Книга - Stacked Deck

Stacked Deck
Terry Watkins


Mills & Boon Silhouette
No one is better at exposing a cheat than professional gambler and sometimes government agent Bethany James. Now, posing as a glamorous high roller, she'll use every trick she learned at Athena Academy to uncover a mob boss's ugly sins…and his deadly secrets. But when a daredevil with a tantalizing drawl calls her bluff, the stakes–and her heart rate–become much, much higher. Beth can't help but wonder: Have the cards finally been stacked against her?







From: Delphi@oracle.org

To: C_Evans@athena.edu

Re: professional gambler, Bethany James

Christine,

We’re getting closer to naming our enemy. If we can just gain Salvatore Giambi’s cooperation—or at least his information—we’ll be that much closer to taking down the mastermind behind these plots against the academy. There is a certain piece of Giambi’s past that will make him the perfect mark for one of my Oracle agents, Bethany James. She’s taken on many identities in the world of professional gambling, and going undercover in Giambi’s Monaco casinos will be nothing new for her.

Beth will bring us what we need at this stage of the game. She’s the best player I know.

D.


Dear Reader,

Writing about an Athena agent who supports herself as a professional gambler has been great fun and has brought back fond memories. I learned how to play poker as a kid. Not from books or TV, but from the best, a friend of the family who made his living as a professional gambler. With us, it was nickels and dimes, but the lessons learned were invaluable.

I hope you enjoy the adventures of Bethany James, a consummate gambler who always works the odds, both at the table and in the streets.

Terry Watkins





Stacked Deck











Terry Watkins







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




TERRY WATKINS


began filling journals and writing short stories in high school. Following stints in the military and half a dozen universities, and living in 10 different states, he finally obtained his MFA in writing from the American Film Institute. Happily ensconced in San Diego, Terry is writing novels full-time.


This story is for Mike Tooley, the embodiment of a

classy, full-time professional gambler, long before

it became an “in” sport. He was not only a top card

player, he was a philosopher in the fine arts of risk

and chance. The object, he always said, wasn’t to

beat your opponent,

it was to lure your opponent into beating themselves. In gambling,

Mike was a true Tai Chi Master.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32




Chapter 1


Las Vegas, March

Bethany James, a twenty-eight-year-old Vegas poker phenom, stared at her quarry with a hunter’s gaze as he riffled his chips, little columns neatly folding between his fingers. The tempo grew faster. It was one of his “tells.”

“So you want to gamble,” he said when she pushed her bet in. “Did you hit the river?”

“Jump in and find out.”

She ignored the familiar buzz on her PDA for the fourth or fifth time as she studied her opponent’s face, her unflinching stare boring into him like a surgeon’s scalpel, cutting away the outer layer, seeing the tightened muscles beneath his expression of calm.

He was bluffing all the way and she was going to take him down.

“One way to find out.”

When he was weak, he had the habit of putting his card protector, a small gold skeleton, down on his cards with authority, and he’d done that.

I’ve got you now, she thought. To needle him a little more, she said, “I should put the clock on you.”

“I think you have fours with an over card.”

“You wish.”

The other three men, all under thirty years of age, had already been small-stacked and eliminated one at a time.

Truth, as her gambler father once said—quoting his hero, the great billionaire gambler Kerry Packer—is what is left when all the lies and secrets, those little “tells,” have been revealed and your lie is the last lie standing. That is the moment when you take control of the game.

She waited for her opponent to play his mind games, knowing he was already looking to come over the top, maybe even go “all in” after she’d set him up by limping in with a small bet to look weak, enticing him into believing he could buy the pot with a bluff.

Through the window to the right of the dealer’s head, over the empty flower box, beyond the patio of this estate on Sunrise Mountain, Beth stared for a moment to rest her tired eyes, her gaze lingering on the shimmering sea of orange that was the neon metropolis of Las Vegas.

Someone once said of her that she was just like the city she grew up in. A chameleon, a changeling, an impostor.

Yes, true. Survival demanded it.

“You checked on the opening bet. Played slow. What do you have?” he said in a low whisper.

He was searching, hoping to see something. All night she’d been building the fake tell for him to see. Three times she’d bluffed and when she did, she’d pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth and chewed lightly on it. If he picked that up, he would jump all over her.

She pulled her lip in and gnawed away.

Beth could see nearly all the casinos from where she sat and she was outlawed from just about every one of them. Because of her card counting days, she was forced to use disguises when she did attempt entry. Now she mostly played in high-stakes private games like this one.

“You didn’t hit a set, did you?” he teased.

She didn’t respond.

The city below was laced with traffic, like a vast tangle of white and red snakes, and in the darkening sky to the east planes stacked up like a string of bobbing Chinese lanterns as they descended on McCarran International Airport.

Her eyes rested, she returned her focus to the game.

This twenty-three-hour marathon of Texas Hold ’Em was nearing its denouement. She glanced to her left at the man she was heads-up with: black shaggy hair, an angled face and whiskey-colored eyes. She could smell blood, see it in his play, the faltering steps of a confused and tiring animal.

She knew her adversary was a member of a sophisticated cheating crew, but tonight he was freelancing.

The owner of this house was a friend of hers and knew something was going on between her and the man she was now heads-up with. The man was an addicted gambler who believed that, with or without cheating, he could take down anyone, especially a woman.

Beth knew a lot more about him than she had told her friend. She knew he needed a big score to service his debts.

She’d set the bait and her prey was ready to walk into the trap. Just you and me, babe.

She gave him a stone-cold stare and worked her lip.

The buy-in for this winner-take-all game had been fifty thousand. The quarter-mil take would pay the bills for a long time, but Beth had another use for her money.

She had two income streams, both intermittent. Playing cards for herself, and getting paid to bust cheating crews on behalf of those who’d been taken by them. But this particular game was strictly personal.

The man she was about to crush belonged to one of the largest and most sophisticated cheating crews working the international circuit, a crew that had started twenty years ago in Vegas. The one her father had once belonged to before he was murdered and dumped in a garbage bin sixteen years ago.

The crew was directed and financed by a secret backer who was either her father’s killer, or knew that killer’s identity. To find out who the backer was she had to flip one of his people. She’d chosen carefully.

She knew the one she’d chosen as the weak link was mortgaged to the hilt, his sources tapped out and in deep hock to loan sharks. He’d borrowed heavily for this last stand and she was going to snatch the prize away from him.

Once she had him at her mercy, she’d make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

He did as she expected and came over the top of her bet with an all-in push. If she followed him in and won, it would be over.

A dog without tricks, she thought, as she followed his all-in, much to his surprise and chagrin.

When she laid down her set, she said, “You’re right, I do have a pair of fours, and one extra.”

He was stunned. “You limped in, then slow-played when you had them from the get-go?” He seemed amazed and angered that someone would do that.

“It’s called a winning tactic.”

He stared at her cards, his face twisted in bitter fury mixed with that sick feeling all gamblers know so well. The shock of falling into total ruin.

“I’ve had crap all damn day,” he protested, throwing his cards across the table.

“Maybe it’s not the cards,” she said. “Maybe it’s how you play them.”

She could see the rage in his eyes. He wanted to lunge across the table and grab her by the throat, but the other men in the room were her friends on the poker circuit, not his. He continued venting his anger verbally.

At that moment Beth got yet another buzz from her PDA, at least the fifth or sixth since the game had started. She’d been ignoring the outside world’s attempts to contact her, but now that the game was over she reached in her black shoulder bag, glanced at the message and swore under her breath.

It was the last person on earth she wanted a message from right now—Delphi, her contact with Oracle.

She interrupted her opponent’s verbal tirade. “Sorry, I’ll have to catch your trash talk on another day.”

In the wake of his swearing and the laughter from the other men at the table, Beth slipped out through the glass doors onto the balcony.

She read and reread the text message with consternation and disbelief. This was incredibly bad timing. She was being mission-tasked and Delphi wanted her at the Oracle town house in Virginia ASAP. In the past, she’d been assigned missions that were analysis-based, math and statistics being her area of expertise. This sounded very different. And agents were almost never summoned to the Virginia office.

Why now? Why today?

Using her thumbs like little pistons, she sent a message back requesting a replacement because she was involved in her own urgent business. She could have called Delphi and spoken to her, but not here.

A negative reply returned instantly. Code red. That meant critical and it meant now.

For the first time in her career, Bethany seriously considered the ramifications of refusing an assignment.

She knew if she was working directly for the Feds, NSA or CIA the problem would have been simple. Take the assignment or resign.

But Oracle agents worked for an intelligence agency that existed without mandate or congressional oversight. It didn’t show up on any traditional radar, and Beth wasn’t sure what the protocol was for refusing a mission.

I’m not going to Virginia, she thought. Not now. I’ll call in later, when I’m home. She decided that if Allison Gracelyn was available, she’d talk to her. She’d understand. Allison worked with Oracle, too, and she was the one person who could get Bethany released from the assignment.

She went back inside. The men were drinking cognac and smoking cigars, except for her nemesis. He had made a hasty and bitter departure. She’d find him later with her proposition.

“Some of us are better losers than others,” Manny Kirk, the owner of the house and a longtime friend said.

She nodded. “That’s because you, unlike our friend, know you’ll have a chance to get your money back.”

The men laughed.

She added, “I’d love to stay and party, but I have some business that needs immediate attention.”

