She took in a breath and shook back her hair. Looked up at the night sky. “Actually, I was thinking about the Grand Canyon.”
What could he say to that? Considering everything that had happened to her in the past day or so, it seemed…unexpected. To say the least. Finally, he just said, “Yeah?” hoping she’d explain.
Instead, she asked, “You ever been there?”
“Nope,” he said. “How about you?”
She shook her head. “Always wanted to. I meant to. I mean, I think everybody should see it, don’t you? It’s one of the most amazing things on the planet, and it’s right there. So close. And I’ve never been. Don’t you think that’s…I mean, it just seems wrong.” Her voice had an odd little vibration in it.
It awakened a corresponding hum in his own chest, and he started to tell her something, then realized just in time that what he’d been about to say was, “We’ll go. When this is over. I’ll take you.” As if it was a given they’d be together then.
“How come you have a pool with no water in it?” he asked after a moment.
She gave a little half laugh, then shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seems like too much trouble. I mean, my parents had one, and they were always needing to do something to it—clean it, disinfect it, strain stuff out of it, fix the filter, heater…I think it’s kind of like owning a dog. You know? Ties you down.”
It occurred to him that he did know. That he knew exactly what she meant, because he was the same. Hell, he didn’t even have a potted plant. “You’ve got plants,” he said. “Aren’t they a lot of trouble, too?”
“Yeah, but if they die it’s not a big deal, you just throw them away and get new ones.” There was something defensive about the look she gave him. “Nobody cries for a plant.”
“No strings,” Holt said.
“Right.” After a moment, she took in another of those breaths that seemed like a portent—as if she’d turned some sort of mental page. “I was just thinking…it would be kind of nice to have water in the pool right now. I sort of wish I did. It would be nice to just…drift in the water…in the dark. You know?”
“So you wouldn’t have to think,” Holt said softly, and she gave a light laugh and said, “Yeah…”
Then she looked at him, and the naked longing in her face made him inhale sharply. He wondered if it was really the pool she was talking about at all, or if it was the strings she missed. Or if he was only projecting his own loneliness onto her. Loneliness he hadn’t even been aware of until now.
He cleared his throat and said carefully, “I don’t have a pool, but a warm bath or shower sometimes works for me.”
She shook her head, and he could see a wistful smile. “Not the shower. Showers always make me think—it’s sort of like a brain lubricant for me.”
“Bath, then.” He got to his feet and held out a hand to her. “Come on—I’ll run it for you. Got any bubbles?”
She was laughing when he pulled her up, but the laughter died quickly, and a second later she was in his arms. Not the way it had been with them before, with the chemistry and fireworks and pounding heartbeats, but quietly, gently, with her arms wrapped around his waist and her cheek resting against his chest. He held her that way for a while, until he felt a tremor run through her. And in that moment, and that small shudder, he knew he wanted it, too—the water in the pool, the potted plants, a dog, maybe…most of all, this. A woman to hold, to share the Grand Canyon with, to run a warm bath for. No…not a woman. Just this one.
“You’re cold,” he said with gravel in his throat. “Let’s go inside.”
What is this I’m feeling? Billie thought. Not scared, not lost…but like I’ve been that, and then somebody came to find me and he’s got his arm around me, and now it’s almost as if I’ve never been anything but safe and warm. And most of all, not alone. I can barely remember what it felt like, all those years of being alone. As if they were a dream that’s gone from your head when you open your eyes.
But how can that be, when the truth is, this is the dream, and one day soon I’ll wake up and he will be gone…
“I don’t think I have any bubble bath,” she said. “Would dish soap do?”
“I guess. It softens hands…” he intoned, and she stifled a laugh against his soft cotton shirt.
In the kitchen, she got the bottle of dish soap from under the sink while Holt locked the door and turned off the lights, and they walked down the hall without touching. In the bathroom, she turned on the light, then stood holding the bottle of soap while he turned on the water in the bathtub, tested the water temperature and put in the old-fashioned stopper. When he finally straightened and his eyes reached for her across the brightly lit room, her heart stumbled.
