Here Comes Trouble

by Donna Kauffman

  She smiled then. “I have no aptitude for storytelling. And I’m not particularly compelled to share the stories. I just enjoy hearing them.”

  He nodded. “You said partly. What’s the other part?”

  “Long story. Boring story.”

  Now she was bluffing. It might be boring to him, but that had been an entirely different sort of vulnerability flashing across her face just then. The kind he’d bet went much further back than the stinging blow her former boss and lover had delivered to both her pride and her heart. That other part of the story, whatever it was, was a whole lot of things to her, but he doubted boring was one of them.

  “And since we agreed not to delve into any more personal stuff where you’re concerned, that mercifully saves you from having to listen to mine,” she said, smiling as she scooted off the edge of the bed and headed toward what he presumed was her bathroom.

  So. Conversation closed. For now, anyway.

  He wondered what she’d say if he told her he didn’t necessarily want to be saved? That he wanted to know every last thing about her?

  The shower came on. Would it be different now? Awkward when he thought it wouldn’t be? Would Thad’s call and her obvious duck just now become the elephant in the room—or the shower—that they would stumble over not talking about? He supposed there was only one way to find out.

  He slid off the bed and walked to the bathroom. She was already under the spray. He hadn’t paid much attention to how she’d decorated her own space, being somewhat preoccupied, but he did now. Her bedroom was just as tastefully decorated as the one he occupied. Warm, polished antique bedstead, with a carved head and footboard. Hers was covered with an old quilt and lots of linen-covered pillows with handstitched patterns along the hem of the slipcovers. There were colorful, handwoven rugs on the hardwood floor, mismatched old lamps, the odd knickknack or crafted art piece placed here and hung there. Dried flowers mixed with potted plants. It wasn’t overtly feminine, or masculine, for that matter, but he knew it was her. Her taste, her style. Classic, but a little offbeat, a good eye for design, mixed with a bit of whimsy.

  He liked the attention she’d paid to detail, to making the whole place feel more like someone’s home than a sterile, cookie-cutter, hotel environment. He’d stayed in his share, more than his share, including some of the most ridiculously over-the-top suites one could imagine. He’d rather have this.

  It was one of the reasons he still rented rooms from Vanetta and had never gotten his own place. Vanetta would like Kirby’s inn, he thought, though he couldn’t picture the older woman living anywhere but at the edge of the desert. He already knew she would never even consider leaving Vegas. When all the trouble had started and he’d begun to piece together the possible origin of the threat, he’d tried to talk her into retiring, maybe moving to Palm Springs or something. He’d known she wouldn’t go for it. He’d tried to get her to retire before, but she said she’d shrivel up if she didn’t have work to keep her honest.

  And she did work. Harder than anyone he knew. She had both a razor-edged tongue and the biggest heart of anyone he’d ever known. Not that she’d want anyone to know that. As close to a mother figure as he’d ever had, he’d done his best to repay her for everything she’d done for him. Not that she’d made that easy on him, either. He smiled, recalling the tongue lashing he’d taken when, after winning his first seven-figure pot, he’d used the winnings to pay off the bank loan on the boarding house and set up a retirement account for her. He’d made sure that Dan and his father kept the place in good shape so she wouldn’t take out yet another loan for upkeep and repairs on the old place.

  When all the trouble had started after he’d quit playing poker last year, he’d also taken out a rather large, high-risk insurance policy on the property. If she wouldn’t relocate or retire, then he’d protect her the best he could anyway.

  Thinking about Vanetta, about home, drew his mind right back to why he’d stopped here in the first place. He’d call Dan later today, talk things over, start working on an endgame to all this. But, at the moment, there was a naked woman in a shower waiting for him.

  And that was an easy bet to take. He was going all in.

  He stepped carefully through the opening in the circular curtain set inside the long claw-foot tub. His bathroom upstairs had been far more recently renovated; it was modern, with more current amenities, like an oversized tub and a big, drenching showerhead. He rather liked the style of this one. It suited the feel of the old place.

