All In

He’s playing for her heart…

World-class statistician and poker prodigy Daisy Drake has two rules: never risk anything you can’t afford to lose, and never, ever, trust a gambler. Which is why she gave up the game and moved to Los Angeles, where she became a tenured professor. But when an old acquaintance calls needing Daisy’s…
expertise
…to help catch a cheater, she heads back to Las Vegas and the poker tables.

FBI Agent Ryan DiNatto’s been a gambler since he was four, and a hustler since he hit puberty. Coming off an undercover mission that ended with him shot and his partner in a wheelchair, Ryan’s out for blood. With a mob accountant and a hit man on the loose, the stakes have never been higher, and this time, he’s determined to make things right—even if it means beating spunky, sexy, Daisy Adams at her own game.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Aleah Barley. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Ignite is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Heather Howland

Cover design by Lousia Maggio

Cover art from iStock

ISBN 978-1-63375-529-1

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition January 2016

Chapter One

The man’s lips brushed against Daisy’s, sending a shiver down her spine. He smelled like sex and tasted like whiskey and cigars with a dark undercurrent of masculine spice. His tongue challenged hers, and his hands never stopped moving.

Long fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her in even closer, making her moan against his mouth. His free hand slid her shirt up over her hips, exposing her bare skin to the crisp cotton sheets beneath them.

Daisy grabbed for him, but he nipped at her lip to remind her who was in control. Then his mouth began to move down. Oh, yeah, he could take charge anytime he wanted, if this was the result.

Teasing…tasting…sucking… He nibbled at her collarbones and then her breasts, setting off a series of fiery reactions underneath her skin. She was wet. Waiting. So damn close to exploding that she’d probably come the moment he entered her.

He didn’t move.

Bastard
.

She pulsed her hips against his hard body, desperate for any kind of relief, and her lover chuckled. “Easy, honey,” he murmured over the pounding bass of her favorite Bruce Springsteen song. His grip tightened on her hips. “We’ve got all the time in the world.” His tongue grazed her belly button and—

A sharp scream pierced the air.

Daisy jolted awake.

Jerking sideways in her attempt to get away, she tumbled off the luxurious bed and onto a lavish rug. There was no music playing, no rock star wailing about growing up working class in New Jersey. The sexy, controlling, sexy man had been a figment of her imagination brought on by two years of celibacy and the vodka martinis she’d inhaled on the plane.

The only sound in the hotel room came from her lungs desperately grasping for air.

There was no sense reaching for the lamp on the bedside table. The large room was already illuminated by neon light from outside her window. The eerie glow danced across wood and chrome.

Forcing herself up onto her feet, she turned to take in the sea of chaos and confusion outside. The sky was still dark, the moon shone in the distance, but the lights never set on the Las Vegas strip.

Not even for a moment.

Las Vegas. According to the guidebook Daisy had found on her pillow, it was “an entire city devoted to ferocious fun and flirty entertainment.”
Home sweet home
. If she craned her neck, she could almost make out the trailer park where she’d grown up—where her sister still lived—but that was the last thing she wanted to see.

No one called Daisy flirty or fun, and the only reason she was in town was to help her friend, Bullet, with his poker tournament.

“God damn it!” Someone shouted nearby, breaking Daisy’s concentration. A woman said something too faint for her to make out.

Great, her neighbors were fighting. They must have been the ones who woke her up.

“You bastard,” the woman gasped. There was another cry, only this time it wasn’t quite as loud. It was followed by a low moan and words muttered in a voice too low for her to make out.

The wall behind Daisy’s bed shook. Once. Twice. The headboard rattled ominously.

Her neighbors weren’t fighting. They were having knock-down, drag out, take-no-prisoners sex.

Not that Daisy was bitter. She’d had sex sometime in the last…six months? Year? Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. There had been that grad student at the university Christmas party. The one with the remarkably well-developed…thesis.

The sex had been okay, but the next morning he’d wanted to take her out to breakfast.

Daisy didn’t do breakfast, and she definitely didn’t do relationships.

She taught four classes a semester, chaired two committees, and was currently writing a book on multi-dimensional calculus. Her life was fulfilling, damn it. She worked hard, she loved her job, and when she needed sex, she found someone who could provide the appropriate stimuli.

“Damn it, Ryan,” the woman next door called out, and something crashed in the distance.

Daisy’s teeth dug into her bottom lip. Appropriate stimuli aside, no one had ever made her want to scream like that.

