’s frown was fleeting as he glanced sideways at Annie. “Can I get a copy of the security tape of the parking lot? I’ll run a search on his plates. We might get lucky and find out he has an outstanding warrant. If so, he’ll disappear.”

“My camera system’s on the blink. Shouldn’t you be following him?”

Sam went on to reassure Tiny of his skills in finding the card counter again. The casino owner didn’t seem impressed.

Able to recognize a brush-off when she was given one, Annie slipped from the bar stool with a sigh. “Thanks for helping, Annie,” she muttered as she walked out the door. “That job at Slotto is going to be yours. Don’t you worry.”

But it was hard not to when it seemed neither of the men noticed her leave.

“THAT WAS A GREAT ACT in there. You had Tiny eating out of your hand.” Sam took Annie by the arm when he caught up to her outside. The afternoon sun warmed his skin. “It would have helped if you didn’t overpromise on that training piece. I can’t deliver on that.”

“I’ve got somewhere I need to be.” She extricated her arm and flipped open her cell phone, then hesitated.

Hesitation. Most un-Annielike.

She closed her phone and made a beeline for her decrepit Toyota. Giving up wasn’t like her, either.

Sam walked alongside and still she said nothing. Normally, he let a woman in a snit stay that way as long as it didn’t interfere with his plans. His agenda for the rest of the day included trolling some of the other small casinos to see if the card counter was going to stretch his streak. If Annie wanted to stew about something, Sam didn’t care in the least. It was time to say goodbye.

“You all right?” he asked instead.

“Peachy.”

Translation? Take a hike.

Sam should be happy. Annie wasn’t going to follow him. So, this was it. He was almost disappointed. “Thanks for your help. As bluffs go, yours was first-class. You nearly had me believing you could spot a card counter.” He pulled forty dollars out of his wallet.

She spun on him, late-afternoon sunlight glinting off her curls. “You thought I was bluffing?”

She might have a shady past, but he’d met a lot of gamblers since he’d arrived in Vegas, and she didn’t fit the mold in the slightest. “Yeah, why do you think I didn’t follow the guy when he left?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Laziness? Incompetence? You spent more time on the phone than watching the game.” She snatched the twenties from his hand. “Your pity money is insulting. You know what I wanted.”

Sam made sure Annie knew he’d watched her tuck the bills into her purse. “Just the fact that you’re going off the deep end without much provocation tells me you couldn’t handle the stress of working at Slotto.”

“You have no idea what went on in there, do you? If you change your mind about that background check, let me know.” Annie slid into her seat and shut him out.

“GRANDPA’S PHONE.” Maddy answered with practiced ease, as if she were his receptionist. No doubt she’d heard her mother take several business calls. Maddy stretched her arm to hand Brett the now ice-cream-sticky phone from the backseat. “It’s for you.”

“They sent Sam Knight.” Ernie sounded rattled.

Brett had known the Vegas casino community would respond to their card-counting venture quickly. He slowed to a stop at a red light. “He’s good.”

“We haven’t gone into the Sicilian. Or any of the other major houses.”

“I thought we’d have more time.” And that they’d send someone less well connected. Sam Knight worked for Vince Patrizio. Brett and Vince shared a past that Brett preferred not to revisit.

“It gets worse.”

“Can I talk again?” Maddy waved her hand in the air at Brett’s shoulder, talking louder than the voice in the tiny speaker pressed to his ear.

“Not just yet, puddin’. Say again, Ernie.”

“Annie was with him.”

“My…” Brett’s voice cracked. “My Annie?”

“Police!” Maddy shrieked, turning her face away from the black-and-white cruiser that had stopped next to them. She kicked frantically against his seat.

With a curse, Brett closed the phone and tossed it onto the empty passenger seat. The officer looked over and Brett tried to smile, while watching Maddy out of the corner of his eye. She was still screaming as if the devil himself had pulled up beside them.

“What’s wrong, puddin’?”

“He’s got a gun,” she wailed, chocolate-ice-cream-spotted hands over her eyes. “Don’t shoot!”

