The Winning Hand (3 page)

“She’s, well, she’s kind of pathetic. Not a working girl,” the waitress added. “But she’s either sick or stoned.”

“Thanks, I’ll take care of it.”

Mac shifted directions, moving into the forest of slots rather than his private elevator. Security could handle any trouble that threatened the smooth operation of the casino. But it was his place, and he handled his own.

A few feet away, Darcy fed her last three dollars into the slot. You’re insane, she told herself, carefully babying the last bill when the machine spit it back at her. You’ve lost your mind, her pounding heart seemed to scream even as she smoothed the bill and slid it back in. But God, it felt so good to do something outrageous.

She closed her eyes a moment, breathing deeply three times, then, opening them again, she grabbed the shiny red ball of the arm with a trembling hand.

And pulled.

Stars and moons revolved in front of her eyes, colors blurred, a calliope tune began to jingle. She found herself smiling at the absurdity of it, almost dreaming as the shapes spun and spun and spun.

That was her life right now, she thought absently. Spinning and spinning. Where will it stop? Where will it go?

Her smile only broadened as stars and moons began to click into place. They were so pretty. It had been worth the price just to watch, to know at least she’d pulled the handle.

Click, click, click, shining stars, glowing moons. When they blurred, she blinked furiously. She wanted to see every movement, to hear every sound. Wasn’t it pretty how neatly they all lined up? she thought, and braced a hand against the machine when she felt herself begin to tip.

And as she touched it, as her hand made contact with the cool metal, the movement stopped. The world exploded.

Sirens shrieked, making her stagger back in shock. Colored lights went into a mad dance atop the
machine, and a war drum began to beat. Whistles shrilled, bells clanged. All around her people began to shout and shove.

What had she done? Oh God, what had she done?

“Holy cow, you hit the big one!” Someone grabbed her, danced with her. She couldn’t breathe, flailed weakly to try to escape.

Everyone was pushing, pulling at her, shouting words she couldn’t understand. Faces swam in front of hers, bodies pressed until she was trapped against the machine.

An ocean was roaring in her head, a jackhammer pounded in her chest.

Mac moved through the celebratory crowd, nudging well-wishers aside. He saw her, a slip of a woman who looked barely old enough to be inside the casino. Her dark blond hair was short and messily cut, bangs flopping down into enormous fawn-colored eyes. Her face was angular as a pixie’s and pale as wax.

Her cotton shirt and slacks looked as though she’d slept in them, and as if she’d spent her sleeping hours curled up in the desert.

Not stoned, he decided when he took her arm and felt the tremble. Terrified.

Darcy cringed, shifted her gaze to his. She saw the war chief, the power and the challenge and the romance of him. He’d either save her, she thought dizzily, or finish her.

“I didn’t mean—I only … What did I do?”

Mac angled his head, smiled a little. A dim bulb, perhaps, he mused, but harmless. “You hit the jackpot,” he told her.

“Oh, well, then.”

She fainted.

There was something wonderfully smooth under her cheek. Silk, satin, Darcy thought dimly. She’d always loved the feel of silk. Once she’d spent nearly her entire paycheck on a silk blouse, creamy white with tiny gold buttons, heart-shaped buttons. She’d had to skip lunch for two weeks, but it had been worth it every time she slipped that silk over her skin.

She sighed, remembering it.

“Come on, all the way out.”

“What?” She blinked her eyes open, focused on a slant of light from a jeweled lamp.

“Here, try this.” Mac slipped a hand under her head, lifted it and put a glass of water to her lips.

“What?”

“You’re repeating yourself. Drink some water.”

“Okay.” She sipped obediently, studying the tanned, long-fingered hand that held the glass. She was on a bed, she realized now, a huge bed with a silky cover. There was a mirrored ceiling over her head. “Oh my.” Warily she shifted her gaze until she saw his face. “I thought you were the war chief.”

