Streaking Read Free Page B

carefully-feigned frankness. “That’s absolutely right,” he said. “The sports psychology is really paying off.”
    He looked away from Stevie as he caught something in the corner of his eyes and directed his gaze at the far side of the table. The three models were all looking at him, trying not to be obvious but not quite contriving to hide their fascination—even Lissa Lo.
    Canny had never attempted to be the womanizing kind of playboy that Stevie Larkin thought he ought to aspire to be, but he knew that he was going to miss the presence of beautiful women—not as much as the click of chips and the rustle of cards, but enough to leave a gap.
    If he decided to follow the dictates of family tradition, he was going to have to get married now. According to the advice of the records, he’d already put it off too long for his own good. If the records were mere legends—a tissue of hopeful fancies and silly mistakes—it didn’t really matter what advice they offered, but whatever else Daddy found the strength to say to him, he was bound to get an earful on that subject, and then some.
    Canny knew that Daddy wouldn’t approve of the way he was betting now. Daddy had always advised him to go slow, to be modest in his aims and modest in his gains. It’s a gift , Daddy had told him, time and time again, and it has to be treated with due respect. Don’t try to test the limits. You had your ration of playing the fool when you were a boy. You have to be a man now. Don’t risk bringing the lightning down. Collect the house percentage, little by little. Don’t ask for too much too quickly. When freaky things start happening, you never know when they’ll stop .
    â€œDon’t bring the lightning down,” Canny murmured, while everybody placed their bets on rouge and noir, pair and impair, or bet on batches of four or eight numbers. There were a dozen other bets on individual numbers, but all of them were ten-Euro bets—there wasn’t a single hundred, let alone another thousand. Lissa Lo hadn’t bet at all; she was still watching him.
    â€œWhat’s that, mate?” Stevie asked. “Storm coming?”
    â€œJust symbolism,” Canny assured him. He wondered whether Henri Meurdon was watching him on the screen in his inner sanctum—and whether, if so, he was mildly disappointed that Canny had broken his pattern and his image by accepting his playful dare.
    The wheel spun. The ball dropped. Canny lost.
    He watched Lissa Lo collect forty Euros, and add it carefully to a stack that must have been worth more than a thousand. Had she started with half as much or twice as much? Her expression gave nothing away.
    Canny immediately pushed his remaining chips on to zero. There were twelve hundred and seventy, which was two hundred and seventy over the official table limit, but the croupier didn’t bother to seek permission from above to let the bet stand; he had the discretion to accept it, and he had his own notion of style.
    â€œWhat the hell,” said Stevie, putting down five hundred Euros. “I’ll keep you company, mate—even though I don’t have a country estate.”
    â€œYou must get paid at least thirty thousand a week, plus perks,” Canny pointed out. “And the estate’s in a valley so shallow and narrow that it hardly qualifies as a dale.”
    â€œIt’s in bloody Yorkshire as well,” Stevie said, feigning contempt, “but you’ll have it till you die, and I might break a leg on Sunday. We have personal financial advisors too, you know. I lost my last club shirt in the dotcom crash. I’m a sensible investor now.”
    â€œIf you were sensible,” Canny muttered, “you’d bet the whole thousand. When it’s all or nothing, the Kilcannons always come through.”
    â€œIs that the family motto?” Stevie asked, not moving a muscle to add to his stake—but