What do I do with a man like this? she wondered. This man with his steely eyes and a face almost as hard, but with a mouth that hasn’t forgotten how to smile and makes me forget everything, even who I am. This man who’s as much a loner as I am, maybe more, and yet he’s here, with me, in my bathroom, running me a bath as if I’m someone who needs caring for and he’s someone who’s used to caring. Where does a man like this learn about caring? Softness? Gentleness? Love? I had parents, at least for a while. And a sister. Who did you have, Holt Kincaid?
Almost without knowing she did, she handed him the bottle of soap. He poured some into the thundering stream of water, and a few tiny, perfect bubbles flew upward and drifted toward the light.
“Okay,” he said, setting the soap bottle on the edge of the tub, “that should do it. Unless you’d like some music?” She shook her head. His eyes blazed into hers, and they, far more than the steam rising from the filling tub, made the room suddenly feel like a summer night in the tropics. “Okay, then, I’ll get out of your way….” He paused beside her, laid one hand gently on her shoulder and leaned down to touch a kiss to her forehead. And would have gone on by and left her there, except…
She caught him by the hand. “Stay,” she said, and though it was barely a whisper, it bore the weight of command.
He stood looking down at her, not smiling, and she was glad he didn’t smile. It would have ruined it if he’d smiled, even a hint of one. But his eyes were somber, and blanketed with unspoken questions.
She tilted her head toward the tub, rapidly filling with bubbles, and murmured, “Here. With me. The tub’s big enough.” And now it was she who smiled. “That’s one of the good things about buying an old house.”
He still didn’t say anything, but reached past her to turn off the light.
“Why—” she began, and felt his fingertips touch her lips.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Wait a minute.”
And even before he’d finished speaking, moonlight was already pouring into the room, replacing the harsh man-made illumination and cloaking everything in softness and mystery. She made a wordless sound of approval and her fingers found the buttons on his shirt.
“Better turn off the water,” he murmured in her ear, “or we’ll have a flood.”
She nodded and turned to comply, and he took advantage of the moment to nudge off his shoes and put his gun in a safe place on top of the toilet tank. Then she was back, her movements fluid in the charcoal filter of moonlight. Her shirt was gone without her seeming to have touched it; less than a second later he felt her fingers on his skin, the buttons of his shirt already undone. Her bra was the stretchy sports bra type, and she divested herself of it with what seemed like sleight of hand—a flourish of raised arms, a little shake of her head, and her small, perfect breasts were unveiled like a marble statue in a moonlit garden.
He felt his pulse leap in his throat and reminded himself once again to shield. To slow the tempo of his desire. To find her beat. This was her music they were dancing to.
The cargo pants—and whatever was underneath—made a shushing sound as they fell. Naked and unselfconscious as a child in the half darkness, she reached for his arm and held it for support as she used the toe of one foot to push the pants off
the other, taking the shoe with it. The same procedure with the other foot, an impatient kick that sent everything to some distant corner, and her hands were back on the waistband of his pants. Her nearness made his head swim.
And while there was no conscious seduction in the way she undressed both herself and him, at the same time it seemed to him an intensely intimate thing. This house, this room, this moment…This, he realized, was her place of mystery and privacy, and for some reason she’d invited him in. He understood that there was a kind of innocence in the way she offered, and that it wasn’t about sex, at least not at this instant, but more about the sharing of her innermost self. He felt both humbled and incredibly blessed. What, he wondered, could I have done to deserve such a gift?
She took his hand and he held on to her while she stepped into the pile of foam, then she steadied him while he did the same. There was no sound except for the faint hissing of disturbed bubbles. Then he heard the sound of unspoken delight, an indrawn breath, as she lowered herself into the water. He slid down behind her, holding his own breath as the water level came near but didn’t quite reach the edge of the tub. There was a loud gurgle as water rushed into the overflow outlet. He eased back against the end of the tub and pulled her onto his chest, and she put her foot over the hole to keep the water level from dropping. He wrapped his arms around her and settled his chin on her hair, and she sighed, then laughed low in her throat.
