Kincaid's Dangerous Game. Kathleen Creighton
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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?”