Читать книгу Kincaid's Dangerous Game - Kathleen Creighton - Страница 9

She looked flushed and exhilarated, almost gleeful—and why shouldn’t she? She aimed a look at the open front of Holt’s jacket, inside which his hand was still clutching his shirt in the area over his rapidly thumping heart.

“Well, I guess that tells me one thing about you. Whoever the hell you are. You’re used to packin’.”

“Actually,” he muttered darkly, “I’m just checking to see if I’m having a heart attack. Jeez, Billie.” He slid his hand out of his jacket and ran it over his face, which had broken out in a cold sweat. “What were you thinking? If I had been packing, I’d have probably shot you—you know that, don’t you?”

She shrugged, but behind the dark glasses her gaze was steady, and he could almost feel the intensity of it. “Nuh-uh. If you’d been packin’ I’d have seen it when you took out your wallet. See, I notice things like that. That’s because I used to be in the kind of business where you need to notice things like that. But then, since you know my name, you knew that already.”

Holt returned the measuring stare, his mind busy trying to gauge how much further he could reasonably hope to carry on with his charade as a horticulturally challenged out-of-town wedding guest. Or whether he should just pack it in and go with the truth.

Not being happy with either option, he decided to go with something in between. He held up a hand. “Okay, look. I recognized you. I’ve watched you play. I admit it—as soon as I saw you, I knew that was you, and…well—” and it was only the truth, wasn’t it? “—I wanted to meet you.”

“It’s been years since I played poker.” Although she looked away and her voice was quiet, she didn’t relax one iota.

And although he nodded and gave her a rueful smile, he didn’t, either. “I watch old poker tour reruns on television when I can’t sleep. The game fascinates me. I know it’s got to be more about skill than just dumb luck, because the same people always seem to make it to the final table.”

Her eyes came back to him, her lips curved in a half smile. “Oh, believe me, luck still has a whole lot to do with it.” Her head tilted, and the dark lenses taunted him. “Please tell me you’re not planning on trying your hand at the game while you’re in town.”

“Well, actually…”

“Oh, lord.” She faced front again and hissed out a sigh.

“What? Why not?” He straightened, genuinely affronted.

She laughed without sound. “Why not? Well, okay, go ahead, if you don’t mind losing. Just do yourself a favor, stay away from the high-stakes tables.”

“What makes you so sure I’d lose? I’ll have you know I do pretty well at online poker.”

“Sure you do, because nobody can see your face.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah,” he said, and meant it.

They were bantering, he realized, though there was nothing light or easy about it. The tension in the car was almost tangible, like a low-pitched humming, but something felt along the skin rather than heard through the ears. He had the impression she was playing him, flirting with him, deliberately trying to distract him from whatever his agenda was.

But, without being able to see her eyes, of course, he couldn’t be sure.

“Mister—”

“It’s Holt.”

“Well, Holt, you’ve got tells a child could read. Okay?”

“Come on.”

She smiled, and this time a pair of dimples appeared unexpectedly. “Look, don’t get insulted. Most people have ’em and aren’t even aware they do. That’s why you see so many poker players wearing hats and dark glasses.”

“Is that why you do?” he asked softly.

The dimples vanished. “Like I said, I don’t play the game anymore. I guess I’ve still got the habit.” She waited a couple of beats before continuing. “Do you even have a sister?”

Holt snorted and didn’t bother to answer. He listened to the shush of the air-conditioning and the throb of the idling motor and the hum of that unrelenting tension, and Billie sat there and listened along with him. Patient, he thought. Probably one of the things that had made her a success at the poker tables. Because in spite of what she’d said, he knew it was more than just luck.

He exhaled, conceding her the hand. “Okay, so you made me.” He paused, then said, “I’m curious, though. How come you’re here? Sitting in my car? Making conversation?”

“Why not? It’s a nice car.

Then it was her turn to huff out air, too softly to be called a snort. “You’re familiar with that old saying, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’?”

He jerked—another tell, he was sure, but what the hell. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Well, sure, you’d say that.” The almost-smile played with her lips again. “Tell you what, Holt—is that a first name or a last, by the way?”