Brett spun in his seat and bit back a curse. His no-account former son-in-law had been arrested while driving Maddy somewhere. When Annie had casually mentioned that detail, Brett had had no idea what effect the incident had had on his granddaughter.

The light turned green and the police car took off.

“He’s gone, puddin’.”

A symphony of honking arose behind them.

Maddy cracked open her eyes, releasing a large tear. Her lower lip trembled as she let out a ragged gasp.

“Police are here to protect us,” Brett said. Unable to ignore all the honking, he turned around and drove. There would be time to wonder about Annie later. Right now his granddaughter needed him.

“No guns. No guns,” Maddy chanted, hiccuping.

“YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO BUY groceries,” Annie’s dad said when he opened the door to her that afternoon.

“I bought meat and vegetables.” She avoided looking Brett in the eye in case he could tell just by glancing at her that she’d played again after all these years. Annie hurried to set the bags down on the counter. “And milk.”

Her father laughed self-consciously. “I guess you’re right. Can’t raise a child on peanut butter and crackers, can you?”

Instead of pointing out that that was exactly how she’d been raised, Annie swept Maddy into her arms. “I hope you didn’t eat too much ice cream.”

Her daughter hugged her tightly. “We—”

“We had one scoop,” Brett interrupted.

With one arm around Annie’s shoulders, Maddy looked at her grandfather and grinned. “The music was loud. I had to dance.”

“Sometimes you’ve gotta dance,” he crooned, doing a little jig.

Sliding to the floor, Maddy giggled and then grabbed her plastic princess dress-up shoes. She swayed and clacked the heels together like a tambourine, creating an uneven beat.

“Are you feeling all right?” Annie asked. Her father didn’t dance.

“Right as rain.” He reached for Maddy, who came willingly into his arms. “I’m a grandpa, you know.”

The sight of the two of them, so happy and at ease, only made Annie feel more alone. She’d been that girl once. Annie sidled around the dancing pair into the small kitchenette. The day had been full of too many ups and downs. She’d done well at the casino and had been irrationally disappointed that Sam hadn’t offered to call Carl Nunes on the spot…or to offer Annie the card-counting-expert job. At this point, even temporary employment had its allure.

Who was she kidding? She’d be a fool to want to get tied up with Sam.

“How did the job go, Annie?”

Oh, it went, all right. Annie froze in the middle of putting milk in the refrigerator, staring inside as if searching for something. The light was burned out and the top shelf was cracked and covered with duct tape. She’d come full circle.

“I’m not sure the job is going to work out,” she said, as casually as she could manage through her tight throat. She’d graduated early from high school and breezed through the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, on an academic scholarship. How had she become such a failure?

“That’s too bad.” Her dad deposited a giggling Maddy on the boxy brown burlap couch. “You’ll find something you like in no time, though. You always did manage to get yourself out of a bind quicker than most.”

Not knowing what to say, Annie just stared at her father, noting a funny-colored smudge near his nose. Ice cream? He twitched under her scrutiny and turned away.

“Well, quicker than me, anyway,” he said sheepishly.

There was too much water under the bridge for Annie to correct him. Still, guilt had a way of loosening lips. “I thought it might be nice to have spaghetti.”

“Just like old times.” He grinned over his shoulder and the smudge fell from his left cheek.

Maddy laughed and bounced on the couch. “Grandpa didn’t get all the Play-Doh off his face.”

There were two open canisters of Play-Doh and several doughy strings of pearls on the scarred coffee table. Annie shouldn’t have worried about Brett. He was throwing himself into the role of grandpa without any of the ulterior motives she’d expected.

“Come on, Grandpa.” Maddy held out a small hand. “Let’s make an elephant.”

Obedient as a love-struck puppy, he sat on the couch and pulled the five-year-old close to him. Unexpectedly, Annie blinked back tears. How she’d loved to do things with him as a child. He’d been her best friend. Losing that closeness had been the hardest part about refusing to play cards for him. And much as she’d wanted to find that with Frank, Annie realized now that her marriage had been lacking many things, most importantly, trust.

