Kincaid’s Dangerous Game

She shook her head, and he could see a wistful smile. “Not the shower. Showers always make me think-it’s sort of like a brain lubricant for me.”

“Bath, then.” He got to his feet and held out a hand to her. “Come on-I’ll run it for you. Got any bubbles?”

She was laughing when he pulled her up, but the laughter died quickly, and a second later she was in his arms. Not the way it had been with them before, with the chemistry and fireworks and pounding heartbeats, but quietly, gently, with her arms wrapped around his waist and her cheek resting against his chest. He held her that way for a while, until he felt a tremor run through her. And in that moment, and that small shudder, he knew he wanted it, too-the water in the pool, the potted plants, a dog, maybe…most of all, this. A woman to hold, to share the Grand Canyon with, to run a warm bath for. No…not a woman. Just this one.

“You’re cold,” he said with gravel in his throat. “Let’s go inside.”

What is this I’m feeling? Billie thought. Not scared, not lost…but like I’ve been that, and then somebody came to find me and he’s got his arm around me, and now it’s almost as if I’ve never been anything but safe and warm. And most of all, not alone. I can barely remember what it felt like, all those years of being alone. As if they were a dream that’s gone from your head when you open your eyes.

But how can that be, when the truth is, this is the dream, and one day soon I’ll wake up and he will be gone…

“I don’t think I have any bubble bath,” she said. “Would dish soap do?”

“I guess. It softens hands…” he intoned, and she stifled a laugh against his soft cotton shirt.

In the kitchen, she got the bottle of dish soap from under the sink while Holt locked the door and turned off the lights, and they walked down the hall without touching. In the bathroom, she turned on the light, then stood holding the bottle of soap while he turned on the water in the bathtub, tested the water temperature and put in the old- fashioned stopper. When he finally straightened and his eyes reached for her across the brightly lit room, her heart stumbled.

What do I do with a man like this? she wondered. This man with his steely eyes and a face almost as hard, but with a mouth that hasn’t forgotten how to smile and makes me forget everything, even who I am. This man who’s as much a loner as I am, maybe more, and yet he’s here, with me, in my bathroom, running me a bath as if I’m someone who needs caring for and he’s someone who’s used to caring. Where does a man like this learn about caring? Softness? Gentleness? Love? I had parents, at least for a while. And a sister. Who did you have, Holt Kincaid?

Almost without knowing she did, she handed him the bottle of soap. He poured some into the thundering stream of water, and a few tiny, perfect bubbles flew upward and drifted toward the light.

“Okay,” he said, setting the soap bottle on the edge of the tub, “that should do it. Unless you’d like some music?” She shook her head. His eyes blazed into hers, and they, far more than the steam rising from the filling tub, made the room suddenly feel like a summer night in the tropics. “Okay, then, I’ll get out of your way…” He paused beside her, laid one hand gently on her shoulder and leaned down to touch a kiss to her forehead. And would have gone on by and left her there, except…

She caught him by the hand. “Stay,” she said, and though it was barely a whisper, it bore the weight of command.

He stood looking down at her, not smiling, and she was glad he didn’t smile. It would have ruined it if he’d smiled, even a hint of one. But his eyes were somber, and blanketed with unspoken questions.

She tilted her head toward the tub, rapidly filling with bubbles, and murmured, “Here. With me. The tub’s big enough.” And now it was she who smiled. “That’s one of the good things about buying an old house.”

He still didn’t say anything, but reached past her to turn off the light.

“Why-” she began, and felt his fingertips touch her lips.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Wait a minute.”

And even before he’d finished speaking, moonlight was already pouring into the room, replacing the harsh man-made illumination and cloaking everything in softness and mystery. She made a wordless sound of approval and her fingers found the buttons on his shirt.

“Better turn off the water,” he murmured in her ear, “or we’ll have a flood.”

She nodded and turned to comply, and he took advantage of the moment to nudge off his shoes and put his gun in a safe place on top of the toilet tank. Then she was back, her movements fluid in the charcoal filter of moonlight. Her shirt was gone without her seeming to have touched it; less than a second later he felt her fingers on his skin, the buttons of his shirt already undone. Her bra was the stretchy sports bra type, and she divested herself of it with what seemed like sleight of hand-a flourish of raised arms, a little shake of her head, and her small, perfect breasts were unveiled like a marble statue in a moonlit garden.

He felt his pulse leap in his throat and reminded himself once again to shield. To slow the tempo of his desire. To find her beat. This was her music they were dancing to.

The cargo pants-and whatever was underneath-made a shushing sound as they fell. Naked and unselfconscious as a child in the half darkness, she reached for his arm and held it for support as she used the toe of one foot to push the pants off the other, taking the shoe with it. The same procedure with the other foot, an impatient kick that sent everything to some distant corner, and her hands were back on the waistband of his pants. Her nearness made his head swim.

And while there was no conscious seduction in the way she undressed both herself and him, at the same time it seemed to him an intensely intimate thing. This house, this room, this moment…This, he realized, was her place of mystery and privacy, and for some reason she’d invited him in. He understood that there was a kind of innocence in the way she offered, and that it wasn’t about sex, at least not at this instant, but more about the sharing of her innermost self. He felt both humbled and incredibly blessed. What, he wondered, could I have done to deserve such a gift?

She took his hand and he held on to her while she stepped into the pile of foam, then she steadied him while he did the same. There was no sound except for the faint hissing of disturbed bubbles. Then he heard the sound of unspoken delight, an indrawn breath, as she lowered herself into the water. He slid down behind her, holding his own breath as the water level came near but didn’t quite reach the edge of the tub. There was a loud gurgle as water rushed into the overflow outlet. He eased back against the end of the tub and pulled her onto his chest, and she put her foot over the hole to keep the water level from dropping. He wrapped his arms around her and settled his chin on her hair, and she sighed, then laughed low in her throat.

He concentrated on clouds drifting across blue autumn skies…sunlight sparkling on water…the swaying of eucalyptus branches outside his bedroom window far away in Laurel Canyon. Anything to keep his mind off the lithe, slippery body draped across his.

“How’s that?” he asked carefully, trying not to jostle anything, and she replied softly, “Nice.”

Then she was silent for a long time, so long he might have thought she’d gone to sleep, but for the rapid tap- tapping of her heart against his arm.

“Holt, I’m scared.” She said it the way she might have said, “My back itches.” Please scratch it for me.

She didn’t add that unspoken request, but he knew the response she wanted from him at this moment was the same as if she had.

“About the tournament tomorrow?” Her head moved on his chest, nodding. “You’ll be fine,” he said. And because he knew she wouldn’t be satisfied with the automatic pat on the head, he added, “You’re very good-I’ve seen you play.”

“I haven’t played in a long time. I don’t know the new faces.”

He lazily scooped a handful of warm water and smoothed it over her thigh like oil. “All you have to do is-”

“-buy you some time. I know.” She stirred restively, to his increasing discomfort. “But what if I can’t? What if I go out tomorrow?”

“You won’t.”

“How can you say that? You saw me play one time. And I’m sorry, but you don’t know diddly about poker.”

“True. But,” he added after a pause to think about it, “I’m a big fan of Kenny Rogers.”

She squirmed again, trying to look up at him. “Kenny-”