“Close.” He set the glass aside, then sat on the edge of the bed, noting with amusement that she scooted over slightly to keep more distance between them. “Mac Blade. I run the place.”

“Darcy. I’m Darcy Wallace. Why am I here?”

“It seemed better than leaving you sprawled on the floor of the casino. You fainted.”

“I did?” Mortified, she closed her eyes again. “Yes, I guess I did. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not an atypical reaction to winning close to two million dollars.”

Her eyes popped open, her hand grabbed at her throat. “I’m sorry, I’m still a little confused. Did you say I won almost two million dollars?”

“You put the money in, you pulled the lever, you hit.” There wasn’t an ounce of color in her cheeks, he noted, and thought she looked like a bruised fairy. “We’ll deal with the paperwork when you’re feeling a little steadier. Do you want to see a doctor?”

“No, I’m just … I’m okay. I can’t think. My head’s spinning.”

“Take your time.” Instinctively he plumped up the pillows behind her and eased her back. “Is there someone I can call to help you out?”

“No! Don’t call anyone.”

His brow lifted at her quick and violent refusal, but he only nodded. “All right.”

“There isn’t anyone,” she said more calmly. “I’m traveling. I—my purse was stolen yesterday in Utah. My car broke down a mile or so out of town. I think it’s the fuel pump this time.”

“Could be,” he murmured, tongue in cheek. “How did you get here?”

“I walked in. I just got here.” Or she thought she had. It was hard to remember how long she’d walked around, goggling at everything. “I had nine dollars and thirty-seven cents.”

“I see.” He wasn’t sure if she was a lunatic or a first-class gambler. “Well, now you have approximately one million, eight hundred thousand, eighty-nine dollars and thirty-seven cents.”

“Oh … oh.” Shattered, she put her hands over her face and burst into tears.

There were too many women in his life for Mac to be uncomfortable with female tears. He sat where he was, let her sob it out.

An odd little package, he thought. When she’d slid unconscious into his arms she’d been limp as water and had weighed no more than a child. Now she’d told him she’d hiked over a mile in the stunning late spring heat, then risked what little money she’d had on a yank of a slot.

That required either steel or insanity.

Whichever it was, she’d beaten the odds. And now she was rich—and, for a while at least, his responsibility.

“I’m sorry.” She wiped at her somehow charmingly dirty face with her hands. “I’m not like this. Really. I can’t take it in.” She accepted the handkerchief he offered and blew her nose. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Let’s start with the basics. When’s the last time you ate?”

“Last night—well, I bought a candy bar this morning, but it melted before I could finish it. So it
doesn’t really count.”

“I’ll order you some food.” He rose, looking down at her. “I’ll have them set it up down in the parlor. Why don’t you take a hot bath, try to relax, get your bearings.”

She gnawed her lip. “I don’t have any clothes. I left my suitcase in my car. Oh! My bag. I had my bag.”

“I have it.” Because she’d gone pale again, he reached down beside the bed and lifted the plain brown tote. “This one?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” Relief had her closing her eyes and struggling to calm herself again. “I thought I’d lost it. It’s not clothes,” she added, letting out a long sigh. “It’s my work.”

“It’s safe, and there’s a robe in the closet.”

She cleared her throat. However kind he was being, she was still alone with him, a perfect stranger, in a very opulent and sensual bedroom. “I appreciate it. But I should get a room. If I could have a small advance on the money, I can find a hotel.”

“Something wrong with this one?”

“This what?”

“This hotel,” he said with what he considered admirable patience. “This room.”

“No, nothing. It’s beautiful.”

“Then make yourself comfortable. Your room’s comped for the duration of your stay—”

“What? Excuse me?” She sat up a little straighter. “I can have this room? I can just … stay here?”

“It’s the usual procedure for high rollers.” He smiled again, making her heart bump. “You qualify.”

“I do?”