“HOW IS SHE?” Vince asked, without greeting Aldo as he entered the bedroom. The maids who scrubbed toilets had better manners than this cafone.

“The same.” Always the same. In a coma. He walked out of the room, giving Vince some time alone with his grandmother.

“Of course.” Vince always sounded as if Rosalie’s condition was Aldo’s fault.

The day nurse came only as far as the doorway.

“Is that a Picasso?” Vince asked when he joined Aldo scant minutes later.

“Come in. Sit down.” Aldo shuffled the deck. Keeping his hands busy made the shaking less noticeable. He did not like to appear weak in front of Vince.

His grandson didn’t sit until Paulo pulled out a chair at the table. Aldo spoke three languages fluently—English, French and his native Italian. Vince only understood the language of a bully. He was becoming more like his father every day.

Once he was seated, Aldo nodded to the painting on the wall. “Le Rêve by Picasso.”

“The portrait of his mistress?” Vince angled around for a better look. He and Rosalie shared a passion for art that Aldo never completely understood.

“Of his love,” Aldo corrected. He’d gotten the painting for Rosalie. She would enjoy it once she awoke.

“How much did that set us back?”

It was on loan from Steve Wynn, the Bellagio owner, in exchange for a large charitable donation, but Aldo wasn’t going to admit he didn’t have deep enough pockets to purchase such a prize. “Not nearly as much as it’s worth.”

His grandson laughed, the sound grating along Aldo’s bent spine. “You’ve still got it, old man.”

Part of Aldo preened at the compliment. It was rare since his grandson had returned from the war that the two of them exchanged anything other than sharp words. Sometimes Aldo wished for a better relationship with him, and sometimes—

“I don’t feel like playing tonight,” Vince said. “I’ve got places to be.”

Sometimes Aldo thought he’d be better off alone with Rosalie. “I don’t ask for much from you, Vince, except these games.”

“You ask more than that.”

“I suppose the beauty pageant rehearsal downstairs has something to do with this.”

A grin unfurled on Vince’s dark face. “I’d hate to disappoint the ladies.”

“So, you’ll play at being a celebrity. Only you’ll end up like your father, living in a trailer park in Florida with a gold-digging former showgirl. Hard work pays off, not gambling and skirt chasing.” Aldo didn’t care if Vince’s wife had left him. A married man honored his vows.

“Regretting sending that P.I. after me when I ran away as a kid?”

Aldo slapped the cards onto the table. “I may have been the only one in the family who did not. Your father was glad to see you go.” It was the blackjack game all those years ago that had led to his family’s unraveling. Aldo’s son, Nick, had overreacted to the situation. They’d all paid a price back then, but he and Vince had found common ground. Or so he’d thought. Now they’d come to this—trading insults like schoolboys.

“And now Dad’s in Florida, waiting to come back.”

“Waiting for me to die, you mean,” Aldo growled. “I won’t give what I’ve built to anyone who’s not willing to work for it.” Nick would benefit very little from Aldo’s passing. And Vince—

“You won’t be able to control us from the grave.”

“Che brutta.” How ugly Vince was. Disappointment froze Aldo in his chair. How had two generations of Patrizios become such schmucks? Three, if you counted how coarse Aldo himself had become.

Vince laughed off the insult, but his parting smile wasn’t happy and didn’t reassure Aldo that things would turn out well for any of them.

“I think I’ll retire, Paulo.” Aldo shuffled toward his bedroom, where he could face his bleak future alone with Rosalie.

STUPID. THAT’S WHAT SAM WAS.

Stupid for following Annie after she’d left him at Tiny’s. Stupid for lurking in the produce aisle while she selected zucchini and grapes. Stupid for tailing her to this run-down apartment complex where someone had let her in to the second-story apartment. And the stupidest mistake of all was him driving all the way home, only to come back, climb the shaky stairs, stand on the stoop and contemplate knocking on her door.

