“That’s…rather broad in scope. Is that common?”

“Not quite to that degree, and it’s not necessarily true, either. Other than the Russian part. No one has ever been able to prove anything, but the talk persists. It’s been several years now, and talk doesn’t usually stick like that unless there’s something to it. And my gut tells me there is. So, when Maksimov comes knocking, I usually find somewhere else to be.”

“Is it just you, or all the pros?”

“Most of the guys at the top tend to steer clear, or only get involved when the outside support is unimpeachable.”

“I imagine that doesn’t sit well with whoever owns the place. To be shunned. Are there other, I guess you could call it privately blacklisted resorts?”

“Some, especially the oldest ones, have never been able to shake some of their early connections to organized crime.”

“Is that still a thing? Really?”

“Not in the way of the past, no. It’s taken on a far more international flavor these days. Not to mention highly sophisticated. You have both syndicated, organized action, as well as independent problems.”

“I guess I thought that would have been dealt with a long time ago. I know the town has really tried to build up a more family-friendly atmosphere.”

“Because it plays well. But don’t be fooled. When you have that much money concentrated in such a small, controlled area, it would be foolish to think they don’t have a hand in.”

“And you think Maksimov works for that kind of outfit?”

“Directly or indirectly? No proof, but I trust my instincts.”

“A Russian Mafioso. Great. And, of course he’s staying here. Are you sure I can’t rework the books and block him out?”

“He’s harmless enough, especially if he wants something from me.”

“And when he doesn’t get it?”

“He never gets it. It’s par for the course. He just keeps getting sent out to try. Not my problem if he goes back empty-handed. And, chances are, to be honest, if he doesn’t get a verbal commitment from me, he’ll be able to schmooze it from any number of other players.”

“I thought you said-”

“I said some of them, mostly the ones who can afford to say no. Most players can’t. Maksimov will do fine on his recruiting mission. He just won’t be recruiting me.”

She continued to look dubious, and he bent down to kiss her nose.

“I’ll let you know if I think anything has changed where he’s concerned. But while I’m not happy he’s going to be here, it’s just an irritation. At least if he’s staying here, you keep an eye, too, maybe help run a little interference and keep him off my back.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Use those guest services skills you’re always bragging about.”

She merely arched a brow, but said, “I’ll do whatever I can.”

He bussed her on the mouth. “See? Good teamwork.”

“Speaking of teamwork…” She smiled against his mouth as he was already kissing her before she could finish the sentence.

There would be a lot going on over the next few weeks that would take a fast-lane learning curve to deal with…so she definitely could get used to having someone around who was so in tune with her.

She gasped and arched off the bed as he moved lower down her body. Especially when his thoughts were tuned in to doing this…

Chapter 14

Brett leaned into the turn as he eased his bike around the bend, then up another steep, winding curve. When he’d left the desert, he’d headed east, across the flat prairie of middle America, before encountering his first swell of hills and mountains. Nothing like they had out west, but he’d never taken off in the direction of the Rockies, so he’d found it a bit exhilarating, all the twists and turns, steep ascents and swift downhill drops. When he’d taken off from the resort a few hours ago, he’d intended to go home, back to the inn, but instead he’d found himself turning up a side road that led into the hills, where he’d been tooling around the winding back roads since.

Thinking.

About things like why he’d so easily and naturally thought of Kirby’s inn as home. It hadn’t been a casual thought, either. He’d never once thought of his hotel rooms as home, or even a home away from home. Though he’d stayed in the exact same rooms many, many times over the years, and they’d been familiar to him, they had always remained exactly what they were. A place to crash, eat, and sleep between sitting at tables for endless hours. And giving interviews, teaching seminars, doing local promotion for the various event hosts and sponsors. Whatever was required of him to help give back to the sport that had given him, well, pretty much everything.

If ever a place had felt like home it had been his rooms at Vanetta’s, but for the past few years, they’d come to feel like more of a hideout than home and hearth. He hadn’t thought of it that way at the time, of course. It had been the only real home he’d ever known. But now…now…

He thought about the inn, about Kirby. And maybe it wasn’t that place, either, specifically, though his feelings about the inn itself were definitely filled with real affection. Maybe it was Kirby. Thinking of her, wanting to return to her, wherever she was. That’s what felt like the haven he’d always thought a home should be. A place where the world dropped away and he could relax, be completely and utterly himself. And, more importantly, would know, without a doubt, that that was exactly who he was supposed to be.

Being with Kirby wasn’t hiding, not like Vanetta’s had become. He’d been seeking serenity, he realized, which was something rare in his profession, given both the intensity of the game itself and the actual location of the events. Bright lights and endless noise was life inside a casino.

But it was a serenity that went deeper than creating a peaceful environment. It was serenity of the soul. Where he could discover a completely different kind of fulfillment. Where all sorts of needs that had nothing to do with money and repayment of debts, real or imagined, existed. It was about feeding into something entirely different. And he knew that all of those things existed for him, or could exist for him, wherever Kirby Farrell happened to be.

He took the next curve a bit more deeply, enjoying the thump of adrenaline that pumped into his veins as he leaned into the turn, unsure if the cause was the tight curve or the thoughts of Kirby, or both.

These past few weeks, since the two of them had decided on launching the charitable event, had been a new form of chaos for him, and not a little frustrating. He hadn’t gotten to spend much time with her as the demands of putting together the event as quickly as humanly possible had kept him at the resort almost full time, and on the phone more often than not the rest of the time. Kirby, meanwhile, had been more than a little busy herself, preparing for her onslaught of guests, all slated to arrive in just a few short days now.

Though the temperatures in the evening were dipping lower and lower, the daytime temps had remained unseasonably warm, and yet that hadn’t curbed the enthusiasm of the guests wanting to come out and be part of the event. He was thrilled for her, as that had been the goal all along, but, personally, selfishly, he was missing her, missing their alone time in the seclusion of her empty inn.

And yet, that same passage of time had been grounding, and illuminating, for the precise reason that it had frustrated him. He wanted to be with her. Needed to be. More. Often. All the damn time. And not just for the sex, or even the conversation, though he had swiftly come to wanting and needing both all the damn time, too. He wanted to play house with Kirby Farrell. Cooking dinner, doing odd chores around the inn, reading the paper over the breakfast table, hauling mounds of bed linens down the basement stairs to the industrial-size washer and dryer.