Skin Game

by Ava Gray

  So close. This couldn’t be happening now. Not when all the threads were starting to unravel. He just needed to stay in place long enough to give a few more good tugs.

  Foster allowed himself five minutes to panic quietly, indulge in worst-case scenarios, and then he mastered himself through breathing. By the time he came out of the stall, he was entirely composed. He washed his hands and blotted with a paper towel. In the mirror that ran the length of the counter, he looked much younger than he felt, just another cog in the corporate machine.

  Because he could do nothing else without arousing suspicion, he completed the workday. Foster handled all the minor annoyances that Serrano couldn’t be bothered with, squatting like a spider in his penthouse office. When he was sure his boss wasn’t watching, he tended to be lenient, and today he let a couple of college girls go with a warning. Damn stupid kids. He wished genital warts on whoever had turned prostitution into a fairy tale by way of Pretty Woman.

  Finally, it was quitting time. Since he’d constructed this whole persona around routine, deviation would mean the end of everything. To make matters worse, he wasn’t due to visit for nearly another week. Perhaps he could call and check on them. Since he wasn’t paying attention, and it was the middle of the night, he didn’t expect to collide with a shapely brunette as he came out of the corridor that led from the business offices onto the casino floor.

  Reflexively Foster steadied her with his hands on her upper arms. His blood heated as he inhaled her light scent: cinnamon and vanilla. Since he had sex regularly, three times a week like clockwork, the response perplexed him. She wasn’t classically beautiful by any means; the woman had a spill of inky hair and darkly hooded eyes. Her skin bespoke Mediterranean origins, but she had almost a Middle Eastern hook to her nose. He could usually categorize people at a glance, but he didn’t know a thing about her after that inspection, except he’d been holding on to her a fraction too long.

  “I’m fine,” she said pointedly. Then her gaze slide behind him to the door marked “Private.” She brightened visibly. “Oh, do you work here?”

  It was four in the morning, and Foster was in no mood to deal with a casino groupie. He ran across them more often than he cared to contemplate. They thought sleeping with a floor manager or a security guard would get them upgraded to a high-roller suite when all it entitled them to was a night of sex, generally of dubious quality.

  “Talk to Cecilia with guest services,” he said tiredly. “She’ll give you a certificate for a free meal at the buffet.”

  “Do I look like a freeloader to you?”

  Foster took in her expensive Italian shoes and matching handbag, her tailored black pantsuit livened up with a red silk blouse showing a hint of cleavage. The jacket had been nipped in at the waist to flaunt her curves. She wore diamonds at her throat, but subtly understated . . . a single teardrop on a platinum chain. He couldn’t have dressed her better himself.

  “No, you don’t,” he admitted. “I apologize. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Mia Sauter,” the woman said quietly. “And I’m looking for my friend, Rachel. Last I heard, she was living here, dating the owner of the Silver Lady, but I haven’t heard from her in weeks. I got worried and came looking, but according to the man who owns her apartment building, she doesn’t live there anymore.”

  He kept his expression impassive. Maybe he could do something with this opportunity, but it would depend a great deal on “Rachel’s” friend. “Yes, I think I can help you. Let’s get something to eat.” When she started for the all-night café, he shook his head. “Not here. We need to talk.”

  She hesitated. “It’s late. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours.”

  If that was true, she looked amazing. “Did you catch the red-eye?”

  “Last night,” she confirmed. “Two nights ago technically I suppose, but it’s all a blur at this point.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Vancouver,” Mia answered promptly.

  Another lie. She probably didn’t realize it, but she had a tell. Most people, unless they were sociopaths, did. Just as when she’d said she was looking for her friend Rachel, when she said she’d come from Vancouver, her eyes slid up to the left, accessing the center for constructed images instead of the one that controlled memories. Mia wasn’t a bad liar—not on the level of Kyra Beckwith, but better than average. That didn’t recommend her to him, despite her superior fashion sense.