Another moan.

Enough was enough. Daisy straightened her shoulders and grabbed her keycard. It was time for Mr. and Mrs. Noisy-Sex to find out they weren’t the only ones on the floor. Some people had to sleep in the morning.

Some people had a poker tournament to play in. Her fingers itched to feel the cards. She only needed to stay in long enough to find Bullet’s cheater, but wouldn’t it feel good to win?

Barefoot, she stepped out into the corridor. Her room was 811. The screamers were in 813. Daisy reached out to knock on their door.

Maybe it was a special occasion. Maybe it was their anniversary.

Did she really want to interrupt their special moment?

Another moan.

Good grief, she could even hear them in the hallway.

There was nothing for it. Squaring her shoulders, she took a step forward and knocked on the door.

Once.

Twice.

They probably couldn’t hear her over their own noises.
The bastards
.

Her fist slammed against hard wood.

The door wrenched open before Daisy could knock again.

“Who the hell are you?” someone snarled, but all Daisy could see were the man’s muscles.

Oh, God, she was salivating. Was that a six-pack? A ten-pack? The man definitely had washboard abs. She should have been a physiology major. Her gaze skimmed across bare abs and broad shoulders that blocked her view of the room behind him.

Not that she had much interest in anything beyond the living, breathing, Renaissance sculpture standing in front of her. Even the scar on the man’s left deltoid just added interest instead of marring his otherwise perfect appearance.

This guy. Her dream came back to her in a blur. This was the one who could push her back against the nearest wall, tell her what to do, and leave her begging for more.

Unfortunately, he was taken and pissed.

Daisy flushed as she took in his broad—clenched—jaw and sharp green eyes. His golden cheeks were flushed with anger, his lush lips pulled back in a frozen snarl.

“Adams.” Daisy mumbled. “Daisy Adams.”

A firm handshake was the key to making a good first impression. Bullet had taught her that.

Daisy stuck out her hand.

The guy didn’t move. He was too busy staring at her raven curls and—yep, Daisy flushed in realization—counting sheep pajamas. They might not be sexy, but they were her favorites. It wasn’t like everyone could roll out the door movie-star perfect in faded blue jeans slung across muscular hips.

A trail of golden hair ran down his chest before disappearing under a button fly.

Damn. She loved a button fly.

“I’m Daisy Adams,” she said, trying again. “That’s my name. I’m staying next door.”

“Uh huh.” Two syllables. Not even a real word.

“This is a hotel,” she said. “And it’s late. I don’t know exactly what time it is, but it’s very, very late.”

He raised his hand to show a heavy metal watch. The timepiece was utilitarian and built to withstand a lot of abuse. The dark metal clasped over golden skin and…was that a freckle on his wrist? When did freckles get so sexy?

“It’s not late,” the guy rumbled.

“You’re kidding, right?”

His lips twitched slightly, the ends turning up in a wry smile. “It’s not late. It’s early. It’s five o’clock in the morning.”

“The morning,” Daisy replied, deadpan. Forget getting back to sleep. It was less than an hour and a half before her multiple alarm clocks were set to go off. She might as well hop in the shower, throw on some clothes, and start praying to the closest benevolent god that she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself.

Or—worse—get Bullet killed. He hadn’t been too specific about the casino’s problems, but cheating in Las Vegas—with its security guards and surveillance equipment—was a fool’s game. It wouldn’t be the first time for con men to turn violent when cornered.

“Are you sure your watch is right?”

“At least twice a day.” He stretched leisurely, one of his strong hands scratching at those cut-marble abs. “What can I do for you, Daisy Adams?”

Daisy’s throat went dry.

Her heart slammed against her chest. Here was the living, breathing, embodiment of every woman’s dearest fantasies—a young Brad Pitt with a better body—and he wanted to know what
he
could do for
her
. Two words: back massage. Scented oils, strong hands, and she’d be floating in a sea of happiness before she could count to ten.

Unless they skipped straight to sex.

The man was staring at Daisy now like he expected her to say something. “Excuse me?”

“Do you need something? Or did you knock on my door for the time? I’m pretty sure there’s a clock in your room.”

“Right.” Her room. Where she was supposed to be. Daisy sucked in a breath, holding onto that anger for all she was worth. “I’m tired. I flew in from Los Angeles last night. My head hurts. I haven’t gotten much sleep, so I need you to stop having sex.”

“Excuse me?” His voice was incredulous. It was also warm and deep, the soft reverberations starting up a hum across her entire body.

