The Highest Stakes of All

As if, Joanna thought, a bubble of hysteria welling up inside her, he was attaching a postscript to a letter.

She wanted to protest. To scream at them all that she would never—never—submit to such a shameful bargain. That there was no amount of money on earth that could persuade her, either. That she would rather skivvy in the hotel, washing dishes or cleaning rooms, until their accommodation was paid for. Or starve in the gutter if she could get no work.

And, most of all, she wanted to tell them that Denys was not some kind of sugar daddy, as they apparently assumed, nor her pretended uncle—but her own real father, who would protect her with his life if need be.

Yet the ensuing silence was like a hand placed over her mouth. Her lips parted to speak but no sound emerged.

She would have given anything to get to her feet and storm out of the room in disgust, but all her energy seemed to have drained away, leaving her feeling as if she’d been nailed to the chair, unable to move so much as a hand in her own defence.

And if I tried to leave, she thought suddenly, would it be allowed?

Denys was speaking coldly, ‘I presume, Mr Gordanis, that this is some crude and sordid joke.’

‘And I have to tell you, Kyrios Vernon, that I am not joking,’ Vassos Gordanis retorted. ‘The money is there for the taking, by one of us. If you wish to fight for it, you must wager the girl. It is quite simple.’ He shrugged again, his mouth twisting sardonically. ‘But of course you do not have to accept my offer. You may prefer to fold and go on your way. Or you can be as serious as I am myself by naming your own figure and gambling on the cards you hold. Unless you have lost faith in the hand you have been defending?’

‘No,’ Denys denied thickly. ‘I have not.’

Joanna felt as if she’d turned to ice. No? she thought almost blankly. Had she really heard him say no?

Because surely that had to be her response, as in—No, this cannot be happening.

Her father couldn’t be contemplating playing on. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be staking her immediate future—her happiness—her innocence—on that kind of flimsy chance.

Even if he’d held a virtually unbeatable Royal Flush he shouldn’t consider it. Not if he loved her.

Slowly she turned to stare at her father, willing him to look back, to meet the disbelief, the agony in her eyes, although instinct told her he would not.

Even my mother, she thought, anguished, always came second to this addiction—this monster eating away inside him. I think that in my secret heart I’ve always known that, so why did I ever imagine he’d be different with me?

She tried to say something. To beg for a reprieve—if not from Denys then from their adversary, who sat waiting, his face an expressionless bronze mask as the silence seemed to stretch into eternity.

Eventually, Denys spoke. ‘I call,’ he said hoarsely. ‘And I raise—five hundred thousand.’

Vassos Gordanis looked at him, his brows lifted. ‘Trying to scare me off, kyrie?’ he enquired mockingly. ‘I fear you will not do so. In fact, I am even more eager now to discover what could make her worth so high a price.’

He gestured imperatively, and the stout man approached and put a chequebook and pen on the table in front of him.

As if in a trance, Joanna watched him write the cheque and sign it, then place it with the pile of chips.

‘I call,’ he said, and sat back.

Denys put down his hand, face upwards. ‘Full house,’ he said. ‘With kings.’

There was a pause, then Vassos Gordanis sighed, and lifted one shoulder in a philosophical shrug.

Bluffing, Joanna thought, a wild hope building inside her. He’s been bluffing and Daddy’s known it all along.

Hardly breathing, she watched their adversary turn his cards over. Saw the queen of diamonds go down, followed by the queen of clubs, to be joined next by the queen of spades.

He’s got a full house too, she thought, her throat tightening in excitement and sheer relief as he put down his next card, the five of clubs. Queens and fives, which Dad’s kings will beat. So I’m safe.

Only to see his long fingers place the last card on the table. A red card, depicting a woman holding a flower.

Joanna looked at it and the world stopped. Four of a kind, she thought numbly. Oh, God, he has four of a kind.

‘The queen of hearts,’ Vassos Gordanis said softly. ‘So I win. Everything.’

And smiled at her.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS, she thought, like being enclosed in a glass case. A place where she could see what was happening but take no part in it, and where her voice could not be heard.

Aware, but isolated. But still able to think. To reason.

The queen of hearts …

At first she told herself that it must be a joke. That no one could possibly win another human being for a bet, however large.

Sooner or later, she thought painfully, this ghastly humiliation would come to an end, and she and her father would be allowed to leave, even if all they took with them was their freedom to do so. Because they were in worse trouble than they’d ever been in their lives, as Gaston Levaux’s tight-lipped presence only confirmed.

We don’t just owe the hotel, she realised. There’s also Mrs Van Dyne, who may not be very happy when she finds out what a total mess we’re in.

But I mustn’t think like that. When we’re out of here, we can work something out. Denys will bounce back somehow, as he always does. I’m sure of it. I’ll really ask Monsieur Levaux to find me a job in the kitchens or as a chambermaid. Something. Anything. And we’ll survive. We always have before.

She forced herself to lift her chin, trying to appear unconcerned as she focussed once again on the events taking place in front of her. Trying, also, to ignore a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she saw Vassos Gordanis reach for his cheque and quite deliberately tear it into small pieces, before placing the fragments in his ashtray and setting fire to them.

As she observed him summon Gaston Levaux and issue low-voiced instructions which she could not hear, but which, some instinct warned, concerned Denys and herself.

As she watched the other players get to their feet, shaking hands with their host and each other, but avoiding even a sideways glance at her or at her father, who remained motionless in his chair, his head buried in his hands.

Behaving, she thought, in a way that suggests they’re too embarrassed to acknowledge our continuing presence in the room.

And she began to realise, as fear stirred within her, that the outcome of the evening might not be as simple as she’d hoped, or tried to believe.

As Chuck passed her, she impulsively caught at his sleeve. ‘Help me.’ Her voice was a thread. ‘Help me—please.’

‘Nothing doing, honey.’ He detached himself firmly from her clasp. ‘I’m a married man, and I know what my wife would say if I turned up with a cute little number like you.’ He paused. ‘Besides, if you can’t stand the heat, you should’ve stayed out of the kitchen.’