Vegas Curves (A Masters of the Game BBW Erotic Romance)

A Masters of the Game BBW Erotic Romance

When a violent criminal kidnaps her younger sister, reformed con artist and card sharp Marie Lafayette must once again put on her game face and take a seat at the table.

Busted by casino owner Luke Masters when her soft lips and lush curves catch his eye, Marie has one last chance to save her sister and erase the past -- if she surrenders to his every passion for thirty days.

**********

Copyright © 2012 by Christa Wick

Cover art © Seprimoris@dreamstime. All persons and entities are fictional. Not for sale to libraries. No lending outside distributor (e.g. Kindle/Nook) terms of service. Otherwise, re-distributing, lending, or reading this e-book without first purchasing a license to do so is illegal and subject to heavy fines.

Vegas Curves

I push my stool back from the Black Jack table, more than seven thousand dollars in chips sliding around inside my cup. My foot touches the floor just as I catch the flick of the dealer's eyes toward someone behind me. A heartbeat later, a hand firmly cups my elbow and I know I am busted.

Rule number 1 -- The House always wins.

Rule number 2 -- If the House isn't winning, you must be cheating.

The house is losing and, sure enough, I am cheating. Only getting caught this time means more than a trip to jail -- it means a dead sister.

"Miss Lafayette, that was quite a streak of luck." His grip tightening, my captor slowly draws me the rest of the way off the stool. "Genuinely stirring to watch."

With the mystery man knowing my name, I have zero chance of convincing him luck has anything to do with it. Still, I have to try -- Rose is counting on me.

Forcing a smile to my face, I turn to look at him.

Damn!

I suck a breath in, wondering why a Vegas casino would hire a male runway model to work security. The man holding my arm falls somewhere between smoldering hot and achingly beautiful despite the neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

Unable to stop myself, I drink in the thick black hair and dark chocolate eyes. My gaze drops, confirming my first impression as I note the tailored silk suit clothing his thick, muscular body.

Smoldering and achingly beautiful, he would have me creaming my plus-size panties if I wasn't one wrong step away from going to jail.

Right -- jail. Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it, but especially not tonight. Too much depends on my leaving the casino with the money I won.

Stunned by his looks, I had allowed my smile to slip. I jerk it back up, increasing the wattage as I take another calming breath in. Tilting my head, I shake it with amused confusion as I correct him on the name.

"Danielle Hilton." I attempt to extract my elbow from his steely grip so that I might offer my hand like the well-bred, innocent young lady I am pretending to be.

With his fingers expertly placed on opposing nerve centers, it takes him less than an ounce of pressure to change my mind. I let a nervous blink slip through but choke down my need to swallow. "But I'm glad you enjoyed the game."

"I enjoyed watching you." Smiling, he offers me his arm and I can't help but notice how his eyes glitter like smoky quartz. "We can discuss the fickle nature of luck after you're cashed out."

His deeply masculine voice sends a warm shiver down my spine. Every bit as rich and chocolatey as his dark eyes, the sound leaves me wondering what it would feel like to take him in my mouth and let him melt all over my tongue. The sensation of doing just that grabs me so completely that it takes at least five seconds for his words to sink in.

Unless he is trying to trick me away from the casino's guests without a major uproar on my part, cashing me out implies that there will be no cops and no trip to jail. My heart starts beating again and I am docile as a kitten as he leads me toward the cashier's cage. Whether he wants a bribe or has assumed I was counting cards and intends to let me off with a warning doesn't matter. I just hope it's the latter because counting cards isn't illegal and I really need the money to keep Rose alive.

More than anything, I want Rose to live.

Reaching the cashier's cage, he pushes my cup toward the woman behind the glass. She sorts the chips, counts out seventy-six hundred-dollar bills, wraps them together then slides the bundle to me. My pulse wildly accelerating, I secure the money inside my purse before looking at my captor and potential blackmailer.

He waits patiently, stone-faced and gorgeous.

"Time for that talk, beautiful." His mouth puckers as his gaze sweeps down my body. When he looks up and stares straight into my eyes, I feel like he has just sucker punched me.

Or stroked a finger up the line of my now aching clit.

**********

His identity no longer a mystery to me, Luciano Masters, owner of the Gladiator Casino and Resort, jabs a finger at the chair in front of his large, imposing desk. "Sit."

Like a confused puppy that has just had her nose slapped, I obey at once. Eyes downcast, my heart knocking around inside my chest, I try to gather my jumbled thoughts while I wait for his next command. The task proves impossible -- in no small part because I am in Masters' penthouse instead of some security holding area.

I pat absently at my side, temporarily forgetting how Masters handed my purse to a not-quite-as-hot male with the same dark hair as soon as we exited the elevator, my protest silenced with a reminder of the two warrants out on me.

That's right -- two warrants, one as a material witness, the other for kidnapping my two younger siblings six years ago. Considering I was raised by an abusive con artist, two warrants is kind of on the low side. An accomplishment, really.

"Six years off the grid and on the run." Luciano swipes a finger across the iPad on his desk. "How's that working out for you, Queenie?"

Staring at him, I inhale slowly, hoping to mask my fear and anger. "Danielle, Mr. Mas--"

"Not buying it, baby doll." Head tilted, he subjects me to another lingering inspection.

Unable to stop myself, I smooth the fabric of my skirt against my thighs. I am well-dressed for the first time in six years, my over-generous flesh concealed in the costume of a twenty-six-year old woman having a girls' night out. My blouse and skirt are a flowing georgette of a beige-gold hue that I purchased a week ago from a vintage boutique in Los Angeles. My reddish brown hair has been dyed a pale gold and more make-up than I normally wear in an entire year covers me in an unsuccessful attempt to trick the facial recognition programs the casinos run.

