Kincaid's Dangerous Game (The Taken Book 4) Page 7

  She lifted her shoulders and felt herself shrink into them, as if under the weight of Holt’s steady regard. “Don’t remember it,” she muttered, angry with herself for letting him get to her. “Don’t remember him.”

  He didn’t say anything, and after a moment she got up and began to pace in the cramped room. Didn’t want to, but couldn’t seem to help herself. “Look, I don’t know those people. I don’t want to know them.” Couldn’t keep her voice from shaking, either. She turned on him, furious. “Damn you. I don’t need this kind of hassle.”

  “Just…meet them.” His voice was gentle now, and somehow that was worse. “Is that too much to ask? Just let me take you to them.”

  She bent closer to him, dangerously close. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face almost on a level with hers. She could see the pores in his skin, the beard stubble on his cheeks, the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, the silvery shadings of blue in his eyes. It made him suddenly too real, too human.

  A lump formed inside her chest and rose into her throat, and for one horrible moment she was terrified she might break down.

  Tense with the task of holding off that threat, she spoke rapidly, forcing words through clenched teeth. “Okay—you want me to go with you to meet these people? I’ll make you a deal. You find people, right? Okay, then, you find my daughter. I want to see my daughter first. You find her for me, then I’ll go with you to meet my so-called brothers.”

  “And your sister,” he softly reminded her, looking deep into her eyes. “She wants to see you, too.”

  She couldn’t stay so close to him, not for another second. She let out breath in a gust and straightened. “Yeah sure—whatever.” About to turn away from him, she jerked back for one more shot, her finger upraised in a gesture of command. “But first, you find my baby girl.”

  Chapter 5

  H

  olt was dead certain Billie had no expectation in the world he’d actually be able to find her daughter, that it had only been her desperate attempt to put him off that made her ask such a thing. He was pretty sure he knew, now, what was making her fear a reunion with the sister she’d left all alone to deal with their nightmarish family. He didn’t have to be psychic or even an empath to recognize the flash of panic and guilt in her eyes whenever he’d mentioned her sister. It wasn’t the unknown brothers she dreaded meeting; he doubted that part had even completely sunk in yet. No, he was certain the person Brenna Fallon couldn’t face was Brooke. Unfortunately for Billie, she didn’t know Holt Kincaid very well. Didn’t know about the resources and the network of contacts he’d established over the course of more than twenty years spent doing the very thing she’d asked him to do: Finding people. Particularly those given up for adoption, or the birth parents of adopted children. It was what he did, and he was good at it. He’d told her that, but evidently she hadn’t believed him.

  In any case, since she hadn’t exactly volunteered her home address he was pretty sure she wouldn’t be expecting him to show up at her front door less than a week after their showdown in his hotel room. Much less with her daughter’s name and address in his shirt pocket. But here he was.

  She lived in a modest stucco bungalow in a quiet neighborhood not far from the Strip. Built sometime in the nineteen fifties or sixties, he estimated. It was a neighborhood of mature trees and few signs of children, possibly in transition from its elderly original residents to young married couples buying their first home. Most homeowners, including Billie, had opted to forgo the upkeep of traditional lawns in favor of water-saving and maintenance-free gravel, although lining Billie’s front pathway was an assortment of pots and containers filled with a profusion of autumn-blooming flowers and plumes of decorative grasses. A white-painted rail fence separated the front yard from the sidewalk and driveway, and a large tree with narrow gray-green leaves Holt thought might be an olive shaded the front entrance. The November wind rustled the leaves above his head as he made his way among the flowerpots to the front door.

  Nice, he thought, and wondered why he was surprised. She did work in a plant nursery, after all.

  He was searching in vain for a doorbell and had just lifted his hand to knock when he heard a thump from inside the house. Not loud, not the sound of breakage, but as if someone had dropped something heavy, or possibly slammed a door. Immediately after that came the sound of voices raised in anger.

  He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, his hand already going to the weapon strapped in a holster at the small of his back. There was a car—a nondescript gray Dodge sedan—parked in the driveway. He’d noted it, but had assumed it was Billie’s. It hadn’t occurred to him she might have visitors—or more likely a visitor, since one of the voices he was hearing was Billie’s. The other was definitely a man’s.

  Given what he knew of Billie’s past, Holt had some bad ideas about what might be happening inside the house. Not wanting to make a possible bad situation worse, he decided against knocking or calling out to her. Instead he flattened himself against the wall beside the front door and leaned cautiously to look through the window. He couldn’t see anyone in the living room, but he could still hear the voices, which seemed to be coming from the back of the house. Keeping his head down and with his gun in his hands, carried low and to one side, he ran swiftly and silently along the side of the house, following a concrete walkway. At the corner of the house he halted and peered around into the backyard. He could see more flower-filled pots and, adjoining a covered concrete patio, a small free-form swimming pool, empty of water.

  He could hear the voices clearly now. The man’s voice, high and strained: “You know what they’ll do to me. Are you gonna just let—”

  And Billie’s. “Don’t. Don’t you dare put this on me. I can’t help you. Don’t you get it? I can’t.”