“First. It’s Holt Kincaid.”

“Okay, so…Holt. Why don’t I let you buy me lunch and you can tell me who you are and what you really want. And I’m willing to bet the farm it ain’t rosebushes.”

He laughed, then sat still and did a slow five-count inside his head. Then, still slowly, before he shifted from Park into Drive he reached up and unhooked his sunglasses from the sun visor and put them on. And heard her knowing chuckle in response.

He didn’t think he’d let himself show the triumph he was feeling, but he was beginning to realize that with this lady, there was no such thing as a sure bet.

She directed him to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet place in a strip mall not far from the nursery, and since it was fast, convenient and kind to the pocketbook, Holt figured she was probably a regular there. That theory was confirmed when Billie gave a wave and a friendly greeting to the two women at the cash register—mother and daughter, by the look of them—and got smiles in return.

She breezed through the dining room, heading for a booth way in the back, one he happened to notice was turned sideways to the entrance so that neither of them would have to sit with their backs to the door. Somehow he doubted that was a coincidence.

“Is this okay?” she asked with apparent innocence. And although the lighting was low, she didn’t take off those shades.

“Sure,” he said, and she swept off to the buffet.

Because he didn’t entirely trust her not to slip out while he was dithering between the kung pao chicken or the sweet-and-sour shrimp, Holt got himself a bowl of wonton soup and settled back in the booth where he could keep an eye on her. He watched her slip in and out among the browsing diners, adroitly avoiding reaching arms and unpredictable children, wasting little time in indecision, since she obviously knew exactly what she wanted.

And he felt an odd little flutter beneath his breastbone when it occurred to him he wasn’t just watching her because she was someone he needed to keep track of. He was watching her for the sheer pleasure of it.

Okay, so she’s attractive, he thought, squirming in the booth while a spoonful of wonton sat cooling halfway between the bowl and his mouth. So what? Given what he was pretty certain was her genetic makeup, that was no big surprise. So far, all of Cory Pearson’s siblings had been exceptionally attractive people. Why should this one be any different?

And yet, she was different. He couldn’t put his finger on what made her so, but she was. Not beautiful, and certainly not pretty—both of those adjectives seemed both too much and too little to describe her heart-shaped face and neat, compact little body. She wasn’t tall and willowy, like her twin sister Brooke, and while her hair was blond and neither curly nor straight—also like Brooke’s—hers was a couple of shades darker and cut in haphazard layers, and it looked like she might be in the habit of combing it with her fingers. He couldn’t tell about her eyes, of course. But, maybe due to being unable to see past the shades, he’d spent quite a bit of time looking at her mouth. It fascinated him, that mouth. Her lips weren’t particularly full, but exquisitely shaped, with an upward tilt at the corners. And then there were those surprising dimples. Her teeth weren’t perfectly straight, which led him to surmise she’d run away from home before the mandatory teenage orthodontia had taken place. In an odd sort of way, he was glad.

What she was, he decided, was dynamic. There was just something about her that drew his gaze and held it, like a magnet.

“That all you’re having?” She asked it in that breathless way she had as she slipped into the booth opposite him, carrying a plate loaded with an impossible amount of food.

“Just the first course.” He stared pointedly at her heaped plate. “Is that all you’re having?”

“Just the first course.” She contemplated the assortment on her plate, then picked up her fork, stabbed a deep-fried shrimp and dunked it into a plastic cup containing sweet-and-sour sauce. “So, what are you, some kind of cop?” She popped the morsel into her mouth and regarded him steadily while she chewed.

Holt raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh, please.” She forked up something with a lot of broccoli and bean sprouts. “You have cop written all over you.”

He didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t, except for a little huff of unamused laughter. She was beginning to annoy the hell out of him, with this cat and mouse game she was playing.

