Dead Man's Hand 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

  Chapter Sixteen

  More from Cindy Dees

  About the Author

  By Cindy Dees

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Dead Man’s Hand

  By Cindy Dees

  A Stud Games Novel

  Temptation, peril, and dirty poker.

  Love is a high-stakes game.

  When Collin Callahan, British secret agent, goes up against math genius turned surfer bum Oliver Elliot, the battle is epic—and so is the attraction. They’re pitted against each other in an exclusive, ultra-secret—and ultra-illegal—poker match in Gibraltar, but when players start dying and they could be next, they find a common goal: catch the killer before it’s too late.

  Evenly matched at poker and romance, they each wrestle personal demons that threaten to consume them as the stakes climb. It’s an all-or-nothing gamble with both life and love on the line as they fight to be the last seven-card studs standing.

  Previously published by Dreamspinner Press as Seven-Card Stud by Ava Drake, November 2016.

  Chapter One

  COLLIN CALLAHAN stepped onto the beachside veranda and turned his face up to the warm sunshine. The south of Europe was a blessed relief after England in winter, which had been even more gray and dreary than usual at this time of year. A tiny bit of the anvil that had been sitting on his chest these past, long weeks lifted as he soaked up the vitamin D. Out with the old. In with the new.

  Although what form new would take, he hadn’t the slightest idea.

  One thing he was sure of, though—he was ready for more than a change in weather.

  The Mediterranean Sea crashed against the seawall that formed the outer edge of the veranda. A torrential rain had passed through last night and although the skies were bright blue, the weather was still blustery today. Curving away from him in each direction from Gibraltar’s El Rocca Resort was a man-made beach of pale gold sand. The massive, dark hulk of the Rock of Gibraltar rose behind the resort, which was tucked up against the base of the mighty limestone rock formation. The waves rolled ashore gently along the shallow incline of the beach. But here, beside a vertical sea wall, the transition from veranda to water was abrupt, with waves smashing into the concrete and shale barrier.

  He spied a swimmer a ways out in the choppy water, moving from right to left, neon -yellow wet suit and blond hair bright against the black sea. His body was long, his swim strokes angular and even. Strong swimmer.

  Christ, the water had to be freezing, though. Just the salt spray on his face was bone-chilling. He was glad he’d donned a warm jumper under his suit coat before he came out here. What nut ball would go out for a swim in such bitterly cold surf?

  From his left, beyond the far end of the sprawling beach, he heard the rumble of a Jet Ski emerging from the El Rocca marina. As soon as the vehicle cleared the docks, the driver gunned the motor, and the watercraft shot out into the ocean, the front end jumping up and slapping down on the choppy water. The driver wore a black wet suit complete with a hood and goggles.

  And his craft was headed directly for the swimmer.

  Collin rushed over to the edge of the veranda and waved his arms, trying to get the Jet Skier’s attention, but to no avail. The guy seemed oblivious to the swimmer now directly in his path. How in the hell didn’t he see that bright slash of yellow in the water? Not only did the Jet Ski driver not seem to see the swimmer, but as Collin looked on in dismay, the bastard turned slightly, lining himself up even more exactly on a collision course with the swimmer.

  Collin shouted futilely in hopes of the swimmer or driver hearing the warning, but the driver kept on going, picking up speed if anything, and the swimmer just kept his head down in a crawl stroke, only turning his head to the sides to breathe, and plowed onward, unaware he was about to die.

  The gap between Jet Ski and swimmer evaporated in what seemed like the blink of an eye. Crap, crap, crap. That Jet Ski was flying.

  His gut cramped with suspension of time, anticipation of disaster, and a sickening rush of helplessness. A flash of a mangled car passed through his brain. Blood all over the deflated air bag. Yellow crime scene tape. Did Steve see it coming? Have this same moment of frozen horror just before the end?

  Collin desperately didn’t want to watch this new calamity, but he couldn’t have looked away from the unfolding disaster if he’d tried.

  At the very last second, the swimmer lifted his head. Perhaps he heard the motorized vehicle approaching. He treaded water and waved his arms frantically, but it was too late for the poor guy to do a damned thing to save himself. The Jet Ski ran directly over him.

  No no no no no no….

  The call from the police. The frantic drive to the accident scene. The news that Steve had died instantly. Never had a chance….

  Agony slashed across his belly, physically doubling him over with the searing pain.

  But what of this person out in the sea all alone, dying?

  Collin was too far away to see a blood slick in the water or chewed up bits of human being and yellow neoprene, but they had to be there. Nausea flooded his gut and vomit filled his mouth. He spit it out without taking his eyes off the spot where the collision had happened.

  And then he registered a bizarre thing. The Jet Ski driver hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t even slowed down. The bastard had kept right on going.

  Surely the driver had seen the swimmer in those last few yards, when the guy would have been looming directly in front of him, waving his arms. And yet there hadn’t been a swerve, a reduction of engine power, or even an attempt at a turn. Son of a bitch.

  The rage of being told it had been a completely avoidable tragedy—that the other driver had been distracted… texting on her phone… drifted into Steve’s lane—roared through him. It was so goddamned senseless! Why in the hell hadn’t that Jet Ski driver at least tried to swerve?

