The Player (The Game Maker #3)(9)

Everyone clapped for the charismatic Maksim, and the music resumed. Servers made their way through the crowd with platters and more drinks. One delivered a tequila bottle service with shot glasses and accompaniments, setting it on the coffee table.

Jessica slid off the couch, kneeling on the fluffy rug to begin pouring. “Let’s get this party rolling!” Lucía and Natalie dropped down beside her. “Come sit with us, Blondie.”

And so it begins.

Dmitri said, “You can remain here.”

If he wanted something, then my job was to not quite give it to him. “I’ll just be a minute.” I wriggled out of his grasp to join the girls.

Micro scowl.

Jessica asked, “What do people call you? Vicky or Tori? I think we should go with Tori—”

“Vice,” I rushed to say. Only my ex had ever called me Tori. Besides, Pete had already spilled my nickname. “My friends call me Vice.”

“I want to know why.” Dmitri leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “The word is slang for police.” He sounded as if he’d given this matter a lot of thought and was frustrated to have no answer.

Again, I wouldn’t give him what he wanted. “Hmmm. Maybe I’ll tell you later.”

Full on scowl.

Lucía said, “Will Peter come sit and drink with us?”

My cousin milled around on the periphery, ever ready to make an assist. “I think he’s still working for a bit longer.”

Natalie asked me, “So what do you do?”

“I used to help out with my parents’ financial planning business until about three months ago. But it’s a tough”—lethal—“market.”

“Your investment background interests me,” Dmitri said. “Perhaps you can help me make a determination about a few prospects.”

Doubtful. My skill set involved selling dummy stocks like they were snake oil—not evaluating them. “Those days are over for me, I’m afraid. Now I’m a cocktail waitress here at the casino.”

“How are you liking the service industry?” Lucía asked.

In Vegas? Why, I just love when customers drunkenly grope me. And married men do it best!

As I tried to formulate an answer, Natalie groaned. “My server gigs sucked. Note to self: If a restaurant supplies sporks, tips there will be nil.”

She’d had server jobs? According to Pete’s intel, she’d grown up on a huge farm in Nebraska and had inherited a fortune five years ago.

Lucía said, “I enjoyed cleaning houses better than I did slinging wings at a Hooters-type establishment. Scrubbing toilets was . . . purer.”

Even as I laughed, I wondered why she had done either. Her mega-rich family had controlled one of the largest coastline tracts in Florida for generations.

Maybe their parents had made them work minimum-wage jobs to try to keep them grounded. Or perhaps the Sevastyans controlled their public information, putting their best face forward. I glanced at Dmitri, finding his gaze on me.

A tech genius with unlimited resources could hide a lot of dirt. Hmm . . .

“Customers can be so bizarre,” Natalie said, drawing my attention. “Have you ever had a guy ask for a cosmopolitan, but he wanted it in a ‘manly glass’?”

“Yes! Then there’s always the guy who says, ‘No, you’re cut off!’”

Natalie laughed. “I’ve had dudes say that to me too!”

Dmitri wasn’t laughing, but one corner of his lips curled, the barest hint of a coming smile. His amused expression? It looked so . . . out of practice.

Jessica handed out shots, only to the girls. Once we’d geared up with salt and lemon, she said, “Okay, ladies, start your livers. Now it’s our turn to make roast toasts.”

Come again?

Natalie raised her glass and winked at Lucía. “To the three types of orgasms. To the holy kind: ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’ To the affirmative kind: ‘Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.’ And to the fake kind: ‘Oh Maks, oh Maks, oh Maks.’”

Lucía and Maksim laughed with such ease I figured their sex life must be stratospheric. With a sly grin, Lucía said, “To Natalie. She doesn’t have a cherry, but that’s no sin, since she’s still got the box that the cherry came in.”

I chuckled until I realized they might expect me to come up with one. In past toasts, I’d paid tribute to Lady Luck, but if these people expected a roast toast . . . I loved limericks, had even won a contest once, so I cobbled one together.

“Here’s to my Vice-Vice Baby”—Jessica gazed meaningfully at me—“for being single, seeing double, sleeping triple . . . and having multiple.”

I was still laughing when, sure enough, everyone turned to me. I raised my glass to Jessica. Feigning an Irish burr, I said, “There once was a looker named Jess, who always knew just how to dress. At a party like this, she’d land more than one kiss; who she’d f*ck was anyone’s guess. Sláinte!”

Jessica guffawed. Natalie and Lucía howled. Aleks and Maksim cracked up.

Dmitri hadn’t laughed, but his lips curled again, and his eyes were lively, crinkling a touch at the sides.

Everyone seemed delighted—and surprised—by even that mere response.

Jessica commanded, “Lick, shoot, suck, my bitches!”