Money really could buy more money.
Here in the private game, it was player’s choice as they went around the table. They played the old classics five-card draw and seven-card stud, the popular stars Texas Hold ’em and Omaha Hi Lo, and occasionally variations like Crazy Pineapple and Follow the Bitch.
Crunching the numbers and figuring the percentages was in a way soothing for Zane. It was easy, it wasn’t life-threatening, and he didn’t even have to stress about the money. Granted, it was rather appalling to play $5,000 antes or $6,000 big blinds, but after a while the amount of money didn’t mean anything anymore.
It all came down to the chips.
Zane looked lazily around the table, cataloguing what he knew about his opponents. Expert Numero Uno played aggressively and liked to bet big and bet often, but he bowed out early if he didn’t have the cards. He preferred seven-card stud. The lobes of his ears flushed red when he got excited. Expert Numero Dos played evenly, always stayed in to see the bulk of the cards, and ran a decent bluff. She liked Texas Hold ’em. But she had a bad habit of tapping one of her manicured fingernails on something when she had good cards. Armen was stoned-faced—big surprise—but just as stuck-up a card player as Zane figured him a businessman. He always chose five-card stud to force the other players to ante. Armen didn’t stay in long or risk much unless percentages were on his side. And Bianchi, he was as amenable a poker player as he was a person, laughing and smiling and talking, which was nearly as impossible to see through as Zane’s own emotionless mask. Bianchi enjoyed the poker variations, something different every time. But, as Ty had pointed out, he rubbed his cuff links when he was on to something.
Ty’s observation had really made Zane pause and think about what he was doing. Drinking aside, he knew he could outplay anyone here, if he put his mind to it. He knew the numbers, he was patient, and he literally had nothing to lose.
For the first hour and a half or so, Zane played conservatively, stuck to Evian over ice with a lemon twist, and kept an eye on the other players, confirming tells and, even more importantly, confirming mood. Even the best player was more likely to betray himself if he was excited or upset or angry rather than content with the world. The cards didn’t matter, because a player brought mood with him to the table.
Zane also used the time to begin establishing a fake tell. It was a risk, but one that had paid off in the past, and it didn’t hurt anything to use it as long as he stayed consistent. Being the slick, confident Corbin Porter, Zane was sure the man would have a tell. He had too much of an ego not to. Zane chose something subtle: a brief caress for cards he was happy with. Otherwise his hands stayed on the table in clear view.
Then Zane got serious.
Fold if you don’t have a pair or better by the third card in five-card stud. In seven-card stud, more hands are won by the highest two pair—or even single pair—than by straights, flushes, or bigger displays. Five-card draw is all about percentages and aces. Play to scoop the pot in Omaha Hi Lo; getting half barely keeps you in the game. Play strong, high hands very aggressively in Texas Hold ’em or go ahead and fold ’em. It’s all about the numbers.
It’s all about the chips.
And Zane started raking them in.
Numero Uno got frustrated early by watching his chip stacks dwindle and let his emotions get the better of him. Zane put him out with a jack-high straight after a round of Texas Hold ’em, and the man left. Bianchi started folding out more than he stayed in, content to drink his whiskey and play commentator after losing the bulk of his chips to Numero Dos’s nines over sevens in a particularly brutal round of seven-card stud.
Zane’s chip stacks grew. Numero Dos held her own until Armen duped her out of a couple hundred thousand dollars in chips by—in Zane’s opinion—bluffing her into folding. So that left Armen and Zane with the bulk of the chips between them, and it was Zane’s turn to choose the game. Just what he had been waiting for. The prodigious chip stacks meant Armen would be more willing to play, if Zane’s profile of him was correct. What Zane didn’t know about the hard-to-read Mr. Armen was if the man would be goaded into action.
“Five-card draw. For it all.”
Armen raised one brow as Numero Dos let out a harsh breath and fanned herself while Bianchi started counting chip stacks. “Do you know how much money is on the table, Mr. Porter?” Bianchi asked, no small amount of warning in his voice.
