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Authors: Kristin Hardy

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21

A
WEEK BEFORE
, G
WEN HAD
watched the tournament start with no expectation of success. Now she stood with Roxy in the players' lounge waiting to be introduced as a finalist. Waiting to find out whether she was going to walk away with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars or two million. She should have been thrilled.

She couldn't muster up a modicum of excitement.

Roxy gave her a narrow-eyed stare and took her by the arm. “Come on.”

“What?”

“In here.” She dragged Gwen into the ladies' lounge. “Where's your head?” she demanded. “You're sitting down with the barracudas in about five minutes and you've got to be focused.”

“I am focused,” Gwen protested feebly.

“No, you're not. You space out tonight, you're letting him win. No matter what happened between you—and I'm not asking about it—you've got to get past it and play this round.”

Roxy was right, Gwen realized, but not in the way she thought. Gwen had to get it together in order to exit the tournament without raising suspicion and get into Jerry's room to find the stamps. The previous Saturday she had tried and failed. This time, she had to make it work. She had to get her mind off Del.

She bent over and took several deep breaths and then stood quickly upright. “Okay,” she said. “Let's do it.”

“You've got every reason to be confident,” Roxy told her as they walked out the door. “You're in the final round, so you're in the money. No matter what happens, you're pulling down some serious bucks. And we're seated side by side, so we're coming in with big advantages.”

“Which are?”

“Hooters. Show me a man who can think straight when staring one pair of breasts in the eye, let alone two.” She grinned. “Not even professional gamblers are that good. The money gets serious for the top seven finishers, so all we need to do is jettison a couple of these jokers and we're in there.”

“After which, of course, it's every woman for herself.”

“Of course.”

“Don't expect your secret weapons to dazzle me,” Gwen warned her, feeling her fog of depression lift a bit.

“I knew you wouldn't be so easy,” Roxy sighed. “Oops, they're starting.”

The room had undergone another transformation. Gone was the bustle, the explosion of tables everywhere you looked. Now only a single spotlit green oval sat before the bleachers in the darkened room, a strip of white illumination circling its base. Blue drapes around the walls dotted with pin lights added drama. Behind the table, on the dealer's side, a large projection screen showed an image of the empty table, the green baize with the brown leather padded rim. It looked innocuous, but over the next few hours it would be the site of something extraordinary, a pile of two million in bricks of hundred-dollar bills.

Seat by seat, the MC began introducing the players. Before, the tournament had been something of a cattle call, populated by hordes of nameless, faceless competitors. As
the field had narrowed, the reporters had clustered around the well-known players and the crowd had begun following favorites, cheering them on by name. Now the MC was working the room, hyping the crowd more with each introduction.

Gwen watched Del walk to his seat to the accompaniment of whoops from some of the women in the audience. In a way she ought to have thanked him. If she hadn't been so numb, Gwen would have been nervous. Instead her emotions felt so deadened, it was hard to worry about anything too much, except maybe getting into Jerry's room.

The only thing left that mattered.

“In seat number six, placing seventh in last year's World Series of Poker and the winner of last year's Tournament of Champions, Roxanne Steele.”

“Oops, that's me.” Roxy gave Gwen a quick hug and broke away to sashay through the gauntlet of flashbulbs, waving her arms, the shiny tournament bracelet on her wrist winking.

Gwen swallowed and took a breath. “In position seven, competing in her first tournament, San Franciscan Nina Chatham.”

Gwen walked across to the table, staring at Del. It felt as if someone were sitting on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Del sat there, his sunglasses reflecting her form as she approached. In a way it paralleled their relationship, neither one of them able to get past the wall between them. Whether that wall was mirrored sunglasses or the persona of Nina or something else, it was there. Maybe she never had gotten any deeper than the surface with him. Maybe she never had gotten through to what was behind.

Tucking her skirt under, Gwen sat.
Look away,
she told herself, but she couldn't. Was it the distortion of the lenses or did her cheeks really look that drawn, did her eyes
really look so smudged with exhaustion? How was it that Del seemed just the same when her entire life had changed in a day?

The pain suddenly sliced through her and Gwen took a ragged breath.

Someone grabbed her hand and squeezed. It was Roxy. “Look at me,” she commanded.

Gwen tore her gaze from Del and turned to stare into Roxy's gray eyes.

“Don't lose it, hon,” Roxy whispered. “Hold on. Remember, walking away with the most chips is the best revenge.”

The dealer shuffled and the dance began.

