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Authors: Jayne Ann Krentz
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in the dark evening jacket and slacks and the crisp white shirt he always wore at night in Vegas. Habit. The word was still haunting him, just as the memory of Hannahâs deck of cards haunted him.
It was time to give the tables a break. Deprived of his normal concentration, his luck had become far too erratic tonight. Something else was missing, too. The small shot of adrenaline he usually got when he put money on the line didnât seem to be taking hold this evening. He could only hope that Hannah Jessett hadnât ruined Vegas for him. Gideon headed for the bar that overlooked the gambling floor. Maybe another kind of mood elevator would prove more helpful.
The twelve-year-old Scotch produced by a pretty woman wearing a very small, sequined tutu did something, but fifteen minutes later Gideon wasnât certain exactly what had been accomplished. The ambivalence was new. He didnât like it.
Vegas had always been the flip side of his daily life, the alternative version of the war he waged in the business world. It was supposed to offer more of an element of unpredictability as Hannah had guessed, but somehow the yearly visits had become as predictable as the results of a corporate raid. She had been right. It wasnât that he always won here; it was that he always came away with the same fleeting sense of excitement from the action.
Almost always. Tonight he wasnât even getting that much out of it, and the knowledge was beginning to eat at him. It was more than just the gambling that wasnât working right lately, it was his whole life. For the first time in a long while he wondered what would have happened if heâd taken a different path nine years ago.
There had been other things in his life then. The cartography had been important. There was a woman who had been important. There had been a sense of adventure about the future, a feeling that he was making progress. Tonight he could see only a flat, endless road stretching before him; his business and his yearly visits to Las Vegas were the only destinations. Neither seemed able to draw any spark of enthusiasm or optimism from him this evening.
A little guidance counseling was a dangerous thing, Gideon decided.
He took his time with the Scotch, seeking the sensual pleasure he knew he should be getting from twelve-year old liquor. But it seemed as elusive as the card-playing adrenaline. He wondered how much of a lesson Hannah Jessett had really learned from him. Gideon was contemplating that in great detail when he finally decided that the nagging feeling of being watched could no longer be ignored. Idly he leaned back in his chair and let his eyes sweep the crowd in the bar.
When he saw Hugh Ballantine lounging on a stool no more than fifteen feet away, Gideon acknowledged that there were some serious drawbacks to being a creature of habit. Ballantineâs familiar blue eyes met his and the younger man smiled. The smile was vaguely familiar, too. So was the red hair. Hugh Ballantine was the reincarnation of his father.
Gideon lifted his glass half an inch in response and waited. Slowly, as though there were all the time in the world, Ballantine came down off the stool and started forward. He was very cool, very controlled, an element of caution in his riveting blue gaze. Gideon recognized the manner. He hadnât forgotten the feel of discovering the sense of power brought on by the first big hunt. A wise man respected that power and was wary of it. A fool rushed headlong into the euphoric fog and ended up at the bottom of a cliff. Ballantine was not a fool.
Gideon spoke first, deciding to spare Hugh the necessity of finding a brilliant opening line. Finding those lines was a strain at times when you were thirty years old.
âAn acquaintance of mine warned me that I was becoming a creature of habit. Youâve just proven her point. Does everyone in the whole world know when I head for Vegas?â
Ballantine shrugged and sat
It was time to give the tables a break. Deprived of his normal concentration, his luck had become far too erratic tonight. Something else was missing, too. The small shot of adrenaline he usually got when he put money on the line didnât seem to be taking hold this evening. He could only hope that Hannah Jessett hadnât ruined Vegas for him. Gideon headed for the bar that overlooked the gambling floor. Maybe another kind of mood elevator would prove more helpful.
The twelve-year-old Scotch produced by a pretty woman wearing a very small, sequined tutu did something, but fifteen minutes later Gideon wasnât certain exactly what had been accomplished. The ambivalence was new. He didnât like it.
Vegas had always been the flip side of his daily life, the alternative version of the war he waged in the business world. It was supposed to offer more of an element of unpredictability as Hannah had guessed, but somehow the yearly visits had become as predictable as the results of a corporate raid. She had been right. It wasnât that he always won here; it was that he always came away with the same fleeting sense of excitement from the action.
Almost always. Tonight he wasnât even getting that much out of it, and the knowledge was beginning to eat at him. It was more than just the gambling that wasnât working right lately, it was his whole life. For the first time in a long while he wondered what would have happened if heâd taken a different path nine years ago.
There had been other things in his life then. The cartography had been important. There was a woman who had been important. There had been a sense of adventure about the future, a feeling that he was making progress. Tonight he could see only a flat, endless road stretching before him; his business and his yearly visits to Las Vegas were the only destinations. Neither seemed able to draw any spark of enthusiasm or optimism from him this evening.
A little guidance counseling was a dangerous thing, Gideon decided.
He took his time with the Scotch, seeking the sensual pleasure he knew he should be getting from twelve-year old liquor. But it seemed as elusive as the card-playing adrenaline. He wondered how much of a lesson Hannah Jessett had really learned from him. Gideon was contemplating that in great detail when he finally decided that the nagging feeling of being watched could no longer be ignored. Idly he leaned back in his chair and let his eyes sweep the crowd in the bar.
When he saw Hugh Ballantine lounging on a stool no more than fifteen feet away, Gideon acknowledged that there were some serious drawbacks to being a creature of habit. Ballantineâs familiar blue eyes met his and the younger man smiled. The smile was vaguely familiar, too. So was the red hair. Hugh Ballantine was the reincarnation of his father.
Gideon lifted his glass half an inch in response and waited. Slowly, as though there were all the time in the world, Ballantine came down off the stool and started forward. He was very cool, very controlled, an element of caution in his riveting blue gaze. Gideon recognized the manner. He hadnât forgotten the feel of discovering the sense of power brought on by the first big hunt. A wise man respected that power and was wary of it. A fool rushed headlong into the euphoric fog and ended up at the bottom of a cliff. Ballantine was not a fool.
Gideon spoke first, deciding to spare Hugh the necessity of finding a brilliant opening line. Finding those lines was a strain at times when you were thirty years old.
âAn acquaintance of mine warned me that I was becoming a creature of habit. Youâve just proven her point. Does everyone in the whole world know when I head for Vegas?â
Ballantine shrugged and sat
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