Ava Gray - Skin Game

“You’re so pretty, you don’t need to be good at a dumb game like that.” Rick had it bad already.

In response, Kyra let him buy her another beer, adorably despondent. “I wish that was true. Maybe my daddy would have more time for me if I could play the games he likes. I can’t throw a football, either.”

That’s genius, Reyes decided. Now she’d tugged on Rick’s heartstrings. The man would be filling in all kinds of scenarios, wanting to play white knight.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” the guy asked.

She shook her head. “Nope. I’m an only child. I think he’d have been happier if I was a boy.”

“That would’ve been a crying shame, sweetheart.”

Reyes ground his teeth. Something dark and primitive swept over him at hearing this asshole practice his sloppy endearments on her. It was all Reyes could do not to punch the son of a bitch in the face, which told him he had a problem. No wonder she’d played Serrano—and so well. Kyra was a pro, all right, well schooled in manipulating a man’s emotions. And that made him twice the fool—because even knowing what she did, he found himself susceptible.

The con went down as planned. After she’d established herself as cute and harmless by losing a few games of pool, she challenged the champion thug to a game of darts. Reyes watched as she brushed her hands over his forearm, eyes imploring. As predicted, the man couldn’t say no. Rick watched with a half frown, not seeming to understand why the woman he’d wanted was playing with someone else.

“Let’s do a pool,” Reyes suggested, as the two competitors lined up. “I’ll put my money on the lady.”

Kyra flashed him a smile. “That’s so sweet, but I wouldn’t. My daddy says I can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

“He’s an asshole,” Rick said, supportive.

A few of the guys took the bet, kicking in money. The rest bet on the local dart champ, who according to Rick, also did some drug running on the side. The pot swelled to five hundred bucks, wagered on a single toss.

Kyra let the champ go first, and he barely hit the board. Everyone booed, and then somebody said, “Maybe he’s too drunk.”

“Shit. I wish I’d known. I’d have bet on her.”

She fretted her lower lip, supposedly sighting and aiming. Then she gave a girlie toss, but the dart soared true, striking the center of the target. Scattered whoops went up, and then Reyes counted out the winnings to the two guys who’d bet on her. Rick was one of them.

He liked this particular con because it spread the money around. This was the first time they’d tried it, but she’d explained the premise in detail. Nobody could cry “hustle” if a few locals made a little cash, too. He pocketed the rest, knowing Kyra had to trust him to turn up at their rendezvous point on his own, carrying her cut. It would be the first time she’d done so.

If only he knew how she’d been so certain she’d win. Instinctively, he knew it had something to do with the way she’d touched the guy. She never did that; she went out of her way to avoid physical contact.

Still brooding over that, Reyes headed out. He knew it would be driving her crazy—the fact that she couldn’t just follow him and make sure he didn’t split with her money. She had to be patient. She had to trust him.

Two hours later, when she came knocking at his door, he smiled.

An awe-inspiring view, Serrano thought.

He gazed out over white mountaintops up into the impossibly blue sky. St. Moritz was such an intriguing dichotomy of cosmopolitan and quaint ski village. From up here, the view was positively panoramic. He was staying at Badrutt’s Palace Hotel, ostensibly enjoying a long-overdue vacation. His detractors said he’d fled town, not wanting to deal with the fallout from being bested by the woman he’d asked to marry him.

To some degree both were true, but neither comprised his chief aim. Among other things, he was in Switzerland because he anticipated needing an ironclad alibi. And what better place than a famous hotel? The hotel swarmed with staff as well as old-world charm. He’d make sure to order room service and let himself be seen now and again, quietly nursing his wounds. It was all rather poetic, actually.

He’d taken the penthouse suite of course. Though he had no need for three bedrooms or a one-hundred-fifty-meter wraparound terrace, he’d gotten into the habit of living ostentatiously. His lip curled as he took in the heavy stone and dark woodwork. The carpet was old and expensive; everything was a bit too European for him, but that was to be expected, here. He preferred the clean lines of his Vegas condo.

At least the bedchamber he’d taken as his own wasn’t too formal. It had heavy cream and blue patterned tapestries pulled back from the windows, a soft floral rug, an enormous bed, and a dusty blue armchair. Serrano regretted that he’d be sleeping alone, but companionship wasn’t part of the plan.

If he was to put on a convincing show of grieving for his lost relationship, he couldn’t bring any women up here. No, he meant to be the picture of a spurned lover, saddened but not angry, lonely but not vengeful. Image was everything, after all.

It still stung, remembering how much he’d wanted her. How much he’d ached for her. That damned woman’s smile made his heart twist. At one point, he’d have done anything for her, anything at all. Which was how he’d wound up on one knee, offering her a four-carat diamond.

He didn’t like to admit his judgment could be faulty but in this case, it had gone completely off the rails. It galled him that he missed her. Rachel— Kyra —had been a good listener, and he’d thought she would make a fine mother. God, she’d sunk her teeth into him but good.

But business was business.

A young man came out of the second bedroom, tying his tie. His name was Wayne Sweet, and until twenty-four hours ago, he’d worked security at the Silver Lady. “I’m almost ready. It was so cool of you to bring me with you.”

Serrano allowed himself a tight smile. “Think nothing of it. I needed a bodyguard; you wanted the credential for your résumé. It all works out very neatly, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It sure does, sir.”

“Shall we go?”

They made their way to the funicular. At this hour, people were heading for the pubs and discos downtown, but he had other plans. They took the train first to the Chantarella station, and then continued upward again to Corviglia. There were a number of mountain restaurants open, if that had been his aim.

“Before dinner, I want to show you the highest point,” Serrano said, smiling.

He led his employee along a little-used hiking path, not toward the viewing area. It was cold up here. Dark. When the trail ended in a steep drop that could only be navigated by angels and mountain goats, Sweet said, “I think we came the wrong way.”

“No, this is it. Turn around. Take a look.”

Like a lamb to the slaughter, obedient, Sweet spun around, gazing out. Serrano drew a pistol, a cheap.22 fitted with a silencer, and plugged his former employee in the back of the head. Sound carried a long way in the mountains, and he preferred not to take chances. He liked a.22 for executions; it wasn’t a high enough caliber for an exit wound, so there was no blood spatter, no messy cleanup. In the same motion, he gave Sweet a nudge forward, enough to topple him off the cliff.

He glanced down. Hell of a drop. Casually, he tossed the weapon. It would be spring before they found him, if something didn’t drag him off and eat him first. And let that be a lesson to all the men who worked for him. They’d know the score when he came back from Switzerland alone; some things didn’t need to be spelled out. Sweet had been dead wrong for thinking he could get away with posting that video on the Internet. He hadn’t done a guy himself in years, but this would prove to everyone he hadn’t gone soft.