There were a dozen or so “poker houses” owned by these guys and their friends scattered around Vegas. Games went on day and night. Partying for them wasn’t about drugs and fast women; they were the nerds of the party world and preferred playing pool, video games and more poker on the Internet. These young hotshots in this new world of poker had the good life by the tail.

“I guess you want the money,” Manny said.

She smiled. “That’s why we live and breathe, is it not?”

In the end, unlike the big TV games where scantily clad casino girls brought out trays of money, this was much more subdued.

While the money was being retrieved from a safe, she called Curtis Sault, a bodyguard she employed whenever she was in a big game in Vegas. He’d dropped her off the previous day and now she was in need of a fast exit. The ex-Army Ranger turned professional bodyguard had been told, if she won, he’d be in for a substantial bonus.

She transferred the quarter mil to an expandable travel bag, thanked her host and the other players and then left. With the bag of loot slung over one shoulder, her purse over the other, she felt a little like a happy bank robber.



It was fully dark now when she spotted Curtis Sault roaring up the road in his vintage ’58 Corvette. He pulled over the tricked-out red beauty and she dropped the bag on the floorboard and jumped in, settling in the red leather seat with its cool chrome trim. The bag sat between her feet.

Curtis did a one-eighty and they headed down the mountain. He glanced over at the bag. “Is that full of dirty laundry, or should I be congratulating you?”

“You should be smiling from ear to ear ’cause I just paid for your vacation in Costa Rica and then some.”

“I’m liking the sound of that. You know what amazes me?”

“What?”

“These guys you play poker with don’t get robbed, all the money they have around and no security.”

She agreed. Many of the young guns of poker were so flush with cash that it had become commonplace to go into one of their houses and see it everywhere. Money was the new drug of choice.

Beth settled back, her mind preoccupied with how to handle backing out of the Oracle assignment.

They dropped quickly down past the Mormon church that stood on the side of Sunrise Mountain looking down on Vegas like a condemnation. It was her father who told her the Mormons provided the casinos with their most valuable employees, as they had long ago proven to be honest and trustworthy, a highly sought after quality in a casino.

Without warning, Curtis swerved and braked hard, the car’s headlights framing a black car that was blocking the road. “What the hell’s this?”

He brought the Vette to a skidding halt.

Two men on the far side of the black car raised their arms and extended from their hands the unmistakable glint of gun metal.

“Get down!” Curtis yelled.

He reached for the glove box, pulled out a weapon and at the same time started to back up. Bullets slammed through the windshield.

Another car pulled out of a side street behind them, its high beams flooding the Vette and blinding her when she turned to look.

The ambush was perfect. The trap doors closed at both ends. And when she looked at Curtis to see why he wasn’t doing anything she saw blood on his face.




Chapter 2


“Get out, run!” Curtis said as he fired his weapon first one way, then another.

She snapped off her seat belt, grabbed the door handle, opened the door and he pushed her out onto the road.

The firing was from guns with silencers that made little spitting sounds. She rolled over the side of the embankment, her small shoulder bag tangling around her neck as bullets kicked dirt and rocks around her.

When she stopped rolling, she pushed herself up and started running. Glancing back as she ran, she saw Curtis get out of the car, still exchanging gunfire. He was trying to get away, but then he fell, face first onto the pavement.

A sickening feeling clenched her stomach.

Two men came after her, scampering down the hill, fanning out. Then she spotted a third running down the road.

The money was in the car. Why were they after her? Did they think she had the money in her shoulder bag?

Then the frightening thought raced into her mind that it wasn’t the money. It was her they were after.

They wanted to kill her.

The houses along the hill were in uneven rows and the men were trying to cut off her escape routes.

She darted into what looked like a narrow lane between two large buildings, only to find that it was an alley that had been dead-ended by a high wall connecting the structures.

Trapped.

She turned and retreated the way she’d come in, but then heard someone running. Frantically she looked for a place to hide and found nothing. She tried a door but it was locked.

Everything slowed to a near halt. She felt the pulsing of her blood through her veins, the intense weight of the air, the granulated texture of the wall her hand brushed against, the push of the stones beneath the feet.

Her gut became a knot of cold, sickening fear.

In panic and desperation, Beth snatched up a large rock and waited at the entrance of the narrow alley.

It wasn’t in her nature to die passively, trapped like a rabbit. Her reflexes and reactions had been honed in the tough backstreets of Vegas as the daughter of a down-and-out gambler, and later she’d been trained as a teen in martial arts and survival combat tactics at the Athena Academy.

She heard the gunman before she saw him, his breathing heavy, footsteps crunching gravel as he rounded the corner.

Beth crouched in the blackness, coiled tight as a cobra. She struck, driving up and swinging the rock with everything she had.

Startled, he had no defense other than to raise his hands a split second too late to shield his face.

The rock met skin, bone, teeth and nose with a sickening thud. Blood sprayed across her pink T-shirt, her neck and arms. The man went down hard and stayed there.

She yanked his weapon from his hand, then racked it to make sure a round was chambered as she ran. Curtis had trained her at a firing range, but firing at targets was one thing, firing at people, another. She’d never shot at someone before, but had often wondered what it would be like because she knew one day, when she caught up with the man she was hunting, it just might come to that. Would she hesitate, and because of that, be the one to end up dead? Curtis’s words echoed in her mind: When it’s your life, you will fire.

Her peripheral vision picked up a second man coming toward her twenty yards away.

Without hesitation, she took aim and fired right at him. The gun didn’t buck much. The silencer seemed to barely make any sound. But it was effective.

Her pursuer vanished around the corner of a garage behind one of the tract homes and in that instant she knew the exhilarating power of a gun in all its deadly reality.

Beth darted in the opposite direction, cutting down a narrow path.

She caught a view of the third man as he tracked her from one street over, a blip of movement in the dark, sliding fast on her right as he tried to cut off her downhill escape.

She charged through one open backyard gate, then another, past a startled woman and her small white dogs barking with tiny fury in her wake.

Her pursuer cut across below her.

She tried to find another route, but already he was rising over a wall that separated two houses, the man moving with the agility of a gymnast.

She fired. He twisted awkwardly, landed with a yelp and she didn’t know if she’d hit him, or if he’d twisted an ankle. She didn’t hang around to find out.

In that instant she thought she understood something about soldiers in combat. Bone-chilling fear can paralyze if you don’t squash it quickly.

Sprinting toward another street that bled down the mountain, she came upon a young guy straddling a blue motorcycle, the engine rumbling as he talked to a girl on the curb.

They both glanced at Beth as she ran toward them, utterly unaware of the chaotic battle that had unfolded up the hill.

“I need your bike,” Beth said. She’d dated an air force pilot on and off for two years and he’d introduced her to motorcycles. She’d owned a much beloved Harley for a while, but an accident and the increase in traffic had changed her mind about the joys of motorcycle riding in Vegas.

Maybe he didn’t see the gun, didn’t believe it, but in any case he told her to fuck off.

She was fully in the persona of the tough Vegas kid she’d once been. And her life was at stake. Beth pushed the astonished girl aside, and leveled the semiautomatic at the motorcyclist. “I said I need your motorcycle.”

“Ron, get the hell off and give it to her,” the girl said. “She’s fucking crazy.”

He abandoned his machine, hands up. “It’s all yours. Don’t shoot me.”

Beth said, “You have a cell phone?”

He nodded.

“Then call the police and tell them somebody has been shot up on Peaceful Lane. Send an ambulance. Tell them there are three men with guns running around up there. I’ll call in the location of your motorcycle in an hour. Sorry, but I have to get out of here.”

She mounted the bike, heeled the kick stand and roared off into the Vegas night.

As she drove, the wind brushing across her face and the rumble of the engine on her legs, she tried to push the shock of what had just happened out of her mind so she could keep her focus on her driving. But the image of Curtis hitting the pavement, and not knowing if he was alive or dead, made her sick with apprehension.

Beth blew through traffic on Nellis Boulevard until she felt she was well away from trouble. Then she pulled into a strip mall and dialed 911 on her cell, just in case the couple freaked and didn’t call the police. “There’s been a shooting up on Peaceful Lane. A man’s wounded or he may be dead.”

She hung up before they could ask her anything. Then, trembling from all the madness, she called a detective. She knew most of the detectives in Vegas, but only trusted one man. He was the detective who had investigated her father’s death and had never really let it get tossed into the cold case file. His voice was soothing in her ear.

“Detective Ayers? This is Bethany James.”

“Hey, Beth what’s up?”

She struggled not to sound hysterical as she told him what happened.

“Beth, where are you?”

“I borrowed a motorcycle from some guy to get away. He didn’t volunteer it exactly. I’ll call you later and tell you where it is. I can’t explain anything right now. But my bodyguard was hit, Curtis Sault. I want to know how he is. Call me when you know something. I need to lay low until I find out who is trying to kill me.”

“Beth, I need you to—”

Beth hung up. She didn’t want to get involved with the police. Not until she had things figured out. She sat there thinking for a minute, staring at the flood of traffic on Nellis. Suddenly she knew what she was going to do. Get out of town, go to Virginia and straighten things out with Oracle even if that meant severing ties. Then she would come back here and deal with this.

She called the airport and made a reservation for the next flight out of Vegas that would get her to the Washington Dulles Airport in Virginia. She got a seat on the redeye.

She headed back out in traffic, turned south on Charleston heading for the freeway to McCarran International Airport.



Two hours later Beth, having learned that Curtis Sault had been taken to Sunrise Hospital and was in surgery, but expected to live, sat in a window seat as her flight took off from McCarran.

