Driven Snow (24 page)

Breakfast.
If he could get his stomach to digest anything but butterflies.

Nobody was in the halls.
Good.
He could put off his face-to-face with the public for another few seconds. Even the elevator stood empty. It was early, and Las Vegas was not an early town. But when the doors opened on the mezzanine where the restaurants were located, people turned and stared. A lot smiled, and one brave girl ran over with a napkin for him to sign. He wrote it to Margo as she requested. He grinned. “Do you like chess?”

She giggled. “Oh no, I just like you.”

Wow, comments like that made him feel weird.

He stopped to sign four more autographs before he cleared the few yards to the breakfast buffet. When he walked in, Bash rose from the table where Mr. P. and all the IPis were congregated and came over to him. Bash had wanted to guard him all morning, but Snow had asked for a few minutes to gather himself—by himself.

“Everything okay?”

Snow nodded as he breathed deeply. “Yes. Just great.” He walked to the table with Bash at his side, towering over him.

Mr. P. had saved a seat beside him. He flashed his bright smile. “We got food for you so you’re not attacked by autograph seekers while trying to balance a plate.”

“Thank you.” He sat, happiest to see his tea latte beside his plate.

Mr. P. clapped his hands. “The big day.”

Snow swallowed tea.

“As we predicted, Mrs. Kingsley is in the final four.”

Hacker leaned forward to look at Mr. P. “She must be as good as she claims.”

“Yes. One would not get this far in such rarified company without talent. I think we can assume that a tiny bit of manipulation of pairings has occurred, since I feel sure the organizers are quite anxious to have a showdown between Snowden and Anitra. It’s hard to resist that much photogenicity.” He laughed.

BB asked, “You don’t think they cheated?”

“Oh no. Just selected starting partners so that she and Snow were unlikely to meet in the earlier rounds despite her lesser ranking. She had, in my opinion, far easier opponents to begin, plus she’s benefitted from two disqualifications. I’m not entirely sure how those happened, but there you have it. Obviously the organizers chose wisely, as I expect they’ll get their match.”

Snow turned the cup in his hands. “Maybe I can’t beat her.”

“Ah yes, there is no certainty in chess. Too many variables. But the fact is, you
can
beat her six ways from Sunday, as the expression goes. We cannot say for sure that you will.”

Snow glanced up and met Mr. P.’s gaze. His heart beat hard. “I don’t even know how I can look at her across the table. I know she’s tried to kill the professor. I know it. And me as well. I just can’t prove it. And here she sits, like she has nothing better to do than play chess.”

Mr. P.’s eyes looked deep as wells. “Don’t look at her, my dear. Look at the board and look at your fans and admirers. And remember, she truly has nothing more important to do than play chess. She’s desperate, grasping, and needy. You have a whole world of friends and future waiting for you.”

Snow shoved his cup. “Sir, how can you say that? Because of her, my dearest friend is in a hospital bed. I have no school to go to, no home. People who used to at least tolerate me now despise me, and I might even go to jail. And I lost my—I lost a lot. It’s all because of her.” He banged his hand on the table, and the tea toppled, sending a splash of milky liquid all over his beautiful suit jacket. “Well, damn.” Snow pushed back from the table and wiped at the rapidly spreading stains with his napkin.

“Don’t worry, my dear. And don’t rub. It just makes it worse. Give me the coat.”

Snow pulled off the jacket. At least he hadn’t ruined his shirt. Just what he needed.

Mr. P. extended the jacket to Romeo. “Will you take this to our suite and leave it for dry cleaning? Select the jacket you like best, but I think the teal should do the job nicely.”

“Yes, sir.” Romeo took the coat and hurried in that elegant way of his, as half the women and more than a few of the men in the restaurant watched him go with a sigh.

Snow shook his head. “I’m sorry. That was stupid.”

“You’re a physicist. You know everything happens for a reason.”

He frowned. “Yes, and I also know that no person can see enough of the cosmic interaction to know what that reason is.”

“What do you think the reason is?”

Snow shrugged and stared at the tea spreading across the tabletop. “To teach me a lesson, I suppose.”

“You think the universe has it in for you?”

Good grief, had he implied that? Yes, he had. “Of course not.”

“Right. So?”

“I meant there are things I need to learn.”

