All In (2 page)

He knew every employee, every longtime guest, and every big winner currently checked into the hotel. He for damn sure knew every player registered to play in the tournament, but he didn’t know “Adams, Daisy Adams” from Eve.

The woman had to be a last minute entry.

But how? And why?

In the world of professional gambling, the women who played were tough, domineering, and sexy as hell. Men wore T-shirts, shorts, and lucky charms, anything to stay comfortable. Women wore low-cut shirts and too much makeup, working their own special charm to gain the slightest advantage.

Daisy Adams wasn’t sexy. She was cute.

Wearing a pair of cotton-candy pajamas with fluffy white sheep embroidered on them, she was adorable. The pajamas were a size too big, hanging loose on her already petite frame, but they didn’t completely hide her curved hips and firm, high breasts. Her hair was inky black, loose waves flowing around her heart-shaped face like a dark and twisted halo. Her features were delicate, like the rest of her. Her eyes were royal blue, so deep they were almost purple.

“Is there any other reason I’d be in Las Vegas?” she snapped, answering his earlier question. Her tone was harsh, coming from soft pink lips that curved generously on top and were full on the bottom. At five in the morning, she probably wasn’t wearing any makeup, so the apple red color of her cheeks had to be all natural. Fresh from bed, she smelled like the orange trees his grandparents kept in their dining room in Coney Island in winter, then dragged outside for the summer months.

Fresh faced and innocent, what the hell was she doing in the casino?

“You play poker?” Ryan asked, just in case he was missing something.

“Sure, want some pointers?”

Cute wasn’t his type. He liked leggy law-enforcement professionals who knew the score—he’d been engaged to three of them—but Daisy had spunk.

Ryan liked spunk.

It kept things interesting.

He wondered if the blush that was coloring her skin went all the way down, underneath those absurd pajamas. The way she was glaring at him, she’d probably cut his throat if he tried to find out, but it might be worth it. His gaze moved back to those warm, full, lips. It would definitely be worth it.

“I’m always up for improving my technique.” He ran his fingers through his hair, wishing he’d had time to brush it before he opened the door. “Give me a second to throw on a shirt, and I’ll take you out to breakfast.”

“What?” Daisy’s hands went to her hips—all spunky and defiant—and those threadbare pajamas pulled tight against her petite curves.

Ryan lost the ability to think.

Damn. Daisy might be small, but she was very well proportioned, with luscious breasts and full hips. What was she wearing under those things anyway? A gentleman would step back and close the door, but—fuck it—he definitely wasn’t a gentleman.

He moved closer for a better view.

“Breakfast, definitely,” he growled.

“I don’t do breakfast.” Daisy stomped up and down, making everything shift nicely under her pajamas.

“Doesn’t have to be breakfast. It could be coffee.” He wasn’t above begging. “We could just be sitting in the lobby together at the same time. You could come into my room—”

“Sure you don’t have another girlfriend in there already?” Daisy snorted. “No thanks.” Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I’m not interested.”

She spun and stormed down to her hotel room, swiping her key and entering, then slamming the door behind her without another word.

It was the second time she’d said “girlfriend,” and Ryan was getting sick of it. He hadn’t been with a woman in months. Not since the fiasco with Jack. The closest thing he had to a girlfriend was his right hand.

Stephanie. It took him a moment to realize what Daisy had been talking about. She’d thought Stephanie Block, Special Agent in charge of the Las Vegas Field Office and general pain in Ryan’s ass, was his girlfriend.

No, thank you. Stephanie was smart, capable, and good looking. She also scared the bejeezus out of him.

Unfortunately, having Stephanie walk into the casino wearing an ugly pantsuit and an FBI windbreaker would blow his carefully constructed cover. The cocktail dress was a little much, but men didn’t usually ask questions while Stephanie was wearing it.

Ryan could see where Daisy may have gotten the wrong impression.

Too darn bad.

Worse, he couldn’t correct her misinterpretation anytime soon. He was at the poker tournament to help nail Blethins to the wall—and take Morelli down with him—not to flirt with his cute neighbor.

