Chapter Seven
Quinn had never been inside a casino until that evening. A librarian’s pay never had her swimming in pools of cash like Scrooge McDuck. She loved her job and the income kept her housed, clothed, and fed, but not much else. So the idea of taking her hard-earned money and likely losing it playing games of chance had always been a nonstarter for her. She was better off playing Go Fish with Bailey.
She did have experience playing card games, though. Her brothers had taught her how to play Texas Hold’em when she was younger. Of course, her rambunctious brothers were never content to play for meager plastic poker chips. That wasn’t “full contact” enough for them, so they invented something called “Bathroom Poker.” The player who lost the hand had to drink a glass of water. The diabolical part was once someone went to the bathroom they had lost and were kicked out of the game. Since she and her brothers were—and still are—highly competitive with each other, no one wanted to go out. As the game wore on, squirming, wiggling, and sweating ensued. She was the youngest kid in the family and therefore had the smallest bladder. Added to that, she had the least amount of poker experience. As a result, she was usually the first one bounced. Still, it taught her to be a thoughtful, if not conservative, player.
Sitting at a poker table now, Quinn glanced up at the sign pointing toward the ladies’ room. Giddiness rippled through her at the knowledge she could go use it and still rejoin the game. She smiled to herself. She loved her crazy brothers.
She rolled up the tops of her two hole cards with her thumb and stared at her pair of tens. With another ten and a pair of threes face up on the table in front of the dealer, she already had a full house. Had they not been at a table where each participant played against the dealer, she could have won a monster pot.
It would have been especially enjoyable to win a boatload of chips from the balding, fifty-ish man who, from his lobster-colored skin, had spent too much time in the sun. His serious losing streak had him dyspeptic. And, for some odd reason, he seemed to hold Quinn personally responsible for his run of bad luck. He openly glowered at her every time she won a hand. His increasingly red-faced animosity made no sense to her. They weren’t playing head-to-head.
Balding Guy’s wife had apparently seen it all before. She sat on the stool next to him and nursed her martini, impervious to his sour huffs and grumbles. Only an occasional eye roll altered her mask of boredom.
Devil horns practically sprouted from Quinn’s head. If she was going to be the target of his unjustified ire, she was going to have some fun with it. And she could do it, too, with her full house.
Going the “dumb blonde” route, she blew out a sigh and said to James in an affected voice, “Can you help me, baby? I don’t know if I’m doing this right. Should I make one of those bonus side-bet thingies?”
He rubbed her back and played along, eyes sparkling with humor. “You already did, darlin’. Before the cards were dealt.”
“I did?” She looked down at the different stacks of chips on the table and giggled. “You’re right, Jimmy baby. I did.” She tossed a couple of chips into the ante pile. “I guess I’ll keep playing then.”
“If you want,” James said. He vibrated with suppressed laughter. “We’re just here to have fun.”
As if his honor as a member of the He-Man Woman-Haters Club were at stake, Balding Guy added chips to stay in the hand.
With a thousand-yard stare, his wife took another sip of her martini.
The dealer turned over the last final two cards.
“I won, didn’t I, baby?” Quinn asked, wide-eyed. She flipped over her hole cards, showing her full house.
“You sure did, sweet cheeks,” he said with a megawatt grin. “You won three hundred dollars.”
Sweet cheeks. It was all Quinn could do not to collapse to the floor overcome with laughter.
A vein in Balding Guy’s forehead bulged like a thick rope. He turned a dangerous shade of purple and growled, “Come on, Barbara. Let’s go hit the slots.”
“Thank Gawd,” Barbara drawled. She tossed back the rest of her drink, set her empty glass on the table, and snatched up her chips. Without another word, they bolted from their seats and were gone.
The dealer pushed Quinn’s winnings toward her, retrieved the cards from around the table, and prepared to deal out the next hand.
As Quinn stacked her chips, James leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You make life fun.”
“Thank you,” she said. “So do you.” With an impish smile, she slid a small stack of chips across the green felt and parked them in front of him. “Here’s a little something for playing along. Go buy yourself something pretty.”
