Poker Face Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  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

  About the Author

  By Cindy Dees

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Poker Face

  By Cindy Dees

  A Stud Games Novel

  Surveillance, seduction, and extra-dirty politics.

  Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis has a problem. A huge one. The US senator he works for has run away with his latest mistress on the eve of a make-or-break fundraising event, and it’s up to him to cover his irresponsible boss’s tracks.

  Stone Jackson, Senator Lacey’s new bodyguard, looks enough like him that, with some extensive grooming, he might pass for the senator. Christian and Stone hatch a plan to substitute Stone for the senator, but Miami madness and the incendiary heat between them are throwing obstacles in their way. It’s a race to find the senator and pull off the con of the century before the attraction between them spins completely out of control.

  Previously published by Dreamspinner Press as Ace in the Hole by Ava Drake, July 2016.

  Chapter One

  STONE JACKSON ducked into the aggressive air-conditioning of the Miami Imperium Hotel and felt his skin tighten in the sudden cold. He’d been warned, of course, but holy hot plate, it was a cooker out there. So different from England, where he’d spent the past decade living and working. Only a favor of the highest order could lure him back not only to America, but to the South.

  “Welcome to the Imperium, sir. Is this your first time with us?” a busty, Jayne Mansfield blond purred at him. He searched her impressive chestular region for a name tag. Brittney.

  “Hi, Brittney. What gave me away?”

  “Nobody wears wool in South Beach. Not in July.”

  “Just got in from London. Haven’t had time to change into my luau shirt and Bermudas.”

  “Oooh. Sounds yummy.” She made a purring noise that set his teeth on edge. In her defense, he probably hated the sound because he’d never been able to make it himself.

  “Registration desk?” he asked, tiring of the game.

  “To your left, just beyond the fountain and palm trees.”

  Because all hotels needed thirty-foot-tall live palm trees in their lobbies. He strolled toward them…. Jesus. Live parrots squawked among the palm fronds. He opted to go around the whole disaster and spied a registration desk.

  A blessedly less flirtatious college coed checked him into his suite on the executive floor, and he tuned out while she explained how to use his keycard to gain access to the restricted floor. This was not his first rodeo with upscale hotels.

  Identification recovered and key in his pocket, he headed upstairs. Good Lord willing, as his mother was prone to saying, his trunk had preceded him to the hotel. The specialized gear he traveled with required a crap-ton of paperwork and customs preapproval and had to be shipped ahead to most of his jobs.

  The first thing he saw when he stepped into his room was the big brushed-aluminum trunk parked in a corner of the living area. And as his father was prone to saying, Praise the Lord and pass the potatoes.

  The suite had a sleek, modern sensibility. Smart up-lighting and indirect down-lighting created sexy pools of light and shadow. Dark gray slate floors, frosted glass interior doors, pale blue upholstery. All in all, not bad.

  Although the wet bar in the living room was pitifully stocked. He would have to get that fixed at the earliest opportunity. Not that he was a big drinker. But he was a discerning one.

  He shed his Savile Row suit and unbuckled the custom-fit leather shoulder holster. After peeling down to his spandex trunks, he unpacked quickly and donned the promised Bermuda shorts. Undershirt, holster back on, then a custom-tailored Hawaiian-print shirt made to fit over both the weapon and his muscular shoulders.

  Camouflage donned. Now he would blend in enough with the locals that the Brittneys of the world wouldn’t pick him out of the crowd as an outsider.

  Even though he was most definitely an outsider. His work alone made that inevitable. His job required him to disengage from every situation, stand back, and observe every single person as a potential hostile.

  His mother accused him of picking security work because it fit his antisocial tendencies. His father argued that the job had made him antisocial. Chicken. Egg. Didn’t really matter which had come first. The fact was, he watched life go by. He didn’t really live it.

  Someday he would climb off the carousel. Get a life. Maybe settle down with a nice guy. Get a dog. Hell, maybe even a house.

  Someday.

  Without warning, jet lag slammed into him, and he felt like hell on broken wheels. He probably ought to shave. He fingered his jaw and felt rough stubble on it. But damn, he needed a stiff drink. Jack Daniels No. 27 Gold, come be my bitch. Scooping up his room key, he headed downstairs to the bar he’d spotted on the way in.

  It had more of an S and M vibe than he’d anticipated, with lots of black leather and chrome. Who knew Miami business travelers let their kink show like this? But then, this was practically South Beach. The place was about three-quarters full. Not even 6:00 p.m. yet. Must be a happening joint by ten. More to the point, it had high-end whiskey, and lots of it. He bellied up to the bar and got ready to make out with a Jack on the rocks.

  Another man swung onto the barstool beside him.

  Stone registered details out of the corner of his eye. Good-looking. Clean-cut. Hair razor cut, suit tailored, shoes polished. And staring at him curiously.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. You just bear a striking resemblance to my boss.”

  He’d never heard that line before if the dude was looking to pick him up. He shrugged and closed his eyes as he took an appreciative sip of the whiskey the bartender poured for him.