  Staring at the spot where the swimmer had last been, Collin muttered urgently, “C’mon, mate. Surface. Pop up and let me see you’re okay. Be alive, dammit.”

  But no matter how he cajoled the swimmer, there was no sign of the blond hair or yellow wet suit. The seconds ticked away as panic climbed his chest wall and clawed at the back of his throat. He couldn’t wait any longer. He kicked off his shoes and stripped off his sweater. Down to just slacks and shirt, he climbed the railing and launched himself into the water.

  The cold shocked him into immobility, but the trajectory of his dive had been shallow and he arced back up toward the surface, breaking through, gasping. He sighted off the corner of the veranda and headed for the spot he’d last seen the swimmer.

  He’d never swum in full clothing that weighed down all his limbs, or in water that turned him into a human ice cube, numbing his fingers and setting his teeth chattering uncontrollably. But he pressed on in spite of every cell in his body screaming at him to turn around. Go back. Get the hell out of this dangerous, even deadly, water.

  Thing was, the swimmer would die if he didn’t find the guy and fast.

  He was the only one who’d seen the collision, the only person who knew the spot the swimmer had gone down, the only one with a chance to save the victim. There was no time to go get help. It was him or nobody to save the swimmer’s life.


  It took a never-gonna-be-warm-again eternity to get to the spot where he estimated the crash had happened, and he treaded water, turning in a circle in search of evidence of the collision. Or of a body. Hell, he’d settle for body parts or a blood slick. Anything.

  Instead, he saw nothing. Nothing at all. Just the dark, angry surface of the Mediterranean rising and falling around him, trying to drag him down, freeze him into immobility and suck him down, down to his own death.

  Crap. He took a deep breath and dived. The visibility sucked, and the frigid salt water burned his eyes like fire, but he doggedly stayed under, searching until his lungs felt as if they would explode. He popped up to the surface, took several gasping breaths, and went down again. He swam in a circle around the area where he’d seen the swimmer go under. The guy had to be here, somewhere. Deeper and deeper he spiraled, praying the guy hadn’t already gone down to the bottom of the Mediterranean. But surely the combination of neoprene and the oxygen in the guy’s body would keep him from sinking like a rock.

  Around fifteen feet down, if the painful pressure in his ears was any indication, it got too dark for him to see a thing.

  If the swimmer had already lost all buoyancy and gone down to the bottom, the man was a goner anyway. He had to confine his search to the first fifteen feet or so of water but widen the search area.

  Collin ran out of air again, his lungs screaming for oxygen, and he swam for the surface and burst clear at the last possible instant before his chest exploded. He took a bunch of fast breaths and went down a third time.

  He wasn’t able to stay down as long this time, but he swam in a wide circle around the impact point. No sign of the swimmer. Dammit!

  Surfacing again, he paid close attention to the current, trying to sense which direction the guy’s body might have drifted. Time was running out for the swimmer. He had to find the guy, and soon, or resuscitation wouldn’t do any good.

  He dived yet again, angling toward the current flow, his body growing sluggish with the cold and oxygen starvation. But a man’s life depended on him. He pushed through the pain with grim determination.

  Despair heavy in his mind, he was rising toward the surface yet again when something large rocketed at him from above. He jolted, fearing the return of the Jet Ski. The object slammed into him, knocking what little breath he still had out of his chest. Something gripped his left arm in a viselike grip.

  Holy cow. Had sharks been drawn to the accident site already? Maybe by the scent of blood in the water? Memory flashed through his mind of television documentaries where sharks went into violent feeding frenzies and attacked anything that moved. Panic for his own survival roared through him. He punched at the attacking fish with his free fist, writhing and twisting to free himself of its grip.

  The beast breached, yanking him up and breaking the surface of the water. He dragged in a desperately needed lungful of air. He managed another breath before the beast tried to roll him over onto his back. Muscles temporarily refueled with oxygen, he fought harder to release himself. He must get free before too much damage was done. Before he bled out.

  “Jeez, quit fighting already!” a voice complained behind him. “I’m trying to help.”

  It took his cold-numbed mind a moment to register that a human being had spoken the words, not a great white shark.

  He grabbed for the chokehold around his throat and realized it was an arm. Not a tooth-filled jaw. And that was a big, warm, hard body spooning against his in a way that would have been provocative as hell in any other circumstances.

  “Let me go!” he rasped past saltwater and that damned arm all but choking him to death.

  “You need help to stay afloat. I’ve got you.”

  “A swimmer got hit by a Jet Ski, you moron. I’m out here to save him!”

  “You’re drowning, dude.”

  “I was diving. Intentionally. Let me go and help me find the guy before he dies!”

  “I’m the guy that asshole almost ran over.”

  Collin’s already sluggish mind went blank. “He hit the swimmer. I saw it. The guy went down.”

  The arm around his neck finally loosened enough for Collin to tear away and tread water under his own power. He spun to face a blond guy with a deep tan, who floated easily behind him. And he was wearing a neon-yellow wet suit, the hood pushed back.

