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  He was kind of cute in a rude way. Or maybe rude in a cute way. Anyhow, leave it to me to feel sorry for some guy who just insulted me. I patted him on the bicep (come on, I wasn’t going to let him get away totally free) and smiled. “It’s okay. I understand.” I understand you are a man, and the whole lot of you are idiots. You just can’t help it . . .

  Extending his hand, he cleared his throat, regaining some composure. “I’m Ian Reno.”

  I put my hand in his for an extra-pleasant, firm, warm handshake. Cozy green eyes, wavy dirty blond hair flopping over his forehead. Ah, too bad he was so young. “Nice to meet you, Ian. I’m Belinda.”

  His mouth spread in a wide grin as he reached up and pulled my sunglasses down from the crown of my head to the bridge of my nose. I was speechless in surprise.

  “I knew it,” he said decisively, the unsure kid gone. “You’re Bee Cool.”

  Oh geez. It was one thing to be semifamous. It was another to be semifamous for no good reason in saggy pants in front of a living god. At the first port of call I was off this floating nightmare.

  “I watched you win that Big Kahuna in Vegas. I still don’t know how you pulled that off.”

  I laughed at his refreshing honesty. “Neither do I, Ian. Neither do I.”

  “You didn’t have a lot of poker experience before the tournament, did you?”

  Like none. “I still don’t, relatively speaking,” I admitted as the doors opened to the seventh floor.

  “They sure are advertising you right next to the big guns on the posters, though.” Ian pressed the button to hold the elevator doors open.

  I shrugged. “Blame it on my agent.”

  “You have an agent?” he asked, surprised.

  “I have a brother who’s appointed himself as such.” The alarm bell sounded, warning us to close the doors. I moved to step out and he stepped forward just ahead of me, making me pause.

  “Are you busy right now? Would you like to go up on deck and get a drink?” When I didn’t answer right away, Ian added quickly: “You prefer either vodka and soda or straight soda, I noticed during the Lanai.”

  The buzzing alarm was distracting me, so I didn’t comment on his sharp observation and memory. I didn’t want security coming for me twice in the first hour I was on board, for heaven’s sake. I nodded and Ian released the hold button, pressing the one for the lower deck. After all, what could it hurt? Ian obviously wasn’t after my poker playing secrets since he considered me as lucky in cards as I did.

  “It looks like you were the one who was busy,” I gestured at his Pumas and sweat bands on his wrists.

  “Tonight’s tournament will knock out my evening work-out, so I was going to run now. I’d much rather get to know you instead.”

  Hmm. “Even though I’m older than you thought?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant old in terms of maturity. In the Big Kahuna you struck me as younger because you seemed a bit out of your element, unsettled, fractured, almost as if you were trying to be someone you’re not.”

  “Good assessment.”

  “Considering what happened after the tournament, I understand. Anyway, to further undo the damage my ‘old’ comment caused, let me explain: I find the more mature the woman, the more she is comfortable in her own skin, being her own person. The woman who’s in this elevator knows exactly who she is and where she is going, hence, you seem more mature to me.”

  Oh dear. What a load of hogwash, and I couldn’t help but buy every drop. “You’re right about one thing. I know exactly where I was going just now.”

  Ian raised his eyebrows.

  “To kill my brother.”

  Ian chuckled. “Likely he deserves it.”

  “Yes, but his demise will have to wait.” I smiled as the elevator arrived on the lower deck. “Let’s go have that drink.”

  Ian Reno was a never-been-married associate psychology professor at the University of New Mexico. Other than occasional affairs with their students, I didn’t think college profs were known for carrying guns or disappearing on secret missions like security experts were. He probably answered his cell phone on a regular basis. It was also a good sign that Ian nursed his Corona with lime for the two hours we talked instead of throwing back a bottle of VO like another person we know. Not that I was comparing him to Frank. After all, I barely knew Ian and he was way too young for me anyway. And who was to say he was even attracted to me the way I couldn’t help but be attracted to him.

  “How would you like to go dancing after the tournament tonight?” he asked like he’d read my mind.

  “How old are you, Ian?” I bit my tongue, but too late. While he’d let his beer go warm, he’d made sure the waitress kept my Pinot Grigio topped off.

