Hold ’Em Hostage by Jackie Chance Page B

the Believers couldn’t fault me for my hygiene. Pulling my sash on my robe tight, I stepped out of the bathroom to find my wardrobe laid out on the bed. My sometimes fashionista had obviously been busy, apparently rifling through my Burberry bag with her eyes closed.
    That motley collection of pieces was what I was supposed to wear to a nationally televised event? Well, that was going to change or I’d have Believers Against Fashion Disasters marching on me at my next tournament. I left the bedroom to fortify myself with a mineral water from the wet bar. As I poured, I was struck by how quiet the suite was. “Ben?”
    No answer. I strode over to his bedroom door, which stood open. I jammed my hands on my hips and talked to the molding. “Ben, I know you’re mad at me. Quit being juvenile.”
    No answer. I walked into the room, finding only a waft of Balenciaga Cristobal left behind. Ben had ditched me.
    Angrily, I stomped back to my room and finished slapping on my MAC. I was halfway through the bronzer when another possibility occurred to me—Ben might have been kidnapped. It wouldn’t be the first time. I called his cell phone. It transferred immediately to voice mail. “Where are you?” I demanded. I raced back into his room, but could see no sign of anything but sloppiness. I returned to my room, and, after smoothing on lip liner and gloss, began to paw through the clothes in my suitcase. It was no use. I couldn’t concentrate now that Ben might have joined Affie in the great unknown. I turned to Ingrid’s fashion disaster on the bed and blew out a breath. It would have to do.
    Â 
    â€œH ubbahubba.”
    Suppressing a wince, I handed the taxi driver my cash before he started drooling, then turned toward the Fortune. Of course Ben had taken the car, or at least the car keys, leaving me to fend for myself. The insensitivity actually comforted me because it was so in character and, unless the kidnappers came to snatch him without transportation, Ben was probably okay.
    Unless, that is, they took the keys so I couldn’t follow. I hated having such a fertile imagination. It was mostly a pain in the ass.
    Since Frank had produced one of his “company phones” for me to use until I could get a new one of my own, I’d considered calling him, but didn’t—partly because I was still put out with him and partly because I didn’t want to distract him from the “team” work just to worry about me getting to the WSOP. That would definitely be my excuse for not calling him if Ben really was AWOL. Turning his advice around that way would make Frank furious. I smiled to myself. I’m a bit perverse that way.
    My reflection in the building’s mirrored glass turned my smile into a grimace. The hot pink satin blouson shorts didn’t at all match the long-sleeved, tailored white Ann Taylor button-down shirt. The charcoal gray velveteen vest was part of a three-piece Donna Karan, although it did admittedly have a barely visible strip of hot pink thread that ran along the seam, its saving grace in this ensemble. The dark silver pumps were meant for my somber Prada suit. The gypsy beads around my neck Shana picked up from a seer at the Renaissance festival and the sea glass dangling from my ears said “Kokomo” not “raise you two mil.”
    I was aiming to avoid the picket line by ducking into the side door of the casino, but unfortunately, as I turned the corner, I saw they’d staked out that door as well. Sliding my Gargoyles from the top of my head to my nose, I realized I should’ve worn my church lady suit, because sneaking by in hot pink is hard to do.
    â€œThere she is,” I heard ripple through the protestors.
    I sped up. They rallied around as a reporter from KLVS weaved her way to me. “I’m sorry, you must be looking for Clonie Gowan. She’ll be along in the next taxi.” I waved my hand toward