This time, James didn’t hold back his laughter.
When she finished tidying her chips, Quinn did a double take when she saw who had just filled the two seats vacated by Balding Guy and Barbara. It was none other than Rhys Townsend and Gibson Honeycutt IV. “Hey, fancy seeing you here,” she said.
“Not really,” Rhys replied. “We come here quite often. There’s not a lot of nightlife on Provo.” Provo was the name most commonly used for Providenciales, Turks and Caicos’s most developed island.
“We noticed that, too,” Quinn said.
James extended his hand across the table. “James Anderson, Quinn’s husband.”
Hearing him say those words sent a happy thrill hurtling through her.
Rhys shook James’s hand. “Yes, I remember you from The Grove the other night. Rhys Townsend.”
“Gibson Honeycutt,” the younger man said and clasped James’s hand. Quinn was glad to see Gibson looking clear eyed. She wasn’t so sure he remembered her from The Grove, though. Given his state at the time, that wouldn’t be much of a shock.
The woman on the other side of Quinn jolted when Rhys said his name. She clearly recognized it. Based on the furtive glances others around the table sent his way, everyone knew exactly who he was.
“So, James and Quinn Anderson,” Rhys started as he tossed a chip into the pile as an ante. “I assume you’re from the States.”
“We are,” James answered.
Rhys’s eyes tracked the cards as the dealer distributed them. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a librarian,” Quinn said.
Rhys chuckled and nodded. “That explains the book you had readily available.”
“It does,” she said with a smile.
“What about you, James?”
“I work for the government.”
Gibson’s head snapped up from where he’d lowered it to check his hole cards. “In D.C.?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Do you know my dad? He’s a senator.”
His words set off a ripple of whispers around the table.
“Sorry, not personally. I’m just a drone. I’m way too far down the food chain to ever swim with the muckety-mucks on Capitol Hill.”
“Eh,” Gibson said dismissively. “You’re not missing anything. Bunch of bores.”
The poker hand got under way. Quinn chalked up the hush that descended over the table to the movie star in their midst. But as Quinn, James, Gibson, and Rhys chatted, others were drawn into the conversation. Before long, poker was secondary to the animated conversations taking place. Rhys had everyone howling with laughter when he told the story of a practical joke he’d pulled during the filming of Waltzing with the Enemy. The target of the prank—which had involved duct tape, cooked spaghetti, and a bicycle pump—had been a well-known actress, his costar, Jessica Santorini. Fortunately for Rhys, Ms. Santorini was a good sport and the threatened restraining order against him had turned out to be a joke of her own.
“It was also during that shoot Rhys and I became friends,” Gibson said. “I was going out with the woman who played Edward Walker’s dog walker. I used to hang out on the set.”
“Right,” Quinn said. “Samson the goofy pug. I love that dog.” She frowned and her voice crackled with pique when she said, “I couldn’t believe it when Manuela Guzman swiped him from Walker’s flat in One Death Away. I got so mad when she threatened to turn him loose all alone in North York Moors if Walker didn’t give her the location of the secret research lab.”
Quinn caught the looks that passed between James and Rhys. Her chin jutted out. “I’m very passionate about the humane treatment of pets.”
“I know,” James said and pecked her cheek. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”
Mollified, Quinn turned her face to his and caught his lips in a quick kiss. Her face was only inches from his when she murmured, “I love you too.” Neither of them moved. Was it her or had the room abruptly turned into a sauna?
The muscles in James’s jaw worked. “What do you say? You ready to go?”
“I am,” she said, holding his gaze.
They separated and began to gather their chips.
“Ah, the honeymooners are in need of some time alone,” Rhys said with a knowing smile.
The heat rose in Quinn’s cheeks when James gave him a sly look and replied, “Can you blame me?”
“Not in the least.” Rhys turned to Gibson. “What do you say we invite the Andersons to our fundraiser on Saturday?” He returned his attention to James and Quinn. “We’re having a bit of a soiree to raise funds for hurricane relief at Gibson’s estate.”
Her brows pulled together. “Was there one that came through recently we missed hearing about?”
