Behind Closed Doors

Part Five

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I read the note again. Jason, It didn't have to be this way. There are only so many ways to take those words, considering where they were found, and blackmail seems pretty darn obvious. I mean, no one could cash in a stolen chip without being put in jail, so it has to be blackmail. Right? But did the poker player in question steal the chip or is he being set up? I am not lost to the irony of this being about gambling, considering my past, but that isn't the cause of the sick feeling coming over me. I didn't grow up protected or a fool. This is dangerous territory I'm treading, and people kill for far less than what I've stumbled onto. I stand up. I need to go to the police. But it's after ten, and the idea of going out, in the dark, on Freddy Kruger Street is not good. I'll wait until morning. Today is Friday and I took a long weekend, a rarity for me, which was supposed to be about making money, not fighting crime. Or ending up in the middle of it.

Sitting back down, I spend the next two hours digging through the paperwork in the box and pull out documents that tell me the unit's owner was Stephanie Smith. I need this information for the police. Actually, they can have the box. They can decide what gets returned to the storage unit. I'm about to cave to the need for sleep but decide to try one more thing. I type in Jason and poker together in my search engine and discover there's a professional poker player named Jason Wise. I click on the image files and just about fall over. It's Trouble, my sexy blue-jean-clad stranger at the storage auction. I pull up his Wikipedia page and discover he's thirty-two years old and one of the top-earning poker players on the planet, to the sum of $43,000,000 in winnings. The man doesn't need a $50,000 poker chip. Unless . . . he's cheated his way to winning? It's a horrible thought, but then, so is blackmail. I press my hand to my face. What the heck have I gotten myself into?

***

Morning comes way too early, considering I read everything I could find on poker and Jason before scouring the box for clues about ten times. From there, I'd tossed and turned to the tune of only a few hours' sleep, but I still wake ready for my visit to the police department. Two cups of coffee and a shower later, I've dressed in black slacks and pumps paired with a long-sleeved green-blue silk blouse that matches my eyes. My brown hair is long and sleek, my makeup light and simple by reason and choice. Working in a law office, and looking younger than my age, has taught me that looking professional helps me earn at least a tad more credibility than I might otherwise achieve.

I've just tossed my purse in the box that I'm preparing to pick up when my doorbell rings. More of the unease I'd felt at the bus station last night rushes through me, which is silly. It's nine in the morning and there's plenty of sunshine beaming through my window that most certainly ensures my neighborhood is lively. Still, as I abandon the box and purse and head down the stairs, there is no denying the trepidation in my steps, though the second ring of the bell has me moving a bit faster.

"Who is it?" I call out. The lack of windows and peephole at my entryway is a real flaw.

"It's Molly."

Relief washes over me, and with my hesitation gone, I unlock the door and open it. That's when my mouth drops open. Molly isn't alone. Trouble, otherwise known as Jason Wise the poker player, is standing with her.

Not only is Trouble standing at my door, looking like sex in denim and a black T-shirt, his long light brown hair tied at the nape, he isn't gazing at me with the warm interest he had back at the storage unit. No. His eyes glint with the kind of hostility I'd expect he'd offer someone who'd just wrecked one of the many sports cars his millions can buy. Or who'd stolen his poker chip.

Molly grins and nudges Trouble. "Look who's here!"

"Trouble," I say, and I consider telling her I mean it, but I don't want to risk putting her in danger. And what if there is no real danger? I'll look foolish.

Trouble arches a brow at me, as if the name isn't obviously fitting considering he's either blackmailed the storage attendant for my information or had me followed.

Molly frowns before I can decide if I should say as much and gives him a curious look. "I thought your nickname was 'Red Bull'?"

"Red Bull?" I ask, unable to help myself. I'd read a reference to this last night and couldn't find out where the name came from. What else am I going to ask with my sweet, elderly neighbor standing here? Hi, Mr. Rich and Sexy in Denim. Are you here to kill me and take the poker chip?

His too firm and too sensual mouth quirks. A mouth I'm willing to bet can be brutally hot. Or maybe I shouldn't bet. He's good at winning. I'm not.

"It's a nickname," he informs me.

"Because?" I inquire, daring to ask the obvious and reveling in anything that keeps small talk rolling, as if that's going to actually make my stunned brain figure out how to get out of this.

"Because," he supplies, "I have a thing for drinking Red Bull when I play, and"—he pauses for obvious and dramatic effect—"when I see something I want, I'm a bull charging for my prize."

I swallow hard. This is the kind of man a woman wants to have say something like that to her, but in the context of stripping her naked, not stripping her of a $50,000 poker chip.

Molly glances at me. "I can't believe I'm finding out that you knew Jason when he showed up on your doorstep. What if I hadn't been on my porch? I'm a huge, huge poker fan."

"I had no idea," I find myself saying, as if I really know this man and should have told her.

"You know how much I love bingo night."

Jason actually laughs, and it's a deep, sexy, lighthearted sound that seems to have taken him as off guard as it does me. Do monsters laugh like that? Apparently sexy ones do. He glances at Molly. "Bingo night? What does bingo have to do with poker?"

"We aren't some old-lady bingo group. We bet for real money. You can come, too. You'd be a good distraction to help me win. But if you want to play, I have to warn you"—she wiggles a gray eyebrow—"I like Red Bull, too."

I cringe. Tell me she didn't just say that. I bury my face in my hand.

Trouble chuckles. "I bet you do, and thank you for the escort to the door. Right now"—he glances at me—"I need some up-close-and-personal time with your neighbor."

Heat rushes over my body. "With me?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. With you." He advances on me and doesn't look at Molly again. Before I can blink, he's crowded his way into my entryway and shoved the door closed, locking it. I won't risk putting Molly in danger by yelling, but I need to get some distance from this man. I rush up the stairs toward the living room, on the hunt for my cell phone so I can be ready to call 911. I make it up to the living area and hesitate for a flash of a moment. My phone is one level up in the bedroom, and that room would send a bad message to Mr. Red Bull. It's also the location of the chip I fully intend to give to the police, not him.

The hesitation is a mistake. He grabs my arm and turns me to face him, and his hand on my arm is a gentle vise, my awareness of the small space and his big body too intense. My heart is beating so fast I can't breathe.

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