  He grinned. “I don’t get to join AARP for a couple of years.”

  “A better comparison would be, how long have you had your driver’s license?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Point of reference. I want to see how comfortable you are in your skin.”

  His green eyes drew in my gaze in a contact so strong it felt physical. “Can’t you tell?” he finally asked, his tenor low and soft around the edges.

  Uh-oh, this much I could tell: this guy was really talented in the flirting game. I was really in trouble.

  “Professor Reno!”

  We both turned in our barstools, his bare thigh coming to rest against mine. Sizzle. I moved away. I could’ve sworn Ian hid a grin as he stuck out his hand to the coed bouncing up. And she was bouncing, all over: from her curly, silvery blond ponytailed hair, to her perky size Cs held in a crocheted halter top, to the silver ring in her exposed belly button. Giggling, she leaned past his hand and pecked him on the cheek. Ian looked bemused and shot me an apologetic glance as he gestured between the two of us. “Amber York is one of my students. Amber, I’d like you to meet Belinda—”

  “Reno the Rage!” A group of a half-dozen older teenage boys and girls in swimsuits shouted from the ship’s rail. They bounced up and down waving riotously. The introductions were forgotten. At least the kids didn’t recognize me. I was relieved.

  “We didn’t know you liked poker, Prof,” Amber cocked a hip and drummed her French manicure across the bare flesh above her bikini bottom.

  “It’s a mind game. I study minds. It’s a logical interest for a psychologist.”

  Amber shrugged. “Sure. Cool. We just like to gamble. Well, anyway when we all saw you, we decided we’d buy you a beer and quiz you about the final. That essay question was a total pisser.”

  Ian threw me a questioning glance. He’d talked about his work and I could tell how much passion he had for teaching. I backward waved to send him on to the kids. He looked at Amber. “For one thing, you aren’t old enough to buy me a beer.”

  “They don’t care on board, trust me.”

  “Nevertheless, you can buy me a coke away from the bar and we can talk about the final for a few minutes only.”

  “Sure, whatever,” Amber shrugged and bounced back to her rowdy friends who commandeered a table and motioned for Ian to join them.

  “I’ll be right back,” he leaned into me as he pushed back his barstool and I breathed in CK’s Obsession for Men. Yum.

  “I really have to go find my brother,” I said, rising and looking away as Amber bounced back to clamp onto his bicep. “Thank you for the wine . . . wines . . . and the conversation.”

  I collected my purse and checked the room key for the room number once more before I started out. As I weaved my way through the tables toward the elevator, Ian called out: “Thirteen years.”

  I lifted my hand in a casual wave but what he said didn’t click until I was out of sight. Good thing. My mouth dropped open and my eyes widened at my reflection on the mirrored wall. Ian was twenty-nine years old! I was aged enough to have babysat him when he was a newborn.

  Genes will be genes. I was almost as bad as my lecherous brother after all.

  I could
n’t find Ben, although part of the problem might have been that I had lost the intensity of my purpose. As I strolled the various decks, watching the water splash against the sides of the ship, I basked in a pleasant, loose-limbed feeling that left me no longer angry at Ben, no longer frustrated with Frank, no longer resentful of sharing a cabin with a brother instead of a lover, no longer feeling trapped into being a poker expert and no longer dodging behind potted palms in fear of my parents.

  “There she is right now! Belinda!”

  Uh-oh. Damned wine.

  Elva grabbed my elbow and hauled me around to face her and a bushy-eyebrowed man in his fifties wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a purple and green aloha shirt, orange Bermuda shorts, knee socks and sandals.

  “This is Richard Dalles,” she said, waving her hands at him, then at me. “Dick, this is my daughter, the Texas Hold ’Em champion.”

  As Richard winced at the use of the nickname, I opened my mouth to set her straight. But I closed it a second later when she leaned into me and stage whispered, “I told him you were single!”

  Whoo-hoo.

  Richard had soft eyes and I suddenly felt the need to save both of us. I winked at Mom as I put my hand in the crook of Richard’s elbow and led him away to a display of art to be auctioned shortly in the port-side bar. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw Elva looking like she’d won the lottery. Geez, I’d have to tell Frank how disloyal she was. If I ever saw him again.