Crack federal accountants were currently going through Blethins’s books in New York. They’d find anything the man had left behind. But what he’d taken with him? That was where Ryan came in. If he had to hack the man’s cell phone, break into his hotel room, or put a hacksaw through his freaking brain, then he’d find the ten million and change that Blethins had stashed for Morelli, as well as the records that would prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the mob boss had hired the shooter back at the warehouse.

The hacksaw may have be a little much, but Ryan wasn’t afraid to do whatever it took to bring Blethins in. For the moment, that meant playing poker.

Blethins was obsessed with the game.

The man had three different online poker accountants. Internet gambling wasn’t illegal, mostly, and the man spent most evenings logged in to some site, challenging all comers under the screen name ACES99.

It was a freaking joke in Ryan’s opinion. Poker couldn’t be played online, not really. It wasn’t a game of numbers or statistics. It was all about looking one’s opponent in the eyes and knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, what the other person was thinking.

Had the accountant known about the shooting? Had he made the wire transfer to pay the man who’d put a bullet in Jack’s spine?

Either way, Ryan was going to enjoy taking the guy apart and breaking him into tiny little pieces.

In a couple of hours, that was exactly what Ryan was going to do.

Even if it meant never finding out what Daisy Adams wore underneath her pretty pink pajamas.

Hell. He needed a cold shower.

Chapter Two

The Hendrix was one of the smallest casinos on the strip. It had a large poker room, a handful of other table games, some slot machines, and a hotel. For most of Daisy’s life, it had limped along. Nothing special.

Two years earlier, an out-of-state investor had taken over and renovated the place to look exactly like it had fifty years earlier. The place was classic Las Vegas with red velvet, gilt, showgirls, and glamour.

Daisy hated it.

Sliding into her assigned seat, she stretched out her legs in front of her and tried to look interested in the other players at her table. They were all men, which was par for the course in this crowd. Women’s lib may be alive and strong in most places, but not in Las Vegas.

“Why would I want to be liberated?” She could almost hear her mother’s voice. “So we can starve on a street corner?”

Of course, Cherry Adams hadn’t been a college professor in mathematics. Or any other STEM field for that matter. She’d been a showgirl, burning bridges in every casino and lounge act in Las Vegas, falling for every guy who’d smiled in her direction.

It always ended the same way. Chocolate ice cream, a broken heart, and a new job somewhere just a little less nice than the place before, until the only people hiring were the managers of the nudie bars on the far side of town.

She may not have been the best role model, but she was a wonderful warning. Watching her had taught Daisy that if something seemed too good to be true, then it usually was. Like love.

Daisy’s phone buzzed on the table. She’d have to put it away once playing started, but for the moment, she could still receive text messages.

You okay, doll? You look tired.

Bullet asked, sounding as much like an old-school gangster as he could in quarter-inch letters.

Early morning.

She texted back without bothering to look for him. Bullet would be down eventually to let the players see him face to face, but to start with, he’d be in the casino’s security room drinking coffee and watching the hundreds of live feeds coming from cameras all over the building. The eye in the sky could see everything except the guest rooms and the restrooms.

You feeling okay to do this?

Bullet asked.

It wasn’t really a question. The same way it hadn’t been a question when he’d called her up two days earlier and asked her to take another player’s slot at the Hendrix’s first annual poker tournament. The casino had been losing more money than it should on the poker tables, and now with the casino’s reputation—and a ten million dollar prize—on the line, he needed help.

Daisy had booked her flight from Los Angeles while they were still on the phone. Bullet was the closest thing she had to family. He’d helped out when she had nothing, making sure she was fed and clothed. Hell, Bullet was the one who’d convinced her to apply to Harvard at the ripe age of sixteen in the first place.

She couldn’t let him down.

It’s just poker.

She slammed her fingers onto the phone.

There was a long pause and then her phone buzzed.

Good luck, kid. You’re going to need it.

Forget luck. Daisy needed coffee. Stat. She jammed her phone into her pocket and looked around for a waitress.

There. She spotted a woman in a black uniform talking to a blond man in the corner.

Daisy raised her hand to wave and the man turned.

Hell’s bells. Ryan had been lickable in a pair of jeans, but wearing a tailored sports coat and a pair of wrap around shades?

He was absolutely devastating.

The perfect one-night stand—capable of giving her all the stimuli she could possibly want—except for the damn girlfriend.

