Cashed In Part 6

The teacher choked on a cube of ice. The dealer grimaced in pain for me, I thought, not the teacher. A couple of the folks watching from outside the boundary whooped as I pushed all my chips forward, then began stacking them to get a count. The teacher began stacking her chips too, matching my stacks with her own and pus.h.i.+ng them to the center of the table. In the end, she was left with about two hundred fifty dollars in front of her. Shaking his head, the dealer turned over an Ace of hearts on Fourth Street. d.a.m.n. The teacher bit back a smile. She had pocket Aces for sure. The dealer sighed as he slid the next card off the deck.

He flipped it over. Two of clubs. The teacher shrugged. It was muck to her, as she already had her trips. The dealer looked expectantly at me, but I waited for propriety. The teacher turned over her pocket pair of Aces. I showed my flush.

Just then we heard a m.u.f.fled, "Oh no!" from the doorway, where Delia grabbed a cruise employee's arm and covered her mouth with her other hand as she stared into the room, toward the table where Kinkaid had paid a visit.

I looked back at table forty-three and tried to remember if I saw anything unusual there earlier. That's when I saw the marker still sitting in front of one of the empty seats. It looked like a piece of rawhide.

Eight.

"Delia," I demanded, dragging her into the hallway on my way to the bathroom. I only had eight minutes to get back to the table. "What's wrong? Is it Rick?"

"This time it's Rawhide. He's disappeared."

"From table forty-three," I mused.

She nodded, dark eyes hooded with worry.

"How?" I asked.

"We don't know. Miss Kinkaid said he requested permission to go to the restroom in an unscheduled break. The dealer told him he would fold his hands and post his blinds until he returned. He never did. That's not like him."

"That's not like any gambler," I reflected. "How long has he been gone?"

"About an hour. First we thought he might have sat back down at a different table, but he's so distinctive and no one remembers seeing him since he was moved from table twenty-seven to table forty-three about two and a half hours ago. We've got our security force combing the s.h.i.+p. He'll turn up," Kinkaid finished with certainty as she swished past us on her way to a dealer who had his hand up in the air.

"Sure," Delia murmured, glaring at her. "Like Rick's turned up. I tell you, Bee, she's trying to brush this under the rug."

"I suppose that's her job, minimizing the damage that might interfere with her tournament's success."

"Whose side are you on?" Delia demanded softly, which was worse than a shriek.

"Yours, Delia." She looked at me suspiciously, so I felt forced to continue. "If for no other reason than self-preservation-we've been at sea sixteen hours, two people have disappeared, both are high-profile poker players and I fall into that category. All I'm saying is-we need to see things from Kinkaid's perspective in order to figure out how to motivate her to do more."

"I'm sorry, Bee." She bowed her head, looking small and alone. "I'm just tired and frustrated and scared."

I patted her arm. "I know, Delia, you need to get some rest."

She shook her head. "But how can I with Rick . . ." She paused, swallowing hard. "Out there somewhere."

"Look, Delia, I think Rick's on board. If he is, then he'll be found. If he's not, well, he's gone. There isn't a whole lot you can do about that, right?"

Tears welling in her eyes, Delia nodded, swallowing hard. "Except imagine his pain. His fear."

"Tomorrow when we make port, we will demand that the captain get the authorities to search the s.h.i.+p, bow to stern, for Rick and Rawhide."

Delia extracted a handkerchief from her silver sequined clutch and pressed it to the tip of her nose. "Thank you, Bee. I'm sorry I'm so emotional."

Suddenly I remembered how hysterical I'd been when Frank disappeared in Vegas, and I'd only known him a couple of days. Geez. If we'd been married for decades like the Santobellas, I'd probably be comatose with what she was going through now. I sighed and swallowed around a lump in my throat. Now I missed Frank again. Dammit.

"Are you okay, Bee?" Delia asked, watching me closely.

"Don't worry about me. You go back to your cabin. Maybe Rick will be there waiting."

She offered a watery smile and shuffled off, desultorily.

