Heart of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #3)(34)

“Well played,” he says as his barrel-shaped chest bounces with silent laughter. “But the night is still young.”

Eventually, the tourists drop out of the game, and it’s down to me, the sheikh, and my father. The sheikh is holding his own, but he only wins the odd hand. Sooner or later, he will fold and bow out like he did before. That’s when things will get serious.

After my father rakes in a pot and a server refreshes our drinks, the dealer stands to be replaced by a new one.

“Perhaps my luck will improve with a new set of hands on the cards,” the sheikh says, but then he glances from me to my father, who sits across the table. “Then again, maybe not. I feel like I’m missing something here. Ms. Baptiste, you are playing fiercely tonight.”

I’ve got a lot on the line.

“No more than normal.” The lie slips easily off my tongue.

“You’ve played my daughter before, Ahmed?”

The fact that my father knows the oil billionaire by name should not surprise me, and yet it does. And my father’s casual dropping of the bomb regarding our familial relationship to Al Jabal does the same to him.

“Your daughter?” Al Jabal’s dark brown eyes dart from my face to my father’s. “I had no idea.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, I didn’t either, but I keep quiet. My father opened that subject, and therefore he can deal with the fallout.

“Yes, indeed. So please remember that when you’re appreciating her charms.”

I haven’t even noticed the man looking at me. Probably because . . . I’m blind to other men because of Jericho Forge. The reminder shifts my determination into overdrive.

All the more reason to win. I miss him, dammit.

With that thought, I lift my club soda and gesture to the sheikh. “Do you want to continue the game, sir? My father and I have a side bet, and I need to warn you, it’s going to get ugly.”

I throw out the challenge, and my father’s grin widens.

With another look between us, Al Jabal pushes back from the table. “I do not like playing games where I am not aware of all the stakes. I shall leave you to your cards. Good luck, Ms. Baptiste. Mr. Federov.”

He rises, and when his security rushes forward to collect his remaining chips, it reminds me of Prague when Bates collected mine and then I rushed toward Jericho, ready for him to pick me up and swing me in the air.

Killing it, Ace. The sound of his voice curls around me, like he’s standing right here.

I whip my head around and search the faces in the crowd, but his isn’t one of them.

I still have a fighting chance to get him back. There’s no way my father will beat me.

It takes another few hands for my father to pick up his cigar from the edge of the table, and as he rolls it between his fingers, he bets big. Goading me. Taunting me. Challenging me.

“Raise,” I say, pushing another stack into the center of the green baize that will require him to throw in every single chip he’s got on the table.

“You are a ruthless player, Indy,” my father says as he calls.

Am I wrong? Did I misjudge? Does he think I’m bluffing?

We flip over our cards, and he throws his head back with a cackling laugh.

I beat him. Soundly.

Slapping his hand on the edge of the table, he shakes his head. “If I had to lose to anyone, daughter, I would prefer it be you.”

Triumph dumps into my bloodstream as onlookers applaud, but it’s not as sweet as the victories in Prague, because Jericho’s not waiting for me with open arms.

But he will be soon, if I have anything to say about it. It’s time to get the information I came for.

I toss a high-value chip to the dealer as a tip, rise, and hold my hand out to my father. “Thank you for the game, sir.”

He clasps my hand between his two large ones. “It was my pleasure.”

“Let’s find somewhere to talk. You’ve got a lot to tell me.”





31





India





I follow my father to a wood-and-glass-walled smoking room where the only ambient noise is the whir of the ventilation system. Superman and Spiderman wait outside as Federov and I settle into cherry-colored leather chairs.

“How did you know I was bluffing?” he asks as he trims and lights his cigar.

I point at the Cohiba in his hand. “You roll your cigar between your fingers when you’re bluffing.”

Booming laughter bounces off the walls, and he slaps a hand on his knee. “I should’ve known better than to give in to my vices. Nothing good ever comes from it for long.”

Condensation from my club soda rolls down the sides of the glass as I set it on the table between the arms of our chairs. “Tell me what you said to Forge,” I say without preamble.

Federov leans back in his seat and crosses an ankle over one knee. “You are not a patient woman.”

“I have a feeling it’s an inherited trait.”

“You would be right.” He lights a match and puffs on the cigar to light it. When an ember burns at the end, he blows out the match and tosses it into an ashtray. “But why do you want to know so badly what was said? Forge gave you up. Why would you want to chase after him?”

Forge gave you up. The wording he uses doesn’t sound the same as kicked you to the curb, but it still hurts.