Daisy dropped her hand to her side, hoping he hadn’t seen her. Bullet was right. She needed to focus on the tournament. Poker. She ran through a few statistical formulas in her head. All she had to do was play it smart and buy herself enough time to figure out what was going wrong with the poker tables.

Piece of cake.

Even if she hadn’t played live-action poker in years. The online games were different. They were all math and statistics. But an in-person match? That brought additional variables to the table.

Complications.

Daisy’s hands tightened into fists. Her nails dug into her palms. She hated complications.

But then a man in a red dealer’s vest walked up to her table. “Gentlemen—and lady—my name’s Tyler. The first round of tournament play is about to begin.” He reached for the automatic shuffler. “If you’d like to order drinks, then now is the perfect time. Otherwise, you should settle in and get comfortable.”

Daisy’s stomach churned nervously.
Time to rock and roll
.

Chapter Three

Ryan DiNatto had been playing poker since he was four years old and perched on his grandfather’s knee. Still, he’d never had more trouble concentrating than when he spotted Daisy Adams sitting on the far side of the Hendrix’s poker room.

The woman was tense before the games started. Then she got dealt her first hand and her face lit up from within. From fifty feet away, Ryan could tell she had something good, and her tablemates were staring at her like sharks who had just noticed the scent of fresh blood in the water.

The woman had absolutely no poker face.

She was going to get slaughtered.

He should help her out—

“Your bet, sir,” the dealer at his table said, interrupting his train of thought.

Right, it was Ryan’s bet. Ryan’s move. He glanced at his cards, keeping his face smooth and relaxed. If he couldn’t concentrate, then it would be Ryan who needed help.

For the next few hours, he kept his focus on the cards in front of him, not on the petite woman two tables over. His face was perfectly calm no matter what cards were laid out in front of him. His bluffs were perfectly executed and he watched the other players more than his own cards. One of them picked his nose when he had something—grossest tell on the planet—while another smiled too much.

Play dragged on.

Other tables were finishing up the first round. A woman shouted something angrily. A man swore at his competitor. People gathered around Ryan’s table to watch the last few hands.

There were still three people in, but this was going to be Ryan’s hand. He could feel it in his bones. There was already a pair of queens on the table, and —with what he had in his hands—he could make it three of a kind. At least. He was going to knock the other players out of the tournament.

“Coffee,” a husky murmur interrupted his train of thought and he glanced up to see Daisy ordering from a waitress nearby. When she caught him looking, that pink tongue darted out quickly—the action helping her internalize whatever she was feeling—moistening the startlingly plump lips that were quickly becoming his favorite sight in Las Vegas.

Not that there was anything wrong with the rest of her. Faded blue jeans strained to cover hips that were surprisingly curved for her small size. Her breasts were full and generous under a maroon T-shirt with the word ‘Veritas’ emblazoned on the front. She was wearing more clothing than all the other women in the room and most of the men. Her attire should have made her look like a prude, but instead, it just made Ryan all the more eager to unwrap her and devour the treasures hidden underneath.

Moving closer now, her hips swayed when she walked. Not the predatory motion Stephanie always used or the exaggerated swing of a cocktail waitress hoping for tips, Daisy’s gait was natural and unpracticed. She stopped a few feet away, seemingly intent on watching the game.

She wasn’t the only one.

Blethins was standing behind her. The man was so close he could probably smell the scent of oranges wafting off her hair.

Not that Edgar cared.

No, the weasel-faced accountant was too focused on the game being played out in front of him to notice Daisy.

The man’s eyes lifted slightly to look at Ryan’s face. For a corrupt mob accountant, he didn’t appear to be living the high life. He looked like hell, with shadows under his eyes and his gray hair unkempt after a long morning in the trenches.

A card flopped down in front of Ryan. He glanced at it, taking a moment to comprehend what it meant. Full house. There was no reason to hold back now. He could go all-in and knock the other players at his table out of the tournament.

Of course, if he did that, Blethins would notice him. He’d start thinking of Ryan as the competition instead of a possible friend.

Ryan would lose any chance he had to get close to the man—any opportunity to play with his phone or break into his hotel room—and that was an unacceptable risk.