“I am aware,” Zane said easily, his eyes still locked on Armen’s.
“What you propose takes no skill, Mr. Porter, only dumb luck,” Armen observed.
“Oh, I’m feeling lucky tonight, Mr. Armen,” Zane assured him, despite the spike of annoyance the implication caused. Armen was stalling, and Zane could see the wrinkles forming at the corners of the man’s eyes. Then Zane deliberately smirked, throwing Armen an all-out dare.
Armen sniffed. “Very well.”
They both pushed their chips into the center of the table, and then Zane sat back with his glass of Evian and nodded to the dealer.
“Will a fold be a redeal, gentlemen?” the dealer asked.
Zane looked to Armen with one of Corbin’s full-of-it smiles.
“No redeal,” Armen said shortly.
“Just short of a $500,000 pot,” the dealer announced without a blink, and he shuffled the deck expertly before beginning to deal. It really wasn’t fair, Zane reflected as he picked up his cards. Armen didn’t know that Zane had no stake in the money.
The numbers whizzed through his mind as the action went down.
Odds are one in two to receive one pair or higher.
He watched Armen riffle his cards before glancing at his own. Zane didn’t bother to sort them.
Odds on being dealt a pair of jacks or higher are one in five.
There was no bidding to be done. Armen had first draw and took two new cards.
The odds against making three of a kind when drawing two cards to a pair and a kicker are twelve to one.
Zane dropped three cards face down for the dealer to replace, picked up the new ones, gave them a look, then set the small stack on the table face down. He focused the entire weight of his attention on Armen.
When drawing three cards to one pair, the odds against making a full house are ninety-seven to one.
Over the chips, Armen watched him closely for any sign, any hint that would help. He broke eye contact to briefly glance at Zane’s cards, and his lips compressed hard in a subtle display of pique.
Abruptly Armen stood, gave Zane a death glare, dropped his cards face down on the table, straightened his tie, and walked away.
Zane watched him go, inwardly amazed, and then he realized what Armen had seen: he was stroking his cards ever so slightly with his thumb.
Numero Dos leaned to flip over Armen’s cards: three tens with an ace kicker. Nice.
Zane just smiled at her innocently and laid his palm down over his lonely pair of queens.
AFTER trading several trays of chips in for credit on his account, Zane left the casino and game room, admittedly flying a little high. It wasn’t every day a man won $500,000 on a sort-of-unintentional poker bluff. Bianchi had tried to entice him into a congratulatory round of that very fine whiskey, and though Zane had been supremely tempted, he had made his excuses, claiming an all-too-true desire to return to his lover for a not-so-small celebration of their own.
Still, after Bianchi’s offer the cravings kicked in, and Zane decided to wander the promenade and window shop a little on his way back to the stateroom.
He passed by the kitschy yet pricey tourist shops and lingered at the leather store, not that he needed another jacket. Zane wouldn’t part with his, rips and tears and all. He’d kept it since Ty tossed it at him in New York City during the serial murder case that had almost killed them both.
As he moved on, a small newsstand with a stock of books caught his attention, but Zane resisted the lure of the paperbacks with a sigh, although he did look at a crossword puzzle book and thin
k of getting it for Ty, just to laugh over. He turned a corner on his way to the stairs and was halfway past the big-ticket jewelry store when a dull shine caught Zane’s eye. He stopped and idly glanced over the various jewelry cases, and his eyes settled on one understated display.
The details of the piece came into focus as he neared the case, and one of the ubiquitous crew members was there to pull it out and present it without him even asking.
An elegant, polished silver slide pendant hung on a cord of tightly wound black leather, set off by the gray velvet of the display stand. The hand-tooled pendant was roughly the size and shape of a nickel, and the inset boasted a two-tone compass rose. Each of the eight points terminated in a tiny diamond chip set into the round seal.
