I grinned, rather liking the idea, and the dice flew from me almost before he moved my chips to another square. My pulse quickened, and as Lee explained the details of odds and betting, I rolled again, and again, and again, the table becoming louder and more excited. It wasn’t long before I caught on. The risk, the question of what would happen and the breathless wait until the dice settled, was akin to being on a run, only better because here it was little plastic chips on the line, not my life. Lee switched his tutorial to other ways to wager, and when I dared to make a suggestion, he beamed, gesturing that the table was mine.

Delighted, I took over the betting, letting it ride where it was while Lee put a hand on my shoulder and whispered the odds of throwing this and that. He smelled like sand. I could feel his excitement through the thin material of my silk shirt, and the warmth of his fingers seemed to linger on my shoulder when he shifted to put the dice in my hand.

I looked up when the table cheered my latest roll, surprised that almost everyone was clustered about us and that we had somehow become the center of attention. “Looks like you have it.” Lee smiled as he took a step back.

Immediately my face went slack. “You’re leaving?” I asked as the red-cheeked guy drinking beer pressed the dice into my hand and urged me to throw them.

“I need to go,” he said. “But I couldn’t resist meeting you.” Leaning close, he said, “I enjoyed teaching you craps. You’re a very special woman, Rachel.”

“Lee?” Confused, I set the dice down and the people around the table groaned.

Lee slid the dice into his hand and put them in mine. “You’re hot. Don’t stop.”

“Do you want my phone number?” I asked. Oh God, I sounded desperate.

But Lee smiled, his teeth hidden. “You’re Rachel Morgan, the I.S. runner who quit to work with the last living Tamwood vamp. You’re in the phone book—in four places, no less.”

My face flamed, but I managed to stop myself before I told everyone I wasn’t a hooker.

“Till next time,” Lee said, raising his hand and inclining his head before he walked away.

Setting the dice down, I backed from the table so I could watch him vanish up the stairway at the back of the boat, looking good in his tux and purple sash. It matched his aura, I decided. A new shooter took my place, and the noise returned.

My good mood soured, I retreated to a table by a cold window. One of the wait staff brought me my three buckets of chips. Another set a fresh Dead Man’s Float on a linen napkin. A third lit the red candle and asked me if I needed anything. I shook my head, and he eased away. “What’s wrong with this picture?” I whispered as I rubbed my fingers into my forehead. Here I was dressed up like a young rich widow, sitting alone in a casino with three buckets of chips. Lee had known who I was and never let on? Where in hell was Kisten?