He pushed his soup bowl aside, and instantly a very young Chinese girl was there to whisk it away and give him a shy smile in exchange. He watched her quick-step across the room while he pondered whether or not to ask Billie why she was so well acquainted with cops, since in his experience your everyday law-abiding citizen wouldn’t be able to spot a cop unless he was wearing a uniform and a badge. He decided there wasn’t much point in it, since he was pretty sure she’d only tell him what she wanted him to know—either that, or an outright lie.

He excused himself and went to the buffet, where he spent less time deciding on his food selections than on how he was going to handle the next round with Billie Farrell. He was beginning to suspect she might not be an easy person to handle. Maybe even impossible. He’d already concluded that asking her direct questions wasn’t likely to get him anywhere. So maybe he ought to try letting her do the asking. See where that led him.

“So,” he said affably as he slid back into the booth and picked up his fork, “where were we?”

“You were about to tell me you’re a cop,” Billie said, studying what food was left on her plate—which wasn’t much.

“Was.” He gave her an easy smile. “Not anymore. Haven’t been for quite a while.”

“Ah. Which means you’re private. Am I right?” She glanced up at him and hitched one shoulder as she picked up a stick with some kind of meat skewered on it. She nibbled, then added without waiting for his reply, “Otherwise you wouldn’t still have the look.”

“The look…” He muttered that under his breath, then exhaled in exasperation and took one of his business cards out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

She glanced at it but didn’t pick it up. “So. Who are you working for?” It seemed casual, the way she said it—but then, he couldn’t see her eyes.

“Nobody you know.” And he could have sworn he saw her relax, subtly. But then, with her, how could he be sure?

He watched her finish off the skewered meat then carefully lick the stick clean of barbecue sauce. Watched the way her lips curved with sensual pleasure, and her little pink tongue slipped tantalizingly between them to lap every possible morsel from the skewer. When he realized hungry juices were pooling at the back of his own throat, he tore his eyes away from her and tackled his own plate.

“So…let me get this straight. You’re a private dick—”

“Investigator.”

“Sorry—investigator, hired by somebody I don’t know, and…What is it, exactly, you want with me?”

Chewing, he pointed with his fork at the card she’d left lying on the table. “If you read that, it says I specialize in finding people.” He paused, took another bite. “I’ve been hired to find someone.” He glanced up at her. “And I believe you might be able to help me.”

“Hmm.” She stared down at her plate while above the dark glasses her forehead puckered in what seemed to be a frown. “Why?”

“Why what? Why do I think you can help me?”

She shook her head. “Why do you—or the people you work for—want to find this person?” The dark lenses lifted and regarded him blankly. He could see twin images of himself reflected in them, which, of course, told him nothing. “There’s all kinds of reasons to want to find somebody, you know.”

“It’s kind of complicated,” Holt said, picking up his napkin and wiping his lips with it. Stalling because he hadn’t decided whether it was time to put his cards on the table—and why was it everything that came into his mind seemed somehow related to poker? “But I can tell you, the people who hired me don’t mean this person any harm.”

“Yeah, well, there’s all kinds of ways to do someone harm.” She cast a quick look over her shoulder at the buffet tables, then abruptly slid out of the booth, leaving her almost-empty plate behind.

Leaving Holt to contemplate her words and complexities while he stared at her plate and a low-intensity hum of excitement vibrated through his chest. He was becoming more and more certain he’d found his client’s last missing sibling, and equally certain she was never going to willingly admit to her true identity, for reasons he couldn’t quite figure out. He was going to have to find another way to positively prove Billie Farrell was, in fact, Brenna Fallon.

The plate she’d left sitting on the table seemed to shimmer and grow in size as he gazed at it. For some reason the girl with the quick hands hadn’t whisked it away yet, evidently being occupied elsewhere in the dining room. Billie was busy, too, heaping a salad-size plate with goodies from the dessert table. Holt threw them both a glance, then plucked the wooden barbecue skewer off of Billie’s plate and wrapped it carefully in a clean paper napkin.

Billie had no idea what she was putting on her plate; the buffet table in front of her was a blur. Her heart was pounding, although she was confident nobody watching her would ever guess it.

