Kincaid's Dangerous Game

“Ah, well…fall’s not a good time for perennials. Sorry.” She gave the hose nozzle a twist and turned the spray onto the thirsty crepe myrtles spread out in front of her.

“Look—” The guy set the two pots down next to the crepe myrtles and dusted off his hands. “I hate to be a pain in the ass, but I’m getting kind of desperate here.”

I believe that’s the first truthful thing you’ve said to me. She didn’t say that, of course. She turned off the water and laid the hose carefully aside, out of the pathway, then angled another measuring look upward as she straightened. She could almost feel the guy vibrating, he was so tense. Mister, I hope you’re not planning on playing any poker while you’re in town. You’d lose your shirt.

All her defenses were on red alert. Clearly, the guy wanted something, and she seriously doubted it was potted plants. But if her danger instincts were aroused, so was her natural curiosity—which admittedly had gotten her into trouble more than once in her life.

Who is this guy? What does he want with me?

And most important of all, and the question she really, really needed an answer to: Who is he working for?

Giving the man the smile he seemed to be trying so hard to win, she said, “Well, there’s no need for that. Look, why don’t you go with some kind of shrub? You can get something with some size, so it’ll look impressive up there with all the other wedding presents.”

“Impressive. Okay, I can live with that. So, what’ve you got?”

“Well, let’s narrow it down a bit. First, since you said this house is in a new subdivision, I’m guessing no trees, right? So you’ll need something for full sun. And heat tolerant, obviously—this is Las Vegas.” She turned to walk along the pathway and the man fell in beside her, strolling in a relaxed sort of way, reaching out to touch a leaf as they passed. She gave him a sideways glance. “How do you feel about cactus?”

He winced and laughed, as if she’d made a joke.

“I’m serious. More and more people are going with native plants now to save water. Save the planet—you know, go green.”

“So to speak,” he said dryly, and she found herself smiling and meaning it.

“So to speak.” She nodded, conceding the point. “So, okay, no cactus. Evergreen, or deciduous?”

“Deciduous—uh…that means they lose their leaves, right?”

She looked at him and he grinned to show her he was kidding. This time she tried not to smile back. “You seriously are not a gardener, are you? Where are you from?”

“Nope,” he said amicably, “definitely not a gardener. And I live in L.A., actually.”

“Really. Most people in L.A. have some kind of garden.”

“Not me. Not even a houseplant.” He paused, then added with a shrug, “I’m not home enough to take care of anything living. I’ve got eucalyptus trees and ivy, some bougainvillea—that’s about it. Nature pretty much takes care of those.”

He halted suddenly and pointed with a nod. “What are those? Over there—with all the flowers?”

Billie gave him a look. “Uh…roses?”

“Okay, sure, I see that now,” he said, throwing her a sheepish grin before returning to stare thoughtfully at the display of rosebushes. “Can you grow roses in Las Vegas?”

“We wouldn’t sell them if they wouldn’t grow here,” she said shortly, and got a look of apology that made her feel vaguely ashamed. Her mind was skittering around like a squirrel trying to decide whether or not to run into traffic.

The guy is attractive and charismatic as hell, and he still smells wrong. Well, actually, he smells pretty good. Whatever he’s using for aftershave, it was a good choice.

She hauled in a determined breath. “Actually, roses do very well in a desert climate. Less trouble with disease. You just have to give them enough water.”

“Hmm. Roses kind of go with weddings, don’t they?”

“Sure. I suppose so. Yeah.”

“They’d definitely be impressive,” he mused.

“Yes, they would.”

“And they have pretty flowers.”

About then Billie realized they’d both stopped walking and were standing in the middle of the aisle smiling at each other. Really smiling. And her heart was beating faster, for no earthly reason she could imagine.

Okay, I’m not a squirrel. I know what happens to squirrels who run into traffic.

She cleared her throat and walked on with purpose, making her way quickly to the rosebushes. “Your timing is good, actually. They put out a nice fall bloom, once the weather cools. Couple more weeks, though, and we’d be pruning them back for the winter.”

The customer picked up a red rosebush in a three-gallon pot, read the tag and threw her a look as he set it back down. “Well, you’ve saved my life, you know that?” He moved aside a pink variety—he was a guy, of course, so no pink need apply—and picked up a butter-yellow with some red blush on the petals. “You’re very good at your job. You must like it.” He said it casually, maybe too casually.

“Yes, I do,” she replied carefully, and felt her skin prickle with undefined warnings.

He straightened, dusting his hands. “If you don’t mind my asking, how’d you come to work in a nursery? In this town, someone with your looks…” He smiled again, but his eyes seemed a little too sharp. A little too keen. “Seems an unusual career choice.”

And again she thought, This guy better never try his hand at the poker tables—with a tell like that, he’d never win a hand. “Maybe,” she said evenly, “that’s why I made it.”

Watching his eyes, she knew he was about to fold.

“Well…okay, tell you what,” he said abruptly, all business now. “How ’bout if you pick out half a dozen or so of these—the nicest ones you can find.” He reached for his wallet. “Can I pay for them and leave them here until Saturday? Because I’m in a hotel, and I can’t exactly…”

“Sure.” Suddenly she just wanted to be rid of him. “That’s fine. Just tell them at the register. Six, right? I’ll put a note on them, put them back for you.”

He thanked her and walked away, rapidly, like somebody who’d just remembered he had somewhere to be.

Billie watched him as far as the cash register, then turned abruptly. Angry. At herself. And shaken. The guy had folded, no question about it. So why didn’t she feel like she’d won the hand?

Holt was sitting in his car with the motor running and the air-conditioning going, although it was November and not that hot for Las Vegas. But considering it was midday and he was in the middle of a treeless parking lot, he was pretty sure he’d be sweltering shortly if he turned the AC off.

He wasn’t pleased with the way things had gone with Billie Farrell. Definitely not his finest hour. He’d turned on the charm—as much as he was capable of—and had gotten nowhere.

So she was wary, on her guard. He hadn’t wanted to push too hard, thinking he’d be better off to leave himself someplace to go with his next try. Which was why he was sitting in the parking lot staking out the nursery, waiting for her to come out so he could follow her, see where she lived, find out where she liked to go for lunch. Figure out how he might “happen” to run into her again. Maybe this time he’d offer to buy her a drink, or even dinner.

If he could just get her someplace indoors where she’d have to take off those damn shades…

Meanwhile, what in the world was he going to do with six rosebushes? Donate them to an old folks’ home? He’d have to think of something. Hell, he didn’t even know anybody who grew roses.

When someone knocked on the window of his car about six inches from his ear, he did three things simultaneously: Ducked, swore and reached for his weapon.

Then he remembered he wasn’t carrying one at the moment, that it was currently in the glove compartment of his vintage Mustang. By which time he figured if anybody had been looking to do him damage it would already be lights-out.

However, he was still swearing a blue streak when the door on the passenger side opened and Billie Farrell slipped into the seat beside him.

Chapter 2

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?