Читать книгу Desire - Cindy Jacks - Страница 12

Big Blind

Copious amounts of rum restored Bacchus to his senses. The yacht had an ample supply, and he was grateful. Rum also made Pan’s hours of poker instruction more bearable.

“You’re sure you can remember all this, sire?” Pan planted his haunches on the dense carpet.

“If I could, as a youth, turn fermented grapes into the beauty that is wine, I can surely master one insignificant card game.” Still, this insignificant card game stood between him and his beautiful Ariana. Best to keep practicing though a diligent student Bacchus had never been.

“I miss the days when we could unleash the maenads on an enemy and be done with it.”

“As do I, but I no longer have those sort of resources at my command. So, I must work with what I’ve got. Thanks for bringing some of my special brew. How did you sneak this out of the palace?”

He stamped a hoof as his lips twisted into a sly grin. “I have my ways, sire.”

“After a nip of this, my gaming skill won’t really matter. They’ll hardly be able to hold their cards, much less best me. I’ll wrest her from his clutches one way or another.”

“This woman is that extraordinary?”

“She’s extra extraordinary, Panny. She doesn’t deserve to be used as a common whore. Not that there’s anything wrong with prostitution, mind you, but it should be a lady’s choice to profit from her skills, not something forced upon her.”

“Of course, sire.”

Bacchus smoothed a burgundy dress shirt over his muscular abdomen. “How’s this one?”

Pan brushed a bit of lint off his lord’s shoulder. “You always look smashing in anything wine-colored.”

Bacchus secured the cuffs with a pair of diamond links. “It’s going to be a late night. Don’t wait up.”

“Summon me if you need me, sire.”

Bacchus bid Pan good night and trotted up to the game room.

Santos smiled, more a baring of fangs than a greeting. “Mr. Sabazios. How are you this evening? Please, have a seat.”

“I’m well, thank you. How are you?”

“Good. Thanks.” He wiped his mustache and sat across the table from Bacchus. “You had a good night then?”

“I did. Thanks.”

“You found your visitor…adequate, no?”

“Sr. Santos, I’m loath to admit this, but I’d had a lot to drink last night, and I’m afraid…well, let’s just say I was inadequate.” Bacchus glanced at Ariana and hoped his lie had helped ease whatever predicament had distressed her this morning. Though she gave no reaction, the other men at the table snickered. Not that Bacchus cared what they thought of him and his manhood.

“Que maricon, qué le dije.” The soulless man sneered.

Santos smoked his cigar. A gleam flashed in his otherwise guarded eyes. In Spanish, he ordered Ariana to get Mr. Sabazios a drink.

“Vino blanco, por favor, como la ultima vez. Gracias,” Bacchus said. If their intention had been to cut him out of the conversation, they had another thing coming.

Santos licked his lips, fixing his gaze on Bacchus. “You speak Spanish?”

“I do. I also speak French, Portuguese, Russian, Greek—both ancient and modern—Hindi, Babylonian, Latin—though no one really speaks Latin any more, do they?”

A chuckle from Santos flashed another predatory smile. “Is there any language you don’t speak?”

Bacchus scratched his chin, shrugging. “Well, I’ve never quite gotten the hang of Mandarin Chinese. Or Szechuan for that matter.”

Santos raised one eyebrow.

Around the table, men exchanged looks and chatted amongst themselves, but none spoke directly to Bacchus. He felt their contempt of him beneath a current of desire to take him for all he was worth.

Soon enough, the game was underway, and all pretense of friendly chitchat dropped. Though the players cloaked their hostilities in joking tones, they were serious about winning. Too bad for them.

Bacchus had an ace up his sleeve. Or more accurately, a flask in his breast pocket, which he extracted. So far, he had struggled to break even, but this lackluster luck was about to change. He asked Ariana to set everyone up with shot glasses. “Gentleman, have any of you had the pleasure of traveling to Athens, Greece?”

The middle-aged man in a cowboy hat snorted. “No, but I been to Athens, Georgia.”

The rest of the men chuckled.

“More’s the pity.” Bacchus proceeded to pass the flask to Ariana. “However, I’ve brought with me my family’s private brew. The finest ouzo in the Universe.” This was, in fact, true. The ouzo was Olympian stock. What he’d failed to mention was this particular recipe used ambrosia—food of the gods―in its distillation, which gave the concoction quite a kick. More than a few shots could kill a human, but one little drink should incapacitate the players enough to dilute their skills and allow Bacchus to claim his victory. “Since you all have been so kind as to include me in your game of chance, I’d like to return the hospitality. Who’d like to take a shot with me?”

