12

The Competition

The next morning dawns bright and clear—and by bright and clear, I’m talking about the diamond on Lola’s head, not my mood. Although it’s a relief to see the tiara intact and us with it, I can’t help but feel uneasy about any visitors still resting next door. The last thing I want to do is confront my father regarding his late-night booty call, but I fear the task lies in my immediate future.

Yay, me.

Lola, in her bright optimism, notices nothing amiss. Like so many of the people in my life, she’s up way too early and with way too much enthusiasm about the day ahead. I guess it could be worse. At least she’s not trying to make me drink algae.

“We have just enough time to grab breakfast before the games start,” she says as she gets dressed. She’s still weirdly obsessive about following her father’s instructions to the letter, which means I have to help her as she tries to pull a shirt on around the tiara’s prongs. “You didn’t change your mind about letting me sit with you, right? I can still keep you company at the table?”

“As long as the rest of the players don’t mind, I can’t see why not.” In fact, I think they’d prefer it that way. Nothing feeds the competitive spirit like a highly visible prize. “I’m sure they’ll all agree that your safety is the most important thing.”

I reach something of an impasse as I search my own bag for something to wear. While I’d like to keep up my new reputation by wearing something daring and authoritative, eight hours is a long time to sit at a table playing cards. My instinct says to go full yoga pants and forget about the rest.

In the end, I go for the middle ground—an asymmetrical top and a tight black skirt that, if you cut a few inches off the hem, might pass for something Tara would wear. I sigh as I think about the likelihood of her descending on me tomorrow and picking my clothes out for me.

Lola hears the sigh and assumes it’s meant for her. “I promise not to talk any more than necessary,” she says and makes the motion of a zipper over her lips. “I’ll just sit quietly and observe. I can, you know, especially when people are doing something like playing poker. When my brain is busy, my mouth takes a rest.”

I pause in the act of slipping a pair of flat-soled sandals on my feet. I don’t like the way that busy brain part sounds—especially since I’m starting to understand the way her brain works. “Um…can you count cards, Lola?”

“Of course!” Her wide-eyed incredulity suggests that not counting cards would be a much stranger occurrence. “I mean, I don’t do it on purpose, and Daddy says that under no circumstances am I to let anyone know about my abilities, but it’s impossible to turn it off once the cards start flipping over. That’s why Daddy won’t let me play in the tournament. I always win.”

I bite back a groan. As if there weren’t enough problems with this girl. Of course she’d be some kind of poker whiz on top of everything else.

“I hate to say this, Lola, but if you can count cards, I’m not sure you should sit at the table with me. If word gets out, people might think I’m cheating.”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “That would be bad.”

Yeah. Bad is right.

“Maybe you can find a seat in the nearby bleachers,” I suggest. “I doubt anyone is going to take the tiara in such a public place. That’s the whole point of your dad’s security plan—you literally have hundreds of bodyguards.”

“You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Lola’s smile is so sudden and pronounced, I know it’s fake. “I wouldn’t want to be in the way any more than I already am.”

“You’re not in the way,” I say automatically, but we both know it’s a lie. I try to alleviate some of the sting with, “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we ask Jordan to sit with you so you don’t have to be alone? She was planning on watching today anyway, and it might be fun. You guys can talk chemistry and math together.”

“She won’t mind?”

I don’t say what I’m thinking—even if she does mind, she’s too nice to say so out loud. “Of course not. She’ll probably enjoy having you explain how card counting works. Next to you, she’s the smartest person I know.”

A flush of color spreads across her cheeks. “I told you, I’m not smart. I don’t know anything about the real world.”

Yes, well. A few years ago, neither did I. Since marrying Grant and plunging myself into this messy, complicated place where good meets bad, I’ve come to realize that I’m only as smart as the people who have my back. It just so happens that the people who have my back are pretty freaking brilliant.

“The real world is overrated,” I say and grab the phone to ring up Jordan. “But the benefits of friends like mine are not.”

