By Blood We Live (52 page)

How did one stop missing a man that she'd loved for more than two hundred years?

She kept walking until the click of her high heels against the marble pierced her senses. Sometimes she lived so deeply inside her own head that she had to remember where she was and had to remember to keep up the tedious façade of being engaged in the moment, caring about the mundane goings on of human existence. Had to fit in, be unobtrusive in their world. Had to stay away from the mirrors and reflective surfaces that were all the rage in the chic hotels. Wanted a vodka martini and hated that she had to find a feed who was drinking one and then had to entice him somewhere for just a sip from his veins. All this waiting, when she was a woman of action. Tonight, she wanted to be anywhere but here, but Atlantic City would just have to do.

Frustrated, she found a black jack table and sat with a flop.

"Bad night?" the dealer asked with a smile.

She stared at his warm hazel eyes and dark brown skin, enjoying the way his mouth moved for a moment before she materialized a stack of chips in her clutch bag and then withdrew them to slide them onto the table. "Just a slow start, but the night is young."

He nodded, appraising her physique for a second and then dealt her cards. She studied him before looking down at her cards; he couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with his sexy chocolate self.

"Black jack," she said quietly, and then pushed the five thousand dollars worth of chip winnings back in his direction as a tip. He was cute. Too young with too much of a future to dine on. She stood as he gaped.

"You sure, Miss?" He looked from the stack to her and then over to his pit boss.

"As ever," she murmured, blowing him a sexy kiss. "Do something positive with it. A mind is a terrible thing to waste." She made eye contact with the older pit boss to be sure the young dealer wouldn't get in trouble—he hadn't stolen the chips, it was her tip, her choice. The pit boss nodded. Now she could leave. This is what acute boredom did, made one find little stupid things to engage in to give one's life meaning.

She turned to leave but the young dealer's energy reached out to try to hold her. She could feel him summoning the nerve to ask a simple question, curiosity about to cost him dearly. Curiosity always killed the cat, and sometimes satisfaction brought it back. He was a handsome cat, even if curiosity had the potential to kill him. But he wasn't a keeper, not likely to get brought back.

"What's your name?"

She half turned and offered him a half-smile. "Not important. And. . . no. . . I don't want to meet you later when you get off your shift. Just enjoy the cash and stay healthy, baby."

"Okay, I can do that," he said, seeming disappointed as she strode away.

She shook her head and chuckled softly to herself. Men. They always wanted more than the bargain. Five grand wasn't enough; he wanted sex, too? Maybe she would just head toward the poker tables. . . or just go out to sit under the stars to allow the night to pass without incident.

He stared at the security monitors, running back the images that didn't make sense. A chair had moved away from the table by itself. Chips had appeared on the table and the dealer looked as though he was talking to himself. He'd dealt, and cards flipped where no one was seated. Then what looked like five thousand in winnings had gotten pushed back to the dealer. The kid had even checked with the pit boss, who nodded. Chips slid toward him as he spoke to the nothingness.

It was time to take a break.

Obviously his head was all screwed up. Either someone had slipped him a mickey or he was finally having that nervous breakdown that he should have had five years ago. But he was so fuckin' close! No one else had seemed to notice; it had gone by in a flash.

"Yo, Tony, you okay?" A burly member of the security team stared at him seeming worried. "All of a sudden you don't look so good. Like you seen a ghost, or somethin'."

He dabbed at the sweat beading his brow. "I'm cool, man, just need a few. Cover for me? I need to go take a walk."

Several pairs of eyes regarded him, eyes he knew he could never fully trust. He wasn't one of them, but had worked his way inside their organization through years of deception. And still, he was only in the outer layers of their hierarchy.

"Sure thing, man. Take ten."

He nodded, studying their predatory eyes before slipping out of the casino floor monitoring room. Maybe he was losing it, if they could see it so clearly. Sharks could always sense blood in the water from miles away, and from what Fat Joe had said and the expression on his face, it was obvious he was bleeding to death. But the big question was, had his cover been blown somehow? And ultimately, did that matter? If he was a traitor, he was dead; if he was perceived as a liability, he was dead. Sharks would eat their own if one of them was weak or injured.

