She Can Hide (She Can #4)(67)

He had plenty of associates who left their children’s mothers and accumulated trophy wives. The same men got manicures and facial treatments. Botox and plastic surgery left them ridiculous caricatures of themselves.

Ryland was old-fashioned that way. Beauty treatments were for women. Period.

A man earned respect through power and money. Unless referring to his wife or girlfriend, pretty didn’t enter into the masculine equation for success.

“How was your evening?” He buzzed her smooth cheek with his lips, careful not to muss her still-perfect makeup. After decades of marriage, he’d never seen her without her “face” on, as she referred to her morning beauty routine. It pleased him that she cared to make herself attractive for him and that even now she was still willing in the bedroom.

“We had a lovely time.”

“The show?”

Marlene had attended a concert at a rival casino.

She shrugged. “Disappointing. We left early and had more wine instead.”

That explained the sparkle in her eyes.

He eyed her shapely calves. Maybe tonight…

Marlene caught his look. Was that a frown?

Ryland shifted closer. “What’s wrong?”

She pulled back. Coy? Marlene liked to play games. She kept him on his toes. “Nothing.”

“Would you like a nightcap?”

Marlene crossed her legs. Her skirt rose on her thigh. “Yes, please.”

She was going to make him work for it. As usual. Ryland got up and crossed the hardwood to the bar in the corner. He refreshed his scotch and mixed Marlene a martini. One thing about his wife, she had never been “easy.” Her philosophy was that when a man worked for something, he appreciated it more.

Ryland gave her credit. Her methods worked. Young women could take lessons in catching and keeping a man from his wife. He’d strayed over the years, but he always came back. He handed her the martini, and she sipped delicately and licked her lips.

Ryland’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

His wife raised a now? eyebrow.

“I’ll turn it off.” Ryland pulled the phone out. His thumb went to the OFF button. A number popped onto the screen, and the call went to voicemail. He froze.

“I’m sorry. I have to make a call.” He stood.

Marlene’s eyes sparked with anger. “Work will be the end of you. At your age, you should be relaxing, not working until you drop.”

At his age?

Well, didn’t that take the wind out of his metaphorical sails. His erection deflated like a punctured bike tire.

A whoops look crossed her face. She knew that insinuating that he was too old to take care of business was one step over the line. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I simply want you to enjoy the life you worked so hard to create.”

“It’s quite all right, my dear.” He patted her thigh. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Perhaps you’re right. I should be easing back on my responsibilities.”

As Ryland walked out of the living room, in the corner of his eye, he saw his wife toss her martini back.

He was going to have to face facts. He was old. And his new plan did include passing the family business down to his sons. After he’d cleaned up the last few entrails, of course.

He went back into his study, closed the door behind him, and pressed CALL BACK.

Tension gripped his muscles as the ring sounded in his ear. This call followed Kenneth’s too closely for it to be a coincidence.




Abby left the rental car in the parking garage attached to the casino. The cold damp was welcome. Despite the triple espresso and chocolate, her head was fuzzy and her eyes sticky with exhaustion. But then it was two a.m. Not that you could tell from the casino, designed to camouflage the time of day. Were there any windows on the casino level? Probably not. Management wanted people inside, with the clanging bells and flashing lights urging them to lay down their chips. Views of a pretty beach would draw customers away from the tables. Casinos wanted people inside, handing over their money on the pie-in-the-sky chance of hitting it big—something that wasn’t going to happen. The odds were always with the house.

She walked past the opening to the gaming floor. For a winter night, business was good, but weekends were usually busy. Even in the off-season, people within driving distance sought Atlantic City as a weekend getaway. Take in a show, have a nice dinner, gamble, and then maybe spend the following afternoon shopping the outlet stores.

She turned down a wide hallway and passed a bank of silver-fronted elevators. She emerged into the hotel lobby. Black marble floors gleamed. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled. At this hour, the view out the glass doors was all dark night and bright lights. In the morning, the landscape couldn’t hide under the cover of darkness. Under her glitz and glamour makeup of shiny surfaces and bright lights, Atlantic City was an expensive whore, ready and willing to take your money for a wild ride and give you the boot when your wallet was empty.

Abby’s boots clicked on the marble as she went straight to the concierge desk. The African American man behind the counter was dressed in a black suit and impeccably starched white shirt. All part of the classy image the casino was trying to project. “May I help you?”

“Abigail Foster. I’m here to see Mr. Valentine. He’s expecting me.” Abby was suddenly aware of her own ragged appearance. With the stress and rattled nerves of the evening, her jeans and turtleneck had passed fresh hours ago. Appearances were valued by some people. Ryland Valentine was one of them. A more put-together look would have served her well for this meeting.