He concentrated on clouds drifting across blue autumn skies…sunlight sparkling on water…the swaying of eucalyptus branches outside his bedroom window far away in Laurel Canyon. Anything to keep his mind off the lithe, slippery body draped across his.
“How’s that?” he asked carefully, trying not to jostle anything, and she replied softly, “Nice.”
Then she was silent for a long time, so long he might have thought she’d gone to sleep, but for the rapid tap-tapping of her heart against his arm.
“Holt, I’m scared.” She said it the way she might have said, “My back itches.” Please scratch it for me.
She didn’t add that unspoken request, but he knew the response she wanted from him at this moment was the same as if she had.
“About the tournament tomorrow?” Her head moved on his chest, nodding. “You’ll be fine,” he said. And because he knew she wouldn’t be satisfied with the automatic pat on the head, he added, “You’re very good—I’ve seen you play.”
“I haven’t played in a long time. I don’t know the new faces.”
He lazily scooped a handful of warm water and smoothed it over her thigh like oil. “All you have to do is—”
“—buy you some time. I know.” She stirred restively, to his increasing discomfort. “But what if I can’t? What if I go out tomorrow?”
“You won’t.”
“How can you say that? You saw me play one time. And I’m sorry, but you don’t know diddly about poker.”
“True. But,” he added after a pause to think about it, “I’m a big fan of Kenny Rogers.”
She squirmed again, trying to look up at him. “Kenny—”
“You know, the song…”
“Oh—‘The Gambler.’ Right.”
“What is it he says? To play your cards right all you need to know is when to hold and when to fold. Is he right?”
She gave one of her little whiskey laughs. “Uh…you do know he wasn’t really talking about poker, right?”
Now it was his turn to shift position, trying to find a place for her that would still allow his brain to function. When he had her more or less settled, he pressed his face into her hair, inhaled the sweetness of her scent, then murmured, “It’s an analogy, sure. They keep cropping up, these poker analogies—did you ever notice that? Maybe because they’re so perfect?”
She lay quiet, now, in his arms. “Life’s just one big poker game?”
“Isn’t it? Think about it. You don’t get any say in what cards you’re dealt, it’s all about how you play your hand.” He paused and wrapped his arms more tightly around her. “You have to know when to walk away, when to run. And you do. Don’t you?”
“Seems to me,” she said in a sad, quiet voice that wrung his heart, “I’m pretty good at running. Always have been.”
“Maybe…” His hands wanted to stroke her again…caress her. This time he let them, and he said huskily, “But not this time.”
Like a playful otter she turned in his arms, twisted around so she could look at him, and he took her face between his hands and held it while he looked into the shadows that hid her eyes. “Right now, when it counts, you’re still at the table. You could have walked away, but you didn’t. You stayed in the game.”
The sound she made could have been a laugh or a sob; it was too dark to tell. He brought her face to his and kissed her. “That’s all you have to do tomorrow, Billie—stay in the game. Make it to the next round. Okay? Win us another day.”
He waited for her nod, but instead she slithered upward and kissed him, and went on kissing him while her legs adjusted themselves around him in the confines of the tub. He groaned, groping blindly for willpower in the exotic jungle his senses had made of his reason. Blessedly, he found it, but allowed himself to savor, just for a moment, the hot, tight feel of her body around him. When he eased her away from him, every nerve and muscle in his body echoed her squeal of protest.
“The water’s getting cold and my backside’s numb,” he said in a whisper.
“Wuss,” she murmured.
“And the condoms are in the other room.”
“Oh—right.”
Weakened by laughter and desire, he let her pull him to his feet. Then he took the towel she gave him and wrapped her in it and carried her to her bed.