  This would be the perfect time for him to get the truth out of her, but he couldn’t seem to push. “If you’d rather get some sleep, I understand. But I’ll give you some words of warning—don’t talk to anyone else here about this. And don’t stay at the Silver Lady.” He pulled a silver business-card holder from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote his private cell number down. “Call me when you want to know something about Rachel.”

  Mia took the card and read it over. “Addison Foster, chief of security. I guess that means I’ve lucked into someone in the know. Let’s just go somewhere and talk now. I’ll have some coffee. I’ve been up this long, I can manage another hour.”

  A faint smile curved his mouth. “Do you want to accompany me in my car or do you have a rental?”

  “I caught a cab.”

  “Then you can taxi to the diner if you prefer. They make great pancakes. . . . I’ll give you the address.”

  She shook her head, lustrous black curls brushing her cheeks. “I may as well save the cab fare, and you know where we’re going.”

  Foster found her trust alarming, but since it suited his purposes he didn’t tell her she was being foolhardy. He took her to Pancake House, keeping to well-traveled roads so she wouldn’t get worried. The light was just starting to tease along the horizon as he parked his Altima. Everything about him guaranteed respectability from his suit to his conservative car.

  “I haven’t been to one of these places in years,” she said in delight. “You were right about the pancakes.”

  They made an amusing picture, overdressed for the occasion, but there was no shortage of tables. It was too early for breakfast, and the heavy drinkers hadn’t come up for air yet. Apart from the bored crew, they had the place to themselves.

  He chose a table near the bathrooms, set into a niche away from the front door. Though Foster hadn’t noticed a tail, he hadn’t seen one when he went to Desert Winds, either. He needed to amp up the caution. Polite conversation sufficed until the waitress took their order, delivered coffee, and headed back to her station to chat.

  “So,” Mia said, taking a sip after she’d doctored her drink with cream and sugar. “You know something about Rachel. Spill it.”

  “I know everything about her,” he replied quietly. “And I think you mean Kyra, don’t you? More regrettably, my boss knows as well.”

  The woman dropped her spoon and leaned her head on her hands. “Then I’m too late. She already went through with it.”

  Oh, yes, Foster thought. He could get a great deal of use from Mia Sauter.

  CHAPTER 14

  Kyra darted into her room and then said through the adjoining door, “Take your shower first. Cold one, remember?”

  “You have to be kidding.”

  She stifled a laugh, sensing he wouldn’t appreciate her amusement. “I do not kid about cold showers.”

  When she’d offered pizza and a movie, she’d meant only that, regardless of his intentions. He stomped off and if she pressed her ear to the door, she could hear the water running. Good enough. Kyra could use a quick one as well after driving all day. She didn’t intend to have sex with him tonight, but it wouldn’t hurt to tease him a little by smelling good.

  He seemed to have a thing for layered scents. Somewhere along the way, she’d picked up a bath set steeply discounted, and it had matching gel, lotion, and shampoo, all basic coconut. Nobody had ever reacted to it like Rey, though.

  A quick shower seemed to be in order, not a cold one, though. She made sure to apply
the lotion everywhere and let it sink into her skin. Then she dressed in clean jeans and a fresh tank top. No bra. That was a delicious cruelty. Kyra pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail.

  In fifteen minutes, he tapped on the adjoining door, scrupulously polite. “Can I come over now?”

  “Sure.” She unlocked the door and he stepped through, black hair still damp. His black T-shirt clung to his chest, revealing muscles that made Kyra want to dig her fingers into them. His skin still carried that bronze glow, which she knew to be natural, now. He was unfairly delicious, a real test to her self-discipline.

  He offered a lazy smile, a frisson of awareness sparking between them. “Do I pass inspection, sergeant?”

  There was no point in being anything but honest. “You know you curl my toes. What do you want on your pizza?”

  “I don’t usually eat it.”

  That astonished her. “Really? How come?”

  “When I was growing up, I rarely had a home-cooked meal,” he told her. “But I ate a lot of pizza. So whenever I can, I do my own cooking.”