Tito twisted his mouth in an expression of distaste. “Ouzo? Is that some chick drink or something?”

Bacchus shook his head. “I assure you it’s quite potent. But if you think you can’t hold your liquor and play cards at the same time, by all means, don’t partake on my account.”

“Bring it, fancy man.” The cowboy licked his lips.

Ariana went around the table and poured shots for everyone.

Santos waved her away.

“In the words of my uncle, who’s an avid seaman, ‘Through the lips and over the gums, watch out stomach here it comes.’” Bacchus made a show of tossing back his portion as the other men uttered words like, “cheers,” and “salud.” Though his liver was surely up to the task of handling ouzo of the gods, the whole point was to keep his mind clearer than those of his opponents. Pan’s magic made the liquor evaporate in Bacchus’s mouth. He pretended to swallow, feigned a grimace, and sucked in an exaggerated breath. “Smooth, isn’t it, gentlemen?”

They coughed and sputtered, trying to play off what must’ve felt like a river of fire racing down their throats.

“Very smooth,” Jean-Claude croaked.

Within minutes, the cowboy fled toward the bathroom. He’d been drinking whiskey all night. Tough break for him. All but Santos struggled to focus on their cards. Eyes glazed over, they became giddy.

One by one, the men gambled away their chips. Hand after hand, Bacchus and Santos grew richer until they were the only men at the table still playing.

“I’d like to take a break before we go on. Are you all right with that, Mr. Sabazios?” Santos straightened his chips then offered Bacchus a cigar.

“Fine by me.” Bacchus dragged in his winnings. Though he’d never been fond of the things, Bacchus had to accept the gift. He bit off the end, leaned over, and lit it from Santos’s offered Zippo.

The last two stragglers cleared the room. Santos’s hired muscle assisted the very drunk men.

Bacchus took a couple drags from the cigar then abandoned it in an ashtray.

Santos let the smoke roll around his mouth before blowing it out in a large gray cloud. His gaze roamed over Bacchus’s face, and his lips drew together.

“That was pretty slick, taking out the competition the way you did. What was in that flask? It wasn’t any ordinary liquor.” Santos tapped the ash from his cigar.

“Would you like some? It’s ouzo, plain and simple.”

Santos broke his chips into smaller stacks, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t you prefer to beat me the old-fashioned way?”

Bacchus cracked a smile. “Why whatever do you mean, Sr. Santos?”

“I don’t mind that you fleeced my guests. They were stupid for underestimating you and your bottle of luck there.” He chuckled, but it sounded more like a grunt. “Maybe you should walk away while you’re ahead.”

Bacchus picked up his cigar and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger as he studied the floor. He set his jaw.

Santos’s soul radiated iciness, and his gaze unrelenting frosty blankness.

It would be a pleasure to teach this arrogant human a lesson, to strip him of what was never rightfully his. “Don’t you find this whole betting money thing a little dull?”

Santos shrugged. “I don’t know. Taking a quarter of a million from you doesn’t seem so dull to me.”

“True. You’d be a richer man for having done so. And I the same if I best you. But we are already rich men, so what really have we gained, or lost for that matter?”

Santos took the cigar from his mouth, and his gaze flicked over Bacchus’s chips. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Sabazios?”

Bacchus scratched his chin. “Are you a real estate man? I have a villa in Greece I’d be willing to pit against…say, your club in Miami. And all the employees in it. If I win this hand.”

“Those are some very high stakes. How do I know you’ll keep up your side of the bargain?”

Bacchus extracted the deed to his villa.

The old man licked his lips then raked his teeth across them. “You want la morena, don’t you?”

Bacchus dipped his head to the side.

“I can sell her to you for a price.”

This disgusting man wasn’t going to get off that easily. Santos needed to feel the loss. “Are you afraid you can’t beat me in one more hand of cards?”

“Baiting me won’t work, either, Mr. Sabazios. But I’ll play your little game and take your villa too, since that’s clearly what you want.”

“Clearly.”

“Then let’s do this.” Santos tamped out his cigar and nodded to the dealer.

The dealer pulled a fresh deck and shuffled. “Head’s up rules in effect.”

“Head’s up?” Damn this complicated game.