It was different this time. Billie couldn’t have put into words why, exactly, but it just was. Sure, there wasn’t the newness, the first-time nervousness, the collision of conscience with need, but it was more than that. Of course, a lot had happened—was still happening—but it wasn’t that, either. Something was different inside her.
The shape and taste of his mouth, the prickle of his beard-rough face on the palms of her hands, his hard, long body and big, gentle hands—these things she hadn’t even known before yesterday. Yet, now she felt as if she’d always known them.
This morning I told him I wasn’t a forever kind of woman, yet now I keep hearing the word forever whispered over and over inside my head like a bit of song that won’t leave me alone.
But he hasn’t changed. He still is not a forever kind of man. So where does that leave me?
Vulnerable. I could get hurt.
“What?” he whispered, staring down at her face in the darkness, his chest gone tight with tenderness. His fingers were cradling her head, and his thumbs, caressing her cheeks, had felt wetness there. “Billie…what’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong…must’ve missed a spot with that towel,” she said, and her laughter was languid and sweet, so he thought he must have been mistaken.
Except that, when he bent his head to kiss away the moisture, he found it tasted faintly salty, like tears.
The ballroom at the Mirage was a zoo, a seething hive of humanity with a noise-level approaching damage limits. Where did all these people come from? Billie wondered as she stood in the entrance to the ballroom, searching the crowd for familiar faces. In the years since she’d last played in a major tournament, the popularity of no-limit hold ’em appeared to have exploded.
Yes, but it’s still the same game, she reminded herself. The most important thing to have in a tournament of this size was still self-discipline. That, and a lot of luck. Miley had taught her that much, at least. Right now, she knew, the field included a whole bunch of really terrible poker players, most of whom would be gone by the end of the night’s play. Later, when the players had been winnowed down to the top few, skill would make a difference. But on the first day of a tournament this size, it was mostly about luck. And discipline.
Billie knew she
’d need both to make it through to tomorrow’s play.
Just buy us some time, Billie. Give us one more day.
“Hey—Billie Farrell, is that you?”
She turned to find the source of the voice, and it was a moment before she recognized one of the familiar faces on the tour. During play he’d be wearing a hooded sweatshirt and huge sunglasses. Without his disguise he looked deceptively young and harmless. “Hey,” she said. “Yeah…it’s me. Couldn’t stay away.”
“Well, welcome back—as long as you’re not at my table. What number are you at?”
She checked the card in her hand. “Uh…twenty-six.”
He flashed a grin. “Thank you, Lord. Well—see you later. If we’re both still around.” He touched her elbow and moved off into the crowd.
Well, here goes, Billie thought, and followed.
She found her table and took her place, nodding at the players already seated as she placed her backpack under her chair. In the backpack were a bottle of water, a can of high-energy drink, and several granola bars. She wouldn’t be drinking much; bathroom breaks could be few and far between. If she lasted that long. Also in the backpack were her sunglasses. She took them out and put them on, then arranged her allotment of chips on the table in front of her.
The last few players took their seats. So did the dealer, blank-faced and anonymous. A loud buzzer sounded, and the noise in the ballroom died to a suspenseful murmur. The tournament had begun.
She watched two cards come slithering across the blue-green table toward her. She put her hand over them and tipped up the corners. Ace-queen, suited. She laid the cards flat and sat back in her chair, her face an impassive mask.
Not a bad way to begin, she thought.
“O—kay,” Detective Vogel said, “this is the area we’re lookin’ at, right here.” He thumped the map on which he’d just drawn a large circle with a red marking pen, then turned to his audience. This consisted of Holt, Wade, Tierney and a couple of the LVPD detectives. The rest of the team were busy on the computers, and the FBI guys had been keeping a low profile, letting LVPD take the lead in the case. “Here’s I-15. The tower’s just off the interstate. He had to be somewhere in this range.”
Kincaid's Dangerous Game (The Taken Book 4) Page 13
