“The cashmere under the leather. The manicure. The bank-wrapped wad of cash.”
His lips curved briefly. “Worried that I was a bank robber?”
“Not worried, no, although you don’t see a bank roll like that every day. Or ever. At least in my line of work. I was curious, mostly. But I’m always curious. Everyone has a story. It’s partly why I run an inn. You meet a lot of people, hear a lot of stories.”
He cocked his head, watched her. “Why not be a journalist?”
She smiled then. “I have no aptitude for storytelling. And I’m not particularly compelled to share the stories. I just enjoy hearing them.”
He nodded. “You said partly. What’s the other part?”
“Long story. Boring story.”
Now she was bluffing. It might be boring to him, but that had been an entirely different sort of vulnerability flashing across her face just then. The kind he’d bet went much further back than the stinging blow her former boss and lover had delivered to both her pride and her heart. That other part of the story, whatever it was, was a whole lot of things to her, but he doubted boring was one of them.
“And since we agreed not to delve into any more personal stuff where you’re concerned, that mercifully saves you from having to listen to mine,” she said, smiling as she scooted off the edge of the bed and headed toward what he presumed was her bathroom.
So. Conversation closed. For now, anyway.
He wondered what she’d say if he told her he didn’t necessarily want to be saved? That he wanted to know every last thing about her?
The shower came on. Would it be different now? Awkward when he thought it wouldn’t be? Would Thad’s call and her obvious duck just now become the elephant in the room-or the shower-that they would stumble over not talking about? He supposed there was only one way to find out.
He slid off the bed and walked to the bathroom. She was already under the spray. He hadn’t paid much attention to how she’d decorated her own space, being somewhat preoccupied, but he did now. Her bedroom was just as tastefully decorated as the one he occupied. Warm, polished antique bedstead, with a carved head and footboard. Hers was covered with an old quilt and lots of linen-covered pillows with handstitched patterns along the hem of the slipcovers. There were colorful, handwoven rugs on the hardwood floor, mismatched old lamps, the odd knickknack or crafted art piece placed here and hung there. Dried flowers mixed with potted plants. It wasn’t overtly feminine, or masculine, for that matter, but he knew it was her. Her taste, her style. Classic, but a little offbeat, a good eye for design, mixed with a bit of whimsy.
He liked the attention she’d paid to detail, to making the whole place feel more like someone’s home than a sterile, cookie-cutter, hotel environment. He’d stayed in his share, more than his share, including some of the most ridiculously over-the-top suites one could imagine. He’d rather have this.
It was one of the reasons he still rented rooms from Vanetta and had never gotten his own place. Vanetta would like Kirby’s inn, he thought, though he couldn’t picture the older woman living anywhere but at the edge of the desert. He already knew she would never even consider leaving Vegas. When all the trouble had started and he’d begun to piece together the possible origin of the threat, he’d tried to talk her into retiring, maybe moving to Palm Springs or something. He’d known she wouldn’t go for it. He’d tried to get her to retire before, but she said she’d shrivel up if she didn’t have work to keep her honest.
And she did work. Harder than anyone he knew. She had both a razor-edged tongue and the biggest heart of anyone he’d ever known. Not that she’d want anyone to know that. As close to a mother figure as he’d ever had, he’d done his best to repay her for everything she’d done for him. Not that she’d made that easy on him, either. He smiled, recalling the tongue lashing he’d taken when, after winning his first seven-figure pot, he’d used the winnings to pay off the bank loan on the boarding house and set up a retirement account for her. He’d made sure that Dan and his father kept the place in good shape so she wouldn’t take out yet another loan for upkeep and repairs on the old place.
When all the trouble had started after he’d quit playing poker last year, he’d also taken out a rather large, high-risk insurance policy on the property. If she wouldn’t relocate or retire, then he’d protect her the best he could anyway.