  “Hey—that’s bull. You won’t. And that’s the kind of thanks I get? You little—”

  “Don’t threaten me, Miley.” Her voice was vibrant with anger, and Holt heard a note of fear, too.

  Billie Farrell—afraid? That got to him more than anything else. He tightened his grip on his weapon. Drew in a breath and held it, every muscle adrenaline-primed and poised for action.

  “You and I are done.” Billie spat the words like bullets, in a voice that did not tremble. “I told you. After that last tournament. I paid you back. I don’t owe you anything.”

  “You paid me diddly!” Miley was whining now. “What’d you make, a quarter mil? You give me a lousy twenty-five G’s! What’d you do with the rest of it?”

  “It’s none of your business what I did with it. I don’t have it. You got it? I can’t help you. Now, get out of my house. And don’t you ever come here again, you hear me? Stay away from me!”

  “Jeez, Billie, all I’m askin’ for—”

  “Out…now!”

  “This ain’t over! I’m not—” There was a sharp exclamation and some vehement swearing, followed by, “For Chrissake, put that away—are you crazy? I’m going, okay? I’m going. Jeez…”

  Footsteps thudded through the house. The front door slammed, and a moment later Holt heard the car start up in the driveway. Slipping his gun back in its holster, he swiftly crossed the patio, gave a warning knock, then thrust open the backdoor.

  “Hey, are you okay—” The question died with a sharp intake of breath.

  A few feet away, Billie had whirled to confront him, eyes blazing fire. Now she uttered a small, horrified squeak and collapsed back against the kitchen counter, one hand covering her mouth. In the other, Holt noted, she was gripping a rather large knife.

  It took him about a second to get to her, and he was swearing vehemently under his breath as he gently took the knife—a serrated bread knife, it appeared—from her unresisting fingers. Then, in a little flurry of motion that could only have been spontaneous, she came into his arms.

  What could he do? He dropped the knife onto the countertop and wrapped his arms around her. Which lasted about a second, barely
long enough for him to register the fact that she was shaking, and that her hair smelled nice, and that her body felt incredibly good right there, snugged up against his.

  She gave a furious gasp and thumped his chest with her fists as she pushed away from him. “Jeez, Kincaid. What are you doing here? Are you friggin’ nuts?” Her voice was shrill and breathless. She glared at him for a moment, then spun away from him, and as she did she caught sight of the knife lying where he’d dropped it on the countertop. She recoiled and jerked back to him, one hand clamped to the top of her head. “I could have—what if I’d—dammit, Kincaid!”

  “I’m assuming that was your former partner Miley Todd.” He kept his tone mild, figuring at least one of them ought to try to keep calm.

  Her laugh was a sharp bark of anger. “Yeah…the man’s a weasel.” She turned back to the counter, picked up the knife, opened a drawer and dropped the knife into it, then closed it carefully.

  Stay calm, Billie. You’ve already given too much away. What’s wrong with you, throwing yourself at him like that? Since when do you need a man protecting you?

  Oh, but admit it…it did feel good.

  Yeah…too damn good.

  She could feel him there, just behind her. Too close. If she turned now she could hardly avoid touching him.

  “What did he want?”

  “Money—what else?” She closed her eyes and willed him away.

  Which seemed to work, because his next question came from a slightly greater distance. A foot or two. Breathing room at least. So why did she now feel off balance and precarious, as if she’d been left teetering on the brink of some great abyss with nothing to hold on to?

  “So, what’s his story?”

  She had room to turn and face him now, so she did—carefully. He was leaning against the refrigerator, arms folded on his chest, regarding her with that narrow blue gaze of his. She leaned back against the counter and deliberately copied his stance. “You are the nosiest guy I ever met, you know that?”

  He smiled. “Goes with the job.”

  She hadn’t expected the smile. For some reason and without warning, a tightness gripped her throat. Unable to speak for a moment, she looked at the floor and gave a little sigh of laughter, then caught a breath and lifted her eyes back to his. “What are you doing here, Kincaid? I’m not even gonna ask how you found me.”

  Without a word, he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” she demanded as she took it. She unfolded the piece of hotel stationery. On it, neatly printed in block letters, was a couple’s name: Corrine and Michael Bachman. Below that was an address in Reno, Nevada. Below that was a name, circled: Hannah Grace.

  Billie couldn’t feel her fingers. She stared down at the paper. The words danced…shimmered…blurred.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  I won’t cry. I can’t cry. I sure as hell am not going to throw myself into his arms, not again! But I don’t know what to do.

  “This is her—my daughter?” Her voice felt scratchy, and sounded unfamiliar.

  “That’s her.” His voice was gentle—damn him. It would have been better if he’d been brusque. She could have handled that. Gentleness…not so well.

  “Huh.” She shook her head, struggled to find breath. Pulled air in, then let it out. “That easy, huh?”

  “If you know where to look.” His hands had a strange, tingly feeling, an urgent need to reach for her…touch her. Hold her. He kept them firmly tucked between his folded arms and body.

  “Wow,” she said, and he watched her struggle to find something else to say and finally give it up and just laugh, the kind of laugh that meant anything but amusement. Her throat moved convulsively and his ached in sympathy.