  The blond said, “The Jet Ski almost hit me. I dived and got out of the way at the last second.”

  “But you didn’t come up. I watched for well over a minute.”

  “I’m a surfer, man. I can hold my breath for three minutes, easy. I stayed under and swam away from where he hit me in case he circled back to check on me and accidentally hit me the second time around.”

  “But—” Collin broke off, at a loss for words. His brain was barely functional in the cold grip of the sea. “So you’re okay?”

  “I’m great. You, however, look like shit. Your lips are blue, and your arms are noodling bad.”

  If, by that, the swimmer meant Collin’s arms were weakening and starting to feel like noodles, the chap was entirely correct, dammit.

  The swimmer added helpfully, “This water’s too cold for anyone to be out here without a wet suit.”

  “No. Fucking. Kidding,” he managed past the chattering of his teeth. “I was trying… to save… your life.”

  “If we don’t get you to shore pretty quick, I’m going to have to save yours. C’mon. I’ll swim you in.”

  “I can… swim by… m… myself.” Although the way his arms and legs were abruptly refusing to cooperate, he might be overstating the truth.

  The blond guided him toward the beach, swimming easily alongside him as he flailed like a wet dog. To distract himself from the frigid misery, Collin asked, “How d… did… you f… find… me underwater?”

  “Easy. I’m wearing goggles. Visibility’s not bad here. I saw you surface and then go down again. Looked for all the world like you were drowning. So I came and got you.”

  “I was d… diving.”

  “Yeah, I got that memo. Tell me something. Did you see where the Jet Ski came from?”

  Between exhausted pulls with his arms in a modified breaststroke that kept his head out of the water but minimized the need to lift his arms, he gasped, “Marina. Came f…flying out.”

  “Interesting. Did you see where in the marina it came from?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad.”

  Something in the swimmer’s voice sounded like more than idle curiosity. Collin struggled to make sense of why that was important, but his mind wouldn’t compute complex logic analysis right now.

  “It was insane of you to jump into the Med after me, you know.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  “No, really. The water’s dangerously cold at this time of year.”

  “So I n… noticed,” Collin managed to retort.

  “Have you got a death wish or something?”

  More like a hero complex, but that was none of this fellow’s business. “Why were you s… swimming… out here if it’s so… c… cold?”

  “Because I’m wearing a wet suit, and the temperature of the water won’t kill me.”

  Irritation warmed Collin enough to say all in one burst, “If I knew it would be so cold, I’d have let you drown.” His teeth started chattering again, and he finished lamely, “There. D… does that… m… make you feel b… better?”

  “You’re lying,” the swimmer declared. “You’d have jumped in anyway.”

  “How do you know?” Collin exclaimed.

  “You’re a terrible liar. Even half frozen to death, you have tells all over your face. I sure hope you’re not here to play in the poker tournament, because the other players will eat you alive, the way you give up a bluff.”

  He stared in dismay at the swimmer. Of course, he’d read in the poker manuals he’d been frantically studying for the past two weeks how important it was to control his facial features and expressions, not to give away
when he was bluffing or had good cards. The books said experienced poker players were masters of reading facial nuance, but he’d had no idea how masterful until this moment.

  If he hadn’t already been chilled to the bone before, he was now. On multiple levels.

  “You need some help there, Skippy?” the swimmer asked. “I don’t mind pulling you in. You look totally wiped.”

  The swimmer would be correct. But damned if he would let the man whom he’d dived in to save rescue him instead. He had a little pride, after all.

  It took considerably longer for him to make his way to shore than it had for him to get out to the collision site. But the swimmer stayed with him patiently as he labored ashore. Whether or not he’d have made it back on his own without the motivation of anger and stung pride, he would never know. As it was, he was deeply resentful of the gratitude he was forced to acknowledge toward the swimmer.

  The last guy he’d hooked up with in an effort to move past his grief and loneliness, a one-night stand who made him feel even more like shit than before, had called him ungrateful after their horrendously awful encounter. In truth, it hadn’t been the guy’s fault that he was an emotional wreck and not the least bit ready for a relationship of any kind, casual or otherwise. Hell, maybe the guy was right. Maybe he didn’t know how to share emotions, let alone show vulnerability.

  He was completely wrung out by a year of grieving the death of his longtime partner. He wasn’t sure he had any emotions left. Even he knew that a strange, brittle quality clung to him all the time now. As if any real emotion might shatter him into a million little pieces that could never be put back together again into a whole human being.

  Thank God for the job. It had been the only thing that kept him sane, kept him getting out of bed in the morning. Without it, he might have just lain down and died.

  And here he was, floundering in the frigid surf, swallowing far too much salt water to be healthy, struggling toward shore, and unsure he would make it. This moment was a hell of an analogy for his entire life.

  By the time his feet touched the sandy bottom of the engineered beach, Collin would have been hard-pressed to spell his own name. He staggered through the waist-deep surf, which was more a swaying of the water than actual waves rolling in. But still, it was enough to knock him off his exhausted feet time and again. Each time he toppled over, it was harder to force himself upright, to clear his face of the chilly water while swallowing copious mouthfuls of the foul salty stuff.