Working on a Full House (37 page)

He was nervous, Cherise realized, as he averted his gaze.

"I'm, ahem, pretty impressed," she said.

His gaze flew back to her. The big grin returned: white teeth, male vigor, and pure joie de vivre. "Already?"

Cherise nodded, her love pounding inside her.

Kenny did reach across the table then. He took her hand. "That should have been harder to do."

Cherise shook her head. "No... No... Because you were right about a few things, too. How I have to be in control, and how that limits me. I...don't want to be limited."

Kenny's big smile dropped. "Oh," he said.

Cherise blinked a few times. "Oh," she said. "Oh, no. I didn't mean — That is, I want a relationship with
you
, Kenny. Not with a bunch of — For heaven's sake, why do you think I drove out here?"

"I don't know." Kenny laughed and his grip tightened on her hand. "Somehow we haven't gotten around to you explaining that yet."

Cherise laughed, too, though she was now more nervous than ever. Kenny had hired a financial advisor. He'd come halfway — one might argue more than halfway — in order to make a relationship with her work. She had to come through now, and travel at least halfway to meet him. She cleared her throat and looked down at their joined hands, tan and cocoa flesh laced together.

"I don't want to marry you," she repeated. "But I do want to
be
with you. And I — I'm ready to take a few chances."

Kenny was smiling again, but not in the smug way. Now he looked encouraging, warm... Strange, but he almost looked
safe
. "What kind of chances?" he asked.

She cleared her throat again. "I don't want to quit my job, but I do have quite a bit of vacation time saved. If you wanted to..." Her courage nearly failed her, but she felt Kenny squeeze her hand. "Well, if you wanted to go to Europe for a month or so, I'd like to go with you. Oh, I would so love to see Paris, and the French countryside."

Kenny correctly translated. "Painting country."

Cherise lifted her eyes to his. She'd been wrong to fear. There was such understanding there, such
encouragement
. Having someone actually encourage her to paint was the most novel, and exhilarating, experience. "Yes," she told him. "Painting country. I'm afraid I won't be traveling light, not with easels, brushes, and canvases."

The grin returned, big and bright and beautiful. "Sounds like I'm going to be a pack horse."

A snort escaped Cherise.

"Unless you had some better use to put me to?" The question was intimately low.

She snorted again, and looked at him sidelong. "You'll have to actually do some winning at those poker tournaments if you intend to pay our way."

Kenny laughed and the glint in his eye deepened. "Will I have to win in order to share your bed at night?"

Cherise nearly choked, but managed to lie, "Absolutely."

"Then you are looking at the future winningest member of the European poker tour." Kenny used his hold of her hand to pull her across the little table.

Cherise closed her eyes. The sensation of his lips touching hers was exquisite.

"I love you, Cherise," he murmured against her mouth. "I love you so much."

It was the last push, the nudge right out of her safety zone. Could she? Dare she admit to such vulnerability? The future was still terribly uncertain, a cliff looming in front of her. Was she going to fall off the cliff? Or was she going to fly?

There was only one way to find out. Cherise sighed out the truth. "I love you, too, Kenny. Oh, I love you."

He pressed his mouth against hers harder, and the exquisite sensation spun around her dizzyingly. But she didn't fall. She felt lifted right up.

By Kenny, as it turned out, who'd risen from his chair and was pulling her up from hers. "My house," he said. "It's the only place that'll do."

Cherise would have followed him right then to a dirt-floor cave. "Mm," she agreed.

"But afterward," Kenny warned, pulling her close as he began to lead the way down the fake Parisian street. "We're going to talk, and really work all the details out." He looked down at her. "I'm ready to work now, you know, Cherise. To work
and
to play."