It was bought, paid for, and wrapped up before Zane gave a thought to what he was doing. If he were feeling particularly romantic, he might have admitted he sometimes thought of Ty as his compass. But those words weren’t passing his lips. Not today, anyway. Not until he knew why he thought that. Not until it stopped scaring him.
After experiencing a moment of panic over the impulse rather than the actual purchase, Zane decided on qualifying it as a Christmas present. He could get his partner—his lover—a nice Christmas present, right? It might not be Ty’s style, but Zane didn’t care. After settling on that, all he saw as he walked back to the stateroom with the small package in his pocket was the compass rose nestled against the hollow of Ty’s throat.
TY HADN’T realized he’d fallen asleep until he heard the door click. He jerked awake and reached to the side of the bed, where normally a gun would have been nestled between the mattress and box springs. Instead, he found the rounded edge of the circular bed he would never grow accustomed to, and he went toppling over the side to the floor.
Zane’s “Corbin” voice came floating into the cabin. “Honey, I’m home.”
“Christ,” Ty muttered as he pushed himself up and peered over the edge of the bed to look at Zane.
Zane sauntered—and there was no other word for it but sauntered—across the room, one hand in his pants pocket, his suit jacket casually unbuttoned. “And how was your afternoon, doll?” he asked with a wink.
“I was enjoying a nap, I think,” Ty muttered as he climbed to his feet. “God, you’re smug. What have you done?”
Zane grinned. “I had a good day at the tables.”
“Oh yeah?” Ty asked, cutting off the words with a yawn as he stretched his arms high above his head.
“Oh yeah,” Zane drew out. He moved to stand in front of Ty. “Tell me, baby. What would you do with $500,000?”
Ty raised one eyebrow. “I’d… probably put it into savings with all the other money I never spend. Why?”
“There isn’t anything you want to splurge on?” Zane asked as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Maybe if we spend some of it now, the Bureau won’t find out about it.” That smile was still in place, and he was clearly holding back laughter.
Ty blinked rapidly at him, shocked by his words. Zane had brought him a $10,000 poker chip a couple of nights ago, just to watch Ty goggle. But this? “Are you saying you actually won half a million dollars?” he asked incredulously. Zane nodded and shrugged one shoulder. Ty sat down hard beside him. “Are you shitting me?” he asked with a laugh. “Jesus, Zane. Let’s go to Vegas when this is over.”
Zane laughed aloud. “Told you I was good at poker.” He shook his head and stood again, starting to pull off his jacket. “I’ll warn you, though. Armen’s going to be cranky for a while.”
Ty groaned and flopped to his back. “He’s probably going to order Del to kill you now. I hope you bought yourself something nice.”
“I’ve got your back,” Zane said as he advanced on the bed and knelt on the mattress, one knee on each side of Ty’s thighs, and he leaned over him. “And your front,” he drawled. “C’mon, doll. It wouldn’t be right if we didn’t go out and celebrate tonight.”
Ty snorted and shook his head as he looked up into Zane’s eyes. “Or,” he said slowly, “we could stay in and celebrate. Spend your ill-gotten gains on room service, not have to worry about being killed, and I could drop the accent for the night.”
Zane’s gaze turned hungry and intense as he focused on Ty. Ty loved that look in his eyes. “I could be easily swayed to that idea.”
Ty bit his lip and raised his chin just slightly, shifting his shoulders in invitation. He and Zane both knew he didn’t have to actually say anything to sway Zane. And Zane didn’t disappoint; he leaned down to kiss Ty rather sweetly. “It’s not very often I could say ‘you can have anything you want, baby’,” Zane practically purred. “But now is one of those times.”
Ty smiled serenely, trying to keep the hint of melancholy out of it. He knew Zane meant what he said. The Bureau had no way of knowing he’d just won all that money. They could go out and blow it all, and no one would be the wiser. But Ty had never been a very materialistic man.
“Only thing I want is you,” he whispered.