  “I’m sorry, Belinda, I’m really not trolling. I was just looking for some poker advice. When Elva mentioned she was your mother, well, I couldn’t resist getting some inside scoop on your strategy.”

  That word again. I patted his hairy arm as we paused in front of a ten-by-eight-foot painting of a table of Picassoesque nudes with cards in their hands. The whole art show had a gambling theme, like the rest of the ship. I might get tired of this poker overdose. “Now I’m the one who’s sorry, because I’m really not someone you want to get to help you with your Hold ’Em game.”

  “But—”

  “But I won one big tournament. I chalk it up to luck.”

  “Luck is a fascinating concept though. Perhaps it isn’t at fate’s will after all, you ever thought of that? Maybe you, Belinda, create your own luck and that is why you got lucky in Las Vegas.”

  “What do you do for a living, Richard?”

  “I work for NASA. I’m a mathematician.”

  I shook my head in amazement. “I thought life was all numbers to you guys.”

  “I’ve come to realize some things can’t be explained by numbers. It was a painful epiphany for me, but one I have come to accept and actually embrace. Now I just desire to know more about them.”

  “Them?”

  “Luck and love. Two events inexplicable by mathematics.”

  Humph. I thought about the recent events in my own life. “Maybe it has something to do with yin and yang. Too much of one means less of the other. That would be mathematical. You know, like those poor people who win the lottery but lose their spouses in the ensuing melee over the money. Actors who divorce because one is lucky enough to have a box office smash. The wife who sacrifices to put her loving husband through school, only to have him fall out of love with her once he gets the doctor in front of his name.” I left my own personal example out—losing fiancé, winning big money, losing boyfriend, going on cruise with nightmare family. Hmm. I was overdue for the pendulum to swing back to some luck or love. Ian jumped into my mind’s eye, Frank quickly replacing him, along with a big dose of Catholic guilt.

  Grabbing my hands in his, Richard did a little dance in his sandals. “You are brilliant, Belinda. This is monumental. I need to narrow down a definition for luck and for love and then I can find examples galore. Perhaps then I can assign percentages to the yin and yang of it—like ten percent unluckiness calculates into fifteen percent increase in love.”

  I nodded encouragingly. He nodded back harder. “How’s your current love life?”

  Since Frank was a no-show and my only other option currently constituted robbing the cradle, I made a face. His eyes lit up as he clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Perfect. Just keep it that way and you are bound to win this Sea Gambler tournament.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up and he jigged his way past the canvases, chattering to himself. I ambled my way through the rest of the art on display, including a print of C. M. Coolidge’s oil on canvas classic, Looks Like Four of a Kind, those six dogs playing poker. I paused at an interesting 3-D collage depicting Hold ’Em introduced to Aborigines. Ack. The next was entitled Last to Fall, a takeoff on Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s cans—except it was a deck of playing cards, lined up geometrically, faceup, out of order, but, on close inspection, missing the two of hearts. I wondered what that meant. I should have been thrilled to hear that according to Richard’s new pet theory, I was bound to come out ahead on the tables here at Vegas on the Gulf, but instead, as I strolled through the Gambler, I just felt lonely.

  Four

  I’d spent almost an hour on a chair on deck, staring at the slate blue ocean meeting the ice blue sky on the horizon, feeling sorry for myself, when I remembered to find a clock (I’d forgotten to wear or pack my neon Swatch; I think it was Freudian). I strolled to one of the bars adjacent to the deck and peered through glass decorated with imbedded sets of dice. It was already four o’clock. I rifled through my purse to find the cruise information envelope. Dinner was at six. The Hold ’Em tournament was to begin at eight.

  And Kinkaid told me I was supposed to be at a “Meet the Real Poker Stars” reception at five. Swell.

  As I made my way for the second time that afternoon to find my cabin, I half wished my luggage hadn’t made it, giving me an excuse not to make the mixer. How uncomfortable would this be? I wasn’t a “star,” didn’t enjoy being one, and if all poker stars were as arrogant and egotistical as the last one I had dealings with (Steely Stan), I could happily skip talking to any of them.