  Kirby was standing forward, beneath the narrow spray, her back to him, head ducked so that the water pounded on her back. She didn’t immediately react to his joining her, and so he took the moment to simply drink in the sight of her. All of her. She was slender almost to the point of skinny, but there was a hint of hips, albeit not much ass, a bit of graceful breadth to her shoulders. Her neck…that long, pale, slender column, made his mouth water. Plus, she had legs that went on forever.

  All shiny wet and slippery looking, he ached to run his hands over her, bring her up to that fever pitch, the way he had in the kitchen. She’d responded to him so honestly, so openly, it had driven him half crazy. Her plea for him to take her where she stood had pushed him the rest of the way there. At the moment, though, she was simply standing, not even looking at him, seeming lost in thought. Was she wondering about him, after that call, or having second thoughts about the choices she’d made, getting intimate with a virtual stranger? He could hardly blame her, he supposed.

  But, right now, he was more distracted by the fact that even doing nothing, she had his undivided attention. Okay, so she was nakedly doing nothing, and he had just been buried deep inside that slender frame, being held so tightly he’d thought he might just die from the pleasure of it. But still…he’d had sex before. Even good sex. Usually he found his mind drifting to the next game or event, or to a job-site issue with Dan, or…something other than the partner he’d just been intimate with.

  And that’s when it hit him, the difference. Not that he’d made love to her in that kitchen. That had been all about sex, about slaking needs and taking and pleasuring. But, right now, watching her, thinking about that vulnerable part, the part that had taken a good long time to get to where she could let her defenses down with him completely, the way she obviously wanted to. Yes, he was thinking about that part, all tangled up with the way she’d followed his request to leave the rest of him out of the equation and just take him as she got to know him…he had a lot of respect for that. Especially given her self-proclaimed curious bent.

  But it was that first part, the vulnerable part, that had kept her talking for a lot longer than most women would have, given his ready state and the fact that he had all but pushed her up against the wall in his desire to have her. He’d wanted to take her, to have her, to slake needs, his…and hers. And they’d done all that, and more.

  So, it was curious now, not that he wanted her again, but that the needs behind it were different. He wanted to…what? Romance her? That wasn’t really it. And he didn’t know her well enough to call it lovemaking. That felt like something that required at least reaching some deeper level of affection. And it wasn’t that he felt sorry for her, for what the last person she’d trusted with her heart, her body, had done to her. He hated that, to be sure, but that wasn’t why his heart felt all kind of wobbly and weak when he looked at her.

  He merely knew he wanted to give her pleasure, and take care of her in a way that wasn’t just about slaking needs and having mind-blowing sex. He wanted to give her…more. Get her off that wobbly, vulnerable edge, at least where this was concerned. Bring that other part he knew of her, the direct, confident part, to this. All of this.

  He was reaching for her without really knowing what in the hell he was actually thinking, or even wanting. Maybe this wasn’t about her at all, or that sad look he’d seen in her eyes, or the way she’d had to talk herself into having sex she obviously wanted. Maybe this was about him. He wasn’
t sure he really cared. And he knew he was tired, damn tired, of thinking about every last thing. He just wanted to feel. To do what felt natural, what felt right, and to hell with everything else.

  Because, for once, maybe for the first time ever, there was nothing else.

  He took her shoulders, gently, in his hands, and she didn’t jump, so she’d been aware he was standing behind her all this time. But she hadn’t turned, hadn’t looked at him. He turned her to him, into him, into his arms. It was a confined space, a small circle of curtain surrounding them, filled with steam and the spray of hot water. He tipped her mouth up to his and took it slowly, in a deep, searching kiss. It wasn’t about demanding or claiming, or anything even carnal, really. It was just about connecting, joining, feeling. His eyes had drifted shut, so it took him a second, or maybe two with the water cascading down over them, for him to taste the saltiness on her wet lips.

