I want him punished.”
Cross watched as Temple leaned low over the billiards table at the center of the owner’s suite of The Fallen Angel and took a clear shot, the white cue knocking into its red sister and rebounding against the rail to hit a third, spotted ball.
“Are you certain? Vengeance has never been in your bailiwick. Particularly not with Knight.” Bourne stepped forward and considered the playing field. “Damn your luck, Temple.”
“At least give me billiards,” Temple replied. “It’s the only game in which I’ve a chance of taking you both.” He stepped back and leaned one hip against a nearby chair, returning his attention to Cross. “There are ways of disappearing him.”
“Leave it to you to suggest killing the man,” Bourne said, taking his own shot, missing the second ball by an impressive margin, and swearing roundly.
“It’s quick. And final.” Temple shrugged one massive shoulder.
“If anyone outside of this room heard you say that, they’d believe the stories about you,” Cross said.
“They believe the stories about me already. All right, no killing. Why not just pay the debt?”
“It’s not an option.”
“Probably for the best. Dunblade would just run up more and we’d be back where we started in a month.” Bourne turned for the sideboard, where Chase kept the best scotch in the club. “Drink?”
Cross shook his head.
“Then what?” Temple asked.
“He wants his daughter married.”
“To you?”
Cross did not reply.
Temple whistled long and low. “Brilliant.”
Cross’s gaze flew to Temple’s. “Marriage to me is not even close to brilliant.”
“Why not?” Bourne interjected, “You’re an earl, rich as Croesus, and—even better—in the family business. Gaming-hell royalty.”
“One of you should marry her, then.”
Temple smirked, accepting a tumbler of scotch from Bourne. “We both know Digger Knight would no more let me near his daughter than fly. It’s you, Cross. Bourne is married, my reputation is forever ruined, and Chase is . . . well . . . Chase. Add to it the fact that you’re the only one of us he respects, and you’re the perfect choice.”
He was no such thing. “He’s misjudged me.”
“He’s not the first,” Bourne said. “But I’ll admit that if he had my sister in his clutches, I’d consider doing his bidding. Digger Knight is ruthless. He’ll get what he wants any way he can.”
Cross turned away from the words, ignoring the thread of guilt they brought with them. After all, Bourne’s sister-in-law had been in Knight’s clutches a day earlier. Tall, slim Pippa caught in Knight’s strong arms, pressed against his side as he whispered God knew what in her ear. The image made him furious.
Bourne’s sister. Then his own.
He set his cue aside and paced the length of the dark room until he reached the far wall, where a mosaic of stained glass overlooked the main floor of the casino. The window was the centerpiece of The Fallen Angel; it depicted the fall of Lucifer in glorious detail—the great blond angel tumbled from Heaven to the floor of the hell, six times the size of the average man, useless wings spread out behind him, chain around one ankle, glittering jeweled crown clasped in his massive hand.
The window was a warning to the men below—a reminder of their place, of how close they were to their own fall. It was a manifestation of the temptation of sin and the luxury of vice.
But for the owners of the Angel, the window was something else.
It was proof that those banished into exile could become rulers in their own right, with power to rival those they’d once served.
Cross had spent the last six years of his life proving that he was more than a reckless boy cast from society, that he was more than his title. More than the circumstances of his birth. More than the circumstances of his brother’s death. More than what came after.
And he would be damned if he would let Digger Knight resurrect that boy.
Not when Cross had worked so hard to keep him at bay.
Not when he had sacrificed so much.
His gaze flickered over the men on the floor of the hell. A handful at the hazard tables, another few playing ecarte. The roulette wheel spun in a whir of color, a fortune laid out across the betting field. He was too far away to see where the ball fell or to hear the call of the croupier, but he saw the disappointment on the faces of the men at the table as they felt the sting of loss. He saw, too, the way hope rallied, leading them into temptation, urging them to place another wager on a new number . . . or perhaps the same one . . . for certainly luck was theirs tonight.
Little did they know.
Cross watched a round of vingt-et-un directly below, the cards close enough to see. Eight, three, ten, five. Queen, two, six, six.
The deck was high.
The dealer laid the next cards.
King. Over.
Jack. Over.
There was no such thing as luck.