For His Daughter

“I know you can do it, Daddy.”

With a heavy sigh, Rafe lifted his head and locked eyes with Dani. He clearly wanted rescuing.

Dani lifted her brows as if to say, Sorry, you’re on your own. Really, what harm would it do to look a little foolish if it made Frannie happy?

But she suspected Rafe wasn’t the kind of man to let himself be caught at a disadvantage. Not for anyone. Not even a five-year-old child who just happened to be his daughter.

And then the frown lines across his forehead disappeared. He nodded slowly, even as he muttered a curse under his breath. “All right,” he told them, “I’ll enter the contest. Bring on the pies.”

“Go, Daddy!” Frannie squealed. She bounced in place as if she had springs on the bottom of her sneakers.

Over his shoulder he gave them a look of such seriousness that he might have been a soldier going off to war. “If I end up being sick, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Dani stared after him in disbelief. Maybe Rafe wasn’t completely hopeless as a father. Maybe he was learning after all.

ANN EVANS

For the wonderful women of Toronto –

Kathleen, Zilla, Laura and Paula. If I could bottle your understanding, patience and expertise, I’d be a millionaire.

RAFE D’ANGELO KNEW THE GUY at table four was cheating. He just didn’t know how.

Yet.

Over the past two hours, play at that table in the blackjack pit had heated up significantly. The dealer, a long-time Native Sun employee, was someone Rafe trusted. The table shoe had gone through half a dozen fresh decks. Even the security guys in the Eye-in-the- Sky booth upstairs had reported nothing unusual.

And still this jerk was up two hundred grand.

As pit boss, one of Rafe’s jobs was to spot the cheats. He was good at it. But this guy didn’t fit any profile.

And he was winning, damn him.

Rafe didn’t like losing. Sure, it wasn’t his money, but when he was working he felt as if it were. For all the casino’s fake Native American heritage, Native Sun had been good to him. Sometimes, when he allowed himself to invent a future for himself, he thought he could work here forever.

He’d always moved around a lot but he’d held this job longer than most—almost a year—and people respected him. He had a decent place to live, a good income and enough women to keep his ego happy. At twenty-four, he was probably the youngest pit boss on the Vegas strip, but he knew most people thought he was older. Hell, inside he was older.

Not bad for a runaway from the backwater Colorado town of Broken Yoke.

The sound of feminine laughter made him turn to the left.

She was still there. DeeDee Whitefeather—now there was a stage name if ever there was one—was fawning over a loudmouthed suit at the number twelve craps table.

She was one of the best-looking mannequins who worked for the casino. She wasn’t dressed in her showgirl outfit, of course, since the theater was dark on Mondays, but she still stood out in a crowd. All that long dark hair and those pretty gray eyes.

She wore a miniskirt and a blouse that did amazing things to her breasts. When she bent close to her companion, you could see plenty of skin. Rafe watched her trail long fingernails through the man’s hair and whisper in his ear.

She’d shown up two months ago, passing herself off as part Apache to get the job. If there was one drop of genuine Apache blood in her veins, Rafe would have bet it was there by accident. Still, she held up her end of the G-rated Native American show the casino put on for the stroller-and-convention crowd five nights a week. Kept to herself. Never complained. Never seemed overly eager to find a sugar daddy like some of the other girls. So what was she doing, attaching herself to this guy with a pizza gut and bad hair plugs?

Of course, he was a high roller. Big incentive for a working girl to find something in him to like.

But still, Rafe was disappointed. Of all the women shopping it around the strip, DeeDee Whitefeather was the last one he would have expected that from.

He swore under his breath. Rafe wasn’t supposed to be following her progress, he was supposed to bring the hammer down on the card mechanic at table four.

Mickey Norris, one of his protégés who was only a couple of years younger but about a thousand years behind Rafe in life experience, sidled up to him.

“No face book,” Mickey reported, referring to the file of pictures security kept on hand to help them spot cheaters. “Maybe he’s a hit-and-run artist.”

“Maybe,” Rafe said, unconvinced. “I think he’s got someone spotting for him. I just can’t figure out who.”

Mickey huffed out a sigh of disappointment. “You’re off your game tonight.” The young man scratched his chin. “Maybe you’re distracted, huh?” Mickey jerked his head toward the craps table where DeeDee was allowing Hair Plugs’s hand to roam freely over her tight rear end. “I notice you watching the action on table twelve. Pretty lady. I don’t blame you for—Hey! Don’t I know her? Isn’t that one of our own little Indian princesses?”