  He paused, opened his eyes, and blinked away the water to see that there were tears on her cheeks. Confounded, he didn’t know what to say, or do for that matter. But then she was weaving her fingers into the hair at his neck, urging his mouth back down to hers. And he knew he should be concerned, should worry that whatever this was for him might be construed differently by her. But her mouth was on his, seeking, tasting, feeling. And it was exactly what he wanted.

  So he kissed her back, pulled her more fully into his arms, and kissed her until the salty tang went away. She was slick and lithe and perfect in his arms. Her fingers dug into his scalp, and their kisses became deeper, longer, if not more urgent. His body recharged slowly, and grew achingly, fully to life. She moved against him, trapping the length of him between her belly and his. He thought, briefly, about the scratches, but when he tried to shift back, she dug her fingertips in deeper and urged him to stay where he was by sliding her tongue more deeply into his mouth.

  This was what he wanted. Her, all of her, the parts that were direct, the parts that were a bit needy, all wrapped up into this. Into him. Eventually he shifted and reached for the soap that hung from a rack hooked to the overhead spray. He squeezed some in his hand and began stroking the lather into her skin. The tight quarters prevented him from moving too far down, much less crouching, but what he could reach he took his time with. She was making small whimpers, deeper moans, when he slid his hands between her legs. He pulled her back against his chest and soaped her breasts with one hand, while bringing her to a slow, shaking climax with the other.

  She tipped her head back on his shoulder as her body continued to quake and shudder. He leaned down to kiss her throat, but she turned, captured his mouth…then squeezed soap into her own hands.

  Never in his life had he felt anything like this. Her hands were warm, slippery, foamy, searching, sliding…stroking. She moved in against him, used her shorter, smaller stature to tease his nipples with her teeth, her tongue, while sliding her hands around his hips, sinking her fingers into the rounded cheeks, careful not to stroke his back, even while trapping the throbbing length of him between them.

  He groaned, long and loudly, tipping his face up to the spray as she slipped her hands around the front, and moved enough so that she could stroke the length of him, again and again. He ached to feel her mouth on him, or better yet, bury himself inside of her again. But their confines made both an impossibility.

  She stroked and kissed and nibbled her way across his chest. He sunk his fingers into her hair, framed her face, and then finally reached up and gripped the circular shower rod over his head as her hands worked their magic on him. He wanted her, to do this for her, but hadn’t expected the tables to turn so swiftly, so erotically, so…

  Her grip tightened, oh so perfectly, and he didn’t even have a chance to prepare. Climax surged up, ripped through, and was upon him before he could even catch his breath. He grunted, growled, and shook as he came. Her hands never left him, her mouth shifted to soft kisses to the center of his chest. Just over his heart.

  His knees were weak, but he pulled her to him, into his arms, and just held on. She slid her arms low around his waist and held on just as tightly, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder.

  He could feel both of their hearts thundering, but neither spoke. The water gradually turned cool, and he somehow found the wherewithal to grope behind him and spin the antique lever knobs to off without freezing or scalding them.

  She started to move, but his hold on her instinctively tightened. He wanted to say…something. Let her know what he was feeling, find out what the tears were all about, and about a million other things he’d never once been compelled to want to find out. Easy enough to say that it was the mind-blowing climaxes doing the talking, but it felt like a cop-out, even now.

  “Kirby—”

  The damn phone chose that moment to start ringing again.

  He supposed he should be happy it hadn’t lit up five minutes earlier.

  But this time she did move, did reach through the damp curtain for the towels folded on the rack just beyond the side of the claw foot. “I really should—”

  “Kirby,” he said, a little more insistently this time, tipping her chin up to his.

  She didn’t avert her gaze, but what he found there didn’t answer any of his questions. The tears were gone, but in their place was something he couldn’t see through, couldn’t read. “Please,” was all she said.

  He let her go.

  She didn’t flee, exactly, but it was close to it.