Thinking about Vanetta, about home, drew his mind right back to why he’d stopped here in the first place. He’d call Dan later today, talk things over, start working on an endgame to all this. But, at the moment, there was a naked woman in a shower waiting for him.
And that was an easy bet to take. He was going all in.
He stepped carefully through the opening in the circular curtain set inside the long claw-foot tub. His bathroom upstairs had been far more recently renovated; it was modern, with more current amenities, like an oversized tub and a big, drenching showerhead. He rather liked the style of this one. It suited the feel of the old place.
Kirby was standing forward, beneath the narrow spray, her back to him, head ducked so that the water pounded on her back. She didn’t immediately react to his joining her, and so he took the moment to simply drink in the sight of her. All of her. She was slender almost to the point of skinny, but there was a hint of hips, albeit not much ass, a bit of graceful breadth to her shoulders. Her neck…that long, pale, slender column, made his mouth water. Plus, she had legs that went on forever.
All shiny wet and slippery looking, he ached to run his hands over her, bring her up to that fever pitch, the way he had in the kitchen. She’d responded to him so honestly, so openly, it had driven him half crazy. Her plea for him to take her where she stood had pushed him the rest of the way there. At the moment, though, she was simply standing, not even looking at him, seeming lost in thought. Was she wondering about him, after that call, or having second thoughts about the choices she’d made, getting intimate with a virtual stranger? He could hardly blame her, he supposed.
But, right now, he was more distracted by the fact that even doing nothing, she had his undivided attention. Okay, so she was nakedly doing nothing, and he had just been buried deep inside that slender frame, being held so tightly he’d thought he might just die from the pleasure of it. But still…he’d had sex before. Even good sex. Usually he found his mind drifting to the next game or event, or to a job-site issue with Dan, or…something other than the partner he’d just been intimate with.
And that’s when it hit him, the difference. Not that he’d made love to her in that kitchen. That had been all about sex, about slaking needs and taking and pleasuring. But, right now, watching her, thinking about that vulnerable part, the part that had taken a good long time to get to where she could let her defenses down with him completely, the way she obviously wanted to. Yes, he was thinking about that part, all tangled up with the way she’d followed his request to leave the rest of him out of the equation and just take him as she got to know him… he had a lot of respect for that. Especially given her self-proclaimed curious bent.
But it was that first part, the vulnerable part, that had kept her talking for a lot longer than most women would have, given his ready state and the fact that he had all but pushed her up against the wall in his desire to have her. He’d wanted to take her, to have her, to slake needs, his…and hers. And they’d done all that, and more.
So, it was curious now, not that he wanted her again, but that the needs behind it were different. He wanted to…what? Romance her? That wasn’t really it. And he didn’t know her well enough to call it lovemaking. That felt like something that required at least reaching some deeper level of affection. And it wasn’t that he felt sorry for her, for what the last person she’d trusted with her heart, her body, had done to her. He hated that, to be sure, but that wasn’t why his heart felt all kind of wobbly and weak when he looked at her.
He merely knew he wanted to give her pleasure, and take care of her in a way that wasn’t just about slaking needs and having mind-blowing sex. He wanted to give her…more. Get her off that wobbly, vulnerable edge, at least where this was concerned. Bring that other part he knew of her, the direct, confident part, to this. All of this.
He was reaching for her without really knowing what in the hell he was actually thinking, or even wanting. Maybe this wasn’t about her at all, or that sad look he’d seen in her eyes, or the way she’d had to talk herself into having sex she obviously wanted. Maybe this was about him. He wasn’t sure he really cared. And he knew he was tired, damn tired, of thinking about every last thing. He just wanted to feel. To do what felt natural, what felt right, and to hell with everything else.
Because, for once, maybe for the first time ever, there was nothing else.
He took her shoulders, gently, in his hands, and she didn’t jump, so she’d been aware he was standing behind her all this time. But she hadn’t turned, hadn’t looked at him. He turned her to him, into him, into his arms. It was
