Streaking Read Free Page A

acquainted with Stevie Larkin for a couple of years, because the footballer had sought his help as a translator at various Mediterranean social occasions. Stevie certainly seemed to think of him as a friend, even though the footballer was a Lancastrian and Canny was a Yorkshireman—which would have made them implicit rivals in their own land almost as surely as the fact that Canny was about to succeed to an earldom while Stevie hailed from an insalubrious area of a small industrial town. They had hardly exchanged five words tonight, but as soon as Stevie saw Canny gravitating towards the roulette table he nudged the Croatian and begged him to surrender his seat so that Canny could sit next to him.
    The Croatian obliged, although he seemed a rifle resentful. So did the Algerian, who was currently serving as his companions’ French translator—having presumably been brought along in the faint hope that he might be able to act as a go-between assisting one or both of his team-mates to pick up something tasty. Any of the models they were currently ogling would doubtless have done very nicely—although the footballers had probably no chance there, especially with Lissa Lo. Canny couldn’t believe that Stevie could possibly think that one of the ten most beautiful women in the world would give him a second glance; unlike some of his ilk, the Lancastrian had his delusions of grandeur under control.
    Canny sat down beside Stevie and said hello.
    Stevie eyed the tray of chips as Canny set it down in front of him, but didn’t comment on their value. For once, he had something else in mind. “Called into the headmaster’s study, were you?” he said. “Caught cheating again?”
    â€œPhone call from Mummy,” Canny reported, laconically. “Daddy’s taken a sudden turn for the worst. Got to go home and inherit the estate. No more carefree playboy lifestyle for me.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry, mate,” Stevie said, repentantly. “Didn’t realize it was serious. If you have to get away, go.”
    â€œCan’t get a flight out till morning,” Canny told him, tersely. “Won’t be able to sleep. No mad rush. Might as well finish up here.”
    â€œRight,” Stevie said, uncertainly.
    â€œNext time you see me I’ll be the Earl of Credesdale,” Canny said, reflectively. “But friends like you can call me my lord .” As he spoke, he counted off a thousand Euros in chips, then reached out and put the entire stack on zero.
    It was the sort of gesture that could precipitate a moment’s silence almost anywhere else in the world, but this was Monte Carlo. Everyone on the table saw what he did, but there wasn’t a single sharp intake of breath. The croupier didn’t even blink.
    â€œI know you’ve had a shock, Can,” Stevie murmured, “but don’t you think you’re overdoing the symbolism just a trifle?”
    â€œSymbolism?” Canny queried. “I thought you left school at fifteen without a single GCSE.”
    â€œWe all have our own personal sports psychologists these days,” the footballer told him, as the wheel spun. “Used to be we only got counseling when we got transferred—nowadays it’s every time we lose. I know what symbolism is, mate—and you just lost a grand. Only Euros, but even so....”
    The croupier called the number, and raked in Canny’s chips with practiced ease.
    Entirely casual , Canny thought. As if it were as natural as breathing .
    He counted out another thousand, and placed it in exactly the same spot.
    â€œI get it,” Stevie said. “You called a cab, didn’t you? You only have time for three shots, so you cut your stash in three. It’s a penalty shoot-out—all or nothing.”
    Canny was slightly surprised by Stevie’s ready interpretation, but he met the younger man’s blue eyes with his own darker ones with