“The management hopes you’ll put some of those winnings back into the pot. At the tables, the shops. Your room and meals, your bar bills, are on us.”

She eased off the bed. “I get all this for free, because I won money from you?”

This time his grin was quick, and just a little wolfish. “I want the chance to win some of it back.”

Lord, he was beautiful. Like the hero in a novel. That thought rolled around in her jumbled brain. “That seems only fair. Thank you so much, Mr. McBlade.”

“Not McBlade,” he corrected, taking the hand she offered. “Mac. Mac Blade.”

“Oh. I’m afraid I haven’t been very coherent.”

“You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten, gotten some rest.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Why don’t we talk in the morning, say ten o’clock. My office.”

“Yes, in the morning.”

“Welcome to Las Vegas, Ms. Wallace,” he said, and turned toward a sweep of open stairs that led to the living area.

“Thank you.” She ordered her shaky legs to carry her to the rail, then lost her breath when she looked down at the sprawling space done in sapphires and emeralds, accented with ebony wood and lush arrangements of tropical flowers. She watched him cross an ocean of Oriental carpet. “Mr. Blade?”

“Yes?” He turned, glanced up, and thought she looked about twelve years old and as lost as a lamb.

“What will I do with all that money?”

He flashed that grin again. “You’ll think of something. I’d make book on it.” Then, pressing a button, he stepped through the brass doors that slid open, and into what surely was a private elevator.

When the doors closed again, Darcy gave in to her buckling knees and sat on the floor. She hugged herself hard, rocked. If this was some dream, some hallucination brought on by stress or sunstroke, she hoped it never cleared away.

She hadn’t just escaped, she realized. She’d been liberated.

The bubble didn’t burst in the morning. She shot awake at six o’clock and stared, startled, at her reflection in the mirror overhead. Testing, she lifted a hand, watched herself touch her cheek. She felt her fingers, saw them slide up over her forehead and down the other side of her face.

However odd, it had to be real. She’d never seen herself horizontal before. She looked so … different, she decided, sprawled in the huge, rumpled bed surrounded by a mountain of pillows. She felt so different. How many years had she awakened each morning in the practical twin bed that had been her nesting place since childhood?

She never had to go back to that.

Somehow that single thought, the simple fact that she would never again have to adjust her body to the stingy mattress of the ancient bed sent a rush of joy through her so wild, so bright, she burst into giddy laughter, unable to stop until she was gasping for air.

She rolled from one end of the bed to the other, kicked her feet in the air, hugged pillows, and when that wasn’t enough, leaped up to dance on the mattress.

When she was thoroughly winded, she dropped down again and wrapped her arms tight around her knees. She was wearing a silk sleep shirt in candy pink—one of several articles of basic wardrobe that had arrived just after her dinner. Everything had been from the boutique downstairs and had been presented to her courtesy of The Comanche.

She wasn’t even going to worry about the fact that the gorgeous Mac Blade had bought her underwear. Not when it was such fabulous underwear.

She jumped up, wanting to explore the suite again. The night before, she’d been so punchy she’d just wandered around gawking. Now it was time to play.

She snatched up a remote and began punching buttons. The shimmering blue drapes over the floor-to-ceiling windows opened and closed, making her grin like a fool. Opening them again, she saw she had a wide window on the world that was Vegas.

It was all muted grays and blues now, she noted, with a soft desert dawn breaking. She wondered how many floors up she was. Twenty? Thirty? It hardly mattered. She was on top of a brave and very new world.

Choosing another button, she opened a wall panel that revealed a big-screen television screen, a VCR and a complicated-looking stereo system. She fiddled until she filled the room with music, then raced downstairs.

She opened all the drapes, smelled the flowers, sat on every cushion of the two sofas and six chairs. She marveled at the arched fireplace, at the grand piano of showy white. And because there was no one to tell her not to touch, she sat down and played the first thing that came into her mind.

The celebratory, arrogant notes of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” made her laugh like a loon.