* * *

I can’t decide whether or not it’s a good thing that I don’t recognize any of the people at my table.

The tournament is set up with seven tables, each of which has been assigned seven players. For the first few days, we’ll be playing in a process of elimination—each game will continue until there’s a single winner at every table, at which point the winners move on to the final game. That’s where the real competition will take place—assuming, of course, that the tiara is still around by that point.

Not everyone has arrived by the time I find my table and settle in, but the four men sitting in surly silence on the other side of the green felt aren’t inspiring me with much excitement about the game ahead. I know we all paid a million dollars for this chance, but I thought it was supposed to be fun.

“See the older guy in the visor sitting down next to Riker?” Hijack asks from my right. He’s not playing against me, but he’s using this opportunity to discreetly catch me up on the competition. I’m not sure how he knows so much about these people, but his insight comes in handy. I doubt even Grant has as much information at his fingertips.

“Yeah, I see him. Who is it?”

“That’s Two-Finger Tommy.”

I recognize the name as one of the top contenders for stealing the tiara, which explains why Hijack is pointing him out. For him, this event is less about winning poker and more about beating everyone else to the Luxor.

I swear, he seemed almost disappointed to see me and Lola arrive this morning with the tiara in tow. Did he honestly think it was going to be that easy to steal? Even if I was in the market to take it, the heist would have to be an intricately planned balance of getting the goods while simultaneously defraying all suspicion so as to avoid Peter Sanchez’s murderous vengeance. That’s not the kind of plan a girl can come up with on the fly.

I mean, I could do it, but…

“You’ll be interested to know that Two-Finger spent most of last night in the stateroom directly below yours,” Hijack goes on to say. “It belongs to one of the spectators—that guy in the windbreaker sitting on the far right of the stands. He goes by the name of Rainier. He’s not much to be afraid of, wanted for a few petty burglaries and drug possessions, but word is he’s willing to trade rooms to the highest bidder. My guess is Two-Finger wants to be that man.”

“Geez. You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

“One of us has to be on top of things,” Hijack replies. “You’re lucky he didn’t tunnel through the floor while you slept.”

That’s a possibility? Oh, goody. This trip keeps getting better and better.

“Where are you playing?” I ask, mostly to avoid having to spend any more time looking at Two-Finger’s craggy face, which seems to be growing more sinister by the minute.

“I’m at table five.” Hijack jerks his head toward the middle of the room. “So far, no one of any note is playing against me, so I should take it easily. Your father will be at four, and your stepmother is surrounded by her admirers at one. They’re both considered the favorites to win at their tables, but that will come as no surprise to you. Um, let’s see…who else do we need to worry about?”

We notice her at the same time, though Hijack is the first to speak. “Aha—Eden St. James,” he says, grinning at me. “Your new best friend.”

I don’t like the way that sounds. I also don’t like the purposeful gait to Eden’s walk, which seems to be headed straight toward us.

“Where is she playing?” I ask, my mouth dry. “Hijack, please tell me she’s not coming this way. Is she coming this way?”

But it’s too late. She’s already here.

“Hello, gentlemen.” Eden approaches the table with a nod for the four seated men and a smirk for me. Her voice carries the same clipped undertones I remember from the track yesterday, though I could swear it drops a whole octave when she adds, “And Penelope Blue. My, my. Isn’t this a delightful surprise?”

“Delightful,” I echo and look to Hijack to see if he has anything to add to the conversation. I swear to all that is good and holy, if placing her at my table is somehow his doing…

I can’t tell. There’s a look of calculation on his face as he appraises her, but that could just be admiration for the deeply plunging neckline of her pantsuit.

The ten-minute warning bell sounds, informing us that it’s time to take our places or risk immediate disqualification. I consider it both a blessing and a curse—a blessing, because Hijack finally peels himself away to settle at his own table, and a curse, because I’m now stuck with Eden St. James for the next eight hours of my life.

“How are your wounds?” she asks in a false show of concern as she sits in the chair directly to my right. “I hope they’re not going to get in the way of your poker playing. Abrasions can get nasty on their second day.”

