“Checking in today, sir?” asked the front desk clerk.

Royce took a deep breath and wondered if he was making the mistake of a lifetime. The clerk waited with an expectant look on his face. In the background, Royce heard the clinking of coins and ringing chimes in the adjoining casino. If he listened closely, he was sure he could even pick out the thud of dice being thrown and the swish of cards being dealt. Last year, he’d thought Lady Luck had forsaken him, but he’d fought his way back to the top. To walk away now would be cowardly. Right?

“Yes. The name’s Royce Whittier. I’m here for the poker tournament.” Royce pulled out his wallet. He slid his credit card free and tapped it on the varnished wood while the clerk checked his reservation.

“Whittier, old man!”

Royce felt the muscles in his back tense. He recognised that voice. Richard Hopkins, otherwise known as Dick the Prick, head of casino security.

Royce conjured up a false smile. “Good to see you again, Richard.”

“So, are you here for the tournament?”

Duh! Royce opened his mouth to answer, but the desk clerk interrupted him before he could say something insulting.

“Mr. Whittier. I’m sorry for the delay. There was a slight problem with your reservation.”

Royce felt a momentary flicker of panic but kept his face neutral. Shit. He didn’t want to stay in another hotel, although there were a million reasons why he should and only one reason he didn’t.

The desk clerk pushed a hotel folder across to him. “Welcome to Hedonism, we hope you enjoy your stay.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch—”

“I wasn’t sure we’d be able to fulfil your request for the same room as last year, but luckily it was available. Can I assist you with anything else?”

“No, thank you.” Royce gathered up the folder and picked up his bags.

“The same room as last year?” Richard’s voice sounded sharp, suspicious. “Don’t tell me it’s because you think she might come back. If so, you are more pitiful than you look.”

Royce gripped the handle of his bag and resisted the urge to pop Dick the Prick right in the mouth. He took a deep breath. The man was a weasel, but hitting him would only fuel the gossip humming about his return to the circuit. Face burning, he decided the better part of valour was simply not to answer the question.
It wasn’t until he stood staring at himself in the gleaming elevator doors that he realised how haunted he looked. There were large, dark circles under his blue eyes, and his hair— Oh, God, had he really forgotten to get it cut? He reached up to smooth it down and caught the edge of the casino packet with his sleeve. It dropped to the ground and opened, scattering the contents. He scrambled to pick up the electronic key and the coupons for free amenities. He was really going to need that free drink. To his surprise, there was also something else.

A plain white envelope.

The elevator doors opened, and he slipped inside, turning the envelope over in his hand. In bold calligraphy, it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Royce Whittier.

His heart clenched, and he couldn’t take a breath. Damn it all, it had to be a joke. Before the doors could close, he pushed back through them and looked around. He expected to see Dick’s leering face looking back at him. Instead, he saw men and women with intense expressions, staring at the spinning wheels on the slot machines. Royce looked over towards the lobby. Perhaps there he would see the security manager bent over double, laughing at him. But no one gave him a second look.

It still didn’t mean this wasn’t a joke.

Royce looked down at the envelope in his hand. He slid his thumb under the flap. His hands shook when he pulled out the enclosure. Whatever he’d expected, this was not it. A tarot card. His heart stuttered. The face on the front of it was Kylie’s.

He wasn’t even sure how he got to his room.

He put his bags on the king-sized bed and strode over to the wet bar. Jerking open the door, he snatched up a tiny bottle, wrenched off the lid, poured it into a glass and drew a deep, shuddering breath. What the hell was he doing back here?

Playing poker, he reminded himself. Although the secondary reason was almost as important as the first—to beat his younger brother at poker. They’d been competing for everything since they were kids—candy, girls and now cards. The shame of withdrawing last year had almost defeated Royce. But he’d pulled it together, gotten his groove back. Until now.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and stared at the folder on the bed as if it were an Egyptian asp. Finally, he worked up the courage to pick up the tarot card again. Was that really Kylie?

If it wasn’t, it looked like her damn twin. Long tendrils of black hair, skin the colour of ebony and large, chocolate-brown eyes. Who had sent him this card? He dug through the folder and pulled out the envelope. There was no return address.

Damn it. If everything had gone as planned, by now Kylie would have been Mrs. Whittier. Instead, his fiancée had disappeared.

A runaway bride.

The police wouldn’t even consider the possibility of foul play, for Kylie had done it before. Twice. But she hadn’t run away from him. He was sure of that, even if no one else was.

After his proposal, she’d gone to work. Then, instead of coming back up to his room, she’d gone out to celebrate with a woman she worked with. When he’d asked where they were going and what they’d be doing, she’d giggled then shown him the tape measure in her pocket.

“I’m going to go see how you measure up, big guy,” she’d said. “But I’ll bet none of them will measure up to you.” With a wicked grin, she’d slid her hand down his pants to caress his cock.

Well, having nine inches in his pants didn’t mean a damn thing anymore. He hadn’t panicked until the second night of her absence. He’d paced by the phone, working up the nerve to call the police. As he’d expected, they treated her disappearance as a big joke, especially when the woman she was supposed to have gone out with didn’t exist.

He stayed by the phone in the hotel room for days, thinking she would call or return. The only person who had called had been the front desk clerk, asking if he wished to extend his stay.

His oh-so-promising start in the tournament had crumbled. So had he. He’d walked the strip. He’d seen her everywhere…and nowhere. He’d known so little about her, he wasn’t even sure where she lived, banked or even if she had family in the area. The police had suspected she’d hocked the ring and split with the money. Or perhaps she had been a plant all along, her only intention to throw him off his game and ensure his loss.

He wanted to listen to his instincts. He wanted to believe it was love. However, he had to face the facts that once again, he was in a position to win, and win big, this year. If Kylie were to return, it could affect his performance.

So, had it been love or a con job?