“You’re making too much noise!”

He was staring at her like she was a crazy person. Well, that was too damn bad. She hadn’t gotten to be the youngest full-professor at UCLA by caring what other people thought. Even drop dead sexy people.

Her hands balled into fists. “I was asleep and you woke me up. Actually, your girlfriend woke me up. The screamer.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” Sex-On-Legs growled. His emerald eyes were hooded. His mouth eased into a lazy smile that sent a thrill of electricity down her spine. “Although I’d be happy to make you scream.”

And then a fair-haired woman pushed her way past him to get out of the room. Tall and lean, she was fully clothed in a black cocktail dress that would have made Daisy look like a little girl playing dress-up. Sex-On-Legs’s girlfriend looked fabulous.

“Ryan,” the elegant woman purred on her way out the door. “Nice seeing you as always. You’ll call me about our discussion. Soon?”

“Guaranteed,” Sex-On-Legs said. Ryan. His name was Ryan. He pressed himself back into the hollow of the door, as far away from the woman as possible. “Tell everyone I said hello?”

The woman didn’t answer. She was too busy stalking away in sky-high heels.
Witch
.

Daisy frowned. The blonde might not be her type, but she had to be Ryan’s.

“Sorry I wrecked your plans.” Daisy swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have knocked, but guys like you…” She waved at his muscles. “You’re probably used to staying up all night.” She was babbling. It was a bad habit she couldn’t seem to break, no matter how hard she tried. She babbled when she was nervous….or tired…or hungry.

Right now, she was nervous.

Butterflies twitched in her stomach. “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow—today—you understand. I’m playing in this tournament and I need to talk to Bullet. He said—”

She shook her head.

No point telling some stranger what Bullet had told her. It didn’t make sense anyway. Why would the manager of the Hendrix Poker Room and Hotel be jumping at shadows, thinking someone had fixed the casino’s poker tables when it wasn’t possible?

What kind of idiot would cheat at a major poker tournament in Las Vegas?

Golden muscles tensed as Ryan lunged across the threshold. “Wait.” The man’s lazy smile was gone, replaced by a dark intensity that had her skin tingling and her breath coming faster.

Was this the part where he dragged her into his room and told her to take off her pajama bottoms? She should say no. Really. He had a girlfriend. Still, it would be nice to hear.

“You’re playing in the tournament?” Ryan DiNatto hated surprises.

Most FBI agents did.

The last time he’d been surprised had been during a drug bust eleven months earlier. His informant had sworn on his mother’s grave that there had been only four people in the warehouse. Four people with hand guns.

Only, it turned out Southy’s mother was alive and well, living in Jersey City. And he’d forgotten to mention that there’d also been a fifth man inside the warehouse with an automatic rifle. That guy had shot Ryan in the shoulder and his partner in the back.

After months of physical therapy, Ryan was back at one hundred percent, but Jack would never walk again.

The FBI still hadn’t been able to locate the shooter, but it didn’t matter. The man belonged to Victor Morelli—just like the warehouse and the entire east coast crime syndicate—and Morelli was currently in jail without parole, pending trial.

The petite woman bouncing in front of him was definitely a surprise.

In the two weeks he’d prepped to go undercover as a tournament poker player at the Hendrix, Ryan had studied the case file more thoroughly than he’d ever studied anything in college. This was his chance to prove he was really back. That he wasn’t just the screw-up who’d gotten Jack shot.

More importantly, it was his chance to take another crack at Vic Morelli. There’d been enough stolen property in the warehouse to send Vic upriver for five to thirty—depending on the judge—but the Feds were still working to build racketeering and corruption charges. Ryan wasn’t about to let that stand. He wanted the mobster in jail for life or—better—parked on death row for conspiracy to commit murder.

Forget the drug dens in Manhattan or the warehouse in the Bronx; he was going to hit the man where it hurt.

His wallet.

Edgar Blethins was Vic’s best friend and personal accountant. The FBI had frozen all of the accounts he managed, but there was still a chunk of money unaccounted for.

Ten million seven hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars to be exact.

Almost eleven million dollars hadn’t just gotten up and walked away. So when Blethins signed up for the Hendrix’s inaugural poker tournament in Las Vegas, it only made sense to send an agent in undercover to keep an eye out for him.

Ryan had demanded to be put on the case. He’d fucking begged, and when he’d finally gotten the go-ahead for the assignment? He’d started doing his homework.