Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (15 page)

I blinked in confusion and tried not to let out a wail. “Wait a minute. The wedding?
Now
you get cold feet?”

“No, not the wedding,” he said, frowning. “The poker tournament.”

“Oh. That.” The frown turned into a scowl, and I said, “But this tournament, it’s a big deal, right? If you don’t try, you’ll always wonder.” See? I could be a supportive girlfriend.

“I don’t know. Am I supposed to be this nervous? I’ve got butterflies. No—it’s like I’ve got claws scraping the inside of my skin. What are you smiling at?”

“That’s exactly how I felt yesterday before my gig.”

Ben stopped pacing and let out a sigh, a release of nervous energy. I’d had my turn in the spotlight yesterday—I actually thought it was kind of cool Ben was getting a bit of that spotlight today. In poker, of all things. I said, “If your werewolf superpowers can win anything at all, I think you should try it. It’d be nice to have some good come out of being infected with lycanthropy.”

“Besides being with you, you mean?” he said, his smile crooked.

I grinned stupidly. “Aw.”

“You’re right, it’s just nerves.”

“Do you want me to come cheer you on? I could even find some pom-poms.” I wrinkled my brow. “Is cheering allowed at poker tournaments?”

“You don’t have to do that. It’ll be boring, watching a bunch of obsessive people playing cards.”

“You were there for me yesterday.”

“Kitty, it’s okay. You’ve wanted to go sit by the pool for weeks. Now’s your chance. Besides, I’m not supposed to see the bride before the ceremony, right?”

I smirked. “If you wanted to be that traditional, we should have gotten separate rooms and last night never should have happened. Which would have been a shame.”

His smile was a very satisfied leer.

I finally pulled my swimsuit out of my suitcase. A bikini, even. I figured I’d only be young once. Ben was suitably admiring, and best of all, he held my hand when he walked me to the elevator. My mental Frank Sinatra soundtrack had started playing again.
Come fly with me. . .

We were halfway there when the faint click of a heel on linoleum behind a closed service door caught my attention. My hand flexed against Ben’s. I glanced over my shoulder at the service door, which was behind us. I met Ben’s gaze; his nose was flaring.

“Run,” I whispered, because my instincts had started flaring. We both tensed, preparing to launch.

Doors swung open on both sides of the hall.

A hand from the direction of the service door grabbed me and sent me sprawling. I rolled and came up to a crouch, ready to pounce, a growl in my throat, to see Evan spring from a room opposite me and lock Ben in a full nelson. Ben shouted and kicked, shoving him against the wall, and there was Brenda, lunging toward him, outstretched hand holding—

I thought it was a knife, but it wasn’t. It was a spoon, slightly tarnished. Silver. She pressed it into Ben’s hand and curled his fingers around it. Held it there.

“What the—Jesus Christ!” Ben hissed in pain and flailed all the harder, jerking out of Brenda’s grip and flinging the spoon away, then slamming Evan against the wall so hard the bounty hunter’s head knocked. He dropped Ben.

Ben whirled to face them, crouching. I stood and put my hand on his shoulder, squeezing to show I was with him. Wolf crawled to the surface, claws itching in my fingers, a hunter’s vision filling my eyes. These two had attacked—were enemies. What would they do next? My mate and I could pounce on them before they could draw their guns. I was ready to protect him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ben shouted, his rash-covered hand curled in front of him. Round red welts in the shape of a spoon’s bowl marked the skin.

Evan stared at that hand, at the rash. “God, it’s true.”

“Told you,” Brenda said. Today she was wearing leather pants, a red V-necked shirt, and ankle boots with silver on the toes. Still with spike heels, which I was sure she could use as deadly weapons in a pinch. She picked up the spoon from where it had landed across the hall. “Grandma’s surefire werewolf detector.”

“Is that was this is about?” Ben said, almost laughing. “If you suspected, you could have fucking
asked!
What are you going to do now, shoot me in the middle of the hotel? Big bad werewolf needs to die?”

Evan and Brenda stood there, staring at him—and Ben had been right. They almost looked sad. Like they felt sorry for him. The muscles of Ben’s shoulders under my hand were hard as stone, tense and trembling. I could smell the anger coming off him, the scent of his wolf growing. I squeezed him again, hoping he would keep it together. Since they weren’t shooting at us, we had to keep it together.

