Reckless Billionaire

Prologue

CLARK

I finish the Scotch in my glass, and through the plume of cigar smoke that hangs in the air, I beckon the waiter.

He stands by the door in this secret poker room of the hotel where the industry conference is being held, always focussed on the table, waiting for the next order and the accompanying tip that’s probably as much as his weekly salary.

Just over an hour ago, I had a showdown in this same space with Dayna.

Which is, incidentally, the reason I’ve had a few more glasses of Scotch than I’d intended to have tonight.

I have no intention of getting pissed, not when there are so many crazy bastards who are shit at poker and willing to throw away pots of cash by the tens of thousands.

But I needed a couple of drinks to take the sting out of everything that’s going on at the moment.

The waiter takes my empty glass and breaks the silence of the room. ‘Another, sir?’

I nod. This will be my last one.

‘I’ll take another.’ A fellow player, the big blind, waves his empty brandy glass in the air, eyeing me as he does. Of the six suited men around the table, seven including the dealer, there are only three of us left in this hand, and we’re going down the river. Four cards out, one to come.

I know the big blind has a decent hand. He does this thing with his right thumb when he gets excited, flicks it through his index finger quickly like he’s sparking a lighter.

It’s not a bad tell; he can hide it behind his left hand.

But once you know he does it, like I know, you can see a subtle movement in his covering hand.

The other player still in is similarly a peer in oil and gas and he’s the small blind, a good-looking man in his early forties, nice tan, still hanging on to his dark hair, and generally in good shape.

It’s damn fortunate he’s got those things going for him, because his business skill is non-existent, and that’s only marginally below the standard of his poker bluff.

Right now, there’s eighty-five grand in the pot, and the cards on the table are four of clubs, ten of hearts, eight of spades and jack of diamonds.

I’d be willing to bet the small blind is praying for something to come down the river and the buffoon has come this far with nothing.

But who knows, maybe he’ll surprise me. The big blind, on the other hand, he’s exactly the opposite.

I’m nursing a pair of tens and a pair of jacks, which I got on the last card but he’s been smug from the off, so whatever hand he’s making, he got it in the first three table cards.

There’s no opportunity for a flush, not even with the fourth card.

It’s unlikely he would have been flicking that thumb after the first two cards thinking he had a straight.

He couldn’t have thought he had a full house.

So, my money is on three of a kind or two pairs.

Three of a kind would beat my two pairs but if he’s riding on two pairs, he couldn’t have anything higher than my tens and jacks.

I’m pretty sure he didn’t get anything on the last card.

‘Mr Layton?’ the dealer asks.

‘I’m in.’

The dealer turns the fifth card. Ten of diamonds. I keep my face straight, but the big blind smirks. He got something on the final card. My mind jumps quickly through his possible hands. Full house is my best bet, and there’s no chance it can beat mine if he’s using the four or the eight.

Small Blind turns first.

‘Two pair, fours and tens,’ the dealer announces.

Fucking muppet. He came all the way on a pair of fucking fours.

Big Blind turns his cards, slowly, one at a time. What a dick.

‘Full house, tens and fours,’ the dealer says.

I turn my cards together and push them along the green velvet to the dealer.

‘Full house, jack, ten. Mr Layton wins.’

Now I smile.

My buzz is cut short by the vibration of my phone in my pocket. The dealer is collecting cards and stacking chips – my chips – so I can look this time. Dayna’s name dances across the screen. It’s been four years since her name flashed up on my phone.

‘Deal me out,’ I say, throwing down the small blind and sliding a five-thousand-dollar chip to the dealer before pushing out from the table. The money will be wired electronically; nobody carries chips in or out of the room except the dealer, who does so in a discreet black case.

‘Sir, your drink.’ The waiter holds a tray with my Scotch on it in front of me.

‘He looks like he could use it,’ I say, inclining my head to Big Blind, whose eyes are so bulging with fury, it amuses me.

I answer my phone as I close the door behind me. ‘Dayna?’

At first I think she sighs, then she sniffs, and I realise she’s crying. ‘Clark,’ she croaks.

‘Are you crying? What’s wrong? Where are you?’

‘I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. Can you come to my room?’

My heart rate doubles in an instant. ‘Yes. Yes, which one?’ I start running to the hotel lift.

‘Five-six-one.’

‘I’m on my way.’ I thump the call button continually as if it will bring the cart quicker. What the fuck has happened?

I can’t wait. I run to the stairwell and bound up the stairs, practically throwing myself out at the fifth floor. I stop in front of two arrows then run again towards 560–570.

Dayna yelps when I hammer on her door and I hear her fumble with the chain, until she finally opens the door.

‘Clark.’ My name is barely audible from her lips.