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truth.
    "I don't have a problem paying the money if you deliver the goods. Hell, you'll save me ten times that. That's not the problem." He puffed once on the cigar, then yanked it from his mouth, his face starting to redden.
    "That asshole Silas Hebert is here. I'm putting you on his table and I don't care if you have to stab him with a kitchen knife. Just keep him from winning any of my money."
    Mallory felt as if she'd just been sucker punched. Her hands involuntarily clenched, and she could feel her lower back starting to tighten. Certainly, she'd been prepared for something to go wrong--this was Reginald St. Claire she was dealing with. But Silas Hebert? How in the world had her uncle allowed that to happen? Surely, he was pulling her leg. But one look at Reginald, puffing his cigar like an asthmatic on an inhaler, let her know he wasn't joking.
    "Why in God's name would you invite Silas Hebert?" Mallory asked.
    Reginald waved his cigar in the air. "I didn't--" Reginald stopped abruptly. "That's not really your concern," he said finally, squaring off his shoulders and pulling himself up to full height. "I'm just giving you warning. I'm not the least bit worried about the rest of the players. You could cool them in your sleep. But Silas Hebert better not leave my casino a winner."
    He shoved the cigar back in his mouth, spun around as fast as his large frame would let him and waved at her over his shoulder. "Come with me. You need to meet your dealer."
    Mallory stared at him for a moment before following. Silas Hebert? Silas Hebert was the closest thing Louisiana had to a professional gambler, and he was all the way at the top of the ladder of professional crooks. Not to mention that her entire family hated the man for reasons she'd never known and never wanted to.
    Why in the world would Silas be at her uncle's tournament?
    She followed Reginald across the casino toward the card tables. He'd started to say something. I
didn't
. Didn't what? Didn't invite Silas?
    But that would make no sense. If Reginald hadn't invited Silas, he could just ask him to leave. After all, this was a private game. And if he had invited him, why did he seem so angry about it now when he should have known it was coming for weeks?
    I didn't.
    She stared after her uncle and shook her head, somehow knowing already that whatever Reginald
didn't
do was going to be an enormous problem.
     
    From his blackjack table across the room, Jake stared at the set of legs attached to the woman talking to Reginald St. Claire and decided they were a work of art. Lean but toned, tan but not that rusty-looking tan. No, this lady had spent some quality time outdoors in regular sunlight. The stiletto heels made the muscle in her calf ripple as she shifted her weight from one foot to another and it pulled all the way up into her rear, the muscles of her nice, round butt flexing as she repositioned.
    "Whoo boy!" the voice of another dealer sounded right next to him. "That's enough to get a Cajun in some serious trouble."
    Jake tore his eyes from the goddess leg display in a flash and started restacking his chips. "They're all right, I guess," he said, trying to cover his blatant ogling. The last thing he needed was trouble and given the length of her conversation with St. Claire and the proximity of their bodies as they talked, the owner of the sexy legs was potential trouble.
    "You guess so?" The other dealer, Brad, jabbed him in the side and laughed. "From the way you was staring, I thought you was on the verge of proposing."
    Jake stopped stacking the chips and stared at Brad, wondering already how he was supposed to concentrate on his work within ten feet of a man whose biggest ambition seemed to be getting his next beer. "The only thing I'm proposing I do is win some serious money."
    Brad grinned and shrugged. "Ain't no one saying you can't win some money. Hell, win it all." He glanced over once more at the woman talking to St. Claire. "Might buy you some time with