Page 43 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

While they’re busy trying to appear casual while duking it out, I pull out a chair for the ambassador’s daughter, who smiles and sits before the others realize what happened.

So that’s four seats filled.

A casino attendant moves toward the group, looking like he’s intending to choose someone. I intercept him with a quiet question about the rules, then turn his answer into a joke that catches Vale’s attention. Vale laughs and motions me into the seat himself.

That’s five, and Celeste notices how I got the seat. Anton notices her noticing. Interesting.

The sixth chair goes to a financier named Douglas Penn, and the others retreat to the perimeter with varying degrees of grace. Ledger positions himself near the bar, where he can see the table.

The dealer explains the game. No-limit Texas Hold’em, private buy-in, with all winnings donated at the end of the evening. The official stakes are charitable. No one at the table seems to believe those are the real stakes.

I channel Maxwell Shaw in the way I play—loose enough to seem arrogant, skilled enough to remain interesting, and more focused on the people than the cards.

I lose an early hand to Anton after correctly reading that he has nothing, because winning would make him guarded and losing makes him curious.

He gives me a faint smile as he gathers the chips. “You should have folded.”

“I probably should have done several things differently tonight.”

The ambassador’s daughter laughs. Anton does not, but his shoulders ease. He enjoys feeling smarter than me. I let him.

Celeste plays conservatively. She barely looks at her cards before deciding what to do, and she never watches the dealer—she watches the players. This isn’t a game to her. It’s an evaluation.

Twenty minutes later, she folds a hand and says without looking at me, “You knew he was bluffing.”

Anton is speaking to Vale and doesn’t seem to hear.

I stack two chips. “Did I?”

“You lost anyway.”

“That does occasionally happen when playing cards.”

Her gaze shifts to mine. “Not by accident.”

She noticed. Good. I smile, and so does she.

Anton looks between us. Less good.

Nearly forty minutes into playing, Anton pushes Celeste hard on a hand he should have abandoned several bets ago. There’s an edge to the way he plays against her that has nothing to do with poker. Familiarity without warmth. Expectation without trust.

When Celeste folds, Anton smiles as if he has won something more important than the pot.

Her expression doesn’t move. But her attention does. To me. That tells me more than the cards did.

The dealer begins the next hand. I glance at my two cards—I have a pair of queens.

Anton has gone still in the way people do when they’re trying to look relaxed. Celeste slides several chips forward, and Anton calls immediately. I call.

Celeste’s gaze touches mine for less than a second. “Feeling optimistic, Mr. Shaw?”

“Rarely. I prefer reckless.”

Celeste laughs.

Anton’s fingers tighten around his cards.

The dealer turns over the three-card flop. One of them is another queen. That is either extremely fortunate or deeply inconvenient—three queens make playing casually considerably harder.