With a nod, the cocktail waitress turned and walked away.

Marshall immediately cocked his head to one side. “Something wrong?” he asked Amber.

She shook her head. “No, it’s just that it’s awfully early in the day.” Even for a Friday.

He pinned her with his astute stare. “What’s your problem? You usually don’t give a damn what I drink or when as long as we have a gig planned that’ll bring in some cash. And I already told you we’re set for tomorrow night. Relax.” He reached out a hand to smooth her long curls.

She forced herself to release a calming breath. He was right. She’d never questioned him about his drinking before. From the moment she’d asked him to join her in her mission to raise big money by revisiting the tricks her father had taught her in her youth, she’d always let him do his own thing. Amber didn’t want him drinking now because the more alcohol he downed, the more volatile he could become when he heard her news.

She might as well get it over with. “About tomorrow’s game.” Amber clenched and unclenched her fists. Her palms were damp and she resisted the urge to wipe them on her dark dress.

His wary gaze turned his irises coal-black, but Amber wasn’t afraid. He usually possessed enough charm to cover his explosive temper. Usually.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again.

“I won’t be there.”

“That’s a bad joke.” He frowned, the scowl marring his features. “You know I can’t win without that photographic memory of yours. What could be more important than the game?”

How to explain honesty, morality and guilt to a man who didn’t worry about those things? Amber bit the inside of her cheek, wondering how to phrase things so he’d understand.

She met Marshall’s unnerving gaze. “I’m not coming tomorrow because I’m finished with card counting. With this life.”

She’d always loved the highs and challenges that high-stakes gambling offered, but she also needed to like the person she viewed in the mirror each morning.