Rhys swept his hand through the air as if swatting away a fly. “No, no. But there’s always a nasty one blowing through the islands at some time or another. We’ve set up a fund and have these annual events to raise money beforehand.”
In other words, a good excuse for throwing a party.
James shot her a questioning look. She responded with a noncommittal shrug. “That’s a very kind offer, but—” James started.
Rhys held up his hand. “Yes, yes. I understand. Honeymooning and all that.” Quinn caught his meaning when he looked at her and mimed writing on his palm. She dug out a piece of paper and a pen from her purse and handed them over. “If you decide you’d like to attend, call this number,” he said as he wrote. “Tell Grace I invited you personally. She’ll put you on the list.”
Quinn took back the paper and pen and stuffed them in her bag. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”
James and Quinn said their farewells and cashed out their chips. A few dollars richer, they stepped out into the warm night air and strolled hand in hand toward their rental car.
“I hope you don’t mind us not accepting the party invite right away,” James said.
“No, it’s fine. Although I do have to admit I’m curious about what the inside of Gibson Honeycutt’s estate looks like.”
“We can still go if you want.”
“Why don’t we sleep on it and see how we feel about it tomorrow?”
He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. He kissed her hair and rumbled, “Or we can not sleep at all.”
She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. “That’ll work, too.”
* * *
Warm trade winds caressed Quinn’s skin as she reclined in her lounge chair dug deep in the sand. An umbrella—and a thick coat of sunscreen—protected her from the tropical sun’s scorching rays. She held her book open in her hands, but her eyes gazed over the top of it. The latest escapade of Edward Walker would have to wait.
Using her finger as a bookmark, she closed the book and let her hand drop. With her other hand, she lifted her aviator sunglasses from her face and set them atop her head. She wanted nothing to alter the colors of the breathtaking vista before her. A few yards in front of her, white sand met impossibly clear, turquoise water. In the near distance, boats with brightly colored sails skimmed across the bay under white puffy clouds suspended in a vivid blue sky. She inhaled the scent of ocean and exhaled a sigh. This was paradise.
Her view only improved when James rose from the water like Poseidon, only without the beard and trident. It was as if a spell had been cast over her, altering the passage of time as she shamelessly ogled him. He seemed to move in slow motion as he plowed his way through the surf toward her. She licked her lips as he drew closer, his water-soaked board shorts clinging to his hips and thighs. When he slicked his wet hair back with his hands, she thought she might actually expire from sheer bliss.
Time returned to normal speed when he stood over her and shook his head like a wet dog. Droplets of water went flying, eliciting a squeal of laughter from Quinn. Truth be told, the cool spray felt heavenly on her warm skin.
James bent forward and gave her a salty kiss before reclaiming the lounge chair next to her. “You up for some snorkeling in a little while?” He swung up his long legs and slipped on his Ray-Bans. “The water’s incredible.”
Quinn watched two bikini-clad teenage girls walk by. They almost tumbled over each other openly staring at James as they passed. She smiled. Who could blame them?
“I’m ready when you are.”
“Words a husband always likes to hear from his wife,” James said with a salacious grin.
She laughed and whacked his arm with the back of her book.
Quinn lowered her sunglasses and deadpanned, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to put more sunblock on your back before we go in the water, though.”
“That’s a shame,” he replied in a tone matching hers. “You know how much I dislike it when you rub your hands all over my back.”
“Yeah. It’s real drudgery for me, too.”
From the corner of her eye, Quinn saw a figure sit on the empty lounge chair on her other side. Rather than stretching out, he sat facing her with his forearms on his knees and hands clasped as if waiting for her to notice him.
Quinn turned her head and sized him up in an instant. She put him at about forty years old. His short brown hair sported a few flecks of gray while the neatly trimmed beard covering his square jaw had none. Lean and fit, he wore khaki shorts, a T-shirt with the Turks and Caicos flag on the front, and black rubber flip-flops.
Puzzled, she looked into his hazel eyes and gave him a polite smile.
The man blinked once and said, “Aldous Meyers says hello.”