But none of that explains why Masters' gaze is hooked on that inverted triangle where the deep cut V of the blouse exposes the top swell of my breasts.

My nipples haven't stopped poking at the thin material covering them since Masters first curled a possessive hand around my waist and steered me into the elevator. Now, with his gaze locked on those two hard points, heat crawls across my cleavage. I tamp down on the squirm building in my ass and the need to shred my bottom lip. I can't do anything about my flexing thighs -- they move each time my cunt draws tight. More heat uncoils throughout my body, melting the spot between my legs until moisture collects against the gusset of my panties.

I swallow then roll my lips. Masters clearly wants to throw me off my game, unnerving me with fake, burning appraisals of my body. It has been so long since a man looked at me like that, and never a man like Masters, that I can't help but react.

Wrong -- I will be damned if I let him turn me into a helpless, quivering female mess.

I focus on my sister, repeating her name inside my head. The word becomes a prayer, a prayer and a reminder that Rose will die if I don't pull my shit together right now. I repeat her name until the heat dissipates and I can look at Masters with nothing more than a cold, hard stare.

When I do, his attention returns to the iPad after a few seconds. A smile lingers at the corner of his mouth. The smile tells me both that he knows that he got under my skin and he's too arrogant to conceal it. The arrogance irritates me, but I don't have time to seethe at him. So I push it down and focus on figuring out who this man really is behind his power, money and sexy façade.

I scan the room. Behind him is a massive credenza and hutch of dark wood and glass. I ignore it. The items on its shelves will be a projection of what Masters wants other people to think about him, not who he is. I look instead for the things he keeps close at hand or in his line of site.

There is no clutter on his desk. A laptop rests on the left, its screen closed in favor of the iPad he is using to sift through my life. A red leather writing pad and a Waterman rollerball pen rest on the right. In front of the pad is a small wooden stand that holds a single coin upright. Half a foot in front of that is a picture frame but all I can see is the back of the frame.

I study the coin. It is not actual currency but the kind of token military units and their commanders hand out. Memories I am not proud of squirm inside my head. My father used challenge coins like this as a recipe for a quick score by finding a bar frequented by active duty service members and veterans. Add a sob story to the coin and,
presto
, he had instant buddies he could scam for enough gas money to get us to the next con.

The coin and the fact it is on Masters' desk with no protective covering tells me a lot. For starters, he handles it -- perhaps daily -- so it is important to him and a part of his self-image. Then there is the significance of the familiar horse's head stamped with Roman numeral XII and the crossed daggers behind the chess piece. It is a commander's coin from the 12th Psychological Operations Battalion.

With a trickle of dread running down my spine, I finally look at the credenza behind Masters. The coin is too small for me to clearly see its face in the glass reflection. I can, however, just make out the details of the photograph in the frame -- an adult male with blond hair. The color suggests he is not a blood relative, yet his photograph holds one of two places of honor on Masters' desk.

Don't ask, don't tell.

Fabulous! I have been collared by a potentially gay, potentially former PsyOps casino owner pretending to be sexually attracted to me. I am sunk and almost out of time. I look at the clock on the credenza to see just how little remains.

"Am I keeping you from a hot date, Marie?"

My attention slides back to Masters and I wonder how long he has been studying me as I examined the things that are important to him.

Leaning forward, his gaze narrows. He places two fingers center of the iPad's display and draws them apart, expanding whatever text or image he has been looking at. "Your eyes are listed as brown."

"So is my hair," I snap back, wanting his attention anywhere but on the color of my eyes. "It's called a disguise."

He licks his lips as if the juice of my confession already coats them. A predatory grin shapes his mouth into a thin, feral line. "You admit you are Marie Lafayette."

My shoulders bounce in a non-committal shrug. At this point, I will admit almost anything to keep his attention off the contact lenses turning my golden-brown gaze blue. I have a driver's license and a useless credit card stating I am Danielle Hilton. Both are extremely good fakes. And, while I have never been fingerprinted, I am willing to bet my prints were pulled from the trailer I lived in when I ran off with the twins when they were fourteen.

Rose's name rises in my mind again and I realize how truly fucked I am unless my luck changes fast.

Rule number 3 -- Luck never gives, it only lends.

The same is true of time. I have until six a.m. to return the contacts and the money I won to Solandro Ortiz or Rose is dead. I only have until two a.m., however, to return to the motel room I stashed my brother Tommy in or he will rabbit, just as I instructed.

"Tell me about the clock, Marie." Standing, Luciano pushes the tablet aside and comes around to the front of the desk. His big, lean body looms over me, his proximity making it all but impossible to breathe. One finger traces the curve of my jaw as he leans even closer to whisper in my ear. My muscles heat as his deep timbre soaks into my skin.

"I can't help you if you won't tell me."

I don't snort but I want to. Obviously, Masters doesn't know rule number 4.

You can't con a con.

It doesn't matter if he's gay or straight -- I know he won't to do squat for me. I have to get out of this on my own, but I am seriously out of practice. I have kept my nose as clean as a nun's ass since I took the twins from my father and ran. I work multiple jobs, spend every day exhausted from ninety-hour work weeks and catch most of my sleep during long bus rides between work and the cheap one bedroom apartment where Tommy sleeps on a pull-out couch and Rose and I share a bed.

Gently pinching my chin, Masters forces me to look at him. "I want to help you, Marie."

"Then let me leave." My bottom lip quivers and I can feel the swell of tears fighting to escape. "Keep the money and let me walk. I won't come back."