It’s her job. Deal with it.
Taking a calming breath, he ducked into the bedroom to find his passport. He was Wes Murray tonight, a Wall Street trader who was gambling solo because the rest of his party had decided to listen to some jazz at the Blue Note. Wes didn’t do jazz, however. He was all about the Benjamins.
Clad in a tuxedo, and with a wallet full of cash, Trevor left the hotel and strolled down the boulevard toward the Crystal Palace. The area was bustling with activity. People dressed to the nines wandered in and out of the majestic hotels lining the street. Expensive cars whizzed along the road, and every now and then, a sleek limo pulled up in front of one of the casinos.
The city teemed with life, oozed wealth and indulgence. Trevor could easily understand why so many people caught the gambling bug and were blinded by the glitz and glamour. They couldn’t help it; the lure of riches, the dream of gaining affluence were too great. And here, in a city like this, that dream seemed so attainable.
An illusion, of course. Only the established aristocracy, the already wealthy, would return to their suites and villas as millionaires tonight. The others, the ones who were here for the dream, would end the vacation deeper in debt.
When Trevor strode into the lobby of the Crystal Palace, he was nearly ensnared in the same seductive trap as everyone around him. The floor beneath his feet was black Italian marble streaked with veins of ivory, the ceiling above him vaulted and boasting at least a dozen crystal chandeliers.
The men and women who walked past him looked like characters straight out of a Bond flick. Tuxedos and designer cocktail gowns were the norm, which meant that anyone who’d committed the faux pas of not wearing either stood out like a kid at a senior citizens’ home. The casually dressed were rewarded with snooty looks and deep frowns of disapproval, but since the hotel didn’t have a formal dress code, the rich folks couldn’t openly revolt.
The casino, however, did enforce a dress code, allowing the wealthy crowd to feel right at home. Trevor slid through the enormous arched entryway and found himself surrounded by the dings and chimes and whirs of slot machines, the continuous drone of voices, the whoops and cheers of lucky winners.
Bypassing the slots area, he headed across the lush red carpet toward the table games. The gaming floor was made up of several staggered levels; low sets of steps led to various areas, with a crowded bar spanning one wall, and the cashier cages on the other.
Trevor followed a well-dressed couple to the blackjack tables and dragged a hand through his hair, making sure to get close to his ear. Another nifty trick to Noelle’s spy gadget? The microphone was motion activated, so all he had to do was move his hand near the mic for it to switch on. Once he finished speaking, the mic turned off but the receiver stayed on, which ensured that the feed wasn’t constantly swamped with voices or pointless conversation between him and, say, the blackjack dealer who was about to rob him blind.
“Getting in position,” he murmured, his lips barely moving.
Juliet’s throaty voice slid into his ear. “I see you, stud. Two o’clock.”
As Trevor took the last available stool at the table, he cast a discreet look at the spot Juliet indicated. Sure enough, the brunette was positioned at the bar. Sipping a martini and attracting her fair share of admiring glances from the men around her.
Tossing five hundreds on the table, Trevor greeted the male dealer with a nod.
The man nodded back and uttered a polite hello, ran his fingers over the bills and counted them out. “Changing five hundred,” he called.
Since Trevor had chosen a table with a minimum bet of twenty-five dollars, his cash garnered him twenty red chips. As he placed his bet, he noted the presence of a tall man in a dark suit behind the dealer. Pit boss, judging by the hawklike gaze he swept over the dealers and players in his vicinity.
“Dealer has fifteen.”
Trevor absently glanced at his cards. Queen, king. The other four men at the table each took another card. When it came around to him, he waved his hand over his cards to stand pat.
The dealer drew a king.
“Dealer busts.”
There was a blur of hands and chips and cash, and then the man slid two red disks in Trevor’s direction, and the whole cycle started again.
He fucking hated casinos. He knew Luke and Sully flew to Vegas a couple of times a year for their “bro retreat,” and Morgan had always been partial to the ponies, but Trevor considered gambling a total waste of time and a needless waste of money. He might as well be taking a hundred-dollar bill and wiping his ass with it, for all the good it did him.
“On my way down.”
Isabel’s voice filled his ear, momentarily startling him. Her British accent was so polished he would’ve believed she was an Englishwoman if he hadn’t known better.
From her two brief check-ins, he knew she’d spent the day in her lavish suite, had ordered room service for lunch and dinner, and had inquired of the hotel staff about the kind of perks offered to VIPs, a tactic that served as a not so subtle reminder that she was a wealthy woman who warranted extra attention.
And she got plenty of attention when she strolled into the casino moments later.
Trevor’s breath lodged in his throat at her entrance. He recovered quickly and shifted his attention back to the blackjack game, but the image of Isabel had already been burned into his brain like a cattle brand.
As he waited for the dealer to start the new round, he snuck another quick peek and his entire mouth went dry. Isabel’s floor-length, pale green dress clung to her hourglass figure, the strapless bodice emphasizing her full breasts while the slinky material hugged her firm ass. She’d accessorized with silver high heels, dangling diamond earrings, and an emerald pendant that sparkled in the soft lighting of the casino. With her flaming red hair, she stood out against a backdrop of blondes and brunettes.