  He stepped out, dried off, and wrapped the towel around his hips. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. He could hear her in the next room, her office, talking quietly on the phone, too quietly to hear the actual conversation. He could only assume it was business. He thought about waiting, but maybe it was best to give her some room. So, after giving a quick scan of the foyer, making sure no one had suddenly shown up looking for a room while he was having the time of his life in a little claw-foot tub, he ducked through to the kitchen, scooped up his clothes, and hers, left hers draped across the back of the kitchen chair, and found the back way up the service stairs to the third floor. Handy to know, he thought, as he made the climb carefully in the tight little turnabout and high, stubby wooden steps. Good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic.

  He entered his room, saw the remnants of the kitty supplies, and thought it felt like about a million years had elapsed since containing demon kitty had been his immediate concern. “Amazing what can happen in a single day.” And he knew. He’d won millions in less than twenty-four hours. Lost a bit, on occasion, too.

  He couldn’t be entirely certain until some time had passed for him to think on it properly, for it to sink in properly, sort of like winning another championship bracelet or a record-breaking pot. But he was pretty sure this was going to rank right up there.

  He pulled back the bedspread, dropped the towel at his feet, sprawled face first onto the fresh, cool, white linen, and dropped immediately to sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Well, Kirby had gotten it half right, anyway.

  The whole wild and crazy spontaneous casual sex thing—that part she’d figured out. The part about not falling apart and crying afterward because she was already getting emotionally involved? Yeah, that part she had to work on. She wondered if Brett even knew. He’d stood behind her, under the spray, for quite some time before reaching for her. She’d tried, desperately, to stop the tears, but in the end had worked on being really quiet about it. Had he known? Is that why he’d reached for her?

  He’d been…different, that second time. Less intent and hungry, more…she wasn’t sure how to describe it. Not as intent, no, but maybe all the more intense because of it. He’d been…gentler. Thorough. Like he’d had his appetite slaked the first time and now just wanted to savor the intimate contact. She wasn’t sure which had been more effective in destroying whatever defenses she’d built up in the past few years. Any physical defenses she’d built were gone before he’d pulled her pants down in the kitchen, but she’d thought, after
waking up next to him on her bed, that her emotional defenses were shot, too. Hence the tears in the shower as the totality of the step she’d taken, and what it meant, what it signified to her, personally, hit her fully.

  But that second time…yeah, she’d still had emotional defenses left to shatter as it turned out. She was thankful for the phone ringing and the stupid vendor asking whether she was wanting to stock up on wine and champagne for high season. She wasn’t sure what she’d have said to Brett. As it was, she’d asked the vendor if perhaps he was high, or if he’d bothered to notice that with no snow, there was no season, of any level.

  Yes, perhaps it was best that she’d said her first post-earth-shattering-moment words to a salesman…and not to the man who had been responsible for all that world shaking.

  At the moment, she was hiding. Unashamedly. She’d stayed in her office for a bit after ending the call, chicken that she was, and when she’d gone back to her room, Brett was gone. She’d dressed, paced, laundered towels and bedspread, paced some more, then finally climbed the stairs to his room. His door was closed, and there was no sound coming from behind it. His bike was still parked out front, so she assumed he was in there. Probably sleeping.

  She’d crept down the back way to the kitchen, only to find her clothes and panties folded in a pile on one of the kitchen chairs. Mortified and kind of amazed at herself still, she’d added them to the laundry, set out a bottle of wine, along with some cheese and crackers, in the front parlor, in case he came down. It was part of his room and board, after all.

  Then she’d grabbed the legal pad and pen she’d started her garden design on and headed outside again. Kind of full circle, a bookend to how and where it had all started. She sat, cross-legged, between the trees and the open hillside on the side of the house, supposedly dreaming up her garden pattern and subsequent planting schedule. But the pad remained empty of sketches and lists. Instead, she found her gaze drawn to Brett’s bike. Again. And her mind replaying what Thad had said on his answering machine message.