Sam was used to following hunches, but this was crazy. Annie wasn’t the answer to his problems on this case. She pretended to be a staid financial analyst from the tips of her heels to the curve of the pearls around her neck.

He didn’t buy for a minute that she hadn’t at least known her husband was a crook. And then there was the slick way she’d handled the situation at Tiny’s. Obviously, some of her father’s habits had rubbed off…. In the span of less than eight hours she’d tried to confuse Sam about who she really was, but he’d seen through the facade.

He hadn’t heard a word from Sabatinni. Sam was in a bind. And from the looks of the shabby apartment block, so was Annie. Maybe she did have skills he could use, and since she wasn’t Suzy Homemaker, he had no qualms about using them.

Sam rapped on the door.

“Can I help you?” The older man who opened it looked like he’d seen too many late nights in smoky bars. He had to be Brett Raye.

The furniture was dated, and the television was bolted to a stand as if this was a cheap hotel, but something smelled wonderful. Fast food was not being served for dinner. “I’m looking for Annie Raye.”

Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, Annie, barefoot and wearing only that little lace blouse over her skirt, appeared behind the old geezer. “Sam?” Her face brightened. “You called Carl Nunes?”

Much as he hated to clear that smile off her face, Sam had to shake his head.

That quick, he became unwelcome. “How did you find me? And what do you want?”

Sam stepped into the apartment with a grin. “A funny thing happened to me in the parking lot of Tiny’s after you left.”

The old man’s mouth dropped open dramatically and he turned to Annie. “You were at a casino today?”

“Not now, Dad.”

“But—”

“Dad.”

“I left enough messages in Sabatinni’s voice mail that his box was full. And as I watched you pull out, I couldn’t help but think—”

Annie raised her brows.

“—that you were just the expert I needed on this case.” Sam waited.

She didn’t disappoint. “Go on.”

“Maybe we could work something out. You help me for a couple of days and then I help you with Carl.” He didn’t even care if she was bluffing about how much she understood card counting. As long as they found the group of cardsharps, Mr. Patrizio would be happy. And Vince? Sam would have to admit he’d taken the job, and hope his friend understood.

“This sounds an awful lot like blackmail,” Brett said with an assessing look. “I don’t think I like you.”

“Let me handle this.” Annie twirled the towel, as if about to swat someone with it. The woman had fire beneath her conservative exterior. “This is not an even exchange. My services are worth more than the price of a background check.”

He bet they were. “I can offer you a cut if we identify this card counter and any accomplices. Enough to help you out.”

Brett was making incomprehensible noises and working his mouth like a fish.

“How much are we talking here?” Annie cocked one eyebrow.

Damn, she was sharp.

A toilet flushed. A door opened. A little blond kid skipped into the room. “Is it dinner yet?”

Sam stepped back. His hands felt clammy and something unpleasant climbed up his throat. A jet roared alarmingly close overhead.

“Are you all right?” Annie had him by the arm in an instant. “Dad, help me get him to the couch.”

“Who is he?” Brett demanded.

Sam didn’t hear her answer. The little girl was floating in and out of his vision, blending and separating from images of a war-ravaged street. Shouting voices, dark robes and the barrel of a gun propped between the legs of a screaming toddler….

His feet dragged across the worn carpet until hands guided him to a sitting position. He chopped his head between his knees and gulped for air, fighting back images of a desert town and Iraqi insurgents, of bullets and…Someone pressed a glass into his hand and, keeping his eyes closed tight, Sam sucked the water down.

“She took me by surprise, is all.” He waved in the direction of the kid, without opening his eyes. “Can she go somewhere else?”

“No.” Annie’s voice. Close. The smell of strawberries reached him, stimulating and calming at the same time. “She’s my daughter. Maddy.”

Deep breaths sent much-needed oxygen to Sam’s numb limbs. Mucus dripped from his nose. His ears rang as the room spun at carpet level, which was all Sam dared look at. A kid? He had to get out of here.