She was incredibly relieved. She didn’t want tears in her eyes and the guy sitting next to her asking if she was all right. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

She’d cleaned up in the ladies room inside McCarran and changed into a “What Happens in Vegas…” T-shirt and a pair of black sports pants with Las Vegas lettered across her butt in bright pink. She’d stopped at the first shop she’d come to inside the airport, having no choice but to change out of her dirty and blood-spattered clothes or she would never be allowed to board the plane. Now she looked like some kind of walking billboard, but at least she was blood-free.

The flight would get her into Dulles at six in the morning and she intended to stop somewhere for breakfast—she was starving—then go straight to Oracle headquarters and get this thing settled.

Beth tried to get a little sleep, but the catastrophe of having an acquaintance shot wound her so tightly she stayed awake during the entire flight.

She was certain that because someone was trying to kill her and she was now mixed up with a homicide, Oracle would cut her loose from the mission without consequence and she could return to Vegas to deal with this situation. Convinced tonight’s attack was connected to her search for her father’s killer, she must be on the right track now, and couldn’t afford any delays.

Allison Gracelyn was the only person Beth knew who was connected to Oracle. The organization did not advertise its existence in any way. Few knew about it at all. Fewer knew any of the people involved. Even the agents who were sent on assignments had little, if any, knowledge of other agents.

But Beth and Allison had a special bond. Both had lost parents to murder.

In Allison’s case, it was her mother, founder of the Athena Academy, where Beth had gotten her education. Allison, of all people, would understand her current situation. She was also an Athena grad and was the person who had recruited Beth.

When Beth’s father was killed she was twelve and had no other family to take her in. She became a ward of the state of Nevada. At some point she’d been given a battery of aptitude tests. The results, especially in math, brought her to the attention of a very special college prep school, Athena Academy for girls in Phoenix, Arizona. Allison was still very much involved in the school.

The academy had given Beth an education unlike anything offered in any other school in America. Besides a strong academics program she studied martial arts, learned horseback riding and analyzed war-game strategies, as well as languages and international political theory.

The school prepared her and the other girls for much more than just higher education. It prepared them to compete with men at the highest levels of whatever careers they chose.

For Beth, becoming an Oracle agent was the logical step for someone with her unique skills. As a professional card player, the legacy of her father, she played in high-stakes games all over the world.

Because of her card playing, Beth had unusual access to an entire strata of movers and shakers in the shadows of global finance. This was a big asset for Oracle and she hoped it might work in her favor now, allowing her to bow out of this mission, whatever it was, without souring the relationship.

It would be an immense loss if she had to cut her ties to Oracle, Allison and the academy, the only family she’d had since her father’s death, but Beth was too close to learning the name of her father’s killer, and nothing short of her own death would stop her from getting that information.




Chapter 3


When the plane landed, Beth headed for the nearest food kiosk. After a blueberry scone, one almost ripe banana, a bag of spicy tortilla chips and a large black coffee, she rented an Alero from Avis.

Once inside her car, she reminded herself what was at stake here, and rehearsed what she wanted to say to Allison. Other agents could be called in out of the cold to do this job. They really didn’t need her. And she had something else to do that was, in her mind of far greater significance.

She had never quit anything important, let alone the most important organization she’d ever belonged to. Its code of silence and loyalty was unmatched. It was, to be sure, a lot tighter than the crumbling mafia code of omerta, or the sieve that was the CIA.

At eight-thirty in the morning, Beth drove the Alero through the security gate to the rear of the town house that served as Oracle’s inconspicuous residential location.

The first time she’d been to Oracle’s nerve center, she’d expected some huge building appropriate for a major intelligence operation. Instead it was an unassuming town house as befitting its very low profile.

Her arrival had already been cleared. The agency didn’t like more than one at-large agent showing up at any given time. It was rare, in fact, to ever be invited here and that made this even more unusual.

Beth had never known Oracle’s leader’s identity, but she’d often wondered if Delphi was actually the code name for Allison Gracelyn. Whether or not Allison, also an employee of NSA, was Delphi she was one of the major powers in Oracle, and the one person Bethany wanted to deal with on a personal basis.

She entered the town house through the rear, her thumb print and a retina scan necessary to get in. She went into the kitchen where a woman sat at the table drinking coffee and talking on a cell phone.

Beth glanced at her, made a passing nod and headed upstairs. A young red-headed staffer told her that Allison was in a meeting and asked her to wait in Allison’s office.

Beth made her way into the office. There was a desk, a laptop, a few photos of bucolic settings on the walls, a small refrigerator in one corner, a sofa against the far wall with matching chairs and an oak coffee table.

As she waited for her former classmate, she reflected on her years at Athena Academy at the base of the White Tank Mountains near Phoenix. They were some of the best years of her life.

Everyone who attended the academy was put in a particular group. Hers was Artemis, the Huntress in mythology. She often missed the camaraderie, the competition and the fun of those years, and it brought a smile to her face thinking about all the trouble her secret, “floating” card games had gotten her in.

And those famous words from one of her instructors: “Beth, are you trying to turn this academy into a Las Vegas casino?”

Beth was lost in her memories when she heard Allison out in the hall talking to someone.

Beth took a deep breath to calm down. She didn’t want to just blurt out everything in a gush of emotion. Allison was the consummate professional and Beth wanted to keep her respect and the connection to Oracle.

Allison walked in carrying a laptop shoulder bag. She said, tongue-in-cheek, “Wow. The outfit is so—” she smiled ruefully and raised her eyebrows “—Vegas.”

For her part, Allison looked great, her brilliant brown eyes smiling as she shook Beth’s hand. She wore a tailored gray business suit, white blouse, short hair tucked neatly behind her ears, very little makeup, but the jade teardrop earrings gave the business look a feminine edge.

Allison motioned toward the sofa and matching chairs. They sat across from each other in the chairs.

Beth explained the outfit and filled Allison in on the incident in Vegas and the events leading up to it, and why, because of it, she couldn’t take the mission.

“I’m convinced the men who came after me did so on the orders of the man who runs a cheating crew. It could be the crew my father once worked for.”

Allison studied her intently for a moment, before saying, “The man you believe your father worked for when he was murdered?”

“Yes. I think he now realizes who I am and what I’m doing. I’m very close. I have to carry this through.”

Allison nodded. “I absolutely understand the urgency of your situation, but we really do need you for this operation.” She smiled slightly, and rested her hands in her lap. “I really think you’ll reconsider after you hear the details and the unusual set of circumstances surrounding this mission.”

Beth shook her head, adamant and controlled. “There has to be somebody who can sub for me. I absolutely can’t do it right now.”

“Beth, you’re not only assuming the hit team that tried to take you out is connected to the cheating crew you’ve been tracking, but you’re convinced of it. However, you have no hard evidence to prove this, and you’ve been down this road before with other crews.”

“I know. But I have a good feeling this time that I’m on the right track.”

“But still no actual proof.”

“Not yet. But I will.”

“I can see that it’s easy to fuse your own emotional vendetta with everything that happened.”

“I don’t think that’s what I’m doing,” Beth said, trying hard not to get defensive.

Allison sat back in her chair, folded her hands and tucked her legs to one side, then she sat forward again and straightened her back. All tells.

Beth knew she was in for a serious briefing.

“Beth, at the moment, every graduate of Athena Academy must be considered a target, as well as our students. There’ve been a few attempted kidnappings. We’re all under attack. Since the school was founded it has had supporters and enemies, but there is one enemy in particular who has been there right from the beginning. We absolutely must track down this person. And for that we need your help.”

“Am I the only one who can do this? I’m usually just given data analysis tasks. This sounds different.”

“It is. Very different. And yes, you are the only one who can handle this, in my estimation. There are several reasons for this. The first being, we need your expertise in Monaco.”

“Monaco?”

“Yes. There is a casino there, the Sapphire Star, owned by one Salvatore Giambi. He’s the target. We suspect he was blackmailed by someone with a signature ‘A’ now known as Arachne. We want to know anything and everything you can discover about the blackmailer through Giambi’s financial transactions over the years.”

Monaco was so far from Vegas that Beth just couldn’t do this, but still she asked, “The blackmailer is the person you think is the Athena Academy’s enemy?”

“Yes. We think that is a very likely scenario. This goes all the way back to a jailbreak in Phoenix in 1968 and the attempted assassination of a female prisoner, known at the time as Weaver. She was about to stand trial for murder. My mother was the prosecuting attorney. Weaver was a suspected CIA assassin. She apparently believed my mother set up her boyfriend. Weaver was pregnant at the time. During her escape, her boyfriend was killed, and later she lost her baby. Weaver has since accumulated many aliases, one of them is Arachne. We suspect that Arachne is behind the attacks on Athena. We’re hoping that Giambi will lead us closer to Weaver.”

Beth still didn’t see a reason for her role in this.

Allison continued, “Weaver was blackmailing my mother right up until her death. Blackmail is something she’s very good at. We also believe she’s been a freelance killer across the globe for a long time. She did so much work for the CIA and its clients over the years, heavy work during the Vietnam War, that she knows where all the bodies are buried. Which means, she has information of the kind that has allowed her to make a fortune blackmailing former clients.”

Beth could feel the tension building in her neck. She tried to relax by sitting back in her chair and unclenching her hands. She’d had enough physical action to last her a long time, and really didn’t want to get pushed into the underworld in Monaco.