“And what are those things?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Why?”

“Because everything’s still up in the air.”

Mr. P. tapped the white cloth. “Ah, so don’t be accusing the quantum reality of treating you badly until you’ve measured it.”

Snow snorted. “The probabilistic interpretation of quantum mechanics is now being challenged by a more deterministic interpretation involving pilot waves.”

“Pilot waves. I see. But you acknowledge we can’t recognize the reality of this situation until it comes to rest. Until it’s measured? Correct?”

Snow nodded.

“Good. Finish your breakfast—” Mr. P. grinned. “—and let’s go make some waves.”

Snow shoved some cooled scrambled egg into his mouth and sipped his new cup of tea until he saw Romeo cross toward their table, carrying his teal sport coat.

ANITRA STOOD
in a small reception area outside the room where they’d play their last game. It had come to this—facing Reynaldi in the final match. Shit, if Hunter had done his job, she’d be meeting someone far less dangerous.

Now she was faced with the ultimate decision. No, not decision. She’d decided. It might not work, but if it did? Perfection.

The organizer, that shorthaired woman named Turks, approached her. “Will you surrender your cell phone please, Mrs. Kingsley? We don’t want any chance of an accidental disqualification.”

“Of course.” She handed her cell, on mute, to the woman.

A few feet away from her stood Snowden Reynaldi. Anitra saw him pat his pockets, then look up at one of the officials. “Oh, I had to change coats. I left my phone in the other one.”

The man nodded. Snow turned and studiously didn’t look at her or acknowledge her.
The little shit.
Yes, she wanted the money, the fame, the unlimited future winning this tournament would guarantee, but she’d happily do this just to grind that obnoxious little turd to dust.

Ms. Turks pointed to a table set up at one end of the room. “We’ve provided some refreshments for you. It will likely be a while before you get to eat. Of course, we’ll supply water to you periodically during the game.”

“Oh great, thanks.”
Perfect.
She walked to the table. Snowden purposefully stepped back and let her pass as he talked with the organizers. She surveyed the table. Fresh vegetables with dip, some string cheese, and—“Lovely.”—some pastries. She loaded a few carrots and some hummus on a small paper plate and then slid a chocolate brownie beside it.

Casually ambling away, she munched a couple of carrots. The cake looked ideally gooey. She turned and made a big show of picking up the brownie and taking a bite. She laughed. “Oh my, I didn’t do that gracefully.” She dropped the rest of the brownie on her plate and tossed it in the trash. Licking her fingers ostentatiously, she stuck her hand in her jacket pocket and fished for a tissue, wiped the other hand, then put the tissue back, digging around some more.

Snow had sidled over to the table and was chewing on a piece of cheese. She smiled. Such a simple last meal.

SNOW’S MOUTH
chewed, but his mind drifted. No light without darkness. No reality without measurement. Love. The one reality. Love for the professor. Growing love for Mr. Pennymaker. Love for—Riley.

How can you love him when he didn’t come through for you?

We don’t get to keep every gift.

That’s pretty philosophical. He believed you’re a whore, for God’s sake.

Yes, but the evidence was damning. He barely knows me.

Still.

He taught me how to love, and I found out that when you love someone, it’s not essential that they love you back.

But it would be nice.

Snow sighed.
Yeah. But you’re a dreamer.

“Lady and gentleman, it’s time for the game to begin. Good luck to both of you.” Eleanor Turks threw open the doors to the room, and flashes began to pop. Several camera crews had been allowed in the room. Unusual, but the Anderson Tournament attracted press. Turks raised a hand. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, from this point on, you may record for posterity, but no flashes, no narration, no noise. Anyone disregarding these instructions will be asked to leave.” The volume in the room instantly shifted to mute.

The official offered his hands to Anitra, and she tapped with her left hand, leaving her right in her pocket. White. First move. Some believed that gave her a slight advantage.

She extracted her hand from her jacket and offered a handshake to Snow. If he refused, it would be considered bad sportsmanship. He shook. Her palm had an odd grainy feeling, and her hand was cold.
Seems appropriate.

He avoided her eyes.