“Are you all right? You’re dripping buckets of sweat. Maddy, go soak this towel for me. Hurry.”

“It’s all right…” Sam slurred the words. “I’m outta here.” But hands held him firmly in place.

“You’re not going anywhere, buster. At this rate, you’ll tumble down the stairs and break your neck. Then where would I be?” She ran something cool across his forehead and behind his neck, sending shivers down his spine, almost making him lose that hot dog he’d had for lunch.

Annie Raye kept touching him, and Sam couldn’t have moved if he tried.

CHAPTER FOUR

“GET RID OF THIS GUY.” Annie’s dad took her by the arm and led her to the kitchen. “He’s trouble.”

Annie knew that ten ways from Sunday. Sam Knight sparked reactions in her that should be illegal, even in Nevada. “The man nearly collapsed. I’m not going to shove him out the door.” Besides, he was getting her the job with Slotto.

“You always were a sucker for strays. I’ll roll him out while you look the other way,” her dad said, making a move toward the living room.

“Dad,” Annie warned, tugging him back. “Help me finish dinner.” The water was ready for steaming the zucchini, which she had yet to slice, and the bread still had to be buttered so she could broil it. She handed her dad a small tub of margarine and the loaf of bread, then peaked out.

“Would you feel better if I sang to you?” Maddy asked Sam, as he slouched on the sofa. Without waiting for him to answer, she burst into song. “Three blind mice. Three blind mice.”

With his hands over his face, he groaned.

“See how they run. See how they run.” Maddy was feeling the groove now. She popped out of her chair and began dancing while she sang.

“Maddy has showgirl potential,” Brett said.

“She’s a ham. Don’t get any ideas. She’ll grow out of it.” Annie didn’t know which was worse, him teaching her daughter how to gamble or how to wave a fan in front of her nonexistent bosom.

“She’s so…loud.” Her father grinned. “That’s just what that P.I. deserves.”

Annie stopped slicing to study Brett. “I never said he was a P.I.”

“Didn’t you?” he said innocently, spreading margarine over a slice of bread with the intensity of a brain surgeon.

“Dad,” Annie whispered suspiciously, “has he been after you before?” Was Sam after him now?

“Before? No, no. I recognize the name, is all. Heard the scuttlebutt and such.”

Annie went back to cutting zucchini. “What scuttlebutt?” Most likely it was about Sam and a showgirl…or several.

“Everyone knew his dad. He was a P.I., too, but he specialized in tracking teenage runaways here and in Phoenix,” Brett said respectfully, shaking garlic salt on the bread. “I hear his son works a different side of the business.”

Annie’s radar went off and she set the knife down. “You’re scared of him.” Brett, unfortunately, lacked the gene that enabled him to heed fear.

“No.” The word came out squeaky. He cleared his throat and repeated, “No. It’s you I’m worried about, being with him.”

“Why?” But he didn’t answer, and Sam, who was trying to sit up during the second encore of Maddy’s song, didn’t look like a threat, not with his long limbs folded awkwardly on the small couch and his skin still a sickly shade of green. “I was at Tiny House of Cards today.”

“I thought you swore off the habit.” For all the trouble he’d given her earlier, he didn’t seem surprised.

“One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns.” Maddy was running through all of her counting nursery rhymes, even though Sam hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Don’t joke, Dad. I had some business with Sam there.”

“So you didn’t go near the tables? You had no trouble resisting the urge to feel the texture of the cards in your hand?” He gave her a knowing smile.

“I left all that behind me.” Bitterness crept into her tone. “You saw to that.” Maddy started another counting song. Annie dropped zucchini into the small pot before adding, “Tiny knew you and…” She lowered her voice. “Me. I think he wanted to throw me out. Have you been telling stories again?”

“Come on, puddin’. Tiny only knows me by reputation.” Brett tried to chuck her on the chin, but Annie ducked out of the way. “Why would I be telling that story?”

“Because you’re the biggest gossip in Las Vegas.”