“What we do know,” Allison said, “is Arachne is called different names in different places around the world. In Russia she’s known as Madame Web. We need to confirm our suspicion that Arachne is the same blackmailer Giambi has been paying for decades. What you’re being asked to do is get into Giambi’s financial universe and track down his blackmail payments to their source. This man has critical information and we need it.”

“Why would you give me this assignment? It’s not what I do, and it’s a long way from Las Vegas.”

“For a couple reasons.” Allison untucked her legs, stood up and walked over to her desk.

She came back with a large white envelope. This time she sat on the sofa right next to Beth’s chair. She put the envelope down on the coffee table. “We need you because you understand the people in the gaming world. Salvatore Giambi, like any casino boss, has always had his eye on the cheating crews to protect his own business. He’s been around a long time and hasn’t been hit by one of these crews in about thirty years or so. Whatever his source, whether it’s the mob or some intelligence branch, we don’t know, but we do know he’s probably the most knowledgeable guy on the planet on this subject. That gives the two of you a bond of sorts. And his knowledge of the cheating crews was one of the reasons he was allowed to open a casino in Monaco. He protects the city from international cheating rings and the authorities allow him to run his casino.”

Beth said, “The cheating crews that I know about are mostly out of Vegas.”

“Giambi may not be located in Vegas now, but he was there for a time and he still has friends. He’s invested heavily in Vegas. We’ve checked that out. And the casinos he’s invested in, unlike all the rest, never get hit by the major crews. It’s like they have a protective cloak against cheaters.”

Now Allison had Beth’s full attention. She sat straight up in her chair, leaning in close. A little jolt of excitement ran through her. “So you think Giambi might know something about the crew my father worked for.”

Allison smiled. “If anyone does, it would be Giambi. The man’s seventy-eight years old. He’s been everywhere and knows just about everyone in the gaming world, on both sides of the table. Beth, I know what finding your father’s killer means to you. When I realized we were going to go after Giambi, I thought of you immediately in spite of your lack of experience in physical missions. I’m extremely confident in you. We need somebody who can create the right kind of identity for this operation and you’re the best at choosing the right identity for the game. And for you, this is a win-win. You help us and yourself at the same time. Though you aren’t specifically trained for this kind of mission, you’re exactly right for it.”

Damn, she did it, Beth thought. She’s got me.

She could see in Allison’s eyes that she knew she had won. All of Beth’s arguments fell mute. All the energy she’d built up preparing to go toe-to-toe with this woman, with the organization, collapsed.

Allison said, “Are you interested?”

“Of course. How could I refuse now? Who will I become?”

“A very wealthy, jet-setting widow and businesswoman.”

“As of last night, I’ve become a little short of funds.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll fund this operation. Your new accounts will have plenty of money in them. But don’t lose it all.”

Beth smiled. “I usually win. What’s my new identity?”

“Anne Hurley, a rich widow with two major interests that happen to be Giambi’s passion—Formula One racing and poker. You’re going to arrive in Monaco with all the trimmings of a ‘whale’ who’s looking for some action at the tables and also looking at the possibility of investing in Giambi’s dream of fielding a Formula One team.” Allison slid the envelope over to Beth. “You’ll find your new passport, credit cards, driver’s license, et cetera, inside this envelope.”

“I know nothing about Formula One. Vegas is a NASCAR town.”

Allison pulled an Apple laptop from her shoulder bag. “Everything you could possibly need to know is stored on this laptop.” Allison handed the laptop to Beth. “You also have access to all the data we have on Giambi and his casino.”

Allison continued, “Right now Giambi is rounding up investors. Before you make an appearance at his casino, your money will arrive ahead of you for deposit toward your gaming. And we’ll see to it you have an established reputation, a past and the financial records to go with your new identity. Everything is being inserted into the digital universe. If he does a background check on you, and he will, you’re going to come up as the ideal candidate for his needs. He’s ambitious. He’s even floated an idea to the mayor of Las Vegas about bringing Formula One there.”

“Why would Vegas want Formula One?”

“Because it’s the elite venue in racing, catering to the international jet set. And it wouldn’t impact NASCAR negatively. Their fan base is rock solid. Giambi seems to be trying to create a legacy. He’s also looking into building a casino in Kestonia. He apparently believes that Eastern Europe could be the next Vegas. And he might be getting ready to leave Monaco in the near future. Prince Albert is trying to clean up Monaco’s act. As Somerset Maugham once said, Monaco is ‘a sunny place for shady people.’”

Beth nodded. “Sounds like a fit description for the old Vegas as well.”

“Prince Albert wants any money laundering in the principality ended. He’s trying to cooperate with the European Union banking regulations to get rid of illicit tax havens, and the presence of the Cosa Nostra. When and if this becomes a reality, Giambi will have to move his operations elsewhere.”

Allison pulled out a photo from her laptop bag and handed it to Beth. “Giambi’s Formula One driver, John David ‘JD’ Hawke. He’s a bit of a bad boy who’s been involved in some battles that got him suspended from Formula One. He’s reinstated now, but needs a ride. He likes fast cars and hot women. A little mixing of pleasure with business might just fast-track your operation.”

Beth stared at the photo of JD. He had it going on, no doubt. Right up to the cocky I-get-what-I-want smile, his blond cropped hair, smoky blue eyes and a slight dimple in his left cheek. She looked up at Allison and said facetiously, “Mixing pleasure and business dulls my edge.”

“Getting close to JD will make your penetration of Giambi’s computers and files easier. But it’s your call.”

“How close is JD to Giambi?”

“Very. Giambi has all but adopted JD Hawke. He’s given him an apartment adjoining his sumptuous fifteen-thousand-foot Playboy-mansion style suite atop the casino. A lot of partying goes on up there.”

“A real player.” Beth stared at the picture for a moment longer then slipped it into the envelope.

“You should have everything you need, including the latest hacking software. If you’re missing something, contact Delphi. You’re leaving for Nice at five-thirty this evening. It’s a short chopper-hop from there to Monaco. A villa has been rented in Monaco for your use. Take a couple days to prep. And enjoy the Mediterranean lifestyle.”

Allison glanced at her watch, then stood up, saying, “I have a meeting.”

Beth had one more question. “Just who is Delphi?”

Allison gave her a wry smile. “That’s strictly need-to-know.”

As they left the office, Allison said, “Oracle agents and Athena graduates have finally become a force in this town. The walls of the old boys’ clubs have been breached. Some, of course, are fighting back. We still have a long way to go to achieve our final goals and we can’t allow this current problem with Arachne to derail us.”

Every Athena grad knew what those goals were. A woman in the White House and parity, or dominance, across the board.

Allison stopped and looked Beth in the eyes. “Good luck, Beth. I hope Salvatore Giambi gives up what we’re looking for, and I hope you find what you’re looking for as well.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve made an appointment for you in thirty minutes with Randolph. He can help with a new look. He’s very good.”

She gave Beth Randolph’s card, shook her hand and headed for the door to her office. Then she stopped and turned to Beth. “Oh, by the way, do you tango?”

The question caught Beth off guard. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes, actually. I’m not great, but—”

“Good. Get yourself a tango outfit. Giambi loves to tango. I understand he’s an excellent dancer.”

It never failed, one hour with Allison and you walked out ready to give your all to the mission. The woman, Beth mused, would have made a fantastic no-limit poker player, but then those skills were also the same ones necessary for success on the big stage of politics and power.

As for Salvatore Giambi, he had suddenly become the most important person in the world to Beth. He was the key to protecting Athena, and he was the key, she hoped, to finding her father’s killer.

On her way to her appointment with Randolph, Beth got a call from Detective Ayers informing her that Curtis was in stable condition. “He’s going to survive, and we have one of the shooters in custody. He’s not talking, but that’s a temporary condition, I’m sure.”

She told Ayers where she left the bike at McCarran, and thanked him for calling with the information about Curtis.

Beth didn’t know what problems she would have to deal with in Vegas over the shooting and her leaving town, but they would have to wait until she got back.

“I’d like you to come into the office to answer a few questions,” he said.

“I will,” Beth promised. “But I have some important business to take care of first.”

Relieved with the good news, Beth ended the call and wondered just what JD Hawke was up to at that exact moment, and what type of woman would get under his skin.

She had thirty minutes to figure it out.




Chapter 4


Beth quoted the movie lines with Grace Kelly’s silky purr:

“‘Hold them. Diamonds…the only thing in the world you can’t resist. Then tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Even in this light, I can tell where your eyes are looking.’”

Randolph, a short, plump, bald stylist, chuckled. “Believe me, honey, as wonderful as your assets are, they’re not in my portfolio of thrills.”

Beth laughed as she sat in Randolph’s boutique in a trendy Washington D.C. neighborhood getting a makeover.

While he did his magic, she watched clips of Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief on her PDA, mimicking the heroine’s classy intonation. Grace was a woman’s woman. Someone to emulate, to watch, to impersonate. Beth wondered just how much of it was an act. Was Grace Kelly the consummate actress on the silver screen and in real life?

“‘Ever had a better offer in your whole life? One with everything?’”

Randolph stopped fussing with her hair and looked at Beth in the mirror. “You’re good. You sound just like her. She was a princess, wasn’t she? Such class. And that hair, like spun platinum.”

Randolph fitted yet another wig on Beth’s head, this one honey-colored and shoulder-length. “How do you like this, darlin’? Hot and sexy? I think the color looks fab with your hazel eyes.”

Beth twisted from side to side to get a better look in the mirror. “It’s close, but I want it a little shorter.”