They took their seats.
Just focus on the board and the audience. Don’t look at her.
Trying to channel Mr. Pennymaker, he leaned back in his chair and looked out at the people gathered in the room. Mr. P. and the boys stood a row back, and Snow flashed them a grin. A pretty young girl pushed her way to the front row and pressed a hand to her lips when she met Snow’s eyes.
Go on, do it.
He gave her a wide smile, raised his hand, and flipped his mane of hair off his shoulder. She squealed. Not loud, but enough for people to hear and start a giggle going. He glanced at Mr. P. and got a wink. Ms. Turks gave the girl a sharp glance, and everyone quieted again.

An official cleared his throat. “When you’re ready, Mr. Reynaldi.”

Snow nodded, then blinked. Odd. Felt like salt in his eye.

“Mrs. Kingsley?”

She tilted her head regally.

The official started the timer. Anitra, with a flourish, moved knight to f3.

He answered with knight to f6. His hair slid in front of his face, and he wiped it back with his hand.

They each moved pawns to c4 and g6. Snow cleared his throat.

Knight to c3, bishop to g7.
Is it hot in here?
He wiped a hand across his face, and it felt cold.

She moved her pawn to d4. He performed a king-side castle. Her soft gasp radiated across the board. He looked up and met her eyes. Hers narrowed, and her lips turned up ever so slightly. He wiped his finger across his sweaty upper lip.

Her finger slid her bishop to f4.

He reached pawn to d5, but his hand shook.
What the hell’s going on—oh no!
The evilly familiar symptoms flashed across his brain as the tightness in his chest cut like an iron band restricting his airflow.

He ripped at his tie.
Have to get air. Have to. Worse than drowning.

He stood, falling steps backward. His chair crashed to the ground as voices all around him yelled and screamed.

“Snow!”

“What’s happening? Mr. Reynaldi!”

Above the melee, Anitra’s voice cut through. “What’s the meaning of this? A ploy to hide the fact that he can’t beat me? I demand a forfeit!”

Snow raised his hand to his nose and smelled the sweet, oily, pungent aroma of peanuts—just a second before his body hit the floor.

“A doctor!”

“Is there a doctor?”

“Someone call a doctor!”

“I demand a forfeit!”

Snow groped at his pocket. Mr. Pennymaker landed on his knees at Snow’s side. “What is it, Snow?”

Romeo held his head. “What’s wrong, dear?”

“P-pea—” Needed the epinephrine. His fingers clawed.
Oh. Oh no. In my other coat.

What the river didn’t finish, a handful of peanut dust accomplished. His throat slowly constricted as cold climbed up his neck. His eyes closed.

A girl’s voice whispered, “My God, he’s so beautiful.”

The voice reached a shriek. “I demand a forfeit!”

“GET THE
fuck out of my way!” Riley raced through the crowd, bumping and shoving looky-loos with his larger body. “Snow. My God, Snow.” He fell on his knees beside a doctor who was administering CPR. “It’s his allergy. He’s allergic to shit.”

The doctor looked up. “Where’s emergency? Be sure they bring epinephrine.”

Riley sat back on his haunches and ran a hand over his windbreaker. Grabbing the syringe he’d gotten for Snow at the pharmacy, he stretched it toward the doc. “Here. He left it behind.”

The doc motioned with his head to Snow’s thigh as he continued CPR. “There.”

Riley took a breath. “Don’t die, baby.” He stabbed the syringe through those great-looking gray pants and pushed the plunger. When it was all the way in, he leaned over the gorgeous body. “Wake up, my beauty. Please. I’m so sorry I ever doubted. I’ve been so dumb. I don’t deserve you, but please, please don’t leave me.” He pressed his head against the cool, still neck and prayed for a pulse. “I love you.”

Thump.

Riley gasped. “I love you.”

Thump, thump.

“I love you, Snow.”

A gurgle next to his ear brought Riley’s head up. “He breathed. I’m sure of it. Do it again, baby.”

“Nggghhh. Ri—”

Riley pressed a short kiss against the rapidly warming lips. “Hey. Breathe for me.”

A short, strangled gasp popped from Snow’s beautiful lips.

“Music to my ears. Again.”

This breath sounded half normal. Riley laughed and looked up, only to come eye to eye with that gorgeous guy he’d seen at the frat house who took care of Snow. He still knelt at Snow’s head and raised an eyebrow as he looked at Riley.