“I’d wondered,” Brenda said. “When I saw you two together, there was something off. I can’t always tell by looking, but you’ve got this look that you didn’t have before.”

“What kind of look?” Ben said, his voice almost spitting with anger. But he didn’t feel like he was about to shift, skin getting ready to slide into fur. He straightened, and we stood shoulder to shoulder.

“Like you’re hunting. You were never a hunter before. Not like Cormac.”

Ben scowled and turned away.

Evan looked at me. “Are you the one—”

“No,” I said harshly. “Of course not. I’ve never turned anyone.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?” Brenda said, just as accusing.

I considered lying. Didn’t think it would win me points with her. Wasn’t sure she’d wait for the explanation, but I said it anyway, ice-cold. “Yes.”

Ben glared. “Cormac killed the one who got me. Then he brought me to her. She helped me. Saved my life.” We exchanged a glance. His look was bared, stark, reliving those weeks after he’d been turned, filled with gratitude and, sappy as it sounded, love. Because that was what my gaze held, looking at him. I didn’t care if the bounty hunters saw it.

I said, “He wanted Cormac to shoot him, but he wouldn’t.”

“Cormac went soft?” Brenda said, frowning.

“No,” Ben said. “I think he grew a soul.”

Enough of this. I was supposed to be on vacation. “Are we done here? Any more secrets you want to know, or can we leave?”

They stepped aside and let us pass. We did so, carefully, walking arm to arm. I didn’t want to show my back to them, so I let Ben lead and watched them over my shoulder.

“You’ll slip,” Evan said. “Werewolves always do. One of these days, you’ll slip up, and one of us will find you.”

Ben stopped but didn’t turn around when he said, “I don’t believe that. I never did.”

Brenda gave a mocking chuckle. “You can’t convince me you’re actually happy being a monster.”

Wearing a thin-lipped smile, he looked at me, then her. “Beats being unhappy as one.”

“If you guys aren’t going to shoot us, we’re going,” I said, taking Ben’s hand and pulling him toward the elevators.

Ben didn’t move. He’d donned this quirky half-grin. “You want to see one of the benefits of being a werewolf? Besides getting to shack up with a babe like Kitty?”

Oh, a million brownie points for him, right there. “Aw, honey,” I said.

Brenda rolled her eyes.

“Stake me a hundred bucks and I’ll show you a trick,” Ben said.

“What?” Evan said, like he hadn’t heard right.

“I’m going to play some poker. Stake me a hundred and I’ll double it.”

“What has this got to do with being a werewolf?” Brenda said.

“Trust me.”

Evan shrugged. “I’m game.”

“You’re crazy,” Brenda said.

“Let’s go,” Ben said, marching toward the elevators.

I trailed after him, nervous because Brenda and Evan flanked me. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Ben said. “You guys going to shoot me?”

“Only if I see your claws,” Evan said.

“Deal.”

This could only end badly.

On the elevator ride down, Ben was pure lupine bravado, back straight, shoulders square, glare in place. His tail, if he’d had it, would have been straight up. Maybe even wagging.

I eyed the two bounty hunters, who eyed me back. “I don’t trust them. I want to stay with you.” Even though I was wearing nothing but a bikini, a wraparound skirt, and sandals. I’d be out of place in the poker room.

“Kitty, you’ve been talking about sitting by the pool for weeks. You should go. I’ll be fine.”

I looked at Evan and Brenda. “If anything happens to him, Cormac’ll go after you guys.”

They actually flinched at that and looked a tiny bit nervous. Even Brenda.

“He’s in jail,” she said.

“That’ll just give you a couple years to let your guard down before he gets you.” I gave her a wolf smile.

“Nothing will happen to Ben,” Evan said.

“Unless he sprouts claws,” Brenda added.

The freaks.

The elevator doors opened. Ben gave me a light kiss. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” I said weakly. The three of them marched off toward the casino.

Which left me with nothing to do but check out the pool. Ben was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

Couldn’t say I cared much for his friends.

Chapter 11

F
inally, I was poolside. Morning sun. Strawberry margarita. Bliss. The only thing missing was Ben rubbing lotion onto my back.