Randolph slipped the honey wig off and replaced it with a blond, jaw-length bob.

“You’re in a play, right?”

Beth decided to go with his guess. “Yes. Off, off Broadway. It’s a spoof on Grace Kelly movies.”

Beth had always loved morphing into an imaginary “other” ever since she was a child living a desperate life with her gambler father, bouncing from losing streak to losing streak. They were flotsam in the rapids of Las Vegas gaming, caught, injured, then tossed back into the current.

Her father, who had predicted he would end up buried in the desert, ended up dead in a Dumpster.

Her mother was only a figment of Beth’s imagination, having fled before Beth could know her. So Beth created and recreated her life, her image, her history, shedding skin like a rattlesnake in August. It made her an accomplished actress on the world stage.

Beth tugged at the wig, getting it straight on her head. She liked this one. It gave off the right look—wealthy, without being too brash. Plus, it had just the right amount of retro to give her that elegant Grace Kelly look.

“Perfect,” she said. “I want my hair lightened this exact shade of blond and cut in this style.”

“Wish I could see you perform. I bet you’re good.”

“I’m a method actor, dahlin’,” Beth purred. “I scare ’em and excite ’em at the same time.”

Randolph laughed. “Ooh, you play rough.”

“Sometimes, but I’m worth it.”

He stepped back from the chair and gave her the once-over. “Yeah, I can see it. You’ve got that edge to you. Like you’re hiding a tiger under a pink dress.”

They both laughed.

As Randolph worked his magic on her, she thought about how crazy her life had been growing up in Vegas. As a kid, she never felt anger or hatred or even animosity toward her father. She had seen too much of his struggle, his love for her, his ambition—even in hopeless failure—to give her a better life. It was his purpose, his goal. And though he’d died when she was only twelve, without accomplishing that goal in the end, above all else, his love for her was the source of her great inner strength. Because he believed in her, she never doubted who she was beneath the disguises. She merely used them as a means to an end, not as an attempt to erase her true self.



The following day, wearing several thousand dollars’ worth of designer clothes, shoes and obscenely expensive jewelry, carrying Louis Vuitton luggage filled with more of the same, Beth, aka Anne Hurley, rich widow, poker player, businesswoman and passionate lover of open wheel Formula One racing—and the tango—left Dulles International for the four-thousand-mile flight to Nice, France, followed by a seven-minute hop to Monaco by helicopter.

She’d changed her voice, her walk and her attitude to fit her new persona. The next part of the metamorphosis was done at a fabulous villa Delphi had rented for her on a Monaco hillside above the Monte Carlo casino.

She spent much of the next forty-eight hours out on the patio working on her laptop, stopping once in a while to take in the breathtaking view of the French Riviera, while a soft breeze rising from the Mediterranean washed over her.

Periodically she’d look down at the yachts settled like a great flock of white birds on the deep blue sea, the steep hillside covered with pastel villas bathed in the golden sunlight and the endless blue sky above. What could be better, she wondered, than to be filthy rich in Monaco, playground for the rich and the royal?

With her near photographic memory and a capacity to focus for long periods of time, Beth could inculcate volumes of information quickly. To fake a background with success she needed the fine details, the particulars people in the profession paid attention to, the latest jargon.

She listened to dozens of CDs, watched DVDs, read bios of drivers and memorized the complete history of Formula One.

Through a tiny pair of binoculars she carried in her purse, she could see the Sapphire Star Casino on an adjacent hill. It had the look of old Europe to it. Understated. The home of her target: Salvatore Giambi.

We will meet soon, Mister Giambi, she thought. He’d been made aware of her arrival, and had been given advance notice that she was interested in investing in his racing team.

And she knew he was desperate for investors. Not just because of financial problems, but, according to the files she’d been reading, his marquee driver, JD Hawke, had a bad boy history that scared off would be investors. JD’s on-track fights, off-track mouth, and daredevil driving had made him a pariah. Only his great talent, and Giambi’s willingness to gamble, made a comeback possible.



On the fifteenth floor of the Sapphire Star Casino, Salvatore Giambi stormed into his office. He was in a sour mood.

His race driver, JD Hawke, was seated at Giambi’s desk playing a video game on an open laptop.

“To hell with the prince! To hell with Monaco!” Giambi bellowed.

JD nodded without looking up. “What’s going on?”

Giambi stared at him. “JD, when the hell is this Anne Hurley supposed to show up?”

As JD obviously crushed his cyber opponent, he held up his arms in complete victory and looked up, beaming. “I thought you said tonight.”

Giambi stared at JD for a moment, wondering what the hell was so exciting about those damn games. “Can you do that somewhere else, I have work to do.”

“Sure,” JD said as he closed out and stood up.

“Let me know when she gets here.” He walked toward his desk just as JD was leaving it. “How much did I say was transferred to her account with us? I forgot.”

“An even million. If you took that Ginkgo biloba I bought you, your memory would improve.”

“I hate pills.”

“It’s a vitamin.”

“I don’t care what you call it, it’s still a pill.”

“It’s your choice, but I—”

“I don’t have time for this.” He waved JD’s statement away. “She didn’t want a comped room. What, my five-star hotel isn’t good enough for her?”

“Apparently she’s got friends to stay with,” JD said, as he tried to leave.

“Don’t get lost. I want you to meet this woman when she gets here.”

JD tossed him a look. He didn’t like being treated as if he was one of Giambi’s assistants, but the way Giambi looked at it, the guy had nothing to do but train with weights, party all night with his friends and wait until he, Giambi, got him a seat in a race car. Nice life if you could get it. “You might as well do something besides play video games and party.”

“Okay, boss,” JD said, with that Tennessee drawl of his.

Giambi didn’t particularly like the way JD called him “boss” like he was making fun of him. Like the way Paul Newman said it in that movie. What was it called? Shit! He couldn’t remember, but it had something to do with prison.

JD left and Giambi settled in behind his desk. He was moving money as fast as he could out of Monaco and out of Europe. He knew he was being targeted by Prince Albert personally in this crusade against money laundering.

No respect.

And after all he’d done protecting the principality and the Grimaldi family over the years.

God he hated that Rainier and his beautiful princess were gone. Those were the days. When they were in power, Monaco was the greatest country on earth.

He blamed the Bush administration’s war on terrorism more than the European Union for the present crackdown.

At the same time he was dodging the new regime, that bitch who was blackmailing him was demanding a bigger piece of his pie. Between her, the Monaco cleanup, and investors in his racing team suddenly getting scarce, Giambi felt the walls closing in. He was being forced to reach out to people he had never done business with and he didn’t like it. You reach out, you don’t know who you’re gonna get.

That tended to kick his normal paranoia up a notch.

Now it was the time of the month, as with every month, that he had to wire the money to the biggest mistake of his life. One that was slowly bleeding him to death. He wanted be rid of her in the worst way, but he’d all but given up trying to kill her. Half the intelligence agencies in the world had been no more successful than he had.

He unlocked the drawer of his desk and pulled it out. The laptop came up into position. He opened up the secret account. The bitch seemed to know exactly what his take was each month and she made sure he handed the lion’s share over to her. It was a double transfer from his bank in Monaco, through an intermediary, and eventually to her accounts in Puerto Isla. She changed numbers and destinations so often he’d begun to think she wasn’t a person but an organization.

Hell, maybe she was dead and he was paying some rogue CIA group!

Giambi made the transfer, then made a call to check on the progress of a Greek shipping magnate’s yacht, which was heading for Monaco. He was a billionaire with an interest in the proposal Giambi had made about building a casino in Kestonia. Giambi was talking up the small, Eastern European country as the next Vegas. It was also a place a man could work his money without worry. If Giambi could bring the Greek on board his casino venture, then get the rich widow to invest in his Formula One team, life might start looking good again.

He had a printout about this rich widow, Anne Hurley. Worth upwards of a hundred million dollars, she definitely could be the solution to some of his immediate problems. He wanted his race team up and running again, but it would take millions to accomplish that and he couldn’t afford to go it alone.

Sometimes, and this was one of them, he’d just stop his mind. Just suddenly stare off into space at the truth. He was seventy-eight years old, and time was shooting by on a fast train to nowhere.

In those few seconds, when he stared that truth dead in the face, it scared him to the quick.

All those vitamins and longevity formulas he tried to down, all the care he took of his body by working out every damn day, none of that could erase the years.

And that reality pushed Giambi to get things done and get them done now. He still had ambitions, big ambitions.

If it weren’t for that damn blackmailer, he’d be one of the truly big players. Steve Wynn and Donald Trump wouldn’t have had anything on him. He’d have been as big as both combined. And as far as racing was concerned, Christ, he could have teamed up with Paul Newman in the Indy league and coaxed him over into Formula One.

One of these days, he promised himself, he was going to hunt that bitch down and put a bullet in her himself. At his age, he was beyond worrying about consequences.

His phone rang. It was the concierge in the lobby. “Anne Hurley just phoned and requested a limo,” the rough voice said. Giambi didn’t know which of his employees was speaking to him, he only knew that at that moment the guy deserved a raise.

“What time will she be here?”

“Around nine-thirty, sir.”

“Let me know the minute she arrives.”

“Will do.”

He hung up, and downed three extra-strength Tums to neutralize some of the acid in his stomach. Then he walked over to his bar to pour himself a scotch and get a cigar.

I still have a good fifteen years, Giambi thought, and Ms. Hurley is going to help me enjoy every damn minute of it.