Ryan’s grip tightened on his cards. “I fold.”

He tossed the cards onto the table face down, concentrating on his breath while the rest of the hand played out in front of him. When it was all over and Cate Branch from San Diego was counting out the chips, he finally allowed himself to breathe.

Blethins hadn’t noticed him. The accountant turned and walked in the other direction, no longer captivated by the game playing out at Ryan’s table.

Absolutely perfect—

A sharp movement drew his eye. Daisy Adams jerked away from the table like she’d been stung. Just like when she’d been playing earlier, whatever thoughts were running through her head were clearly visible on her face.

Her cheeks were red. Her eyes gleamed. Her lips squeezed together. Her gaze darted back and forth between the cards on the table and Ryan’s face.

She knew.

Ice water ran in Ryan’s veins.

Somehow Daisy knew that he’d thrown the last hand. On purpose. She hadn’t seen the full house, but she’d still known something was up and—from the way she was glaring at him—she wanted to know why.

He stumbled through the next few hands, pulling out a win at his table despite his own idiocy, and then came the break. The next round of play wouldn’t start until after lunch. He vaulted out of his chair and closed the ten feet to Daisy’s side.

“We need to talk,” she said, but he was already grabbing her arm and pulling her into the nearest hallway.

In a casino, surveillance was everywhere. The best chance they had for privacy was the hotel room he’d already swept for bugs. But since that was too far away…he dragged her into the women’s restroom.

“You can’t do this.” She thrashed, trying to get away from him.

“Watch me.” He jammed a garbage can in front of the door to keep anyone else from following them in. When he was finally sure they were alone, he let go of her arm. “Daisy Adams. That your real name?”

“Is Marauding Jackass yours?” she demanded.

Definitely spunky, but at the moment Ryan could care less. He only thanked whatever god watched out for gamblers and fools that she hadn’t called him on his behavior while they’d still been at the poker table. “It’s Wilson,” he lied. “Ryan Wilson.”

“Daisy Adams,” she repeated her name, like that explained anything. “Why’d you throw that hand? You could have won—”

“You don’t know that.”

“Statistically, you should have had at least a pair. You stayed in past the first ante. You had to have had at least a pair, maybe even three of a kind.”

“I didn’t have anything.” Maybe this could still work. Maybe he could give her an explanation she’d understand and talk her down off whatever ledge she was standing on. “Poker isn’t just statistics, honey. It’s what you feel in your gut.”

“No.” Those crazy blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe that. You were playing well all morning long and then you folded with something good in your hand. It doesn’t make any sense. The math doesn’t work.”

“And you’re good at math.”

“Very,” she said tartly.

Which explained why a woman who couldn’t bluff her way through a game of Candyland thought she could play with the big boys at a Las Vegas poker tournament. But it still didn’t tell Ryan why she cared so much whether he won or lost.

She’d been a hell of a lot more biddable this morning, stuttering every few seconds instead of glaring at him like he’d just killed a kitten.

Of course, he’d been shirtless at the time.

Was that it? Ryan bit back a laugh. When he’d imagined himself flirting with Daisy Adams it had been for an invitation to her room—not information—but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He needed her help—or at least her silence—if he was going to catch Blethins and Morelli. He took a step forward, crowding her space.

“You’re out of your league here, honey.” He reached out to run a hand across her silky cheek. “Tell me what’s going on. We can figure this out together.”

She didn’t say a word, but her breath caught in her throat and color stained the skin under his hand.

Now Ryan’s smile was genuine. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he lied.

“You cheated,” she hissed.

“I folded a hand. I didn’t cheat.”

“I still want to know why.”

“Maybe I just like to play with my food.” He kept touching her—enjoying it a little more than he should have—feeling for the pulse at her throat and the pounding heartbeat that would tell him whether or not she was lying.

“If you hurt Bullet, I’ll kill you,” she warned.

Ryan bit back a laugh. It was like being threatened by a bunny…a really angry bunny. He turned her words over in his mind. She’d mentioned someone named Bullet earlier, hadn’t she? But he’d been too sleep deprived and horny to catch it. “Bullet said…” and then she’d trailed off, as if she didn’t want to say exactly what Bullet had said. Like it was too important to be shared.