  The guy down the bar ordered some drink called a Derby. Stone watched the bartender mix it in minor disbelief. Who the hell paired bourbon with lime juice? And Grand Marnier and vermouth? The customer, a stupidly good-looking preppie type, sipped it in appreciation.

  Stone shook his head. “My granddaddy would take you out back and shoot you for doing that to perfectly fine bourbon.”

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” the guy popped off.

  Stone’s grin widened as he assessed the newcomer. Quick on the comeback. Bit of a smartass. Had the whole Captain America thing going, though. Close-shaven, square-jawed, and blue-eyed… a walking milk commercial missing only the white mustache. Totally not his type.

  Cap surprised him by ordering two more Derbies and pushing one down the mirrored bar at him. “Go ahead. I dare you. Live dangerously.”

  Stone grunted in wry humor. Bastard had no idea how dangerously he usually lived. “Thanks for the drink. What’s your name?”

  “Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis.”

  “Jesus. Were you born with a poker up your ass to go along with that name?”

  To his credit, the guy laughed. “Pretty much. Where do you hail from? I can’t tell if I’m hearing a cattle ranch in Texas or Regent’s Park, London.”

  He knew what and where Regent’s Park was? It was one of the poshest addresses on planet Earth, but low profile about it. Didn’t advertise itself.

  “Actually, it was a dairy farm. Georgia. And Camden, not Regent’s Park.”

  “Is
n’t Camden basically next door to Regent’s Park?”

  “How in the hell do you know that?” Stone demanded.

  “Not every American is an ill-traveled rube, thank you very much.”

  Stone blinked. “Lemme guess. New England born and bred. Prep school, spent every summer in Europe.”

  Captain America shrugged.

  Nailed it.

  “My condolences,” the guy said aloud.

  “For what?”

  “Losing the war?” prep school offered.

  He grunted into his whiskey. “My father would be the first to tell you the War of Northern Aggression is only at halftime. Whenever you lily-white Yankee sissies are ready to go for round two, bring it.”

  “Want another Derby?”

  “Nah. I’ll stick with my Jack on the rocks. But thanks for broadening my horizons.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Stone Jackson.”

  “Wow. And you picked on my name?”

  “Dad’s a Civil War history buff. I was born in Atlanta. Last name Jackson. Mom wouldn’t let him name me Stonewall. Stone was as close as she’d let him go.”

  “Were you this big as a kid, or did you get beat up a lot?”

  He shrugged. He’d gotten beat up a lot but not because of his name.

  They nursed another round of drinks in silence. Somewhere near the bottom of the third Jack on the rocks, it occurred to Stone that he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours or slept in a solid thirty-six. Tossing back a bunch of booze maybe hadn’t been the smartest thing he could’ve done. High body mass would only buy him so much relief from the alcohol. “Shit. I need to get something to eat.”

  “Can’t hold your booze, Georgia? Big, beefy guy like you? Tsk-tsk.”

  He told Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis precisely what he could do with himself. And without slurring his syllables, he was pleased to note.

  “You staying in the hotel?” Christian asked, grinning.

  “Yeah. Key’s here somewhere.” He fumbled in his pocket.

  “Bartender, I’d like room service to send two porterhouse steaks and a bottle of your best Jack Daniels up to—what’s your room number?”

  “Room 2306,” Stone supplied.

  “To room 2306. All the trimmings. Salad, baked potatoes, and garlic bread. Double bread.”

  “I thought no one ate carbs anymore,” he commented.

  “Helps soak up the booze.”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  “You’re gonna be if you don’t get some food in you soon.”

  “Look. I don’t need a babysitter, junior.”

  “Never said you did. Just helping out a fellow traveler.”

  A fellow traveler, huh? They walked across the lobby and waited for an elevator. “Where are you visiting from?” he asked Christian.

  “Washington, DC. You?”

  He frowned. “Nowhere, actually. I travel from job to job pretty much nonstop.”

  “What do you do?”

  He shrugged. “Consultant. Follow around a lot of guys in suits. Don’t do anything most of the time. You?”

  “Aide to an important person who shall remain nameless.”

  “Like a secretary?”

  Christian pulled a face. “It’s a little more involved than that. I advise on various decisions, interface with media outlets, write speeches, solve crises, whatever my boss needs.”

  “You wipe his ass too?”

  “Play nice. Speaking of asses, let’s get you to your room before you make one of yourself.”

  He’d had just enough liquor to lose that thin patina of civilization his boss had worked so hard to paint onto him after he got out of the military. “Are you propositioning me, Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis, aide and ass-wiper extraordinaire?”

  The elevator arrived, dinged, and slid open, and Christian gestured politely for him to go first. But old habits died hard. While Christian reached for the button for the twenty-third floor, Stone moved to block the doorway with his big frame. Christian was tall and obviously worked out, but he lacked the bulk of someone who’d relied on his muscles to stay alive for a long damned time.