"Handy." Cherise smiled. "So am I."

~~~

He was in seat seven — lucky seven — waiting for the first deal. Roy leaned back in his chair at one of a sea of green baize tables for contestants in the July No Limit Hold 'Em tournament, the main event of the World Series of Poker. He took a casual gander at the nine other players at his table. They, along with everyone else in the room had ponied up ten grand each in order to participate.

Having already won the Pot-limit Omaha event and Seven Card Stud, Roy knew he was being discussed as a real contender this year. The old curse about him and the World Series had been forgotten. He could very well win.

He damn well intended to win.

Roy smiled at the white-haired lady in seat number one, meanwhile disguising the odd twinge he'd just felt at the idea of winning the prestigious tournament. Unfortunately, it was not a twinge of excitement or anticipation. Rather, it was a twinge of dread.

What if he
did
win — and it didn't matter? What if it he was left...empty?

Roy cleared his throat and retrieved his fading smile. He couldn't afford to imagine that. But the idea hammered at him anyway. What if winning even this tournament — the biggest of all — didn't help? What if it
couldn't
?

"All right, let's play," growled a heavy-set man seated to Roy's right.

The dealer shuffled the cards. Roy watched. But he couldn't stop the question from chipping away at his will, from messing with the blocks he needed to align in his head. What if this big tournament didn't make a difference?

Swish, swish, swish. One by one, the cards flew around the table, landing on the baize before each player. Roy looked down at the two cards in front of him. All around the table, hands reached forward, bending cards carefully upward for a peek.

Roy stared at the backs of his own two cards. His stomach performed a very unusual and unhappy maneuver. He should look at his cards, too. He knew he could force the blocks to fall into place.

But what did it matter? Roy's stomach unbent and flipped the other direction. Suddenly, abruptly, he couldn't fool himself any more. He couldn't even try.

It just didn't matter what cards he had, not in this hand, nor in the next one, nor in the one after that. It made no damn difference in the world how well he did in this idiotic tournament. He felt his mouth straighten into a thin, flat line.

It wouldn't help. Even winning the biggest tournament of all wouldn't make a dent in the emptiness he could sense all around him. The emptiness he was at that moment falling through.

Abruptly, he stood. The dealer glanced his way. Everyone else at the table glared at him. It didn't matter. Roy had to get out. Right then. He had to — to — He wasn't certain what he had to do, quite frankly, he just knew that whatever it was, it was urgent and real, unlike this game.

He gave a cursory nod to nobody in particular and stepped around his seat. Then he turned and walked briskly through the sea of tables and crowd of onlookers toward the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Hey, what the hell is your husband doing?" Peter Lindstrom uttered this accusation while storming toward Valerie down the hall at Valley Pediatric.

Valerie looked up in annoyance. She hated it when Peter wanted to talk about 'her husband.' She felt particularly annoyed by it today, when she was still feeling queasy about the foundation Roy had set up — though
not
for her.

"What is it?" she asked, returning her attention to the chart she'd been discussing with Cherise, a Cherise who'd been glowing ever since her return from a whirlwind trip to Vegas.

"He walked out of the World Series of Poker!" Face red, Peter pointed toward his office. "I just saw it on my portable television. They'd only dealt the first hand, and Roy Beaujovais walked out. Just stood up and left! Shit. I had money on him, too."

Valerie frowned at Peter. "Maybe he changed his mind about playing."

"Changed his mind?" Peter's eyes widened. "It costs ten thousand dollars just to get into the game."

A sliver of alarm went through Valerie. She remembered reading weeks ago in one of Peter's books that Roy never walked out of a game if he was down in the money. Ten thousand dollars sounded like 'down.'

"Come," Peter said, and spun back toward his office. "I'll show you."

"Come on," Cherise said. She was frowning, too.

Valerie didn't need any further prodding. Her concern was growing by leaps and bounds.

On Peter's heavy, ornate desk sat a sleek little portable TV. An announcer was trying to sound excited about a bunch of people sitting at tables. Then the video switched to a shot of Roy standing up from one of those tables.

"Roy Beaujovais," the excited announcer gushed, "one of today's favorites to win, rose from his table directly after the first deal. Not a word to anybody, he simply walked out. Must have been
really
bad cards," the announcer decided, and laughed.

The video showed Roy's straight back as he steadily marched his way around the tables.

"Nobody knows why Mr. Beaujovais took a powder," the announcer went on. "Although one can't imagine anything short of a dire family emergency pulling a top player away from his ten grand investment, and a shot at seven million dollars and the title."

"What is he doing?" Valerie murmured, watching the shot of Roy as he disappeared out the door of the room.

"The announcer said family emergency," Peter remarked.

Still staring at the TV, Valerie shook her head. "He has no family. Both his parents have passed away and he has no siblings."

"There's you." Peter gave a pointed look toward the bulge visible beneath Valerie's long, flowing shirt.

Valerie put an automatic hand over her belly and glared at Peter. "I didn't call him." She straightened from her position bent over to watch the TV. "But I'm going to now."

Indeed, a small part of her shrilled that she already
should
have called Roy, especially after she'd found out about the foundation three days ago. And now, well, something was obviously wrong. Valerie bit her lip and felt a climbing sense of urgency.