He lit his cigar and gazed out the window. “Cool Hand Luke! That was the name of that damn Paul Newman film. Ginkgo biloba my ass.”




Chapter 5


While waiting for the limo, Beth checked her Judith Leiber bag to ensure that the cloner and tiny antenna were in the right pocket. This was her means to pick up a signal from a smart-card badge. She would catch the signal emitted from the badge and download the data onto her cloner, then later make the transfer to her computer. She had other B&E tools for getting in and out of secure places, and she’d been provided instructions, but not a lot of practice. Her main means of entry, she hoped, would be JD Hawke, once she figured out how to get some leverage with him.

The limo picked her up at 9:15 p.m. On the way to Giambi’s place the limo passed Le Grand Casino on 1 Ave Princess Grace, then over to the Sun Casino on 12 Ave des Spelugues, and, of course, the Monte Carlo Sporting Club.

The playboys and playgirls of the moneyed world were out and about cruising in their Mercedes, BMWs and Ferraris.

Beth had had a great time here several years ago, gambling and dancing at Jimmy Z Dance, mingling with the trendsetters at this premier hot spot on the French Riviera.

When the limo pulled up in front of Sapphire Star, a dapper casino valet dressed in a red shirt, black vest and black pants opened her door.

“C’est avec le grand plaisir that we welcome you to the Sapphire Star Casino, Monaco.”

She nodded as if her entire life was an entrance to sumptuous digs and servile attention. “Merci beaucoup.”

She stepped out of the limo wearing a hot blue, butterfly-lace dress with black trim that hugged all the right places on her toned body; her bling bag dangled from her shoulder, and Manolo pumps on her feet gave a feminine look to her long, athletic legs.

Before she went two steps a gorgeous hunk of a man emerged from the casino wearing casual slacks, a tan shirt and a cream-colored leather sports jacket. Wow.

He headed toward her like a radar-guided, heat-seeking missile, and even though he was taller than she’d imagined, at least six feet, she recognized him instantly—JD Hawke. He walked with that cocky Saturday Night Fever Travolta strut, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips and every bit the cat on the prowl. Maybe mixing business and pleasure would be a nice advantage. Her body was already reacting to the guy, and she kind of liked how her heartbeat quickened as he strode toward her.

This Tennessee racecar driver, her initial target, looked like very delicious trouble. Bring it on.

She suppressed a grin.

She watched as he took her in from top to bottom, then locked eyes with her. “Miss Hurley, welcome to the Sapphire Star. I’m Mister Giambi’s associate. He would like to invite you to have a drink with him.” A warm smile followed his rich Southern drawl.

“Right now?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He had an engaging smile, big and handsome enough to paint a blush on a teenage girl’s face. She felt her own cheeks heat up after his intimate stare. C’mon, Beth, time to get a grip.

“Aren’t you the racecar driver, John Davis Hawke?” She made sure there was just a touch of awe in her voice.

He nodded as they shook hands. “Yes, ma’am. But people generally call me JD. At least those who like me.”

Beth smiled a slow smile back at him, then followed JD into the elegant, soft ambiance of Giambi’s casino. She couldn’t wait to meet the man who was able to establish a casino in Monaco, a major accomplishment in and of itself. Monaco was a very protective place and this ex-Boston Wise Guy was, apparently, part of that protection.

“If you want to play some poker,” JD said as they stepped inside a private elevator, “we have a unique poker room for special guests.”

“And what makes it unique?” She liked the smell of him, clean and fresh. As if he’d just taken a bath, a long, leisurely bath. A bath where he lounged in an oversized tub, his long finger beckoning her to join him. She liked the image. Too much. She forced the picture out of her mind.

“Let me show you.”

She mentally shook herself as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor and the doors opened onto a piece of the old American West.

JD said, “This is a duplicate of the poker room underneath the famous Bird Cage Theater in Tombstone, Arizona.”

“I’ve seen the original,” Beth said. “That’s where Wyatt Earp played poker and where he met his third wife.”

JD gave her a glance. “You are exactly right.”

They walked past the tiny poker room with its three tables nestled behind a railing. “Everything’s to scale,” JD said. “The exact lampshades and chairs, even right down to the bullet holes in the walls and cigarette burns on the tables.”

Beth looked around at the surrounding closed doors. “I see you even have the rooms where the prostitutes served the needs of the clients. I presume they aren’t in operation.”

“Not exactly. These are private dining rooms for the players. Very private dining rooms.”

Beth caught his eye and then glanced at the older men at the tables surrounded by a few women not much younger than Beth. “Some things never change,” she said.

JD smiled, then laughed lightly. “Makes life more interesting, don’t you agree?”

She found herself smiling. “Yes. There’s something to be said for tradition.”

“Yes, ma’am, there sure is.”

They both smiled slyly at the same time, and instantly Beth knew this guy was going to be way too easy. And maybe just a little too much fun.

Several of the men at the tables wore ten-gallon cowboy hats. Beth said, as they walked around the outside of the railing, “If Vegas recreates everything that is classically European, why not return the favor with a little bit of the Old West in Monaco. Giambi is obviously a shrewd businessman.”

“One of the best.”

She noticed the players using the large, square Monaco-style chips. They were difficult to riffle, but Beth had mastered the technique and was anxious to hold those chips once again.

Soon enough, she thought.

They walked away from the tables and past a packed restaurant tucked behind a small piano bar. Beth decided to open a new conversation. “I’ve seen you race and you’re one of the top-rated talents out there who doesn’t currently have a ride.”

He looked over at her, wounded pride showing on his face. “Hopefully I’ll have one soon.”

“Monaco Grand Prix is only a few weeks away. Any chance?”

With a note of bummed frustration, he said, “Not likely this year.”

They encountered Giambi sitting alone at a back table of the piano bar. The casino owner rose when he spotted them and stretched his six-two frame, which appeared to have withstood gravity very well. He had a neat shock of white hair and excellent taste in clothes: dark, pin-striped suit, wingtip shoes and a tiny pink rose pinned to his lapel.

As if making an announcement, he said, “I’m Salvatore Giambi, proprietor of this fine establishment,” and stuck out his hand to meet hers.

His hand felt warm, and his eyes were ice-chip gray with no sign of melt in them. She knew plenty of eyes like that in Vegas. They reminded her of tiny gun portals, the eyes of a man forever under siege.

They sat down at his table and chatted amicably for a minute or two about the weather and poker. JD kept quiet, his eyes rarely leaving her.

The waitress took her drink order, a green apple martini. When she left, Giambi got right to the point. “An intriguing rumor has reached me that you are looking to invest in a Formula One team. Any truth to that?”

“Quite a bit of truth.” She made herself comfortable in her chair, knowing this might take a while.

They discussed his race team, who his other drivers might be, the cars he was building and his search for sponsors. Giambi seemed quick and sharp, despite his age.

By her second martini she was telling them about the Formula One race she’d seen right there in Monaco when she was six. She told lies with great conviction and flair, a talent that every good poker player must possess.

“I still have Alain Prost’s autograph after he won that race. He set the record before the new chicane at one-thirty-eight kilometers. The lap record was a Ferrari, Michele Alboreto, over one forty-four. I actually got a ride in his car. Not very far, but it was one of the most exciting moments in my life.”

The two men exchanged surreptitious glances.

When she was telling them about how she not only loved the races, but the endless work in designing and building cars, Giambi suggested she should have a look at his new race shop and the cars he was building.

She said, “I’d love a tour.”

“JD will be happy to give you a tour anytime. Won’t you, JD?” Giambi gazed over at JD.

JD looked a little startled, as if he hadn’t been listening to what was being said. “Be my pleasure. Tomorrow I’ll give you the grand tour. L’excursion grande.”

His Southern accent obliterated his attempt at French, and brought a smile to her face. Cute. Time for a test. “That’s great, but the night is young for nocturnal creatures like me. Why waste it?”

“True,” JD said, “but I’m afraid I already have plans for this evening, and I don’t think I can get out of them.”

She watched Giambi’s head snap around. “If the lady wants to see the shop tonight, then tonight it is.”

JD looked at Beth for salvation, but she decided that Anne couldn’t afford to give in to his gorgeous, pleading eyes. She said, “Then tonight it is.” She was interested in seeing how Giambi would relate to JD’s comment. It was a good time to start gathering tells.

JD glanced at his watch. “Maybe I could make a quick run to the Monte Carlo and—”

Giambi rose abruptly from his seat. “Excuse us a minute.” He motioned for JD to follow him.

JD turned, gave her a shrug and walked off.

Beth sipped her drink then smiled at the sight of the old guy hustling his young stud driver out to the woodshed for an earful. The whole scene revealed a great deal.

Giambi had taken the bait and he seemed anxious. Maybe this little operation wouldn’t take too long after all. She sat back to await the outcome of their mano a mano.



Giambi couldn’t believe JD had tried to blow her off. When they were out of her earshot, he said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“You know I promised to meet some people from Hollywood, and I—”

“To hell with them. This woman has deep pockets. Did you not hear me earlier about taking care of this woman, Mister Southern Charm? She loves drivers. Her type always does.”

“So, now I’m an escort service?” As soon as the words tumbled out of JD’s mouth, Giambi could see JD was wishing he could take them back.

“I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a top-notch driver, unemployed, living free on the top floor of this establishment at my expense. A man whose future depends on my getting a racing team up and running. And that costs many millions, my friend.”

He watched as JD stood a little straighter, visibly preparing to stand his ground. It was something Giambi liked about the man. “These people I’m meeting are potential investors. I’m trying to line things up.”