  “Can I—” she said, at the same moment he said, “Would you like to see her?”

  And even though he knew it was what she wanted more than anything in the world, he saw panic flash in her eyes. “From a distance,” he added gently, and she nodded in a dazed sort of way.

  A moment later, though, she did a startled double take and said, “Now?”

  “Sure, why not? You have the day off so might as well.”

  “How did you—”

  “I stopped by the garden center looking for you first. They told me you were off today. And tomorrow, too, right?”

  “Yeah…” She looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, fingered it restlessly, as if she didn’t know what to do with it. Then she tossed it onto the countertop. “It’s so far. It would take forever to drive to Reno.”

  Holt smiled. “Who said anything about driving?”

  Billie stood on the sun-bleached airstrip and watched the red-and-white plane taxi toward them, sending up puffs of dust that went spiraling away in the midday breeze. The plane looked way too small to hold three people. It looked like a child’s toy.

  She sucked in a breath, which did nothing to relieve the knots in her stomach.

  It’s happening too fast. It’s too much, first Miley shows up, and now this.

  Her past was catching up with her. More than that. It seemed suddenly to be looming over her like a gigantic tsunami wave, one breath away from drowning her. She felt dizzy, a little sick. She wanted to lie down somewhere and go unconscious for a while until the world slowed down, or she caught up with it.

  She’d had the same feeling before. Too many times before. In the past, her remedy for this feeling would be to run, to just go, get away as far and as fast as she could.

  I should have gone. Should have left the day I saw him there in the garden center, picking out plants. I knew he didn’t belong there. I knew he was bad news.

  So, why don’t you go now? What’s stopping you? Nobody’s forcing you to get on that ridiculous toy airplane.

  The plane coasted to a stop. Beside her, Holt touched her elbow, then went jogging out onto the packed-earth runway. The plane’s single prop slowed and finally stopped, and the door opened and the pilot crawled out onto the wing, then jumped to the ground. He ambled over to meet Holt, and the two men clasped hands, then went in for the brief back-thumping that passes for hugging among guy-friends. Then Holt turned and beckoned to Billie.

  She hauled in another breath she didn’t seem to have room for.

  Why don’t I go? There’s the answer, right there. I hate it, but it’s there and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s him—Holt Kincaid. What good would it do me to run? He’d only find me again. I can’t escape the man.

  And somewhere way in the back of her mind a voice she didn’t want to listen to was saying, Why would you want to?

  “I want you to meet my friend Tony,” Holt said, reaching out to touch her arm, drawing her closer. “He’s the man who’s going to take us to Reno.”

  The man’s hand swallowed hers and his smile seemed to light up the already sun-shot day. He reminded her of a Humvee—big and square and formidable, and he made her feel safe.

  She nodded and managed a breathless, “Hi,” and his whiskey-colored eyes crinkled with laughter.

  “Hey—it’s all good. I promise I’ll get you there and back in one piece.” He clapped his hands together like an enthusiastic child and beamed at her. “Okay. Are you ready? Well, hop in, then.

  “You get to ride shotgun,” he told her as he guided her up onto the wing. To Holt he added, “Sorry, buddy—you get to sit on the floor. I took out the passenger seats to make room for my equipment and extra fuel.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing it’s not a long flight,” Holt said dryly.

  “I’m a photojournalist,” Tony explained to Billie. “So I’ve got lots of stuff. Plus, the places I go don’t always have convenient airfields with fuel pumps.”

  “Uh-huh,” Billie said. She had her head inside the plane now, and was trying not to stare at the array of instruments across the front of the cockpit. She glanced back at the two faces smiling encouragement at her from below. “Um…I can s
it on the floor. Really. I wouldn’t mind.” Because back there where nobody can see me, maybe I can curl up in a fetal ball and stay there until we land….

  The two men chuckled, as if she’d said something funny.

  “Never flown in a small plane before, huh?” Tony’s eyes were warm with sympathy. “You’ll be fine—I promise not to do anything crazy. Just buckle up…settle back and enjoy the ride, okay?”

  “Okay.” She gave him the smile he seemed to want, but the truth was, she did feel a little better. It was just something about him, the laid-back, effortless charm that made her forget about thirty seconds after meeting him that he had a face resembling a cross between a bouncer in a biker bar and a benevolent pit bull terrier. Whatever it was, she just had the feeling she could trust him.

  As she settled into the passenger seat she looked over her shoulder and found Holt’s eyes on her. Something in their watchfulness made a shiver go through her.

  What about him? Do I trust him?

  Why do I have to ask myself that? I must trust him, or I wouldn’t be making this insane trip with him, would I?

  If that’s so, why does he make me feel…off balance? Unsure of myself? Scared?

  Yes—scared. The truth was, Holt Kincaid frightened her. She hadn’t thought of it quite like that, until she’d met Tony and realized the difference. Tony was a stranger to her, and yet, he made her feel safe. Rather like having a big brother…

  Brother? Wait. No. Could this be…

  The thought popped into her head, and just as quickly she rejected it. No, this man had the deep-mahogany skin tones and broad cheekbones that hinted at Native American origins, and besides, Holt had told her her brothers’ names, and none of them had been Tony.