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.”
“What the hell’s out there?” one of the detectives asked.
“Uh…Arizona?” somebody said, and got a few snorts of laughter in response.
Somebody else said, “A whole lotta desert.”
“Well, there’s Valley of Fire State Park.” This came from out in the middle of the squad room, where Sergeant Sanchez, the only woman on the team, had been staring intently at a computer monitor. She glanced up and added, “Google Maps,” by way of an explanation.
“Valley of Fire? Never heard of it,” Vogel said.
“Says here,” Sanchez went on, reading from the monitor screen, “it’s Nevada’s oldest state park.”
“Where are you gonna hide a kid in a state park? There’s nothing out there.” Vogel ran a hand over the gray stubble of his brush-cut hair, then aimed a question at the group at large. “How’re we coming on the credit card records? Anybody? Jeez Louise…”
One of the other squad members picked up a stack of papers and waved them as he wove his way around the desks. “We’re going over them now. So far the only thing we’ve got just verifies the general location. The guy got gas at a station off I-15, right around the time he made that call to Ms. Farrell.”
“Would you mind if I take a look?” Holt asked quietly.
“Have at it,” Vogel said, and the other detective handed over the printout with a shrug.
Holt scanned down the list, then went over it again, while the briefing went on, suggestions and questions and reports fading to background noise.
“Find something?” Wade asked in an undertone.
Holt looked up at him, frowning. “Maybe.” He tilted the sheet so Wade could see it and pointed. “Look how many times he stopped for gas. Here, here and here.”
He and Wade looked at each other, then at the rest of the group.
“Got something?” Vogel asked.
“I don’t know,” Holt replied. “Seems like he’s using an awful lot of gas. What kind of vehicle burns that much gas? And might be found in a state park?”
“An RV,” Vogel said, swearing under his breath.
There was a brief little silence, then everybody shifted into Drive at once. The room seemed to crackle and hum with activity, and Holt felt the excitement like a current of electricity under his skin.
Vogel was spouting orders in a rat-a-tat-tat voice, like an arcade popgun.
“Sanchez-find out if there’s camping in that park. Everybody-find out whether the suspect has an RV registered to him. If not, find out if he’s got any friends or relatives,
neighbors who own an RV. Find out if there’ve been any reports of stolen RVs in the past forty-eight hours. Come on, people, let’s go! Clock’s ticking!”
It was late when Holt got back to Billie’s place, but even so, he beat her there. He parked on the street and looked at the dark house and empty driveway and told himself that was a good sign, that it meant she hadn’t gone out of the tournament yet. At least, he hoped that was what it meant.
He didn’t have a key to her house, so he turned off the engine and headlights and settled down to wait.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had to sit in his car and wait for someone to show up…for something to happen. He’d been doing stakeouts since his early years on the force. To pass the time back then, he’d think about the case in progress, go over every detail, much the same way he did now when he was battling imsomnia, only in his mind. This time, though, instead of cold facts and hard details, his mind kept filling up with images. Faces. Some of them were hazy and indistinct, some soft-edged, like old photographs. Some were painful, stark and vivid.
Brenna Fallon, fourteen years old, in a photograph with worn edges…
Gaunt faces, with empty eyes…the faces of homeless teenagers gathered under an overpass to keep out of the rain…
Billie sitting in the moonlight on the edge of an empty swimming pool, her face wistful as she talks about the Grand Canyon…
And not a face, but me, standing with my arms around her and my chin on her hair, looking in awe at the Grand Canyon…
My mother’s face, not from memory, but from a photograph Aunt Louise had sitting on the piano…
Wade and Tierney, the way they look at each other…
Tony and Brooke. And what is it about the faces of people in love? Do I imagine it, or is there something that seems to shine from inside them, like a house with all the windows lit up?
Kincaid’s Dangerous Game Page 13