She was stunning.
Juliet spoke up in awe. “Iz, you know I don’t swing both ways, but right now? I would totally fuck you.”
Several male chuckles sounded in Trevor’s ear.
“No fair,” Sullivan complained. “Why am I always stuck outside while everyone else gets to have all the fun?”
Fun? Was that what this was?
Because Trevor could honestly say this was the farthest thing from it. Seeing Isabel standing across the room looking like a million bucks and knowing he was about to watch her charm the pants off another man?
Yeah, about as fun as getting your legs waxed.
“Get in position,” came Noelle’s sharp order. “It’s time to set the trap.”
“On it,” Isabel murmured.
The flash of green that blurred past his peripheral vision told Trevor she was making her way to the roulette area.
He tapped two fingers on the felt tabletop to indicate he wanted another card from the dealer, then hunkered down and prepared for a long night of losing money and worrying about Isabel.
Let the games begin.
Chapter 14
Tomas Meiro swept his gaze over the monitors dominating the walls of the security floor. Everything looked good, but then again, it was still early. Every night brought a new series of issues, a new round of complaints, and a new collection of problematic customers.
It was bound to happen—place people in a room where cash flowed freely and even the most levelheaded individual turned into an irrational motherfucker. Greed was a powerful tool, a man’s worst enemy.
And Meiro’s greatest ally. Without greed, he wouldn’t have any of this—a packed casino, a booked-to-capacity hotel, a fat bank account, and standing invitations to every prestigious event in Europe. Renee’s father had capitalized on that greed to build an empire, and now that the old man was dead, Meiro was reaping the benefits.
“Zoom in on the man in the purple blazer,” he told Keller. “Blackjack, Table Fifteen.”
Keller enlarged a screen at the bottom right corner of the wall.
Meiro took a step cl
oser and peered at the image. “Left hand.”
The monitor zoomed in on the hand resting on the patron’s knee. After a moment, Meiro relaxed. Nothing but a nervous twitch.
“Harmless,” he said absently. “But keep an eye on him.”
He did another quick examination of the screens, then gave a pleased nod. “I’ll check in later. Inform me of any developments.”
“Yes, sir.”
He’d just stepped away from the monitors when a flash of red snagged his attention. He turned back to the main wall, then sucked in a breath.
“Zoom in on the west grid. Roulette. Table Eight.”
Keller swiftly executed the command, and Meiro stared at the screen for several long moments.
“Who is she?” he asked slowly.
Behind him, the usual commotion ensued.
“Valerie Parker-Smith,” one of the techs announced. Fingers moved over a computer keyboard in fast, rapid clicks. “She checked into the Lavender Suite this morning.”
“Where did she come from?”
“London, sir.” More typing. “License lists her as twenty-six years old. There’s a note from the front desk in her file—she paid for the suite with a black AmEx.”
Intrigued, Meiro watched as the exquisite redhead threw her head back and laughed with the older man beside her. A pear-cut emerald dangled from the silver chain around her long, graceful neck, the sparkling jewel nestled in her spectacular cleavage.
“Who is the gentleman with her? Did she arrive with him?”
“No, sir. She is the only occupant of her suite, and she entered the casino alone.”
Meiro pursed his lips. “Zoom in on the eyes.”
Keller did as he was told, and suddenly a pair of mesmerizing green eyes filled the screen. Dancing with delight. Twinkling with mischief. Gleaming with life.
“Incredible,” Meiro murmured.
He was oddly reluctant to look away, but he forced himself to sever the thread of fascination tying him to those big green eyes.
His pulse was unusually fast as he headed for the door, where his two expressionless bodyguards stood. In the corridor, he was met by the young male employee he paid for the sole purpose of sticking close and delivering his messages.
“Anything I can help you with, Mr. Meiro?” the man asked eagerly.
“Yes. Invite Ms. Valerie Parker-Smith to the VIP lounge.”
• • •
Her gambling partner was annoying the shit out of her.
Isabel had been trying to edge away from the loud, obnoxious man for the last ten minutes, but the oil tycoon refused to let her out of his sight. When she’d attempted to sneak off to the bar, he’d snapped his fingers and hollered at every waiter in a ten-foot radius until a flute of champagne was delivered into Isabel’s hands. When she’d feigned boredom with roulette and announced that she was in the mood for some craps, he’d accompanied her to the tables and forced her to blow on his dice for good luck.
She was two seconds from spilling her drink all over the man’s Armani tuxedo trousers when she felt a discreet tap on her shoulder.
She turned around to find a lanky, brown-haired man in his early twenties standing there. He had on the black blazer and gold tie worn by every employee at the Crystal Palace, from the hotel bellhops to the dealers to the waitstaff.
“Good evening, Ms. Parker-Smith. May I have a moment of your time?”
She gave him a broad smile. “Of course, luv.”
The oil tycoon received the briefest of apologies from Isabel before she followed her savior to the wrought-iron railing sectioning off the craps tables from the other games. The casino was one unending wave of sound, and the staff member’s words were drowned out by a sudden wave of cheers.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” she told him. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, madam. In fact, I’ve been asked to extend an invitation.”