  Kyra pondered that, nonplussed. “What kind of stuff do you make?”

  His obsidian gaze went to the tiny kitchenette at the far side of the room. She hadn’t particularly wanted to pay ten bucks extra for a kitchen, but the clerk claimed only the mini-suites came with connecting doors. And maybe that was true. This kind of room was probably good for families on vacation.

  “I make a great chicken picatta. I also do salmon with red pepper sauce. Angus and bleu cheese salad—”

  “Holy shit, that’s real food.” Her mouth watered. “If we went to the grocery store instead of ordering out, would you mind cooking? I can help,” she added, thinking he might take it wrong. “I’m sure I can chop stuff.” She’d never tried, mind. In her experience, food came two ways, delivery or takeout.

  Before answering, Rey went to check out the kitchen, counting pots and pans or something. The kitchenette consisted of a tiny two-burner stove, sink, microwave, and half-size oven. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a fridge so small that wasn’t also half again as short like a dorm unit.

  “I can work in here,” he said finally. “Chicken piccata would be easiest. The recipe doesn’t require a lot of sophisticated equipment.”

  Kyra grinned, anticipating her first home-cooked meal in . . . well, she couldn’t remember, actually. Her dad didn’t cook. She’d never learned. It seemed pointless when she never stayed in the same place, certainly never had a kitchen for very long. In Vegas, she’d rented a place for the long con, but she never actually bought food or anything. From the moment she started the game, Serrano was always taking her out somewhere.

  “Let’s go shopping.”

  He smiled back. “Men all over the world just shuddered without knowing why.”

  “Funny. C’mon.” She grabbed her bag and room key, then reached for his hand, towing him toward the door.

  God, how weird it was to touch without an agenda. She’d grabbed his arm without even thinking about it. Rey might be the only person in the world with whom she could do it. With him, she could wrestle, tickle, snuggle, anything she wanted, and it didn’t have to be factored into her day’s work. Touching him didn’t create a gridlock in her brain that resulted in painful feedback. Once her ability kicked in, she’d stopped receiving even casual hugs from her dad; she hadn’t realized until this moment how much she missed it.

  Rey went easily enough. He thought she didn’t notice him watching the lot from the balcony like a hawk, but she remembered his wariness about the biker. She hadn’t forgotten the guy, either. It was possible Serrano had sent someone after her. Kyra wasn’t sure how Mr. Kawasaki had tracked her down, but she’d bet on herself in a fight. All she needed was one point of contact, and then she’d turn whatever skill the guy had against him. She’d done it more times than she could count.

  “Let me ask Maria about where we can find a market nearby,” Rey said as they climbed down the stairs.

  He ducked into the office and Kyra watched them through the glass. The clerk leaned on the counter while talking to him, saying with her body language that she’d be open to any invitation Rey might offer. A jolt of pure rage startled her. She wanted to stomp into the building and drag him out of there, snarling all the while.

  She shook her head to clear it. “Well, that was weird.”

  “What was?” Rey asked, stepping outside.

  “Nothing.”

  “When a woman says nothing, she means everything.”

  “I get grumpy when I’m hungry.” Kyra would be boiled in oil before she’d admit to a spurt of possessiveness. That feeling ran counter to everything she stood for.

  “Then let’s get you fed.”

  Everything that followed seemed very surreal. Rey drove them to an upscale little supermarket called Whole Foods, where he picked his ingredients with the utmost care. Sometimes it felt as if she didn’t know him at all, particularly when he spent five minutes examining the asparagus, which she’d never seen uncooked in bunches before. They looked like tiny spears.

  “Organic, naturally produced,” she read aloud. “So you’re into healthy stuff.”

  “When I can be. Whenever it makes sense.”

  Well, that was a weird quality in a drifter. Maybe he was more like those hippie types who didn’t work and wanted to grow all their own food. That had always seemed like a contradiction to Kyra. If you didn’t work, how could you afford to buy the land to grow stuff on? But she’d met a few people in her travels who just planted gardens in vacant lots, regardless of who owned the property. She wouldn’t put Rey in that category, however. He wasn’t the idealistic type.