 

D
EL STARED AT THE TABLE
, trying to concentrate on the play and failing miserably. He should have been focusing on the nearby faces, some of whom were new to him. He should have been following their choices, logging them mentally so that when a crucial hand arose, he'd know how to handle it.

Instead behind his sunglasses he watched Gwen. He could see that the night had been no easier on her than it had been on him, but it was scant comfort. He'd never meant to hurt her. What he'd wanted was trust, honesty. What he'd looked for was some assurance that his feelings were valid, that the person he'd realized he'd fallen in love with was real.

Instead she'd thrown up a wall before him, a wall between them. And maybe that was for the best. Maybe they didn't have a future together. If so, better to know it now.

“Your bet, sir?” Not only the dealer but the entire table was looking at him, Del realized. Quickly he assessed and saw that nearly everyone at the table had folded save him and Gwen. She'd just raised and sat staring at him, eyes defiant, challenging him to take her on.

He took a quick glance at his pocket cards. Ace and king of hearts. There was a determined set to her shoulders that told him she had something. Queens? Jacks? He raised. It was worth it to him to hold on and find out.

Gwen called to stay with him and the flop brought a jack of diamonds and a ten and a two of hearts. There were hearts everywhere, it seemed, he thought as he raised. So why did his own chest feel so hollow?

Gwen called and they both nodded to the dealer.

The turn brought a four of spades.
Call a spade a spade, Del, old boy, and admit that you're not going to walk away from this one without leaving a piece of yourself behind.
Whether he'd intended to or not, he'd screwed up by telling Jessup about the story. He'd broken Gwen's confidence. Even if they managed to get past that, the fundamental problem of who she was and who she was pretending to be remained. He'd fallen for a pretty face and deception once already in his life. He couldn't do it again.

Gwen curved her fingers around her stacks of chips. For a few seconds she didn't move, as though she were steeling her nerve. She stared at the table and then raised her head and stared directly at Del. She moistened her lips. “All in,” she whispered.

All in was a challenge, it was a confrontation. So why did it feel like a reproach? The seconds ticked by. He could see the pulse beating in her neck; he couldn't tell if her reaction was fear or excitement.
Stop making it personal and start playing the game.

He called her.

All in meant showing everything. Gwen turned up her hole cards to reveal a jack and a seven. He turned up his king ace. The silence was deafening. The lights felt hot. He stifled the impulse to take Gwen's hand. For an instant he had the ridiculous thought that whatever they had to face,
they could face together. And he knew he was wrong, because they were facing it apart.

The dealer laid the river card on the baize facedown and set his fingertips on it. The seconds crawled by. Then he turned it over.

And a cheer erupted from his supporters in the stands. Jack of hearts. His heart was on the table, Del thought aridly. He'd won the pot, his flush beating Gwen's three of a kind. He should have been overjoyed.

He wasn't.

 

G
WEN SWALLOWED
. E
VEN THOUGH
her goal had been to knock herself out of the tournament to go search Jerry's room, it had taken so much to push all of her chips forward. Watching Del rake them in was easy. He'd taken her heart already. What was a few hundred thousand in chips? He'd won the hand just as he'd won whatever had passed between them. And now her part in the game was over, just as her part in his life.

The humming silence within her matched the silence around the table. She rose, gave Roxy a hug and walked away.

And at the edge of the crowd she saw Stewart.

 

J
ERRY'S ROOM LOOKED THE
worse for wear when they walked in, with clothing strewn around and empty bottles set out. As soon as they closed the door, Gwen crossed to the television and turned it on to the poker game, muting the sound.

And, of course, the camera was focused on Del's face as he stared down at the table. Was it her imagination or was there regret in the set of his mouth?
Foolish,
she chided herself, seeing what she wanted to see. It wasn't there. He was perfectly happy with the way things had worked out between them. There was no point in thinking differently.

Just as there was no point repeating her search. She knew where the envelope was. The challenge was to get it. “Over here,” she told Stewart and walked into the minibar area. The refrigerator was just as difficult to get to as it had been before. With his thicker hands, Stewart had less luck than she had had.

Her hand on the refrigerator, Gwen looked around vainly for something long and skinny to use to draw the envelope out with. Why hadn't she come prepared?

“Let's just pull it out of there,” Stewart said, edging past her.

He managed to get his fingers on the top and bottom of the refrigerator to pull it out enough that Gwen could get her hand underneath. So close, so close. “Can you pull it out a little more?” she asked.

“Can't. The cord's too short.”

She edged her hand in just a bit farther, gritting her teeth against the discomfort.
Almost there,
she thought, brushing it with her fingertips. Almost… “I've got it,” she cried out jubilantly and slid the envelope out.