“Sr. Santos is responsible for the small blind. You, Mr. Sabazios, place the big blind,” the dealer said.

“No need, Ricardo.” Santos pushed his chips into one large pile. “No betting this game. A winner and a loser as determined by the cards.”

Ricardo nodded and dealt their hole cards.

Bacchus had a six of spades and a two of diamonds. Crap, just as he’d expected. It’d taken him the whole evening, but he’d figured out Santos’s card marking method. A subtle pattern of dots blended into the ornate design on the backs, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

Skipping the pre-flop betting, Ricardo laid the flop, three community cards, face up. Ten of clubs, a queen of spades, and an eight of hearts. He dealt the river, the last two community cards, a six of clubs and a queen of diamonds.

Santos checked his hole cards, but kept his face neutral. “I’m an honorable man, Mr. Sabazios. I’ll give you a chance to fold, one more chance to walk away. Keep your winnings, keep your villa, and walk away.”

Bacchus held two pair. An unremarkable two pair. Still, he might’ve taken a chance, if he didn’t know Santos held the queen of hearts. Three of a kind. Perhaps the dealer had stacked the deck to put him in just such a situation. A believable loss, but Bacchus wouldn’t lose.

He put his hand in his pocket and dipped his fingers into the transformation dust Pan had procured for him. Pretending to check his cards, he rubbed the dust onto them and concentrated. He downed his last sip of wine. “I’ll stay in.”

“If you insist.” Santos scooped up his cards and flipped them over.

Bacchus flipped his cards, revealing a jack of spades and a nine of hearts. A straight.

Santos’s eyes grew wide, his mouth agape.

Bacchus knocked on the felt tabletop. “Looks like I’ll be keeping my winnings. And my villa.”

Santos slammed his fists against the table. “Not possible.”

“What’s not possible? That I beat you?”

Again, he slammed his fists against the table. “Not possible.”

One of his goons rushed into the room, the soulless one. “Que paso?”

“He cheated.” Santos spat as he blustered. “This maricon cheated.”

The soulless man cocked a gun and shoved it against Bacchus’s temple. “Get up.”

“Now, wait. Wait a second. We can be reasonable about this. You say I cheated, I say I didn’t. And in the end, if you kill me, what have you gained?”

Santos gritted his teeth. “I’ll feel a hell of a lot better. No one comes onto my boat and cheats.”

“I didn’t cheat any more than you did.” Bacchus held the gangster’s stare.

“You thought you could come here and take what is mine? I’m not the kind of man you want to fuck with.” Santos growled, still frothing at the mouth.

“I’m sure. Nor am I. But what if I go ahead and pay you for the property? That way, we don’t have to argue about who’s right and who’s wrong. It’s a simple business transaction.”

“How about I kill you and take all your money.”

Bacchus laughed. “All my money? You mean this paltry quarter of a million? Oh, it’s nowhere near all my money. I’m not going to part with all of it tonight, either. But I’ll give you a fair price for the club.”

Santos ran a hand through his hair. Sure, the man was angry, but he wasn’t stupid. Signaling for his thug to back off, he leaned down and glared at Bacchus. “How much are we talking then?”

“How about a nice even number like one million?”

“How about two? Since you’re feeling so generous.”

Though Bacchus could’ve easily paid his asking price, he would garner more respect if he negotiated. “One point one.”

“One point seven.”

“One point five. I’ve been apprised of the property values in Miami, and that’s more than fair.”

Santos sucked in his cheeks and rubbed his forehead. “All right, done. Keep Bach at gunpoint until the wire transfer is made.”

Pan would know what to do. Bacchus need only wait for his steward to place the money into Santos’s account.

The kingpin ate a pork sandwich and washed it down with a bottle of beer, of course without offering Bacchus anything. Once the man finished his meal, the call came from his accountant. The deep lines around Santos’s lips softened. The waddle beneath his throat jiggled a bit as he nodded. He dismissed the thug and handed Bacchus another cigar. “Now, we can be friends again.”

Not wishing to ruffle the man’s freshly smoothed feathers, Bacchus took the cigar and lit it. “Thank you.”

Santos took a couple drags and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Shaking his head, he asked, “Why?”

Bacchus shrugged. “Why not?”

“Estas loco. You are one crazy son of a bitch.” Santos turned to Ariana. “Mi’ja, why don’t you get your new boss here another drink?”