Count on Love. Melinda Curtis

      Count on Love

      Melinda Curtis

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To my family, who never seem able to remember

       we have trash cans and dirty clothes hampers (no, the counter/floor won’t do), who always wait until the last minute to complete assignments and lesson plans (which need something they assume I can miraculously produce from thin air) and who are my biggest fans. Love you guys!

      To Calvin and Hobbs, who remind me it’s

       break time by dropping a slobber-covered ball on my bare feet. Even writers need exercise!

      To Anna Stewart, Susan Floyd and Sigal Kremer

       for listening, reading and occasionally admitting that my writing shows talent. The next bottle of wine is on me!

      And to Dad. I hope I have your courage,

       big heart and gumption when I’m eighty-one!

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      “I’LL SEE YOUR five hundred and raise you five hundred.” Vince’s grin was infuriatingly superior. He thought he was going to win. What a jamook.

      Aldo rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, studying his grandson from behind a poker face he’d perfected more than fifty years ago, his bland expression giving no hint as to his cards or his irritation. All Aldo’s efforts to groom his heir seemed to be wasted.

      You’d think by twenty-seven my grandson would have learned.

      Aldo peered beneath the rim of his trifocals at his remaining chips. Vince hadn’t planned this well, raising the stakes to the point where the boy had to risk it all.

      His fingers shaking with age, Aldo selected five one-hundred-dollar chips with the Sicilian Casino’s gold-and-black logo from one of his many stacks, and tossed them in.

      “Call.”

      With a flourish, Vince snapped his cards onto the green felt. Everything he did was loud and flashy, drawing attention when subtlety was called for. “Two pair. Kings and tens.”

      Angling his head, Aldo glanced at his cards once more before fanning them gently in a row on the table. “Full house.” He hadn’t lost the touch. The same touch that had earned him the money to bankroll the Sicilian, one of the most opulent casinos on the Las Vegas Strip. He’d bought it over fifty years ago when he’d decided, with Rosalie’s help, which side of the law he wanted to be on. Definitely, the right side.

      Vince’s face contorted. He was a good-looking young man when he wasn’t upset about something.

      Aldo estimated his grandson had lost about five thousand dollars. That was as good a reason as any to be upset, particularly since it was close to a quarter of the salary Aldo overpaid him each month. Aldo wasn’t going to tell Vince what he’d lost was all going to charity. What was the point? He wouldn’t believe him, anyway.

      Vince stood, kicking his chair back in the process.

      It took more than that to make Aldo nervous, but Paulo took one step toward the table from his post near the door.

      “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Aldo said calmly. “Same time. Blackjack.” For the past month, Aldo had insisted they gamble every night. He’d hoped that the card games would help mend the rift that had developed between them these past few months. Only they seemed to be doing the opposite. Perhaps a new approach was required.

      “You won’t always beat me.” Vince scowled, his dark gaze centered on the pile of chips. “No one plays blackjack anymore. It’s an old man’s game.”

      “You’d rather I fronted you the money to play in the World Series of Poker, with gimmicks and too much left to chance.” Aldo shook his head. “Blackjack is about beating the house, not another player.”

      “And you’re the house.” Vince raised his black eyes to meet Aldo’s ever-watchful stare. “You’re beatable. A little girl fleeced you. And she was only twelve.”

      “She had skill. Only a fool would side-bet against her.” Aldo hid his annoyance. “She quit the game a winner.” Che peccato. What a shame that episode had turned out so badly.

      Muttering a curse, Vince stormed out of Aldo’s penthouse suite. Long after the heavy door slammed, Aldo sat pondering what he was going to do with his grandson. He had never felt so alone.

      When he finally moved, Aldo’s legs were unsteady. They always were at the end of the day. Too many years pounding the casino floor. Too much regret in his old age. Aldo walked across the thick Oriental carpet to the bedroom, his knees giving out completely when he caught sight of his beautiful Rosalie.

      He would have collapsed if not for Paulo’s quick, steadying grip. His bodyguard half carried Aldo across the room, easing him gently into a chair next to Rosalie’s hospital bed and the legion of machines that kept her alive. The private nurse on duty slipped discreetly out the door.

      Aldo enveloped his wife’s cool, frail hand in both of his. “I don’t know what more I can do, cara mia.” And then he bent his head and prayed.

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS LIKE SOME small-town parade back home. Men, children, women carrying babies—everyone was smiling and singing as they passed the young American soldiers on a pitted street in Baghdad.

      Trying to find relief in the shade of the awning above the bank entrance, Sam found himself humming along to their tune. Anything to distract himself from the oppressive heat.

      “Gun! Shooter!” It was Vince. Clearly panicked.

      Sam lifted his M16 and—

      Sat bolt upright in bed. In Las Vegas. Drenched in sweat.

      He peeled off his T-shirt as his cell phone rang. Sam checked the caller ID before answering. The call originated from the Sicilian Casino. Assuming it must be Vince, he answered, “Knight, here,” while he pressed his palm to his damp forehead, hoping to ease the ache behind his eyes.

      “Hungover again?” Aldo Patrizio’s cold voice penetrated through his headache.

      Half a beer could only account for the bad taste in his mouth, but Sam didn’t correct his friend’s grandfather. The call itself was unusual enough. “You wanted something?”

      “I’ve got a job for you. There’s a group of card counters becoming more bothersome at small places up and down the Strip. I need you to find them.”

      Cardsharps, or counters, kept track of the cards played in blackjack and increased their odds of winning by calculating the odds of cards coming into play. Casino