“Some stories just get passed around. The little girl with pigtails who beat Aldo Patrizio has become something of a myth around here, but your name’s been forgotten. Mine, unfortunately, hasn’t.”

Annie wanted to believe him. She wanted her life to be as normal and boring as everyone else’s in suburbia. But even when she’d been married, Annie hadn’t been able to blend into the woodwork.

“I know you find it hard to believe your old man, but I haven’t told that story in a long time.” He crossed his heart. “Now, how about we get rid of this snooper?”

“No way. I need him.”

And, amazingly, Sam seemed to need her, too.

“IT SHOULD BE ME lying there.” Holding Rosalie’s hand, Aldo sat looking out toward the Strip. The Bellagio fountains were in midperformance.

He gazed down at his wife’s pale, high cheekbones and aquiline nose. Rosalie had been from the neighborhood back in Queens. They’d grown up together. When she’d first arrived in Vegas, she’d sung in a nightclub for slave’s wages and tips, and stayed with someone’s grandmother. Girls like Rosalie were off-limits to young men such as Aldo. You could treat most women fast and loose, except ones from the neighborhood. Italian women got taken care of, with wedding bands.

“I have dreams, Aldo. Someday, I’m gonna own a bakery.”

Aldo couldn’t help laughing. With her sequined

dress nearly showing her goods, she didn’t look like any baker he’d ever seen.

Her dark eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare laugh, Aldo. You can achieve anything in America, but you’ll only keep it if you come by it legitimately.”

“I make money, bella. A lot of money.” Aldo leaned closer, even though it was against the rules, and let his gaze wander down the V of her dress.

“You make dirty money and you know it.” She pushed him back. “I won’t marry anyone that might leave me for prison.”

“Marry?”

“I have dreams, Aldo. I want to share them with someone. If you’re not that someone…” She shrugged. “Well, there are plenty of men in Vegas.”

“There were plenty of men in Queens, too, but you came out here, where there are too many women.” He knew she’d come chasing after him when he’d left, but Aldo was a rising star in the family, and women would do amazing things to get his attention.

Rosalie scoffed. “I have something none of those other women will ever have.” Unexpectedly, she grabbed hold of his tie and pulled him to her. Her kiss—their first—was light and sweet, as if she’d never kissed anyone before. Then she did something with her tongue that told Aldo her experience matched his. All too soon she released him and smoothed his tie without looking him in the eye. “I have the hunger to get what I want. Do you?”

Aldo watched her walk away, mesmerized by the way her evening gown swayed around her curves, barely keeping himself from crawling after her.

Rosalie was the reason he’d severed all ties with the Mafia fifty-odd years ago. Without her, there would have been no Sicilian. Without Rosalie, Aldo would most likely have ended up in a shallow grave in the desert.

Thrill seekers rocketed up the Stratosphere. Aldo could imagine the riders’ screams of fear and joy. So much had changed in Las Vegas since he and Rosalie had gotten married and started the casino. She’d gotten her bakery, all right. And a five-star restaurant.

And then eight months ago they’d been arguing on their way out to dinner. Aldo had held the door for Rosalie and paused to speak to one of his managers. His wife hadn’t waited, and had been hit by a drunk speeding through their lot. She hadn’t woken up since. The police had been unable to find the strunsu who did this to her.

“What would you say about our little Vince?” he asked. “That I should give him another chance?”

But Rosalie didn’t answer. And Vince didn’t seem to want another chance.

“DOES THAT MAN HAVE the flu?” Maddy asked, chasing noodles around her plate with her fork. Amazingly, her off-key songs had been a lifeline for Sam to cling to.

Still, he avoided looking at her. When he’d been sent over to Iraq, he’d been worried about coming back with all his body parts. He hadn’t thought to worry about coming back with his mind intact. It was rare that he let himself be surprised by a child. Sam stayed away from where they tended to be. What few groceries he bought, he picked up at the corner convenience store in the middle of the night. Likewise, he frequented the twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart at midnight, when there was less of a chance of running into terror-inducing children.