Dad wouldn’t do anything because Dad wouldn’t get caught.
We rise in the elevator to the top floor and security leads me down a long hallway—a very long hallway in which we don’t meet a soul. No witnesses.
The guard rings a bell and Mr. Sexy from downstairs opens the door.
“Miss Grant. Please… come in.”
Holy shit. Mr. Sexy istheTristan Broussard, the owner of the casino, and he knows my name? This can’t be good. No way, no how.
I pass through the doorway of his suite and an internal distress signal is alarming. It’s telling me to run because nothing good can come from being alone with this man behind a closed door where no one can hear me scream.
“That’ll be all, gentlemen. Thank you.”
I look at Tristan Broussard’s hand on the door handle. He’s about to close the door, and there’s this moment where I consider shoving him aside and fleeing. Except I know that it would be useless; the two goons who just delivered me to him won’t let me go without a chase.
The door closes, and so does my opportunity to run.
Tristan Broussard and I are alone. He probably believes that I’m frightened and nervous about being behind a closed door with him. He isn’t wrong.
I stand in front of him speechless. I tell myself that it’s so I don’t incriminate myself, but the truth is that I’m scared shitless.
“I believe I’ll have a whiskey. Would you care for one?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He gestures toward the sofa. “Have a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”
Oh shit.
I sit on the edge of the sofa with my legs turned and pressed together so that he can’t see up my dress. Now I’m actually thankful to not be wearing the short, tight red fuck-me dress.
“I can’t for the life of me imagine why the owner of a casino would have a lot to discuss with me.”
He chuckles. “Really, Miss Grant? You’re going to pretend like you don’t know why I had you brought to me?”
Deny. Deny. Deny. “I have no idea, but I’m dying to find out why.”
A lopsided grin spreads. “You have an exceptional poker face. You don’t exhibit a single physical sign of nervousness or deception. How long did it take you to master that?”
I may not appear nervous, but I’m dying inside.
I giggle to make myself seem younger. More innocent. More believable. “I’m just a girl who came in to play a little bit of blackjack.”
Tristan Broussard turns up his glass and drinks half of the whiskey in it before locking his eyes on mine. Making me super uncomfortable, which I’m certain is part of his plan. “Do you really think that I don’t know a card counter when I see one? A dice slider? A past poster? A dealer who false shuffles every time that a certain blackjack player is at his table?”
I’m busted, and so is Adam from the sound of it. I don’t think that things can get worse at this point. But I have to stand by rule number one: deny, deny, deny.
“As a casino owner I’d guess that you and your people had better know those things, or you’re going to get ripped off pretty often.”
“I’ve been ripped off by you and your brother… using your father’s skills.”
Oh, this is far worse than I thought.
I shrug. “I don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about it, Mr. Broussard.”
“I’m not a fool. I don’t expect you to admit to anything, but you should be aware that I have footage of everything you and your brother have been doing. And you know that I’m not bluffing.”
I’m sure that he does.