Glancing at my watch I saw I now had two minutes to return to the table. The devil in polyester was there waiting, watching me with eagle eyes, no doubt hoping she could will me to get lost on the way to the bathroom like Rawhide. Hmm. Could it really be someone trying to knock off the compet.i.tion? It certainly looked like it. Two down and ten to go.

The rest of the evening's play was rather anticlimactic. One of the tournament flunkies finally figured out our table had gone to heads up and quickly moved us, twenty minutes too late for my opponent. Worse luck for her that the bonehead put us at the same table again. I apparently had psyched the teacher out with my accidentally brave all in and she played scared the rest of the game. Of course having few chips didn't help her. She really needed to play aggressively to get back into the game, but didn't. It wasn't even challenging. She finally lucked into a few good hands that I folded before The Flop, so she only gained blinds. Finally the cards turned for me. I wiped her out with trips-a pair of tens in my pocket and a ten on The River. She'd gone all in with a pair of Aces. It was hard to argue with playing her hand, so if Richard's theory held true, she would be lucky in love.

As I slid the Anarchys to the top of my head, she congratulated me. "You have a unique style, rather chaotic but effective. Where did you learn to play?"

"I'm still learning," I admitted as I shook her outstretched hand. "But a friend taught me the game."

"Someone special, I can tell."

I remembered Ringo's observation that my eyes couldn't lie. Good thing I'd had the sungla.s.ses tonight after all. "I thought he was, anyway."

"Oh." She grinned. "One of those, huh?"

I chuckled. "You have one of those?"

"Oh, I've had many, but I don't have one now. I got married a year ago. Steven is the bomb."

The kids were rubbing off on her a little. Smiling, I looked again at her hands. I usually try to categorize my opponents from the get-go. I'd pegged her as a spinster, could I have missed the ring? No, her ring finger was bare. "You don't wear a ring?"

"Not when I'm playing poker; it's too distracting. I see it and I start thinking of him and then, well, I can't concentrate on the game."

Chalk one up for Richard's theory. The way she was glowing, she was way too lucky in love to have won Hold 'Em. "I think you're the one due the congratulations, then," I said.

She giggled as a man snuck up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck. "I guess you're right."

Sighing, I watched as they walked away.

The dealer called us back into action as I glanced at the doorway to see Kinkaid consulting with Hans and a man I didn't recognize. Two of the other three people at the table who I'd read at the first flop fell off predictably. One older man was getting tired as the clock neared two in the morning, proving one important element of tournament poker: it truly is a marathon. Being stubborn with stamina is a distinct advantage. A twentysomething salesman who was lucky to still be in after playing like an ultra Maniac finally went all in when I had the nuts. He'd read me wrong, mostly because he read me as a 36D instead of a 125 IQ. I love playing against those kind of guys. That left me and a wily middle-aged department store shoe buyer from Pittsburgh at the table with only a few minutes to go. I wasn't looking forward to playing heads up with this character, whom I guessed drove to Atlantic City for the big game every weekend.

One piece of luck fell my way when Kinkaid called the tournament for the night and moved us to a new table for the continuation. The dealer pa.s.sed the chip count to Kinkaid who had materialized to approve it. "I guess you listened to your own advice, tonight," she said to me.

"Just in time."

Kinkaid dismissed the dealer for the night. I collected my faded wooden marker and tried to stop thinking about the man who'd given it to me. "You need to keep quiet about the disappearances, Belinda."

"Why?"

"Haven't you ever read Mutiny on the Bounty? We are living on an isolated floating society with no way off when we are at sea. We don't want ma.s.s panic among the thousands on board. That would only make it more difficult to find Mr. Santobella and Mr. Jones, now wouldn't it?"

The isolated society thing shook me a bit. t.i.tanic, Inferno , Earthquake, the disaster movies of my youth popped into my mind's eye. Perhaps even worse, I imagined a Gilligan's Island sort of existence with my mom, Ben, Stella, Ingrid and Jack Smack. Ack, back to the image of the disaster films, those suddenly seemed less scary. I couldn't think of anyone I knew on the cruise who would be much help in a crisis except my Dad and Rick. Maybe Rhonda, but I didn't know her that well. I suddenly had trouble swallowing. I cleared my throat and forced myself to think like Frank, the former cop.

