Page 23 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)

Cassidy hadn't slept.

She'd tried—laid in her resort bed staring at the ceiling while her mind replayed those moments on the beach in an endless, sweet loop.

The way Kenji's thumb had brushed her cheek.

The reverence in his whispered "For this" before his lips found hers.

The solid warmth of his hand holding hers as they'd walked back through the twilight.

Now, entering the tournament room on three hours of restless half-sleep and too much coffee, everything felt surreal.

The familiar smells hit her—expensive cologne, fresh cards, the lingering ghost of last night's cigars from the high-roller lounge. But underneath it all, she could still taste salt air and feel phantom warmth of Kenji’s lips on hers.

Storm clouds pressed down on Orchid Isle like a gray wool blanket, sucking the tropical brightness from the morning and casting everything in muted tones.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she watched palm trees sway restlessly in the building breeze, their fronds whispering warnings.

Such a stark contrast to last night's golden sunset, when the world had narrowed to just the two of them on that beach, stealing a moment of tenderness from the chaos.

Kenji's kiss had been gentle. Honest. A confession wrapped in a promise, delivered under the watchful eyes of Vega's men but somehow still theirs alone.

It had lasted only a heartbeat, but she could still feel the warmth of his mouth, taste the salt air that had surrounded them, remember the solid strength of his hand holding hers as they'd walked back through the twilight.

Even knowing they were being watched, even knowing it might have been partly for show, something in that kiss had felt like a promise.

Stop it, she commanded herself, settling into her seat at the tournament table. You can't afford distractions. Not today.

But her traitorous mind kept circling back to the way he'd looked at her afterward—like she was something precious in a world full of sharp edges. Like maybe, if they survived this nightmare, there could be something more than stolen moments and desperate alliances.

The dealer shuffled, the whisper of cards against felt pulling her back to the present. Lives depended on her maintaining this charade.

But for the first time in her professional career, she struggled to focus on the cards.

The air conditioning hummed steadily against the increasing humidity, creating a subtle chill that raised goosebumps along her arms despite her blazer.

The familiar sounds of the poker room—chips clicking, cards shuffling, quiet conversations—carried an undercurrent of unease, as if the approaching weather had infected everyone with a vague sense of foreboding.

W hispers from nearby tables drifted over like poisonous smoke. Players huddled in small groups during breaks, their voices low but urgent enough to carry fragments of conversation that made her blood run cold.

"Petrov was seen on a gurney heading for the infirmary..."

"Word is he got drunk at the bar last night, started threatening the casino owner..."

"Accused Vega of rigging the tournament right there in public..."

"Next thing anyone knew, he was being carted out of his room on a stretcher..."

The cards in Cassidy's hands felt suddenly slippery with perspiration. Whatever had prompted Vega to order her to take down the three men––and then have one killed anyway––he clearly meant to send a message to other two.

And to her.

Obey, or die.

The metallic taste of fear coated her tongue as she folded her current hand, watching the winner smile as he collected the modest pot.

Her mind drifted unbidden to the suite last night—Kenji and Spencer hunched over laptops, planning their approach to Van Der Merwe.

The way Kenji had looked at her before they'd parted, something unspoken but undeniable passing between them.

Focus. Lives depend on you maintaining this cover.

The poker community was small and tight-knit; professionals talked, shared observations, compared notes. Her unusual play patterns—the mathematically incorrect folds, the aggressive moves that didn't match her typical style—were being noticed.

Heat flooded her cheeks. They suspected. Maybe not the full scope of what Vega was forcing her to do, but enough to know something was wrong with her game.

She met the winner’s stare with what she hoped was cool professionalism. "Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor."

Movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Kenji stood near the tournament room's entrance, his posture casual but alert. For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the crowded space, and she saw him touch his watch once—the pre-arranged signal.

Van Der Werme’s daughter was safe. The rescue operation had succeeded.

The knowledge flooded her with a complex mix of relief and renewed determination. They weren't alone in this fight. Good people were risking everything to stop Vega. The memory of Kenji's steady presence, the way he'd anchored her through every crisis, gave her the strength she needed.

It was time.

Adrenaline flooded her system as Kenji headed for the exit, his path calculated to avoid drawing attention. She needed to create a distraction, something big enough to ensure no one noticed his departure.

The player on her right was betting into her, his chips sliding forward with predatory confidence. The other players at the table leaned in slightly, sensing the building tension. Gallery observers pressed closer to the rail, cameras adjusting to capture what promised to be a significant pot.

This was her moment.

"All in," she announced, her voice carrying clearly across the tournament room as she pushed her entire chip stack forward in one dramatic motion.

The reaction was immediate and electric.

Gasps rippled through the gallery. Players at nearby tables turned to stare.

Even the usually stoic dealers looked up from their own games.

Cassidy's reputation for careful, mathematical play made the massive overbet shocking—exactly the kind of spectacular move that would dominate conversation and memory.

The player’s eyes widened behind his designer glasses. The pot had just become the largest of the tournament.

Cameras flashed as media personnel repositioned for better angles. The entire room's attention focused on their table like a laser beam.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Kenji slip through the exit, invisible in the wake of her dramatic gesture. He was gone, moving to corner Van Der Merwe while she held the spotlight through pure audacity and skill.

The player to her left studied his cards, then her face, calculating odds and angles with the intensity of a man whose own tournament survival depended on reading her correctly.

The silence stretched taut as piano wire, broken only by the storm's growing fury outside and the soft click of camera shutters.

Cassidy sat perfectly still, her poker face a masterpiece of controlled neutrality, while inside her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird.

Everything depended on the next few minutes—Kenji's mission, the security chief's cooperation, her own survival in Vega's web of deception and death.

She touched her cross through her blouse, drawing strength from both her faith and the knowledge that somewhere in this resort, Kenji was fighting for them all.

The man who'd kissed her with such unexpected tenderness was now risking everything to save not just her life, but her soul from the corruption Vega tried to force upon her.

The gray clouds pressed closer to the windows, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—no longer just in her imagination, but a real storm bearing down on their fragile plans.

As the betting continued, and Cassidy steeled herself for whatever came next. In a game where the stakes were life and death, she'd found something worth playing for—not just survival, but the possibility of a future beyond Vega's reach.

A future where gentle kisses on sunset beaches weren't stolen moments but promises of something more.