Watching me…

Yeah. She could feel the detective’s eyes on her, those keen blue eyes that wouldn’t miss much. She knew she had the advantage on him, since she could read him pretty well and, unless he was a whole lot better than most of the other opponents she’d faced, he wouldn’t be able to read her at all. But somehow she had to figure out how to get him to tell her more about who he was working for and exactly who they wanted him to find.

Okay, dummy, you know it has to be you they are looking for. The more important question is, why?

A week ago she’d have had to guess it was that jerk, Miley, trying to track her down. But he’d already managed to do that on his own, and besides, he’d be too cheap to hire a private dick. And even if he did somehow happen to have the money, he’d use it to get in a poker game somewhere.

Beyond that possibility, her mind refused to go.

But thinking about Miley Todd had given her an idea how to play this guy Kincaid. It was a strategy Miley had taught her way back when he was first teaching her to play poker: Start talking about herself, not a lot, just a little bit. Get her opponents relaxed and hoping for more. Then maybe they’d let their guard down and tell her what she wanted to know.

“So,” she said in a breezy way as she slipped back into the booth, “where were we?”

“You were about to tell me whether you’re going to help me find the person I’m looking for,” Holt said absently, staring at her plate. “My God, are you going to eat all that?”

She focused on the mess before her and felt a wave of queasiness. Lord, was that pudding?

“What can I say? I have a sweet tooth.” She picked up an almond cookie and nibbled on its edges while she studied him through her dark glasses. She tilted her head and let him see her dimples. “See, the thing is, how do I know if I can help you if I don’t know who you’re looking for?”

“A young woman,” Holt said easily. “About your age, actually.”

“Uh-huh…and you think she’s here in Vegas?”

“I think she might be, yes.”

“All right, here’s the thing.” She dropped the cookie onto her plate, barely noticing that it landed in the pudding. “If I seem like I’m being a little bit cautious, it’s because I’ve had to be. You understand? I’ve been in this town a long time. Nowadays, poker is pretty respectable, mainstream, but back when I first started playing, some of the people you brushed elbows with might not be the most upstanding citizens, if you know what I mean.”

The detective nodded. “Like Miley Todd?”

She let go a little bubble of laughter and was grateful again for her shades. She picked up a grape and popped it into her mouth. “O—kay…so you’ve been checking up on me. Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m an investigator,” he said with a shrug. “It’s what I do.” He pushed aside his plate and leaned toward her, forearms on the table. “Look, I know you and this guy, Todd, used to be partners, and that a few years back he got caught cheating and banned from the casinos.”

Billie gave a huff of disdain. “He was an idiot. Card-smart, maybe, but people-stupid. A little bit of success and he started thinking he was smarter than everybody else.”

“So, how did you get involved with this guy?”

She didn’t move or gesture, but he could almost hear the doors slamming shut. It occurred to him that even without being able to see her eyes, he was learning to read her. “It was a long time ago. I was young—what can I say?”

He almost smiled at that, given how young she still was—a lot younger than he was, anyway. Instead, he said casually, the way he might have asked her if she liked wine, “What kind of partners were you? Professional, lovers…”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see that coming.”

He smiled back.

The air between them seemed to change subtly…become heavier, charged with electricity. She thought of the wild Texas thunderstorms she’d loved as a child, and realized with a shiver of fear that it was the first time in years she’d allowed herself to remember those times. She wondered why. Why now, with this man?

Still smiling, she hitched one shoulder. “I know how guys think. It was the first thing you thought of. But the answer is, no, we weren’t lovers. Not that Miley didn’t have ideas along those lines when he first met me.” She picked up another grape and crunched it audibly between her teeth. “Until I told him what I’d do to him if he ever laid a hand on me.”

“Ouch.” He gave a pained laugh and shifted in his seat. Moments passed, and Billie could almost hear thunder rolling away in the distance. Then his gaze sharpened, focused on her again. “So…your partnership was strictly professional, then. I’m not clear on how that works in poker.”

