Her High-Stakes Playboy

“My name. It’s not Galahad, it’s Del.”

“Del?” All the fun evaporated in an instant. She stared at him. “Wait a minute. You’re joking, right? I thought your name was Rennie.”

He shook his head. “’Fraid not.”

Disaster, Gwen thought. It was a disaster. This was supposed to be Rennie, her conduit, the one who was going to lead her to Jerry. If he wasn’t, then she was back to square one, no better off than she’d been when she’d walked into the casino. Worse, because Rennie had been around there somewhere. Now where was she? No lead, no closer to finding the stamps. Instead she was stuck here with him while the true Rennie was still out in the casino somewhere. She struggled to master her disappointment.

And ignore the small, sneaky sense of relief that lurked underneath.

“So, where’d you get the idea I was—who was it—Ronnie?”

“Rennie. That’s what the dealer called you.”

He looked at her, mystified.

“Before I sat down,” Gwen clarified. “I thought the dealer said something like ‘You always win, Rennie.’”

She watched the answer dawn. “Ah. She was joking around with the other dealer.”

“Which other dealer?”

“The one who left when you came up.”

“Was that her name?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It sounded like a nickname.”

“What did she look like?” Gwen asked sharply, thinking back. But she’d fastened so quickly and completely on him that everyone else was a cipher. She cursed under her breath. “I can’t picture her at all.”

“Does it matter?”

He was looking at her attentively—way too attentively. Relax, she told herself. “No, it’s no big deal. I was just surprised.” So how willing would the staffers be to help her find Rennie? And would she be back on shift the next evening? Maybe a quick conversation with the other dealer would help. Then again, Gwen didn’t want to make Rennie suspicious.

“Boy, you’ve got some serious wheels turning in that head of yours,” Del commented. “Not that it’s not an entirely gorgeous head, but if I were Rennie, I’d be a little scared.”

He’d leaned back to watch her, the frank curiosity on his face more than a little alarming. She needed to defray that, pronto. Flirt, Nina, flirt.

Gwen traced a pattern on the tabletop with one fingertip and sent him a look of promise. “Who cares about Rennie or whoever? You’re here and I’m here, that’s all that matters.”

The amusement was back in his smile as he leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table, putting him disconcertingly near. “I suppose. You’re holding out on me, though,” he added conversationally.

Alarm surged through her. “What—what do you mean?”

A beat went by. “Your name. You know mine, I don’t know yours.”

“Oh.” She almost sighed with relief. “Nina.”

“Nice name. So what brings you to Vegas, Nina?”

“A couple days off. I wanted to get out of town.”

He watched her for a moment, his mouth curving in a way that suggested he could see more than she wanted. “Searching for people named Rennie?”

Gwen flushed. “No. I just wanted a break.”

“From what?”

“Oh, life.” That much was true. She thought of the restlessness that had plagued her of late. “You know, you get tired of being stuck at home.”

“Where’s home?”

“San Francisco.”

Genuine pleasure slid over his features. “No kidding? That’s my stomping grounds.”

“Really? Small world. What are you here for?”

“I’m doing a series on poker. I’m a sportswriter for the Globe.”

“You’re a journalist?” Gwen asked faintly. That was all she needed—a curious reporter around.

Again he gave her that look. “I don’t think I’d dignify it with that word necessarily. Let’s just say I can bang out twenty column inches on the Giants versus the Dodgers by deadline.”

“You don’t sound thrilled with it.” The waitress set their drinks down in front of them.

Del shrugged. “It’s a living. What about you?”

Gwen swirled her brandy glass to buy time. Lying wasn’t in her nature. Then again, the last thing she wanted to do was give any personal details to a reporter, especially to a reporter who was entirely too interested in her earlier gaffes already. Even if he was a sportswriter. “I’m an accountant,” she told him. It wasn’t really a lie. She did the books at Chastain Philatelic Investments. She just did a whole lot more.

“Seriously?” He grinned, sending a little flutter through her midsection. He was so close, she realized suddenly. Close enough to whisper. Close enough to kiss.

Gwen blinked. “Yes, seriously. Why, what did you think I did?”

“I don’t know. But I could have guessed a couple dozen possible occupations for you and none of them would have included accounting.”

She could just imagine. “So, what occupations were in your couple dozen?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said offhandedly, “neurosurgeon, astrophysicist, president of the World Bank…”

“You know, if you’d have said lingerie model, I’d have had to belt you.” She reached out a hand to mime slapping him. He caught it in his and held it to his face.

Heat bloomed through her. Sensation piled on sensation, the rough stubble of his day’s growth of beard, the strength of his fingers on hers, the slight calluses on his palm.

It lasted only a second or two and drove every thought out of her head except the desire for more.

Del released her hand, changing his hold to bring her fingers to his lips. Warm and soft enough to make her melt. “Whatever you do, I’m sure you’re very, very good,” he murmured.

Eyes wide, Gwen sat stock-still, forcing herself to breathe. “I…excuse me for a minute,” she managed to say and stood up on knees that trembled only a little.