Rich Man's Revenge. Katherine Garbera
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failed at this, then … Bree felt a flash of sweat on her forehead. Running for the Mainland might be their only option. Or, since they had no money or credit cards and it was doubtful they’d even make it to the airport before they were caught, swimming for the Mainland.
She exhaled, forcing her body to calm down and her heart to slow. It’s just poker, she told herself firmly. Your heart is cold. You feel nothing.
Bree went all the way down the long, air-conditioned hall. A large man weighing perhaps three hundred pounds sat at a polished oak door.
She forced a crooked smile in his direction. “Hey, Kai.”
The enormous security guard nodded with a single jerk of his chins. “What you doing here, Bree? Saw your sister take off. She sick or something?”
“Something like that.”
“You working in her place?” Kai frowned, looking over her dark, tight jeans, her black leather jacket and black stiletto boots. “Where’s the uniform?”
“This is my outfit.” Her voice was cool as she stared him down. “For poker.”
“Oh.” His round, friendly face looked confused. “Well. Okay. Go in, then.”
“Thanks.” Forcing the ice in her voice to fully infuse her heart, she pushed open the door.
The private room for the villa residents had a cavernous ceiling and no windows. The walls were soundproofed with thick red fabric that swooped from a center point on the ceiling. The effect made the room glamorous and cozy and claustrophobic all at once. To Bree, it felt like entering the tent of a sheikh’s harem. But as she approached the wealthy men who were playing at the single large table, if there was a stab of fear down her spine, she didn’t feel it.
She’d succeeded. She’d turned off her heart.
There were no women players. The only females in the room stood in a circle behind the men, smiling with hawkish red lips, wearing low-cut, tight silk gowns. At the table, she saw the dealer, Chris—what was his last name?—whose eyes widened with surprise when he saw her.
The four players at the table were Greg Hudson and three owners she recognized: a Belgian land developer, a long-mustached oil man from Texas and a short, bald tycoon from Silicon Valley. But where was the arrogant stranger Josie had mentioned? Had he already quit the game?
Whatever. It was time to play.
In her black leather jacket and jeans, Bree pushed through the venomous, overdressed women. Without a word, she sat down at one of the two empty seats at the table around the dealer, beside Greg Hudson.
“Deal me in,” she said coolly.
The men blinked, staring at her in shock that was almost comical. One of the men snorted a laugh. Another frowned. “Another cocktail waitress?” one scoffed.
“Actually,” Bree said with a grin, “I’m with the housekeeping staff, and so was my sister.”
The men glanced at each other uncertainly.
“Well, well. Bree Dalton.” Greg Hudson licked his lips, looking at her with beady eyes in his florid, sweaty face. “So. Did you bring the hundred thousand dollars your sister owes me?”
“You know we don’t have that kind of money.”
“Then I’ll send my men to take it out of her hide.”
Bree’s knees shook beneath the table, but she did not feel fear. Her body might feel whatever it liked, but she’d disconnected it from her heart. Crossing her legs, she leaned back in her chair. “I will play for her debt.”
“You!” He snorted. “What will you wager? This game has a five-thousand-dollar buy-in. You could scrub the bathrooms of the entire Hale Ka’nani Resort for years and not have that kind of money.”
“I offer a trade.”
“You have nothing of value.”
“I have myself.”
Her boss stared at her, then licked his lips. “You mean—”
“Yes. I mean you could have me in bed.” She looked at him steadily, feeling nothing. Her skin felt cold, her heart as frozen as the blue iceberg that sank the Titanic. “You wanted me, Mr. Hudson. Here I am.”
There was a low whistle, an intake of breath around the room.
Bree slowly gazed around the table. She had everyone’s complete attention. Without flinching, she let her gaze taunt each man in turn, all of them larger, older and more powerful than she could ever be. “Who will take the gamble?”
“Well now.” Looking her over, the Texas oil baron thoughtfully tilted back his cowboy hat. “This game just got a lot more interesting.”
In the corner of her eye, she saw a dark, hulking shadow come around the table. A man sat down in the empty chair on the other side of the dealer, and Bree instantly turned to him with languid eyes. “Allow me to join your game, and I could be yours….”
Bree’s voice choked off midsentence as she sucked in her breath.
She knew those cold blue eyes. The high cheekbones, sharp as a razor blade. The strong jaw that proclaimed ruthless, almost thuggish strength. So powerful, so darkly handsome, so sensual.
So impossible.
“No,” she whispered. Not after ten years. Not here. “It can’t be.”
Vladimir Xendzov’s eyes narrowed with recognition, and then she felt the rush of his sudden searing hatred like fire.
“Have you met Prince Vladimir?” Greg Hudson purred.
“Prince?” Bree choked out. She was unable to look away from Vladimir’s face, the face of the man she’d dreamed about unwillingly for the past ten years.
His cruel, sensual lips curved as he leaned back in his chair.
“Miss Dalton,” he drawled. “I didn’t know you were in Hawaii. And gambling. What a pleasant surprise.”
His low, husky voice, so close to her, so real, caused a shiver across her skin. She stared at him in shock.
Her one lost love. Not a ghost. Not a dream. But here, at the Hale Ka’nani Resort, not six feet away from her.
“So what’s on offer? Your body, is it?” Vladimir’s words were cold, even sardonic. “What a charming prize that would be, though hardly exclusive. Shared by thousands, I should imagine.”
And just like that, the ice around her heart exploded into a million glass splinters. She sucked in her breath.
Vladimir Xendzov had made her love him with all the reckless passion of an innocent, untamed heart. He’d made her a better person—and then he’d destroyed her. Her lips parted. “Vladimir.”
He stiffened. “Your Highness will do.”
She didn’t realize she’d spoken his name aloud. Glancing to the right and left, she matched his sardonic tone. “So you’re using your title now.”
His blue eyes burned through her. “It is mine by right.”
She knew it was true. His great-grandfather had been one of the last great princes of Russia, before he’d died fighting the Red Army in Siberia, after sending his wife and baby son to safety in Alaskan exile. As a poverty-stricken child, Vladimir had been mocked with the title at school. When he was twenty-five, he’d told her that he never intended to use the title, that it still felt like a mockery, an honor he hadn’t earned—and was worthless, anyway.
But apparently, now, he’d found a use for it.
“You didn’t always think so,” Bree said.
“I am no longer the boy you once knew,” he said coldly.
She