Her lips curved enticingly. “Oh, really?”
“Mr. Meiro requests your presence in the VIP lounge.”
“Mr. Meiro?”
The young man looked surprised at her question. “The owner of the Crystal Palace Hotel and Casino. He is a very important man, and it is a great honor to be invited to share his company.”
Still smiling, Isabel swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “And what can I expect to find in this VIP lounge, aside from the honor of Mr. Meiro’s presence?” She took a slow sip and eyed him over the rim of her glass.
“Stop eye-fucking the kid.” Trevor’s low grumble slid into her ear, briefly distracting her. “The target is Meiro.”
The “kid” flushed under her seductive scrutiny. “You’ll find the surroundings are more comfortable. Private tables, higher buy-ins, fine wine that Mr. Meiro reserves for elite patrons.”
“By all means, then, lead the way, luv.”
With an expectant arch of her brows, she held out her hand and waited for Meiro’s errand boy to take it. His cheeks turned redder, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but finally he clasped her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, guiding her across the casino floor like a true gentleman.
Isabel got a kick out of her companion’s evident embarrassment and the look of infatuation that had entered his eyes. Valerie wasn’t as blatantly sexual as some of Isabel’s other personas, but the Brit was playful as hell, and she loved making men squirm.
Her four-inch Louboutins clicked as they ascended another set of steps, this one leading to an area that housed several large tables with poker games in progress. Most of the players were men, with the odd female tucked between them, and from the size and color of the chips stacked on each table, Isabel suspected they were dealing with serious money here.
Her escort led her to an arched, curtained-off doorway. The red velvet drapes made it impossible to see what lay beyond the door.
“Visual on Meiro.” Trevor’s voice again, rapid and straightforward. “Just entered the main floor. Stopping to talk to the pit boss.”
“This way,” Isabel’s companion said.
She followed him into a large room that clearly catered to high rollers. Everything looked more expensive here, from the furnishings to the liquor to the wagers.
“Mr. Meiro will join you shortly.” Leaving her to her own devices, the young man ducked out of the VIP lounge.
A waiter came by to take her drink order, but she waved him off and headed to one of the blackjack tables instead. When she started to open her silver clutch, the stoic-faced dealer gestured for her to put her money away.
“Any transactions made here will be charged to your room, Ms. Parker-Smith. How much would you like to play with?”
It didn’t surprise her that the dealer knew her name. She suspected every employee in this room had been alerted to her impending arrival via the earpieces tucked into each staff member’s ear.
“Twenty-five thousand to start,” she replied in a careless voice. “I’m feeling lucky tonight.”
“Target’s heading for the lounge.”
Trevor’s voice continued to leave her disoriented. She wasn’t used to being plugged in like this on a job, and his deep voice was a distraction, jolting her out of character each time she heard it.
The blackjack dealer pushed a stack of chips across the green felt. Isabel was the only player at the table; the rest of the high rollers milling around the lounge seemed more interested in the dice games on the other side of the room.
Isabel placed her bet. She hit blackjack on the first hand, doubling her thousand-dollar wager. She let out a delighted laugh as she reached for her winnings. “Told you I was feeling lucky,” she purred.
The dealer’s smile was polite.
She played another hand, won another grand.
“Target’s coming your way.”
Trevor’s report was unnecessary—the nape of Isabel’s neck had begun to tingle the moment Tomas Meiro entered the room. She felt more than saw him come up behind her. She caught a whiff of exp
ensive cologne, a hint of cigar smoke.
• • •
She didn’t turn to appraise him. Instead, she played through the next hand, issuing another throaty laugh when a risky double down paid out.
“The lady knows her stuff.” His surprisingly deep voice was as smooth as cream.
Slowly, she met Tomas Meiro’s caramel-colored eyes, allowing a little smile to play over her lips. “The lady makes a point of mastering any game that makes her richer.”
“I see.” Meiro’s mouth curved in an answering smile. “Is that what excites the lady, then? Money?”
A snort sounded in her ear.
Yet again, the intrusion knocked her off balance. If she could turn off her microphone, she’d be able to avoid Trevor’s running commentary, but unfortunately her transmitter was embedded in one of her diamond drop earrings, which happened to sway whenever she moved her head. The constant movement kept triggering her mic, which meant Trevor and the others could hear every word she exchanged with Meiro.
Trying to shut out Trevor’s presence, she focused on the man in front of her, who happened to be much more handsome than that one grainy photograph had conveyed. Not a tall man—he was only an inch or two taller than her, and her heels put her at five-eight—but definitely attractive. Chiseled cheekbones, sensual mouth, amazing hair, and very broad shoulders beneath his tailored suit jacket.
“Of course money excites me,” she told Meiro. “It is the single greatest aphrodisiac.”
“I could not agree more.”
He had a slight accent, likely Portuguese, since he was originally from Lisbon, but it sounded Latin American to her—and Isabel had a keen ear when it came to languages. She was fluent in seven of them, one of which happened to be Portuguese. But accents changed and evolved over time, particularly if a person moved around often.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” His smile widened, grew more seductive. “My name is Tomas Meiro. I happen to be the owner of this establishment.”