Count on Love. Melinda Curtis

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