It was stiffened with cardboard, still warm from its contact with the refrigerator. Finally, at last, it was in her hands. Now all she had to do was look. It was like taking the first peek at her pocket cards. She pulled up the flap of the envelope. And disappointment filled her, dry and bitter like ashes in her mouth.

The envelope was empty.

Stewart read it all in her face. “Gone?”

She nodded numbly, trying to comprehend the enormity of the disaster. “Gone.”

“He couldn't possibly have sold them.”

“It doesn't matter. They're not here.”

“We need to search the rest of the place.” There was a note of desperation in his voice.

“I've looked everywhere else.”

“But that was almost a week ago, right? He could have moved them.” Stewart went to the bedroom.

Gwen started to follow and froze. “Stewart.” She gestured to the television. It was panning over the whole final table.

And Jerry was nowhere to be seen.

Stewart cursed. “How long's he been out?”

“I don't know,” she snapped. “I wasn't watching. Come on, get the refrigerator back in place, quick. We can go down the stairs to the next floor, take the elevator from there.”

“All right. I—”

Before he could finish, there was a click at the door. It opened to reveal Jerry.

“What the—” He stepped through the door. “What the hell are you doing in my room?” he demanded, taking two swift steps inside.

Gwen opened her mouth, trying wildly to think of an explanation that would work. “It's not how it looks. I—”

“You've been a bad boy, Jerry.”

The words came from behind her. Gwen whipped around to see Stewart staring ahead of her, staring at Jerry.

And in Stewart's hand, a gun.

22

D
EL SAT AT THE TABLE
,
splitting a stack of chips with one hand and riffling them together as if they were playing cards. Outside he appeared calm. Inside his thoughts were buzzing.

Both Gwen and Jerry were out, within maybe twenty minutes of one another. Both of them had been high in the chip count. Both of them had gone out on a limb with only so-so cards—Gwen on a jack seven, Jerry on a jack two.

He didn't like it. He didn't like it a bit.

Her plan had been to bail out of the tournament and use the time to finish her search of Jerry's room. If she'd gone through with it, she'd be in Jerry's room right now. Del tensed. As soon as Jerry had cashed out, he'd left the table. For where? Maybe the bar, maybe a strip club.

Or maybe his room.

She'd told him it wasn't his problem. She'd told him she didn't want him involved. He should just sit here then and let her deal with it, right?

Bullshit.

Del looked around trying to spot someone from security. He needed to dig up Ahmanson and he needed him now. The last thing he needed to do was sit here flipping chips in a card game.

“Your bet, sir,” the dealer said.

Just do it,
Del told himself. So he'd played his way to
number six. He was an amateur. He'd probably be out legitimately any hand anyway. It wouldn't hurt. Not much.

He pushed his chips forward. “All in.”

 

“S
TEWART, WHAT IN GOD'S NAME
are you doing?”

“Please, Gwen, no more interference,” Stewart replied in a strained voice.

She stepped toward him. “But, Stewart…”

Stewart moved the gun slightly in her direction, freezing her. “I mean it, Gwen. Please.”

Jerry's face clouded. “Gwen? I thought your name was Nina,” he said.

“Come now, Jerry,” Stewart said mockingly. “Surely you ought to have recognized Gwen Chastain, even if she does look a little different these days. Gwen's been very helpful in all this. She was the one who tracked you down. Stealing the Ben Franklins was an idiotic, greedy thing to do.”

Jerry glowered at them both.

“What's this all about?” Gwen demanded.

“Later. Mr. Messner and I have business to discuss.”

“You got no business with me unless you got money,” Jerry snarled.

“Well, yes, it's true—money has been a problem. That's why I brought this.” Stewart tilted the gun slightly. “Changes the negotiating strategy, don't you think?”

“Oh, come on, Stewie. You been watching gangster movies lately, learning how to act like you've got balls?”

Stewart almost smiled. “I don't need balls. I have a gun.”

“You don't scare me with that. You don't have what it takes to pull the trigger. Besides, you shoot me, you're going to bring a crowd of people running in here.”

“Well, I guess that will be my problem, won't it? Since you'll be dead.”

“You wouldn't,” Jerry repeated, though suddenly a little more subdued.

“Not if I don't have to.” Stewart turned to Gwen. “Gwen, search him. Pay close attention to his pockets. Shoes and socks off, Messner. Pretend you're at the airport.”