"It seems to me the more people know about Rick and Rawhide the more eyes you'd have looking for clues."

"That's true, Miss Cooley." Hans appeared at my left elbow. "But investigators will tell you that more eyes don't necessarily mean better clues, just more of them-most of which only muddy the waters and waste our time. The fewer people know about this the better it will be for the gentlemen in the long run."

I opened my mouth to argue further, but an arm snaked around my waist and a voice to my right spoke first, "If you can excuse us, Miss Cooley and I have a date."

Oops, I'd forgotten all about Ian Reno. I suppressed a s.h.i.+ver at the contact of his fingers at the strip of skin at my midriff. Poor effort, evidently, for he felt my response and slid his finger along the waistband of my satin slacks, torturing me further. My mind might be full of Frank, but my body was listening to Ian. There was something to be said for the howl of pure animal attraction and this was the loudest I'd ever fallen victim to.

Kinkaid's eyebrows rose and Hans gave Ian the once-over. I introduced everyone around. The two cruise s.h.i.+p employees gladly bid us good night, no doubt glad to be rid of meddling me. As they walked off, I stepped out of Ian's grasp and looked at my watch-one forty in the morning. "Isn't it too late?"

"Too late for what? The dance club stays open until four. I thought we'd go to the post-tournament chocolate fountain, dip a few strawberries, sip a little champagne, then hit the club for some salsa dancing."

"Oh, well," I stammered, the mention of champagne reminding me of the last time I drank it with Frank, making me feel guilty. "See, I'm usually in bed by now."

Ian's gaze held mine. His smile spread slowly. "Sure. We can do that instead."

My face flushed. I felt like an awkward teenager. "No, that's not what I meant. I'm usually sleeping. Y'know, snore, snore. Alone. In pajamas." I dropped my gaze. Ack. Why couldn't I be smooth and cosmopolitan about this? Because my brother got all those genes, leaving me with the uptight and nerdy ones.

"Of course, they are Victoria's Secret pj's," I added, suddenly not wanting him to think I went to bed in neck-to-toe flannel. His eyebrows rose, forcing me to add, "Not the see-through ones, just the lacy ones."

Ian tipped my chin up with a finger that caressed my chin. "I think you are hard up for some fun, Bee Cool."

Uh-oh. I don't know why I was dragging my feet. Ian Reno was attractive. Okay, better than attractive. He was hot. He was a professional with a fascinating career. He was for some reason interested in me. The only drawback was he was just slightly younger than I was, and so what? Demi and Ashton had made that cool a long time ago.

There was the issue of Frank, but, I told myself with resolution, Frank had made that a nonissue by his nonappearance on the cruise.

I heard a thump behind us and saw a man hopping on one foot, his back to us. He had apparently stumbled over a lawn chair on deck, and was hurrying away, obviously embarra.s.sed. A sense of deja vu washed over me and I c.o.c.ked my head, wondering what had inspired it.

"Well?" Ian murmured.

Turning back, I smiled slowly at him. "I think you're right."

Ian blinked, a little taken aback. Maybe I was calling his bluff.

I continued, not ready to be that brave. "I think it's time to grab some of my favorite junk food and hit the club."

Recovering from his surprise quickly, Ian nodded and dropped his hand to caress the small of my back. "You're on. Come with me."

As we strolled to the Rendezvous Room for the luscious dessert layout, I asked Ian about his poker play that night. He explained the cards hadn't fallen his way, but he'd been fortunate to have moved tables often, then been able to read the players well enough, and quickly enough, to outplay them. "I'm still in it, mostly, I believe, due to my theory."

Did everyone on the boat have a theory? "And what's that?"

"I think luck plays a role, a high enough IQ to do basic math is vital, but mostly Hold 'Em's a game of psychology."