Like her friend really was in danger.

“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” Ryan said. He bent low to inhale the warm scent of Daisy’s skin. She still smelled like the best mornings of his life. Like all the pain of the last year had drifted away and he was back in his grandfather’s kitchen while the old man made fresh juice. “Now, who’s Bullet and what kind of trouble has he gotten you into?”

Bang
! Something hit the door behind him. It was probably some drunken tourist looking for a toilet.

Bang
! More pounding. If Ryan ignored it, then hopefully they’d look somewhere else.

“Tell me, Daisy,” he ordered, too rushed to be delicate.

Heat flickered in her eyes at his tone.

Poor lost bunny.

He bit back a wolfish smile.

She was going to be so much fun.

“Tell me,” he repeated, harsher this time.

The heat flared and Daisy pushed up onto her tiptoes to press her lips against his. The woman tasted like coffee and spice and oranges—again—and all Ryan could do was lick into her as his hands curled over the back of her jeans.

The tournament could wait.

His hands ground into her hips.

The case could wait.

All he wanted to do was shuck off those pants and press Daisy up against the nearest flat surface. He wanted to watch her cheeks color and her lips shake as he brought her to orgasm over and over again.

He wanted to make her moan.

Bang
! The door to the restroom burst open and a contingent of security guards marched in, led by a man in a gray suit. The guy in the suit was in his sixties—maybe older—with silver hair and lines around his eyes. His shoulders were hunched over slightly with age, but he still had at least six inches and fifty pounds on Ryan. He put all that extra weight into his motion as he slammed a fist straight into Ryan’s jaw.

Suddenly, Ryan was seeing stars.

Ryan rolled to the right, fast, but the guy was already shuffling into position like an aging boxer ready for one last go in the ring. The security guards at his back made it clear that even if Ryan fought back—or got away—it wouldn’t be for long.

“Think you can grab some girl in my casino?” the old guy demanded. “Behave however you want? Disrespectful.” He threw an uppercut and followed it up with a roundhouse punch. He may be old, but his hands were still quick.

Ryan would have hated to see the guy in his prime. As it was, he could barely keep the full weight of the man’s punches from landing on him.

So much for all those years of FBI training.

He should have brought his gun.

“Disrespectful,” the guy repeated, raising his voice a little for the security guards to hear. “Someone get my baseball bat.”

“No!” Daisy’s voice crackled with fear.

“Don’t you worry your pretty head, doll.” The man never stopped moving as he penned Ryan into the corner. “You get out of here. Go back to the tables. We’ve got this.”

And then Daisy—shy little bunny Daisy—lunged in front of the stranger’s fists.

Whap
! The sound of knuckles on flesh sent red-hot rage prickling through Ryan’s skin.

The guy in the suit had landed a punch on Daisy’s shoulder.

That was unacceptable.

Forget about the security guards and the long odds. Ryan was going to take the other man down. He shifted forward onto the balls of his feet and threw a one-two combination in the other man’s direction. The first punch didn’t land, but the second was solid. He connected with the old guy’s jaw hard enough to make his head spin.

The old man moved like a boxer—fine—but they weren’t in the ring. In this room, there were no rules. He turned slightly, stomping his heel down on a fine Italian loafer and catching the man’s arm with his hands to twist it back behind his shoulder.

He was going to put the guy in the ground.

“Let him go.” Daisy slammed a fist into Ryan’s shoulder. “Oh, God—”

“This guy hit you.”

“It was an accident.” She pushed herself between them again, forcing Ryan to release his grip as she helped the old man up off the ground. “Damn it, Bullet, what did the doctor say about your temper? I swear to God, if you give yourself another heart attack, I’m not going to the hospital with you this time. I’ll dance on your grave.”

“Daisy.” The man’s face crumpled. “Baby. You don’t mean it.”

“The hell I don’t,” Daisy snarled, rolling her shoulder. “He was right. You hit me. Hard.”

“Daisy.” And now the old man was dropping to his knees, begging forgiveness. It was like something he’d seen in an old-fashioned movie. “I never… You gotta believe me. I never meant to hurt you, doll.”

So, this was Bullet.

And Daisy had been worried about Ryan hurting him?