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“Cassie for the win, then,” I said as we reached the entrance to another, more acre-driven mansion. “Okay. This is it.”
“I’m not going to wish you good luck.”
“Don’t need you to.” On impulse, I leaned in to kiss the rasp of his cheek. “That’s enough.”
I’d been studying him closely. It was why I noticed the subtle softening of his features, a crack in his shell before he paved over the vulnerability.
“Don’t screw up,” he said.
I didn’t answer, and instead swept out of the car, the red gown whisking at my ankles and adding a decadence that was lacking at the heart of me.
I fished in my small clutch for a mint, popped it in, then stepped toward the doors.
“Name?” asked the man at the doors, clad in a black-piece suit.
He was the only one out here, save for the purr of Theo’s engine as he drove back off into the night. The neighborhood was expansive with land but light on houses. It was a borough on the outskirts of London, probably something ending in “-shire” or “-heath.” An exclusive, protected suburb in which London’s elite traveled into the figurative underworld to meet their Hades. In this case, the devil was in the cards.
“Vivienne,” I said to the figure. He glanced at his tablet. “Mathis.”
“I see you. Go on in. A man named Edgar will assist you. He’ll be waiting beside the metal detectors.”
Edgar? Interesting. I assumed he’d be in the camera room only, but it seemed these men played multiple roles. In tables like these, run by families with reputations, these circles were kept small and trusted. Henry Wittacker didn’t simply invite anyone, which was probably why it hadn’t been difficult for Rada to find Trace through Mel. Trace likely was forced to use his last name in obtaining a seat at this lucrative table. He needed money to get out of the UK, fast, and short of robbing a bank, poker was a way of making quick cash. Underground, even more so.
It occurred to me that Rada had put her reputation on the line for Theo. Members of the poker elite didn’t rat on each other. Politicians, restauranteurs, celebrities, Russians, the mafia, the code of this brotherhood was simple: Keep your mouth shut.
In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if this man were Steve.
“Thank you, sir.”
I picked up my skirt and stepped through the double-arched doors the man swept open for me. If the outside of the house was basked in a golden wash of sunlight, the interior was even shinier, the unobtrusive light fixtures glinting off brass accents—or likely gold, and vintage at that. The small table under the diamond shaped mirror with delicate gold legs could have been gifted by the royal family, as well as the Renaissance paintings guiding my way to the left, where two largely obtrusive metal detectors waited, right before marbled stairs with gold railings descended to the bottom floor.
Hades indeed.
“Miss Mathis?” a very tall man asked, also in an all-black, three-piece suit. My head maybe reached his shoulders. He appeared lean in his outfit, but I was confident his arms and thighs were roped in muscle, a man adept at combining martial arts and wrestling, bare-chested, with no protective armor against his opponent. A visual representation of poker, if you will.
“I’m Edgar. Follow me.”
We strode around the metal detectors and the two people manning it, and I clip-clopped down the staircase, my fingers running across the cold golden railing, one step behind Edgar. A one-second check in my handbag to make sure my phone was on, and—
“I hafta be honest, it’s not often we have a lady in the house,” Edgar said.
I refocused. “Yes. I get that a lot.”
“You must be good, to come here.”
“I’m all right,” I said as we reached the landing.
Edgar was fishing, but that was okay. I was well-used to men attempting to “know” me, or in their version, have presumed aspects of my personality that no matter how I answered, would remain prominent until I drained the pot. The potential for Edgar being no different was high, but I played along anyway, though not too hard. I was to be above-average, but not amazing.
“It’s interesting, you know, how you landed on the VIP list mere hours ago.”
Hmm. Edgar was also observant.
“It was a last-minute detour into the UK. My fiancé, well, he has his quirks. One being diverting our”—my mind raced to recall the charter plane Theo had flown us in on—“Bombardier en route to Persia because he justhadto have the world’s most expensive burger. Have you heard of it? Involving gold and lobster? Regardless,” I waved a hand at him like I pictured a sheik’s princess would do, “If I smell like a cheeseburger, that would be why. He’s now asleep at our suite, and I’m bored and waiting for him to wake up so I can reboard my plane.”
Yeesh. I hope I sounded fancy enough. That, right there, wasso muchpulled out of my ass in record time.
Meanwhile, Edgar probably had a delicate internal monologue beginning with,rich people. They don’t pay me enough for this shit.