"Giving you psychologists an automatic edge," I pointed out as we paused at the rail. I leaned against it and stared down at the churning silver sea.

"Not necessarily. You'd be surprised at how book learning does not always translate into life experience and inherent talent," he admitted, body radiating an intensity that told me he loved his job, or at the very least this topic. "Some people are born with sensory abilities that give them the edge when it comes to reading all the intangibles-body language, pauses in play, choices in play. Volumes are written on how to do this but I think they are a waste of time. Yes, you can read all the laws of averages in s.h.i.+fting of the eyes, bouncing of legs, sweat patterns, lip tension, pauses in bets and play them. But in each individual game, if you can a.s.similate the laws of averages and then override them when your brain tells you the woman next to you is really a Maniac when she plays like a Rock, then you win that game, don't you? That's what makes a Hold 'Em champion."

"Whoa. That means there is a lot of thinking going on. I sort of feel my game. Maybe I am doing it all wrong."

Ian grabbed my elbow. "That's what I am talking about, Belinda! You are a textbook example of my theory. You intuit instead of intellectualizing."

Did he just call me an observant idiot?

"So how do you go about proving your theory?" I asked, instead of forcing him to extrapolate further on my lack of mathematical ability. "Lock a bunch of poker players in a room and throw tests at them?"

"That's one way," he said, staring at the nearly full moon riding on the edge of the ocean above its undulating reflection.

I waited for him to offer another option, but he remained silent, deep in thought.

"Why don't you do a study? Get a federal grant. They pa.s.s those out for every ridiculous reason and your theory at least is one that would be of interest to the general public."

"It's an idea." He glanced from the moon to me, offering a brief smile which disappeared as he looked back at the moon. "But, you see, federal grants have many restrictions that would force me to compromise my standards, perhaps preventing a clear outcome . . ."

Ian certainly was pa.s.sionate about the psychology of poker. I'd always found pa.s.sion in any form irresistible. I waited a moment for him to elaborate but he seemed to get more immersed in thought the longer we stood there. I watched his jaw clenching, his eyes glittering, his mind churning, no doubt calculating the different ways to conduct the proper study to prove his theory. I touched the top of his hands, which he had clasped tightly in front of him, elbows on the railing.

"I think you're onto something. You should pursue it."

"Maybe I already am." He smiled warmly, pus.h.i.+ng off the railing and drawing my hand into his elbow. "Now, Miss Cooley, I'm dying to take a dip in the chocolate fountain. How about you?"

"A quick one," I said, distracted by a shot of guilt. How could I go have fun when Rick was MIA? "And then I really should check on . . ." Oops, I had sort of promised Kinkaid I wouldn't blab. But this was Ian, after all, if anyone understood the psychology of a mutiny on the Bounty, it would be a psychology professor. I suppose I could tell him.

"Check on whom?" Ian asked.

I gave him an abbreviated version of the two disappearances. He listened with his brows drawn together sharply. Finally, as I paused to take a breath, he stopped me with a shake of his head. "I think you are overreacting. Could it be that both men just took a break or are shacked up with a pretty woman they met on board and will turn up? In life things are usually less dramatic than they seem. And, much as you don't want to, you have to consider that perhaps both men just don't want to be found."

I swallowed, feeling instantly stupid. Since he didn't give much credence to the ominous kidnapping theory, odds were he wouldn't repeat this to anyone. Still, I felt the need to tell him about Kinkaid's insistence that we keep the information top secret. I felt like I was in high school as I struggled for the right words to ask him not to tell the college coeds. "Ian, please-"

A high pitched soprano behind us interrupted suddenly. "I know what happened."

Nine.

Amber bounced up between us in a halter dress with the shortest skirt I have ever seen.

Ian threw me a smug look before focusing back on Amber. "You know where they are?"

She looked over her bare shoulder, apparently on the watch out for someone. "I think I know who did it. You know Paul."

Ian nodded and filled me in. "Paul Pennington is the tall, s.h.a.ggy-haired blond kid you saw with Amber and the others at the pool. He's in one of my cla.s.ses too."