“To hell with these Hollywood types. They’re fickle. Look, right now I need you to find out if Anne Hurley is the real deal.”

JD paused a moment, then said, “I thought you already ran a background on her.”

“Electronic data can be faked and I don’t have time to run hard verification on her. She might be who she says she is, but I need to know for certain. If she really knows racing, nobody better to find out than you.”

JD’s expression softened as he accepted the compliment. “I’m no detective.”

“You’ll know a false note when you hear it. Get close to her. Do what you have to do.”

JD’s lips curved up in a knowing smile. “Ah, you want me to seduce her.”

“Like most men wouldn’t give their left nut for a shot at something like that. This is your life we’re talking about here. You want to drive a race car or a garbage truck?”

JD frowned, but nodded his acquiescence. “You know I don’t like blowing people off when I’ve made arrangements with them.”

“Call them and make your apologies. Then get in there and make this young woman happy.”

JD nodded, his face showing he was back on track. “Fine, but I’m taking the Bugatti.”

“Like hell you are.”

“I’m taking the Bugatti. She’s class, like you say. First class. So I’m taking a first-class automobile. She deserves a good ride. She’s young, sexy, rich and looking to save our asses. Don’t you agree?”

Giambi couldn’t believe this kid. “You starting to enjoy the idea now?”

“The lady likes racing and gambling and I’ve got a feeling she likes guys about a third your age. The keys, please.”

Giambi shook his head. He handed over the keys. “You better not scratch anything. And don’t be racing. Every cop in France has you on their speed-demon list. You know that.”

“I’ll save it for the track,” JD said, slipping the keys into his pocket.

Beautiful, smart young women are wasted on young guys, Giambi thought with a touch of resentment. Older men know a woman’s value, know how to treat them. That was one of the many things he hated about getting old. Age was a nasty little thief. It robbed you a little each day. First one thing, than another, until you became an empty shell stripped of everything worth living for, then age killed you without dignity.

I have fifteen good years left, he told himself again.

It had been his mantra for years. He borrowed it from some big business guy. Maybe it was the one who once ran GE, but he couldn’t remember the guy’s name because he couldn’t remember anybody’s damn name.

On the way back to rejoin Anne Hurley, Giambi rested his hand on JD’s shoulder. “Just so you understand something. I want nothing more in this world than to see you back on the race circuit. The troubles you’ve had in the past are over. A man with your talent has to be given a second chance and I’m doing everything in my power to get it for you. Just go along with the program.”

“I’m with it. You know I am.”

“And remember, I didn’t survive all these years in this business by not knowing what has to be done. I like this woman. She’s got brains behind the beauty and that can be a dangerous combination. You start thinking with the wrong head and before you know it, she’ll run a game on you.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the game-playing type.”

“That’s just it. When they’re good, you never see it coming.”

“You suspect everybody of running a game on you?”

“They all would, if they could. I don’t let ’em. Now go find out who the hell we’re dealing with.”

Giambi watched JD walk into the bar flipping the keys in his hand. As angry as he got at JD from time to time, he had to admit he loved the kid like a son. Cocky and wild as JD could be at times, he was talented.

Giambi wanted to see him fulfill that talent. Become the next Michael Schumacher. Unfulfilled talent was, in Giambi’s opinion, about the greatest crime a person could commit in this life.




Chapter 6


Beth watched the two men as they stood toe-to-toe just outside the entrance to the piano bar. It appeared that Giambi was doing most of the talking and JD most of the listening, though there were some moments when the driver definitely held his own.

She hid her bemusement at the mixed expression on JD’s face when he came back into the bar alone. He gave her the eyebrow shrug, as if to say it’s not you, it’s him.

The more she watched him, the better this race driver looked. He had a rugged handsomeness that appealed to her.

JD stared at her, spinning his keys around his finger. “You want to go for a ride?”

“Sure. I spent so much time in a race shop as a kid, if I don’t see one from time to time I feel deprived.”

“Well, let’s take care of that. We don’t want anyone feeling deprived. About anything.”

Whatever other “plans” he’d had, he’d been forced to put them on the back burner. Things were definitely going her way, and she liked the powerful feeling it gave her. She liked to be in control of the situation. It made the task much easier.

As they headed out of the bar she said, “I’m also excited about seeing what could be my next big investment. I hope it’s not interfering too much with your other plans.”

“Not a problem,” JD said. “You are my top priority at the moment.” He actually sounded sincere.

“Whether you like it or not?”

He chuckled. “I don’t think the night will be a complete loss.”

She liked his tone and sense of humor. “I’ll do my best.”

Giambi had started talking to someone, but as they were passing he turned to her and said, “Have fun. JD, show the lady what we’re all about.”

Repeating the words she’d just used, he said, “I’ll do my best.” He exchanged a knowing glance with her.

She told Giambi that she’d see him later and they could continue their discussion.

“I look forward to it.”

When they shook hands, Beth held his just a second beyond what would have been normal, throwing a smile at this repository of secrets. “I have a feeling we’re going to be doing some business together.”

“I believe we will,” Giambi replied cheerfully. “Most definitely.”



In the elevator Beth was still curious about the date that JD had given up for her. She needed to know if it was something that might potentially be a threat to her. “I hope I didn’t mess up a date with your girlfriend.”

“Haven’t got one. It was just some people from Hollywood who wanted me to show them around. They’ll be here for a few days so it’s no problem.”

No threat there.

“Scouting movie locations?”

“Actually, a couple of them are interested in investing in racing. And, maybe down the road, we can talk about coming up with a script.”

“Starring JD Hawke?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m much of an actor. Maybe a supporting role.”

“You have a good look for the screen,” Beth said, gazing into his eyes. “The strong, mischievous type.” She gave him a warm smile.

“You still need to be able to act.”

“You’re kidding, right? How many movies have you seen lately?”

“Hey, don’t knock Hollywood. I thought The Matrix was great.”

“Too many special effects.”

“Yeah, but Keanu Reeves is the king of the demon ride, which I do appreciate.”

“What’s that?”

“He likes to ride his motorcycle at night with no lights at high speeds. Nearly killed him a couple of times.”

“Sounds more like a death wish ride.”

“He’s had a tragic life, but he doesn’t let it make a wallflower out of him.”

“More like a funeral bouquet, if he keeps that up. A lot of people have tragic lives—they don’t deal with it by going on demon death rides.”

He shrugged.

She smiled. Arguing with a racecar driver about risky driving was something of an oxymoron. Besides, deep down inside, she was a little reckless with speed herself, but she didn’t like to admit it openly.

When they exited the elevator into a small, private garage, she said, “I want to see the shop, but that’s just an excuse.”

“For what?”

“Getting to know you. If I’m investing in somebody, I want to know who they are. Not just by reputation, or from other people’s opinions. Knowing people is how I do business.”

He gave her a slow nod. “Okay. Sure. I’ll do the best I can to give you what you want.”

“Good.” She aborted the sexual comebacks that immediately came to mind. “If you know a nice quiet bar where we could have a drink first, that would be great. We’ll see the shop later. The night is young.”

“There’s a place on the way that’s real nice.”

They walked toward a group of cars.

“You don’t have family in Formula One?” she asked.

JD shook his head. “They’re all gear-heads. But I’m the rebel. My brother’s in NASCAR, my dad, too. But I always had a thing about open wheel. Went from midgets right to the Indy Racing League and on to Formula One.” He paused, then pointed. “We’re taking this baby,” JD said as they walked around a pillar and headed for a car that took Beth’s breath away.

Beth stopped dead. “Oh, my God!”

“You like?”

Beth’s knees went weak. “Are you kidding. A Bugatti isn’t a car. It’s the speed of light captured in metal.”

She touched the hood with her fingers, gently, as if touching a work of art, an exotic sculpture. “I was at the London auction two years ago where one of these babies went for one-point-five million Euros. I came very close to buying it and have regretted not doing so ever since.” In truth, she couldn’t remember ever having seen this car before.

She stared for a moment at the world’s most powerful sports car, the Bugatti Veyron. This one was a bright red metallic with a black pearl configuration. “It looks alive.”

“Turn the key and you’ll see some life. Maybe the finest road machine ever built,” JD said. “Let’s take her for a spin.”

He flipped the keys in the air and snatched them with boyish glee.

She had the distinct impression Giambi didn’t give up his prize possession often or easily. It told her a lot about how he felt about JD. Or her.

“You’re the first person Giambi has ever let me take for a ride in his car. You’re one special lady.”

“I feel duly privileged.”

JD watched her reaction to the Bugatti, enjoying how her eyes widened. He appreciated her understanding that this was no ordinary sports car.

He was equally impressed that she not only knew the car, but had nearly bought one. There was something else about her he couldn’t put his finger on, but it was an attitude thing. Beneath all the sophisticated elegance of a super-rich widow was something wild, and he couldn’t wait to get to know that aspect of her personality.

Anne Hurley didn’t wait for him to open her door. Instead, she slid into the narrow passenger seat and eased herself into it. The Bugatti wasn’t built for comfort, it was built for speed.

“This baby flies,” JD said. “Only street car that gives me the same feel as a true racing machine.”

“Anything that can go zero to sixty in two-point-four seconds better give you that racing feel.”

“I take it you have a thing for speed?”

She gave him one of her little guttural laughs and said she actually craved speed. He liked that laugh, it had the sound of badness to it. As if underneath all the refinement, this was a lady to get down and real with.

