Luck of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #2)(46)

Then there’s my reputation . . . Belevich got me an invite to the grand prix, and if I don’t show, how will it reflect on me? I know I could make excuses, but after he went to the trouble of securing the invite, it could be argued that I was too intimidated to appear. Poker is still very much a boys’ club, and there’s a part of my ego that wants to show them that I’m still the better player.

It is my job, after all. If I stop playing poker, I would have to find something else to do, and I’ve never had the temperament for coaching online wannabe players.

It’s not just about the money. I can’t live without a purpose and a goal. Poker has kept me focused and sharp. It’s also a skill that only stays honed to this level if constantly practiced. The grand prix is the perfect way to prove to the world that not only am I the best female poker player, but there’s no man I can’t beat either.

So, basically . . . I have to go. For myself, and to discover whatever information Belevich is holding back. I would be an idiot not to take this calculated risk.

My decision made, I tap out a reply.



* * *



I’ll see you there. Better bring more than five million.



* * *



I climb out of bed and spot my robe laid across a chair near the sliding glass doors. I grab it and shove my arms in the long sleeves before peeking beyond the curtain to see the tub. In the morning light, it seems no less decadent. It is definitely one experience I need to be put on my repeat list.

With a spring in my step, I head out of the bedroom to find my husband. I check the kitchen first—no sign of him. Not outside on the patio eating breakfast either.

Where the hell did he go?

His office. I make my way back down the hall and knock. Within seconds, I get a reply.

“Enter.”

Inside, Forge is seated behind the massive desk and sunlight streaming in through the open curtains. He looks up, and the first thing I notice is that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it over and over.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“Did you need something?” His habit of answering a question with a question is alive and well this morning.

“Just wondering where you were. Did you eat breakfast?”

“No. I had business to handle.” His tone is curt and his posture rigid.

I step closer to the desk, which is covered in files and papers. “What’s wrong?”

The dark gray of his eyes looks like the cloud wall of a hurricane. Almost black and completely foreboding.

“Why would you think something’s wrong?”

“Because you won’t answer my question. You’re evading.”

His defensiveness tightens my throat, making me feel like I’m standing in front of a stranger, and not the man who promised he could carry my burdens last night.

Forge crosses his arms over his chest and stares at me like there’s nothing he’d rather do than hustle me out of his office. Something inside me that was just beginning to bloom wilts.

“There will always be things I can’t tell you, India.”

Shrinking back, I mimic his posture, crossing my arms over my chest. But in my case, it’s a protective gesture.

“I’m not asking for the keys to the kingdom. You looked upset. I was being a decent human being and asking if everything was okay. Don’t worry, I won’t make that mistake again.”





47





Forge





The message I got first thing this morning from my helicopter mechanic wasn’t one I ever want to receive.



* * *



The chopper’s been fixed, but we need to talk. There’s no way this happened by accident.



* * *



I’ve spent the last hour in my office racking my brain to figure out how the fuck someone could have tampered with my helicopter.

I already have my suspicions about Koba, and he could have had access to it, but I’m not going to condemn him without proof. Especially because there’s no security footage of him near the helicopter while it was on the island.

After questioning the pilot, I still don’t have any more answers, except that he only left the chopper unattended for about ten minutes after landing in Mallorca so he could use the toilet.

Which makes me think that I wasn’t the target—Indy was.

My instincts say that no way in hell did Federov take care of the threat that caused Summer to get kidnapped, and I’m also not convinced de Vere is working alone. He has nothing to gain from hurting her except knowing it would be a strike at me. Although . . . given my death by a thousand cuts plan that I’ve unleashed over the last ten years, maybe that’s exactly what he would do.

Either way, I don’t have any final answers to the questions plaguing me, and I need them right the fuck now. Or rather before now, because Indy is looking at me with hurt in her eyes, and I hate it.

Twelve hours ago, she was close to breaking, and the last thing I want to do this morning is drop one more burden on her. But I also can’t keep something like this from her.

“The malfunction that kept you from flying back from Mallorca wasn’t a routine mechanical issue.”

Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”