  Ever.

  Listening outside for sounds of Ben in action but not hearing anything, I knocked. Silence. Still, I held my breath as I slid in the key card that opened my cabin door. It was blessedly empty, save our two suitcases, and I relaxed immediately when I saw the view of the ocean past the balcony. I let the door ease shut behind me. Thank goodness I’d sprung the extra bucks for a room with a view. The cabins were so tiny, if tastefully decorated, I surely would’ve been claustrophobic without a window. I threw my Michael Kors onto the couch and jumped back into the sliding glass balcony door when I heard a sharp gasp behind me.

  One of Ingrid’s friends stood in the bathroom doorway in a skimpy minidress that showed off her unbelievably shiny tan. Her eyebrows were drawn together in vexation more than surprise. I was trying to swallow my heart back down my throat when she shook her head. “Where is Jamin?”

  “A better question is: who is Jamin?”

  “Ben-Jamin. He rocks. Get it?”

  Oh boy. Speaking of rocks. “Get it,” I assured her. “But I haven’t seen Ben. I assumed he’d be in your room.” It pained me to leave it at that but the intelligence quotient in her eyes told me that the subtleties of calling it “my” room would escape her completely.

  “Jamin says you have a better room. With balcony. And lounge chair.”

  I glanced out at said lounge chair as the man in the next cabin leaned over his railing and stuck an arm out in a mock grab at a passing seagull. “And neighbors.”

  “Yes?” she said in an excited tone.

  “Never mind,” I said, shaking my head. I had to dress for the evening’s festivities, and I wasn’t going to do it in front of Stranger Barbie. “Thanks for coming by. I’ll tell Ben you were here, Miss . . .”

  “I’m Stella.” She stuck her lower lip in a pout and shook her head as she pranced to the couch. “I’ll wait.”

  With that she plopped down, her eyes now taking on a look like the mule my Aunt Telly owns. I sighed. “Please excuse me. I have to change.” />
  Maybe I could change into Samantha of Bewitched, wiggle my nose and be back in Houston. I heaved my precious Burberry suitcase onto the bed closest the balcony and unzipped a corner. I had taken my time packing for this trip, as opposed to my helter-skelter wardrobe of Vegas. I had even thought to put what I might need to wear first on top. Of course what I thought I might need first did not take into account the attention of the entire ship being drawn to me as a poker star (it was a backless Donna Karan sundress and I didn’t have confidence that my back ought to stand up to the scrutiny of thousands, plus I hadn’t had the time Stella obviously had to buy a tan). I needed to find something more appropriate to wear for the mixer.

  I had to dig past three layers but found a solid beige linen sleeveless suit with a cute belted jacket that is the classic standby, threw it over my arm and headed into the restroom.

  A knock sounded at the door just as I locked the bathroom door.

  “I’ll get it,” Stella shouted excitedly.

  Oh geez. Quickly, I slipped into the suit and padded out to find shoes and accessories to make a quick getaway. Instead of my brother, the tall gorgeous Amazon named Ingrid stood talking to Stella. She reviewed my outfit and tsked.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “You look like a church lady.”

  “As opposed to . . .” I paused to wave at Stella.

  Ingrid shrugged. “At least dressed like that, Stella will attract people who will offer compatible conversation. Now, you on the other hand are going to have to prop your eyelids open with some toothpicks, because the only folks who’ll talk to you are those who want to address the mathematical odds of winning a hand.”

  Oh dear, that did sound deadly boring. I couldn’t think long about probabilities at the table either. It made me sleepy. I jammed my hands on my hips. “And what do you suggest?”

  Mistake. Ingrid motioned to Stella, who leaped up. I leaped out of her way so her shiny skin wouldn’t touch me. I sniffed. Chocolate and marshmallows. Was that some kind of suntan oil? Yuck. She smelled like a giant s’more. Trying not to grimace, I took another step back as Ingrid and Stella threw piece after piece out of the suitcase and onto the floor, onto the couch, onto the lamp. I grabbed at the flying clothing, managing only to tangle the items worse than they’d have been if I’d left well enough alone.