Gwen obeyed him automatically, her mind trying to process the situation. Stewart and Jerry knew each other. Stewart was holding a gun. Her mind couldn't accept the obvious conclusion that the man her grandfather had trusted for over twenty years had betrayed him, betrayed them all. There had to be an explanation, she told herself. It was like having a suited king queen in her pocket. The flop and the turn and the river ought to come and convert them to a straight, into something that made sense.

Only the turn was already here, standing in front of her. And she had nothing.

She ran her fingers through Jerry's pockets, pulling out keys, a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, his cell phone—hating to touch him and wanting to get through it as quickly as possible. She put the collection on the coffee table.

“Smart enough not to have the stamps on you, not smart enough to protect yourself, huh, Jerry?” Stewart coughed and winced, holding his side.

“You're the one's going to need protection, Oakes,” Jerry replied, suddenly more confident. “That ain't a cold you've got, is it? You've had visitors. What, your Swedish buddy getting impatient? Or are you running behind on the vig again?”

“Oh, Stewart,” Gwen said as understanding began to dawn. “You said you had stopped.”

“Yeah, old Stewie's gotten his nuts in a vise, haven't you, Stewie?” Jerry taunted. “Mr. High Roller here can't play poker for shit and he doesn't know when to say enough. So you can't kill me, can you? You can't afford
not to have those stamps.” The cockiness was back in full force. “So why don't we just cut the crap and talk about when I'm going to see my money.”

Stewart looked at the pile of objects on the coffee table.

“Keep going, Gwen,” he said quietly. “The jacket.”

Jerry stiffened.

As soon as Gwen patted his breast pocket, she knew. The envelope felt stiff and just thick enough. She slid it out and stepped away from Jerry. Hardly daring to breathe, she opened up the flap—

And stared at the upside down airplanes of the inverted Jennys, rising and falling across the block. And in front, shimmering in glassine, was the rich blue of the two-penny Post Office Mauritius, the white profile of the monarch looking imperious and just a bit amused.

After all that had passed, here they were in her hands. She began to flip through to check the contents of the envelope. The Ben Franklins and the Columbians were gone, she knew that. She frowned.

“The red-orange Post Office Mauritius won't be there,” Stewart told her matter-of-factly, “and whatever this idiot fenced from the store inventory. But the rest should be there.”

“What do you mean, the red-orange Mauritius will be gone?”

“He means I gave it to him before I realized he was trying to stiff me and he's sent it off to his friend,” Jerry put in.

“Not now, Jerry.”

“Why not?” Jerry glared at Stewart. “You gonna shoot me?” He turned back to Gwen. “Old Stewie here got himself in a hole in Vegas, the kind of hole that takes a loan to get out of. I see it happen to losers like him all the time. You get a little bit of money and it costs a whole lot—and it costs more all the time. And once they own you, you stay
owned. Unless they sell you. Is that what happened with your Swedish friend?”

Stewart's face looked gray and sweaty, tight with strain. “That was a legitimate business deal.”

“Legitimate, my ass. These guys are connected and they sell information. Anyone got a paper on Stewie Oakes? And they flick the right lever and you dance.”

“It would all have worked out if Hugh had sold,” Stewart said, looking at Gwen. “Everything would have been fine. The commission I was going to make on the sale was enough. It would have taken care of…my problems.” His jaw tensed. “But no, he's just so damned stubborn.”

“He wasn't ready to sell yet, Stewart. And he wants to go to auction.”

“Poor Stewie, no deal,” Jerry said sardonically. “Too bad you already spent the finder's fee on keeping your knees intact.” Stewart looked sharply at him. “Come on, don't be surprised—I know people in this town, I check jobs out before I take 'em. I'd be careful if you're thinking about taking your Swedish friend for a ride, though. I got a feeling he might take care of you good if you try. He sounds like the kind of guy who'll make sure you don't even notice your knees anymore. And it'll serve you right, chiseling me out of my cut,” he finished bitterly.

“So you blew your commission on a gambling debt so you didn't have it to refund when Grampa wouldn't sell,” Gwen said, putting the pieces together. “And then you went to Jerry.”

“If Hugh had been insured, no one would have gotten hurt.” Stewart's voice was barely audible. “I never meant it to work out this way. You have to believe me.”

“We're all crying for you, Stew,” Jerry sneered.

Stewart glared at Jerry. His eyes hardened. “Yes, well, since I have the stamps and you don't have the money, I
guess some crying is in order.” He turned his eyes to Gwen. “Gwen, bring me the envelope.”

“Don't do it,” Jerry snapped.

Stewart's voice was flat and cold. “Gwen…”

It all happened so quickly. She took a step toward Stewart, then Jerry's hand gripped her arm like a tourniquet as he spun her around. “Don't you give 'em to that rat bastard!” he yelled.