  Finally, they had a cart full of exotic ingredients, like capers and heirloom tomatoes. She couldn’t believe he needed so much stuff to make one meal. The clerk at the register looked at the ingredients and said, “Somebody’s making chicken piccata.”

  Damn, could everyone cook but her? She pondered that on the drive back. Kyra carried her half of the bags, eager to see how this worked. There wasn’t space for both of them so he dismissed her offer to help.

  She watched in awe as he pounded the chicken thin and dipped it in flour. He made some sauce to pour over it and then he served it with grilled asparagus. She’d never eaten so well in her life, not even at any of the fancy restaurants Serrano took her.

  Doing the dishes seemed like the least she could do, so she washed up in the tiny kitchenette. Afterward, Kyra moaned a little, rubbing her stomach. She unfastened the button on her jeans, which had to be the least sexy thing in the world.

  “That was . . . amazing. Thank you.”

  He watched her lounge against the headboard with hooded eyes. “I should be thanking you. I haven’t cooked for anyone that appreciated me in a long time.”

  “You could get a job doing that. Seriously.”

  “We already discussed how I don’t like working for someone else.”

  She agreed, “So we did. Let’s see what’s on.”

  It was much later than she’d realized, and the food made her sleepy. Rey found something to watch, not on pay-per-view, and settled down on the bed beside her. Cars chased each other and then exploded; gunshots rang out. Men cussed. By the time it ended, she was dozing.

  “Kyra,” he whispered.

  “Mmm?”

  “I’m going to bed now, sweetheart. I . . . can’t stay here.”

  Why couldn’t he? She could think of worse things than to snuggle up to him and sleep. It was a decent-sized bed.

  She opened her eyes, bleary and confused. “You’re leaving?”

  “Just going to my own room. You’re too much temptation. If I spend the night, you’ll be under me by morning.” His fingers felt exquisitely gentle as they brushed the hair from her face.

  She gave a sleepy siren’s smile. “We can’t have that. G’night then.”

  Kyra roused enough to shuck her jeans and slipped into bed in her tank top, leaving the lights bu
rning as she always did. She heard the click of the door as he left, but he didn’t lock it. That felt reassuring rather than risky. If he’d intended to press her, he would’ve had his hands all over her while she catnapped. Rey must respect her. It was the only explanation that made sense, however little experience she had with such things.

  She went to sleep smiling and woke with a heavy weight squeezing all the air out of her chest. An unfamiliar male voice growled, “Don’t scream.”

  A strange sound popped Reyes from a sound sleep. He rolled out of bed, unconscious to battle-ready in three seconds. Listening, he couldn’t identify what had woken him. He didn’t hear anything now.

  But something had definitely roused him. He hesitated, unwilling to wake Kyra over nothing. Then a lamp crashed to the floor and he spun into motion. Reyes came through the adjoining door like a hurricane, surprising the guy who had an arm around Kyra’s neck. It was definitely the bearded biker from this afternoon. Reyes didn’t know if the bastard meant to kill her or choke her out for easy transport.

  Either way, it wasn’t happening.

  “Put her down,” he said softly. “Or I will pull your head off with my bare hands.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  For half a second, he thought about saying, your worst nightmare. Instead he canted his head at Kyra. “She’s mine. This is your final warning.”

  The guy still didn’t move, his loss. Reyes snagged the lamp from his side of the bed and whipped it at the guy’s head. It smashed against his skull; the asshole cried out, dropping Kyra, and Reyes bounced over the bed, cord in hand—too easy.

  He whipped it around the target’s neck and choked him out. Red bled at the corners of his eyes. He wanted little more than to end the son of a bitch who’d dared lay hands on his woman. Reyes forced him to his knees, feeling his flesh yield.

  “Please,” the guy begged.

  Reason prevailed—he needed information—but it was a near thing. “Who sent you? Who do you work for?”