AFTER the scuba diving scare the day before, they agreed to skip the WaveRunner rides and snorkeling in favor of trying to figure out how to break something—anything—in this seriously fucked-up case. Ty had known going in that they wouldn’t see much action. They were on the periphery of a larger investigation; they knew that. But he and Zane weren’t likely candidates to sit around and do nothing for long.
There was a meal tonight with everyone in attendance. But while they were sure to learn about the coming “meeting” that was planned at that dinner, Ty preferred to be a step ahead. It was driving him crazy that they couldn’t even take baby steps. So he was scouring the books Del Porter had used to make notes, trying to glean anything of use from them.
So far he’d been unsuccessful.
He had proposed a search of Armen’s suite, but Zane had vetoed the idea. Ty was still of the opinion that they would find the information they were after in Armen’s stateroom, but he couldn’t make the search alone. Zane wasn’t in the mood to hear him out, and probably for good reason, considering the very real possibility that Armen was trying to kill one or both of them. And Ty would find no help from their support team. He and Zane had tried yet again to hunt down one of the FBI team members, to no avail. Some support team. When Ty ran into any of those yahoos, he was going to give them an earful. Earful of pencil tip, preferably.
He couldn’t make heads or tails of the gibberish written in the books, and trying was starting to give him a headache. Finally, he tossed the book onto the table and leaned his elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. When that didn’t help, he took one hand and searched for the pressure point between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard. Warm hands settled on his shoulders and began to knead at the base of his skull, working at the stiff, sore muscles in his neck. Ty groaned softly, continuing to squeeze at the pressure point until that and the fingers at his neck began to force the headache back.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
“You’re stressing,” Zane said. “More than usual. Not that it’s unwarranted.”
Ty sighed heavily. He put his hand near his head, searching for an analogy that Zane could identify with. “I’m just… getting too much input,” he tried in a frustrated voice.
“Too many details, not enough context,” Zane said.
“Yes,” Ty said in relief. He leaned more into Zane’s hands. “Normally I’d be profiling the criminal, but we don’t even have a real crime. We can’t look too close at the rock wall or scuba incidents or we blow our cover. And without any concrete information, anything we can glean from all this is just… educated guesses.”
“Not even all that educated, for all we’re in the dark and cut off from resources.” Zane continued to massage the knots in Ty’s neck, and his fingers were warm, catching on Ty’s skin. Ty craned his neck to look up at him, resting the top of his head against Zane’s belly.
Zane stopped the rubbing and looked down to meet Ty’s eyes.
“Too hard?” He gently pressed his fingers against one of the recalcitrant knots.
“I’m not as sore as I was,” Ty murmured. “It just feels good. Are you still opposed to searching Armen’s suite?”
Zane kept up the petting, the fingers applying more pressure. “I think the chance of finding something useful is less than the chance of getting hurt,” he murmured. It wasn’t really an answer to the question. But it wasn’t the flat “no” he’d given Ty earlier.
Ty raised one eyebrow in the mischievous smirk that Zane was probably all too familiar with. It probably looked odd upside down. “That’s a solid maybe.”
“There are a hell of a lot of questions we don’t have answers for to try a search like that. We don’t even know if we can get into the room without the key card. Do you plan to pick Armen’s pocket?”
“I’m actually quite good at that,” Ty told him frankly. He moved, sliding away from Zane’s hands regretfully. He stood and turned to face Zane, and he winced as he said, “I kind of had a different idea.”
Zane’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Well….” Ty glanced to the balcony and clucked his tongue. “Let me show you.” He waved for Zane to follow him. He stepped out onto the balcony and pointed at the thick partition that divided the balconies from their neighbors. “Armen’s suite is right next to ours, right?”
“That’s the suite we see him going in and out of, anyway,” Zane allowed as he moved to look at the balconies.
“And the one he told us he was in. So I figure maybe I can just… swing over onto his balcony.”
Zane glanced over the edge of the railing and looked away with a roll of his eyes and a grimace. The ocean was quite a distance below. The fall would likely be… painful.