  As the elevator slowed for the twenty-third floor, Christian leaned forward from behind him and murmured in his ear, “For the record, I don’t wipe anyone’s ass after I’m done with it.”

  Something hot and hungry leaped in his gut. It had been a long time. A very long time. His job required total concentration, and his clients paid for no less. But the new gig didn’t start for another day. He’d come in early to get the lay of the land and sleep off the jet lag so he’d be on his A game tomorrow. But he could go for a hookup with Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis—

  “You going to keep standing there, or are we getting out?” Christian asked. Bastard sounded amused. He knew he’d thrown Stone off-balance with that totally un-milk-commercial comment.

  He growled belatedly, “I was checking the hall to make sure it was clear.”

  “Are you afraid to be seen with me? This is Miami, dude. And South Beach, to boot. No one thinks twice about that sort of thing around here.”

  Stone frowned impatiently. “That’s not it. I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me.” It was just that he’d been in the personal-security business for so long he couldn’t get off an elevator any other way.

  “Really? Anyone? How about me? Do you care what I think? Or am I only a piece of meat to you?”

  The guy sounded offended.

  Stone sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course, you’re not meat. You’re too mouthy for that. In my line of work, people either completely ignore me or I’m forcing them to do something they don’t like or want to do.”

  “What the hell do you do? Tell people to quit smoking, drinking, and having sex?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Lemme guess. You’re a priest.”

  He snorted with laughter. “And you still propositioned me? That’s some kinky shit, man. Let me guess. You were a choir boy and the parish priest was hot.”

  “No, and hell no. Only religion my family worshipped was capitalism and the holy power of the almighty dollar.”

  “God bless America. Thanks for reminding me why I live overseas, Chris. Can I call you Chris?”

  “Only if I can call you Stonewall.”

  “Christian it is.”

  CHRISTIAN ENJOYED the view as Stone exited the elevator ahead of him, although it felt more than a little weird to be ogling a man who looked a lot like a thirty-year-old younger version of his boss. Still. The man was built like a gladiator. Even better, he didn’t seem to have a dumb-jock mentality to go with all those muscles. The dude was a bit crusty, and his social skills tended toward a caveman mentality, but he was also obviously jet-lagged as hell. Given the long hours and uncertain sleep schedule of his own job, he was willing to cut the guy a little slack.

  And with an ass like that, he was doubly willing to cut the man some slack. The ass in question was high, hard, and tight. Nobody got a caboose like that without working out. Often and hard.

  Just the way he liked his… workouts. Yeah. Workouts. He was totally not thinking about sex when he ogled Stone’s rear end.

  His cock stirred with definite interest as Stone strode down the hallway in front of him, and his own ass clenched and unclenched in anticipation of the epic sex possible with someone in that good a condition.

  Not that he got to have sex that often, not with his job. And let alone with a specimen like this man. Yes, indeed. This could prove to be a very interesting evening.

  They stepped into Stone’s suite, and the first thing Christian noticed was a big aluminum trunk standing in the corner. “What’s all that?”

  “My equipment.”

  “You in a rock band?”

  “Nope.”

  “Major S and M dungeon master?”

  “Wishful thinking?” Stone shot back. He unlocked the trunk, shrugged out of his holster and sidearm, and stowed the weapon
in the metal box, which he carefully locked once more.

  Christian grinned. He wasn’t opposed to a little leather and pain, but if anyone was going to be in charge, it would be him. Stone didn’t strike him as the type to give up control, and Lord knew he wasn’t. Way too damned much of his job involved having to kiss up to his jerk of a boss. In his personal life, he wanted no part of being submissive to anyone else.

  The steaks arrived quickly, and the waiter batted his eyes at Stone as he wheeled in the table and set it up. Christian mentally snorted. Jackson was way too much man for that kid to handle.

  “Tell me more about your work, Stone.”

  “Not much to say.”

  “Will you tell me what’s in the trunk?”

  “I can, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “You’re not a spy, are you?”

  A snort from Stone. “Hardly.”

  “Hmm. Not a musician. Not a spy. Is there a body in the trunk?”

  That one caused Stone to stare at the trunk speculatively. “No, but I could fit one in there, now that you mention it. Would have to fold it in there before rigor mortis set in, or after it wore off, of course. But it could be done.”

  Christian stopped cutting his steak to study Stone intently. “How do you know about rigor mortis wearing off? That’s not the sort of thing the average civilian knows about.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “My dad is a doctor. How do you know?”

  Stone shrugged. “I was in the Army a while back. Saw it up close and personal a few times.”

  “God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories—”

  Stone cut him off. “It was mostly enemy combatant corpses I saw. My guys and I were very good at what we did.”

  “And what was that?”

  Stone looked up, his expression so closed it was like looking into a mirror. “We killed people.”

  Christian blinked. What did it say about him that he found Stone’s simple declaration hot as hell? Since when had dangerous men been such a turn-on to him?

  Apparently, since he’d bought a Derby for a dark stranger and accepted an invitation up to the guy’s suite.