She shook her head, mentally reining herself in, sharpening her own focus. Reminding herself of her game plan. “Partnership probably isn’t the right word. Miley was more like my mentor, I guess you could say. Protector, too, sometimes. At first.” She paused. “Vegas could be a rough town, back then.” Don’t kid yourself, it still is. “I’ll tell you one thing, though.” She sat back in the booth, as far as she could get from that plateful of sweets, having lost her appetite completely. “He was a good teacher.”

He sat very still, regarding her without changing his expression, and it occurred to her that in a very short time he’d become very good at controlling those unconscious tells of his. Either that, or he’d been playing her all along. A small frisson of warning sifted coldly across the back of her neck.

“Do you ever take off those sunglasses?” he asked in the same soft, uninflected voice he’d been using to ask about her relationship with Miley.

“During a game, never,” she shot back just as quietly.

“That’s what this is to you…a game?”

“Sure it is. It’s a lot like poker. We’re both holding cards the other can’t see and would really, really like to.” She paused and gave him her game smile—confident, apologetic, serene. “And you know…sooner or later, one of us is going to have to call.”

He expelled air in an exasperated puff, then looked over at the buffet tables, frowned and muttered, “I need some dessert,” the way someone might say, “I need a drink.”

“Have some of mine.” Having obviously rattled him, she was enjoying herself again.

He aimed the frown at her, then at her plate. His eyebrows rose. “Is that pudding?”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome to it.” She slid the plate toward him, then rested her chin in the palm of her hand and watched him pick up his spoon, scoop up a bite of the stuff, frown at it, then put it in his mouth. She felt an absurd and totally unfamiliar urge to giggle.

“So…” Still frowning, he took another bite. “Who’s going to call—you or me?”

“You really aren’t much of a card player, are you?” She was feeling amused, relaxed, confident, sure she had the upper hand again. “If I call, you’ve got two choices—fold or show me your cards.”

He stared at the spoon, his frown deepening. “Yeah, but you have to pay for the privilege, as I recall.” His eyes lifted and shot that keen blue gaze right into hers. As if he could see through her dark glasses. As if he could see into her soul.

Cold fingers took another walk across the back of her neck. A reminder that with this guy she couldn’t afford to let her guard down, not even for a moment.

“This isn’t poker,” she snapped, no longer amused, relaxed or confident. “And let’s quit the poker analogies, which I could think of a whole lot more of, but what’s the point? Here’s the deal—I don’t give a damn who you’re looking for or who you’re working for, and if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay with me. Now—” she slid out of the booth and stood up “—are we done here?”

“The person I work for,” Holt said, pushing aside the dessert plate and reaching for his wallet, “hired me to find his two younger brothers and twin sisters. So far, I’ve found the brothers and one of the twins.” He took out some bills and laid them on the table, then looked up at Billie. “That twin’s name is Brooke Fallon. Her sister’s name is Brenna. She ran away from home when she was fourteen.” He tucked his wallet away again and waited.

The silence at the table was profound, but inside Billie’s head was the tumultuous crashing sound of her world falling apart.

“So?” she said, and could not feel her lips move. She was vaguely surprised to find she was sitting down again.

“So, I thought you might be my client’s missing baby sister,” he said softly, as he slid out of the booth. “And if you were, I thought you might be interested to know you’ve got a family that’s looking for you.”

She shook her head…pursed her lips, stiff though they were. “Sorry. Not me. Don’t know her.”

“Hmm,” Holt said, gazing down at her, “if that’s true, I’ll be really disappointed. I guess I’ll have to wait for the DNA to tell me whether I have to keep looking for Brenna Fallon, or whether I’ve already found her.”

“Wait.” A breath gusted from her lungs. She reached out and snagged his jacket sleeve as he turned away. “What are you talking about? I’m not giving you my DNA. You’re not a cop, you can’t—”

His smile was gentle. “Oh, but you’ve already given me what I need.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out what appeared to be a folded paper napkin. Unfolded it and showed her what was inside.

Only years of practice at keeping her face and body under strictest control prevented her from blowing it completely. She stared at the thin wooden stick nestled in white paper in complete silence, and her mind was empty of thought. But somewhere in the primal recesses of her consciousness, a terrified child was screaming—Run.