Stacked Deck

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.”