So can she, apparently.

“I’m a lot tougher than I look, thanks.”

“Well, you could hardly be less, could you?” she says with an evil smile. She proceeds to introduce herself to each of the men sitting at the rest of the table. There are five of them now, the last straggler just as blandly and ominously ferocious as the rest. I try to pay attention to their names, but I’m too busy noticing that everyone is in place and ready to start playing—with one notable and, to me, very important exception.

When Grant finally arrives alongside Peter Sanchez and his requisite bodyguards, it’s with a mere two minutes to spare. The pair of them chat in an amiable and unconcerned way, knowing full well the game won’t get underway without them. In fact, Grant takes the time to stop by our table, beaming as though nothing could make him happier than to find Eden and me thrown together again.

“Well, well, well,” he says. “It looks like this is the table where all the fun will be happening.”

He stands directly behind the two of us, a hand on the back of either of our chairs. I twist to peer up at him, wondering if there’s a hidden meaning somewhere in there. I can’t see much from this position, but the scrape of late-night stubble across his jaw does catch my eye.

I know that stubble. I love that stubble. I’m also aware that it means he’s not nearly as rested as he’d like everyone to believe.

“A pity we can’t switch seats, or I’d ask one of these men to make the trade,” Eden says sweetly. “It would be fun going up against a man of your many…talents.”

Wouldn’t it just?

“Look on the bright side,” Grant replies easily, his gaze careful not to stray in my direction. “Maybe we’ll both come out victorious and meet at the winner’s table.”

“One can hope,” she says with a purr.

“You’ll have to do a lot more than hope,” I grumble. “There are six other people sitting at this table, every one of whom would like a chance at that tiara.”

“Speaking of, where is the pièce de résistance?” Grant asks. It doesn’t take him long to spot Lola in the front row of the stands, chatting unconcernedly with Jordan. “Ah. I see you managed to keep both the jewels and the girl safe. You have my admiration.”

Grant’s admiration is something I tend to value pretty highly in the general order of things, but right now, I’d like to stick it in places better left unmentioned. He doesn’t get to flirt with Eden and mock me at the same time. It’s one or the other.

“How do you know I didn’t swap out the diamond for a fake while Lola slept last night?” I ask. “We could all be playing for a two-hundred-carat counterfeit, and no one would ever know.”

That gets the table’s attention—and not in a good way. Six murderous glances rocket over the green felt, but Grant just laughs.

“I was warned about you, Penelope Blue,” he says, reverting to the rhyming singsong of our courtship. “I was told you’re adept at twisting truth and reality, that you always toy with your victims before you go in for the kill. I see my sources are correct.”

Please. His sources are biased against me, mostly because his sources are him. I only twist truth and reality where he’s concerned—and I do it because he does plenty of twisting on his own. A contortionist I might be, but that man knows how to wriggle out of a tight spot just fine.

“All the more reason not to cross me,” I say. “You wouldn’t want to be next on my list of victims.”

“I don’t know,” he says and leans down so close, his lips are touching my ear. His breath is warm and intimate, but despite the spike in temperature, I shiver. “I have the feeling that falling at your feet would bring far more pleasure than pain.”

I don’t have a glib response for that one, not while my heart does somersaults in my throat and the rough scratch of his stubble abrades my jawline. As it turns out, I don’t need one, because the starting bell sounds, stopping him short. But not short enough—Eden must have overheard our exchange, because she watches with a queer light in her eyes as Grant takes his leave.

“That’s my cue,” he says and lays another one of those killing smiles on us both. “The best of luck to you, ladies. Not that either one of you will need it.”

I’m not so sure about that as our dealer takes his place and barks an order for us to ante, a no-nonsense expression settling on his brow. I’m even less sure when Eden crosses one long leg over the other and applies herself to her cards with an intensity that doesn’t bode well for my chances.

And I have absolutely no confidence at all when Grant takes his seat at table five.

Right across from Hijack.