And then his voice was drowned out by the loudest sound Gwen had ever heard.

When she recovered her senses, Jerry was lying on the floor, his shoulder a mass of raw red.

Gwen stared at Stewart in horror. His eyes blinked rapidly.

“Oh, my god,” he said faintly. “Oh, my god.”

It was as though time had stopped. She couldn't blink, couldn't stop seeing Jerry, the torn flesh, the blood. She could hear him groaning softly. Then she looked back at Stewart, the man who had been her bridge to civilization, the man who had betrayed her grandfather.

The man who had just shot a person.

“He's still alive,” she said, her voice sounding very far away to her own ears. “We've got to get him to a hospital.”

Stewart looked down at Jerry, then back to her. “I still need the stamps,” he said in a quiet, breathless voice.

“Stewart, he's going to die if we don't get him to a doctor!”

“You don't understand,” Stewart continued. “It's so much money, more money than I could ever hope to pay.”

“Stewart…”

“No,” he said, the strength returning to his voice. “Bring me the stamps.”

Gwen's heart was beating like a trip-hammer. Her gaze shifted wildly around the room—to the door beyond Stewart that might as well have been a million
miles away, to the bar she'd hidden behind a few nights before.

The bar that couldn't protect her now.

On the television behind the coffee table the game went on. How inconsequential it seemed now. When she'd been sitting at the table, everything had been so simple, she thought, watching the dealer lay down the flop on the green baize. Watch the cards, watch Jerry. Get the stamps back. Now, in minutes, everything had all changed.

“Gwen, bring me the envelope,” Stewart repeated.

The dealer laid down the turn. The camera panned up to show the players at the table, to reveal that their number had been reduced yet again.

Del was gone.

Hope vaulted through her.

“Gwen.” There was a warning in Stewart's voice.

“I can't do that, Stewart.” If she could stall for time, maybe she'd have a chance. “I can't do that to my grandfather. You know he loves you like a son? He wanted to pass on his business to you.”

“No, he didn't.” Stewart's faced screwed up in disgust. “I left because it was clear he was going to pass it on to you. All the years I spent working with him and suddenly I didn't count. Blood is thicker than water.”

“Then you know why I can't give you these stamps—even though you were almost like family.” Gwen did her best to force a smile onto her face. “You know how much it meant to me for you to teach me all those things about life in America, to help me to become a normal person here?”

Stewart's face softened. “Gwennie, don't…”

“It's true,” she continued as soothingly as she could. “In many ways I owe my happiness to you.”

“But you don't understand,” Stewart said, almost pleading. “I have to have those stamps.”

“I can't give them to you.”

“Then I'll have to take them.” Beads of sweat sprang out on his forehead. “I'm sorry, Gwen. You have no idea how sorry. I tried to scare you away. But you're like a pit bull, you just wouldn't give up.”

“The guy who jumped me, the room search—you were behind that?”

“I hoped it would push you away, but you just stuck with it. And now I don't have a choice.”

“Of course you do.”

“No, I don't.” Stewart raised the gun and pointed it squarely at Gwen's chest. “Now give me those stamps.”

And for the second time a loud sound boomed through the room.

“Security!” someone shouted and pounded on the door again. Stewart's attention flickered.

And Gwen saw her moment.

It happened in a fraction of a second that seemed to last forever. Her leap toward him, the feel of his arm as she thrust up the gun, the shot that shattered the window.

And the form of Del leaping through the opened door.

Suddenly they were all on the floor as the gun went skittering across the carpet, coming to rest under the bed. Stewart scrambled after it on all fours and Gwen grasped desperately at his arm while Del jumped on him, slamming his fist into the back of Stewart's head. Then there was another body on top of them and she was trapped in a maelstrom of flailing arms and legs. Gwen rolled away to see Stewart fighting wildly with Del and the security man Ahmanson. She crawled quickly to the bed.

With a strength born of panic, Stewart broke loose and swung at Del, catching his jaw. His arms surged toward Del's neck and gripped.

“Stop right there.” Gwen's voice shook a bit, but the hand that held the gun on him was steady. “Give it up, Stewart, it's over.”

 

“A
ND THEN
D
EL AND
A
HMANSON
came in,” Gwen finished, looking at the young police officer who was taking her statement. Stewart had already been cuffed and hauled off; Jerry was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Del was giving a statement elsewhere. In the end she'd told them about the stamps, partly because the envelope was there in the middle of the room and partly because she hadn't a clue how to go about tracking down the one-penny Post Office Mauritius. This time she really did need professional help.

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