Kincaid's Dangerous Game. Kathleen Creighton
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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.
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