Right now he seemed weak, seemed injured. He knew his eyes had given him away. His sweat in a cool, air-conditioned room had telegraphed to them that something out of the blue had made him freak. He could have replayed the images, but what if what he saw was all in his head? Then there'd be questions, deeper digging into his background. He couldn't fully trust his own, either. There had been a leak back at the Federal Task Force on Organized Crime, Jersey Division.

After what they'd done to his Meghan, his partner, and his partner's wife, there was no time for so-called healing. He kept walking. If they snuffed him in the men's room, then he'd take several of them with him.

Checking the stalls briefly, he walked past the urinals and went to the sinks splashing water on his face quickly so that his senses remained alert. He grabbed a paper towel and stared in the mirror as he wiped away the water, not seeing himself, but the fire before he turned away.

His partner, Nate, was the inside man, he'd worked the logistics in the office. Their wives were dear friends. That day, Meghan had gone over to personally tell Carol the good news. . . she was pregnant. Tony briefly closed his eyes. The kids, thank God, were in the yard when Carol turned on the burner under a tea kettle. Both women were at ground zero when the blast rocked the kitchen. Nate heard it on the police band. Evidence of the charred radio told them that. He'd never made it home to collect his devastated children or to bury his wife. They'd duct-taped explosives to Nate's chair, and then allowed the warehouse to go up like a Fourth of July display.

He needed a drink, even though that was thoroughly against casino policy. Fuck it. No wonder he was seeing things. Following the rules had never been his forte, at least not after what went down had gone down.

Heading toward the elevators, he kept his gaze scanning.

He'd known all along that there had to be a leak, no matter what the internal investigation revealed. His own personal investigation told him otherwise. Some people even suggested that he rest, stop asking questions, take a vacation, take time off to grieve Meghan. There were a lot of people who didn't want the Gambiotti family to have any legal problems. Political incorrectness was entrenched in the system, as was payola. He took their advice for three months, took time off to do what he had to do. So when bodies within the department started dropping, they never suspected it was one of their own making a surgical strike. It wasn't murder, in his mind; it was a matter of principle.

Chaos bred panic. Those within the department left in the chain of command wanted the loose ends tied up quickly before death came to their door. They wanted him back on the job, back in play; suddenly, they didn't care about his healing or his loss. Survival instinct was a motherfucker. They knew that a man with nothing to lose was a dangerous thing, so they set him on the other side like a rabid dog—never the wiser about who was hitting dirty feds—and they sicced him on the side that had given the hit order. He could go after the Gambiottis with impunity, as long as he yielded results. . . but if he was caught doing anything outside the scope of the law, he was on his own, a rogue that they would necessarily disavow.

The bell sounding the elevator arrival gave him a start. He stepped inside, glad it was empty, and went down to the casino floor. He
had
to talk to that black jack dealer and pit boss before he left to go out for a smoke. A small dive bar around the corner was calling his name, but so was the need to know.

He approached the table carefully, watching the patrons and the dealer until the young man noticed him. After the hand, he shut the table down.

"Yo, man, I knew y'all was coming—ask Stan, the chick said it was my tip. Y'all ain't breaking my legs for no bullshit. I don't steal from the house, never have."

"The kid is clean, Tony," Stan said, his voice low as he entered the quiet but intense conversation.

"I haven't said a word and you all have jumped to a defense," Tony said coolly, regarding both men.

"C'mon, Tony. What are we supposed to think? One of you guys comes down here from the monitoring booth, shuts down the table, and whatever, right after the kid gets a big tip." The old man lifted his chin. "It ain't right."

"What did the woman look like?" Tony waited, knowing the cameras were now on him. If there was something shaky going on, then he had to solidify the family's trust in him by going to handle it directly. Maybe he would run back those digital images. He could show the boys in the room the thing that had triggered his reaction, and they would see him now down on the floor.

But both men looked puzzled for a moment.