~~~

Roy kept walking, one foot in front of the other, despite the blistering Las Vegas July sun overhead. He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to keep walking, he had to keep ahead of the emptiness.

All of a sudden he found himself standing in front of the valet service at Mandalay Bay. He had no idea he'd walked so far.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked a young man in a uniform. Roy must have looked a sight, for the valet was giving him quite the hairy eyeball.

Roy still didn't know what he was doing, but an autopilot appeared to have taken over, for he dug into his pants pocket and pulled out the ticket for his car.

The young man took the ticket. "I'll get that for you right away, sir."

Roy barely noticed the world around him until his Cadillac purred to a stop by the curb. He tossed the valet a tip and unthinkingly took everything out of his pockets, the way he usually did before he started a long drive. His wallet, cell phone and a few quarters and dimes landed on the passenger seat of the car a moment before he, himself, slid into the driver's seat.

Where the hell am I going?
he asked himself as he sat there with both hands atop the steering wheel.

He had no idea. All he knew was if he wanted to keep the emptiness at bay, he'd better put his foot on the gas pedal.

He did, cruising out of Mandalay Bay and hanging a right. Moments later he was on I-15, heading west.

I'm going toward Palmwood
, he thought, but his foot didn't falter on the accelerator. No, not even as a wave of fear washed over him.

Fear was not empty. And not being empty was good.

Squinting at the pavement zooming past him, Roy kept driving.

~~~

He wasn't answering his cell phone. That, even more than watching him walk away from the biggest poker game in the world, really worried Valerie.

He may not have wanted to talk to Valerie, but he'd have kept open the channel of communication. He'd make sure she could contact him in case of emergency. There was the baby to consider. Roy would never let down the baby.

"Come on, come
on
," she muttered into the phone as she sat behind her desk in her family room. She'd muttered this many times over the course of the afternoon as she'd listened to Roy's phone ring and ring and ring. Eventually his pre-recorded voice would come on the line and gruffly invite her to leave a message. Valerie had already left six. None had been returned.

She rested her forehead in one hand and tapped the fingers of her other hand on the surface of her desk. What if Roy wasn't answering his phone because he
couldn't
answer? What if he'd left the poker game because he'd suddenly taken ill? Very ill?

God.

Valerie closed her eyes and willed her heart to slow down. Roy was only thirty-five years old. As far as she'd ever seen he was in excellent physical condition. It was highly unlikely he was having a stroke or a heart attack — the two dire medical emergencies that rose horrifically to mind.

But that didn't stop her stomach from shriveling into a small ball. If anything had happened to him —

It was coming home to her how deeply she loved him. It was a forever, no conditions, type of love. So much for protecting herself. So much for sending him away. Fat lot of good that was doing either one of them.

Meanwhile, she heard Roy's recording come on the line, sounding faraway and tinny. "If you'd like to leave a message," he said, "go ahead."

Valerie took a deep breath. "Roy — Roy, will you call me, for God's sake? I — " She stopped herself as the words that wanted to come out of her mouth nearly did. Revealing words. And then, as she had six times already, she went ahead and said them anyway. "I — I love you and I'm so worried about you."