“Whatever you need, my friend.”
“Anything on the Chameleon?” Rod asked.
“My people claimed she was in Atlantic City, but by the time they found her location, the game was over and she was gone, leaving behind no physical or electronic trail. She could be headed to Macau for all we know. She rarely holds back-to-back games on the same continent.” Marx growled. “I want that woman and one day, I’m going to get her.”
Rod chuckled. “As in sleep with her or put her out of business?”
“Sleep? I want to fuck her brains out. I don’t care if she’s old and wrinkly. She’s a fucking genius.”
Rod chuckled. “You’d be better off asking her to be your partner, my friend,” Rod said. “Just remember, I’m still paying finder’s fee if you get me in one of her games. Whatever the buy-in.” He didn’t keep Marx on the line for long after that.
Gregory Marx owned a casino off the strip, and was cozy with those who ran private gambling games, except the Chameleon. In fact, Rod had a feeling Marx and his cronies would love to shut her down.
Most casinos in Vegas and Atlantic City had lost clients to the Chameleon, but there was nothing they could do about it. She was legit. Some claimed she was protected by her clients—heads of states, royalties, and stars rumored to be on her list. No professional poker players were ever admitted into her games, and she hosted games all over the world. Rod wasn’t sure whether any of that was true or just rumors. Everything about the Chameleon was shrouded in mystery. How she managed to run exclusive high stakes poker games for high rollers for several years, yet no one could describe her, was the biggest secret of all.
Rod was intrigued because he loved puzzles. He might gamble for fun, but he wanted a chance to be at one of her games. He didn’t even care if he never got a second invite or became an entry on her elite client list. There was a thrill in being able to do things most men only dream of and he’d done plenty, except pit his skills against men betting custom-made cars, jets, and yachts in a pot-limit hold ’em game. That only happened in the Chameleon’s poker games.
Rod scowled. Thoughts of the Chameleon reminded him of the mysterious woman he’d found in his suite. Did she work here too? He didn’t care if she was a bellhop by day and a stripper at some seedy bar by night. He wanted her, and he planned to have her. Tonight. It didn’t matter if he had to kidnap her to accomplish it.
He placed another call.
“One of the girls came upstairs with what you ordered, Mr. Thorne, and gave them to your lady friend,” the woman at Madam Zoe’s said.
Rod grinned. He planned to use those cuffs on her tonight. He got up and changed, then picked up the shoes, the uniform, and the suitcase she’d left behind and stashed them in the closet. It was time to pay a visit to a certain bar and reacquaint himself with the woman who’d bested him.
CHAPTER 2
His driver dropped him outside Lucky Barrel, a bar/restaurant on the south side of Vegas. From the number of cars in the parking lot, it was popular. The inside had neon blue lights and white couches surrounding fire pits. To the right was the dining area with rows of seats and booths in various neon colors. The bar boasted stools covered with hot pink padding. It was huge and ostentatious, and so Vegas.
It wasn’t a strip joint, which meant his mysterious woman wasn’t dancing tonight. He wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved. A gorgeous redhead was at the bar, the only place with a few empty stools. Rod headed her way.
As he got closer, she turned slightly toward him, and Rod grinned. He’d recognize that body anywhere. He’d bet his billions that her hair had been darker when she’d ran butt naked out of his room. Now it was brilliant red. He couldn’t remember seeing nose rings or ear studs, yet he spotted them now. Her makeup was heavy, her outfit left very little to the imagination, her boobs almost spilling out, and the tattoos on her arms had to be fake because her skin had been unblemished earlier, except for Scooby.
She turned and reached for a drink and his eyes were drawn to her perfect ass and the fuck me boots. His eyes did a U-turn and paused at the expanse of firm thighs. His palm itched to stroke the stretch of skin between those boots and the black mini dress. Unless she’d stopped by a store to buy panties, she was cruising commando. Rod was tempted to remove the pair in his pocket and offer them to her, but he didn’t want her focusing on them. He wanted her to focus on him.
She was hot as sin, curvy with perfect breasts, and the kind of hips he’d like to grab on. But her lips, ripe and full, were meant to be kissed. He wanted them on his body, stroking every inch of him.
When he looked up, his eyes met those of the tiny blond woman standing behind the redhead. He hadn’t seen her until now. Something in her expression said she recognized him. She must be Lucille Barrel. From her last name, she was related to the owner of the bar. She whispered something to the redhead, who whipped around.
Finally! He could see the color of her eyes. Pale green under the canopy of dark, decadent lashes. They widened, then she glanced toward the door as though searching for an escape route before coming back to him. The smile he gave her was slow and easy, and he hoped she knew what that meant—he’d found her and was ready to pick up where they’d left off.
She walked over, eyes daring him to out her. Or maybe she was hoping he hadn’t recognized her. Not a fat chance in hell. As she got close, he found himself drowning in her eyes. They were gorgeous light green with a darker outer ring and silver specks towards the iris.
“I believe you forgot this, though I’m supposed to give it to Lucille Barrel.” He gave her the phone. His eyes met the shorter woman watching them with narrowed eyes and received a smile. Rod gave her a brief bow.
“Thank you,” his mysterious woman said and started to turn.
“Can I get a drink?”
She blinked, clearly surprised by his question, but she recovered fast and smiled. Damn, she was beautiful. Even the crazy wig and heavy makeup couldn’t hide her exquisite features—the pert nose, lush lips, the smooth arch of her eyebrows.
“Sure. What can I get you?”
“Two Cuffs with Flaming Balls,” he said.
A chuckle escaped her. “I don’t think I’ve ever made that, but I’ve been told I’m ingenious. Flaming Balls coming up.”
He had no idea what she poured in the martini glass, but she added two skewered olives, then topped it with rum and lit it up, her movements fast and efficient, her eyes challenging. Without breaking eye contact, he raised the glass to his lips. Her eyes widened. He’d had his share of crazy drinks over the years, but he wasn’t the same idiot who’d accepted dares in college and downed flaming shots. He knew when to blow it out before the rim got too hot.
“Don’t,” she warned and that told him more about her than the kick in the groin and the flight from his room. He blew out the flame and drained the drink.
“Another?” she asked.
“No, but I’ll have whatever is on tap.”
She rattled off the names of the beers and went to pour him one. He knew how he wanted the evening to end, but between then and now, he was letting her lead. She came back and placed the drink in front of him.