Maybe, before this night was over, he was going to owe Salvatore a big thank-you.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Let’s do it.”

He turned the key in the ignition, and the roar of the engine vibrated throughout his body.

She turned to him. “God, it’s almost as good as sex.”

“Wait,” he said. “It gets better.” And drove out of the garage.




Chapter 7


In truth, Beth had never ridden in a Bugatti before in her life, though she’d read about them and knew how rare and expensive they were. The roar and thrust were exhilarating.

“Nothing like it,” she said, watching his hand shift gears. A surge of excitement ripped through her.

“It’s definitely got something special under that hood.”

“Let’s do part of the race course,” Beth suggested, knowing that any wheelman worth his salt couldn’t possibly refuse such a suggestion. She was into her Anne Hurley character now and loving every moment.

JD smiled his approval. “Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets.”

As they drove through the streets up the hill from St. Devote in Casino Square, she thought this might be the time to ask a few questions. “How long have you been associated with Giambi?”

“Couple years. Actually I met him after I wrecked in San Marino.”

She knew JD had lost his ride shortly after that incident and he was having trouble finding a new team.

He turned toward the Hotel Metropole then turned again toward the Monte Carlo Grand. Traffic prevented him from getting into any kind of speed as he shot past the Virage Du Portier and into the tunnel.

He said, “I’ve done around one-seventy in here. That’s the top speed on the course.” But the traffic prevented him from even going the speed limit.

“I saw you drive in Bahrain two years ago,” Beth said, drawing on all the videos she had watched in her villa. “In my opinion, you weren’t doing any illegal blocking. I totally disagreed with the black flag. They stole that race from you.”

“I like the way you see things. They sure did steal my race. I owned it,” JD said, anger creasing his brow. “Thank you. That idiot behind me acted like he was running NASCAR. He was trying to bump-draft me with an air cushion. I had to move out. It was purely a defensive maneuver on my part to keep control of the car.”

Once out in the French countryside, he opened up the car. They were driving the roads of the Grand Prix now and she was loving it. Beth felt as if she were in a movie, or the actual race, taking in mile after mile of some of the best-known roads in the world. She let herself relax as JD took complete control of this fantastic machine. It was thrilling to watch his transformation, from Southern gentleman to a totally focused racer who loved the thrill of an open road and a grip on the steering wheel of a fast car. The smells of the night and the nearby ocean flowed over her from the open windows as they flew along the narrow streets. The Bugatti hugged the road as if it was on rails; the G-forces, when he cornered and then opened it wide, were like taking off in a fighter jet.

Though the shifter in the Bugatti was nothing like the type on the wheel that was used in Formula One, JD shifted gears so smoothly she wouldn’t have known except for the change in the whine of the engine.

He slowed, and glanced her way. “What do you think?”

“I think I need one of these,” she purred. She wanted to tell him to keep going, continue driving the course until daylight, but she knew that was impossible. It was time to get down to business if she was ever going to find out the details behind Giambi’s blackmailer and uncover his connection to her father. She was here in Monaco for a reason, and that reason didn’t include racing around the countryside with an incredibly charming man in an obscenely expensive car…or did it?

He laughed, and for a crazy instant she thought he could hear her thoughts. She stiffened as he said, “It’s really an amazing piece of machinery. Salvatore drives it like it’s a damn golf cart.”

She relaxed again, and sat up in the seat. “That’s terrible for the engine.”

“This car is a racehorse. It has to run.”

“Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.” They passed a small bar with people spilling out onto the sidewalk in front of it. “That place looks like fun. Can I buy you a drink?” Beth asked.

JD pulled in behind the bar. The small quaint town had cobblestone streets and dim street lighting. The place almost looked magical.

Before he could get out, she touched his arm and said, “JD, I’m a professional at reading people. I play poker with the best in the world. What are your instructions? Giambi didn’t send you on this escort mission in the middle of the night without a purpose.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

She decided to put it right to him, get their situation clear. She said, “I’m sure you are. Look, it works both ways. You’re supposed to either woo me, or check out if I’m really serious. You’re on a mission. We’re going in to have a drink and get to know each other. I like you. I know what kind of talent you are. I’m very familiar with your career and when I heard you might be coming back into it, and that you were with Giambi, a man with a shady past and financial issues, I decided to see what I could do. I have a lot of money and I want to invest it in a sure thing. So let’s be honest with each other. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, but his eyes told a different story. His gaze had darted behind her for just an instant, and she immediately picked up the truth.

Beth smiled. Well, JD, you’re lying through your pretty bleached teeth, but I’ll play along for a while. “Great. I’m so glad we can be honest with each other.”

At least she now knew how to read JD. So far, so good.

He escorted her in through the back door of the bar.



The bar was extremely noisy. Everyone inside was into a soccer match on the TV above the bar, so JD took her out onto the patio where they could have some privacy.

They ordered drinks and chatted about racing, then she jumped right back on him.

“So tell me. What are Salvatore Giambi’s concerns?”

He took a sip of his vodka martini before answering. “I don’t really know, other than he just wants you to get a good feel for what we’re about. See the high-tech shop he’s building. Get to know what you would be investing in. Which, of course, includes me.”

“It’s important we learn to trust each other,” she said, trying once again to get him to open up to her. “I’m potentially investing in Giambi because of you, not him.”

“So what’s this all about?” JD sat back and studied her, his eyes burning into hers. His entire disposition had changed in a heartbeat. Gone was the smooth, cool Southerner. Now she was looking at a tough sell, but she’d already learned he was very susceptible to the Anne Hurley type, and she was all in.

She leaned on the table toward him, knowing her breasts were in full view. His gaze immediately dropped, and a rush of heat swept over her. She lingered in the moment, enjoying it, then sat back in her chair. “Like I said, I’m not interested in Salvatore Giambi.”

“So what exactly is this about? You want me to leave Giambi for another team? Is that where we’re headed here?” His voice was sharp, taught, defensive.

“Right now, he doesn’t have a team. And he may not get one. What I’m interested in is you. With or without Giambi.” She had his attention now. “It’s the talent I’m looking at. I want to invest in Giambi not because I want to be a silent partner in his racing team. I know his financial woes. I know his precarious situation here in Monaco. Giambi might not last very long.”

“What do you mean? You know something we don’t know?” He moved in closer, sliding his chair up to the small round table.

“Yes. But right now you need to understand where I’m coming from. I have the money that it takes in this game. I have the desire and I’m going to be involved in buying, building and running a winning Formula One team. That’s going to happen, period. It’s not a question. And I want the best drivers in the world on my team. I think you’re one of the very best talents there is. But you need the right people on your team and the right equipment.”

“And Giambi’s not the right guy?”

“That depends on his future. If he’s got a financial problem, which he does, compounded with political problems, that changes things where he’s concerned. So I have to know something about you.”

“I’m an open book.”

Another lie. She couldn’t seem to get him to drop his act. She’d have to try a different tactic.

“What is your top priority?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it loyalty to Salvatore Giambi, or is it your desire to get back into Formula One racing?”

“I’m a loyal kind of guy. He’s done a lot for me and I wouldn’t betray him, if that’s what you’re asking.” He did a short fugue with his fingertips on the table. She couldn’t make the tune out, but Beth finally felt as if the door had opened just a crack.

She said, “I’m not talking betrayal. If he couldn’t make it work for you, would you walk to another offer?”

“If he couldn’t make it work, then yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Look, I’m a racer. I’m not anything else. I don’t want anything else. I want to race. I’ll do what I need to do, within limits, of course, to get back into the game.”

His eyes held her gaze. He was finally telling the truth. Gotcha!

“Good. We’re beginning to understand one another.”



For the next forty minutes and two more drinks, JD listened to Anne analyze the world of Formula One and how she intended to conquer it. The woman knew more about racing than he did. She knew every team, every driver and his results for the last ten years. He was amazed and highly impressed.

He found himself laughing with her, enjoying her enthusiasm, and really starting to like this rich widow’s vision of his future.

At the same time, he was growing increasingly wary. As Giambi had said, and as JD well knew, the most dangerous woman is one who is both great-looking and smart. She was working hard to reel him in, but he wasn’t going to be that easy.

When they left, she said, “You don’t mind if I drive a short distance, do you?”

He started to hesitate, but she grabbed the keys right out of his hand. “You aren’t going to deny me a thrill like driving a Bugatti Veyron are you?” She brushed up against him ever so slightly, but he felt the heat charge up his legs.

“Be my guest. Just take it slow. This baby can get away from you in a hurry.”

They got in and he turned in his seat, pointing out the details of the car. A lot of females he knew, and a lot of males for that matter, couldn’t drive stick, let alone handle a real beast like this one. He didn’t want her launching it into a wall before they even got out of the parking lot.

Next thing he knew he was the one launched. He flew backward into his seat as if he’d been body slammed. And suddenly they were leaving town like they were escaping the front wave of a tsunami.

“Shit! Slow down,” he yelled. “This thing has over a thousand horsepower. More than a Formula One race car. It’s a lot to handle. You’re gonna get us killed.”

“Not if I can help it,” she yelled back, laughing.

And she continued laughing as they jumped from zero to a hundred so fast it was like they’d been shot from a cannon.

And then, the full monster sixteen cylinders kicked in and she nearly lost it. She fishtailed coming around a turn, he grabbed the wheel and helped her get it straightened out, but she pushed his hand away.

She said, “Whoa, that’s some beast under the hood. Damn, this feels good.”





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