"You saw the broad from the monitors," old Stan challenged, running his thick fingers through his snow-white hair.

"She was fine," the dealer said, keeping his voice low and his eyes darting around like a trapped rabbit's. "You know, man, the money type. Five ten, skin flawless. Designer black dress on. Diamond earrings, the real shit, not no CZs. Single gold bangle with some real weight. Legs that go on for miles, stilettos making her ass even hotter when she walks. Beautiful set of tits, V-neck serving it all up, but not in a hoochie type of way. But she didn't remind me of a pro, at least not the ones around here I've seen. She had a real classy vibe, man, like she wasn't from around here—belonged in fucking Vegas or Monaco, or off some runway in Paris, but not down at the damned Jersey shore. . . like she had money to play with. Seemed like she was bored as hell, too, if you feel me. Hey, if she stole it, y'all can have it back—but
I
didn't steal it."

"The kid is only twenty-six, Tony. He didn't steal from the drawer; that I witnessed with my own eyes. He's not lying, the broad was old money."

The desperation in the young man's voice and fear in his eyes told him what he needed to know. One—there hadn't been a theft. Two—there was a woman at that table. But then why hadn't she shown up on the monitors? That was the part that made him question his sanity. Unnerved, he let the two men waiting on his judgment off the hook.

"All right. Keep the chips, but point out which way she went. I have some questions for her."

"Shit, you shut my table down and I'll walk you to her over by the poker tables." The young dealer seemed unconvinced that his life was no longer in jeopardy. Stan nodded and he quickly came around the edge of his table. "I don't want no problems, man, no bullshit whatsoever. Aw'ight. So, I'ma take you to her, you can ask her yourself whether or not she gave me the tip. Cool? Then you guys will have that on tape and I don't have to worry about getting into my car in the parking lot, right?"

"That'll work," Tony said calmly as the young dealer came to his side, looked around, and then shook his hand.

"There she go," he said, beginning to walk. "Can't miss her. . . ain't nothing like her in this joint."

Tony stared behind the kid for a moment before he began walking. Again, he hadn't lied. Sensuality personified oozed from her very being. The way her graceful hand took up a card and added it to her fan, the way her mesmerizing eyes studied them and the dealer, sent the temperature of the entire casino up a notch. Her face was gorgeous, and that added to the unbelievable curves she owned made her a knockout, drop-dead, to-die-for beauty. Not since Meghan had he been so drawn to a woman. A roll in the hay with a pro was one thing, simply a matter of releasing the primal—something he'd indulged in when he had more drinks than advisable. But this woman. . .

Then, as though sensing his approach, she looked up and stared at him. There was no question she was staring at him—it was more than a visual recognition,
he felt it
. He watched her fold her hand, rake in the winnings, and stand, leaving the game.

She'd sensed someone staring at her, but until the crowd parted a bit, she wasn't sure of where the energy pull was coming from. She spotted the young dealer, whose entire aura radiated stress and flight-or-fight hormone that was palpable. Yes, he'd been the one staring at her, but there was a darker presence, a more sensual, mysterious creature behind the kid. The moment she saw the source, she froze.

His dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail; she wondered if it was held by a dark leather thong or a simple rubber band. She briefly closed her eyes, no longer than a slow blink, perceiving as much as she could about him in seconds. Leather held his hair. Broad shoulders filled out his black leather jacket and concealed a gun. She could taste the metallic change in the air and smell the gunpowder in the clip. He wore a black t-shirt beneath the butter soft leather, black slacks, black slip-on Cole Haans. No jewelry, just a fine gold watch made by Rolex. A pair of intense, dark eyes pierced her, asking questions in a thunder of human thoughts. A strong jaw was set hard, but his mouth was still beautiful, not a tight line of anger. His athletic body moved through the crowd with the stealth of a cat. . . he was hunting her. . . interesting. Yet there was no guile aimed at her to be found in his presence, but this was a man of mysteries.

As he neared her, it all became so clear—he was the honest man she'd saved earlier by feeding on the assassin. The irony made her smile.