The place was done up like the courtyard of a luxurious Italian villa. Mosaic tiles lined the rectangular pool and the deck around it. Shrubs and trees trimmed into geometric topiaries lined the area, blocking out the view of the surrounding streets and buildings, along with pots filled with ivy and flowering vines. More neoclassical statuary, made of plaster or concrete or whatever, lurked here and there: half-nude nymphs playing pan pipes and dropping grapes into the mouths of satyrs, luscious stone lads and lasses making eyes at one another, and so forth. It was all a little much. The place had an interesting tapestry of smells: chlorine and pool chemicals, sharp and tangy; lotions and oils; alcohol and sugar, enough to make me feel a little tipsy just breathing. Twisting paths led to hidden areas where people could sit and sunbathe in peace and quiet if they chose, away from the main pool with its swim-up bars and blackjack tables. I chose a place on a little patio area off to the side, still with a view of the pool—and anyone who might try to sneak up on me—but peaceful. Vegas, I decided, would be great if it didn’t have so many people.

Despite all Ben’s efforts to distract me and help me relax last night, my anxiety had returned. That creeping stiffness between my shoulder blades, the feeling that someone was watching me and I needed to look over my shoulder. I lay back, listening to splashing in the water, letting it calm me, then sat up abruptly because I could have sworn someone was standing next to my chair, looking down at me. No one was.

The rest of the pool area was filling with people as the day heated up. A couple of families played in one corner, the kids laughing and splashing. A few young couples lounged in chairs with magazines and drinks. Lots of stylish swimsuits and tanned bodies glowing with health. A waitress circulated taking drink orders. This was all perfectly normal.

Twenty yards or so to my left, a woman was taking a picture of the scene with her cell phone. Something to send back home. Weather’s great, wish you were here. Was it my imagination, or was the camera lens pointed right at me?

She lowered the phone and winked at me.

Or maybe she didn’t. Was I being paranoid again? I should have laid back down and convinced myself I was being paranoid. But I watched her leave and realized why I was so bothered: That was Sylvia. She looked totally different, floral skirt wrapped around her hips, black string bikini top, bag slung over a bare shoulder. Her brown hair was pinned up with a carved wooden clip. She wasn’t doing anything threatening. Just
looking
at me.

I sat back again, breathing calmly and telling Wolf to settle down. We weren’t cornered. The ice was melting in my margarita. I took a drink and wondered if I should follow Sylvia, to find out what she was up to. Or would that only piss her off?

At this point, I couldn’t possibly roll over to get some sun on my back. You didn’t turn your back on an enemy, never ever.

So much for a nice, relaxing time by the pool. With Sylvia gone I should have felt better, but the feeling that someone was watching me increased. It felt like bugs crawling over my skin.

At least the sun was warm. Pleasantly warm. The presence of the swimming pool kept the air wet enough to be comfortable rather than scorching. If I could just doze off, revel in the show’s success, forget about everything else. . .

Then I saw him, sitting on a lounge chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching me through stylish sunglasses. When he caught me staring back at him, he smiled, then stood and walked toward me.

I recognized the swept-back dark hair, the square jaw, the alluring eyes, the knowing smile. It was Balthasar, King of Beasts, stalking toward me like a lion on the veldt. He may very well have been a lion; I smelled the musk of fur on him.

He didn’t need to be out here working on his tan, because it was already perfect. As was the rest of him, really. I could have labeled the muscle groups on his torso, if I’d known what any of them were called. Some bodies were meant for Speedo. His was black. It was all I could do to not melt through the fabric of my lounge chair. I managed to lie there calmly, watching his approach with an air of detached interest, and not feel too self-conscious about my vampiricly pale skin.

“Hello,” he said and gestured to the chair beside me. “Mind if I join you?”

“Go right ahead,” I said, and he did. He stayed sitting up, looking at me.

In wolf body language—and in the body language of most of the lycanthropes I knew about—the most submissive posture a person could adopt was on her back, belly up, gazing beseechingly at the dominant looking down on her. Kind of like the position I was in relative to Balthasar right now.

I sat up, putting myself on an equal footing with him, and felt a little better.

“You seem to be enjoying your stay,” he said, taking off his sunglasses. He had fabulous green eyes. Emerald green.