Kincaid's Dangerous Game. Kathleen Creighton

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СКАЧАТЬ to speak.” She nodded, conceding the point. “So, okay, no cactus. Evergreen, or deciduous?”

      “Deciduous—uh…that means they lose their leaves, right?”

      She looked at him and he grinned to show her he was kidding. This time she tried not to smile back. “You seriously are not a gardener, are you? Where are you from?”

      “Nope,” he said amicably, “definitely not a gardener. And I live in L.A., actually.”

      “Really. Most people in L.A. have some kind of garden.”

      “Not me. Not even a houseplant.” He paused, then added with a shrug, “I’m not home enough to take care of anything living. I’ve got eucalyptus trees and ivy, some bougainvillea—that’s about it. Nature pretty much takes care of those.”

      He halted suddenly and pointed with a nod. “What are those? Over there—with all the flowers?”

      Billie gave him a look. “Uh…roses?”

      “Okay, sure, I see that now,” he said, throwing her a sheepish grin before returning to stare thoughtfully at the display of rosebushes. “Can you grow roses in Las Vegas?”

      “We wouldn’t sell them if they wouldn’t grow here,” she said shortly, and got a look of apology that made her feel vaguely ashamed. Her mind was skittering around like a squirrel trying to decide whether or not to run into traffic.

       The guy is attractive and charismatic as hell, and he still smells wrong. Well, actually, he smells pretty good. Whatever he’s using for aftershave, it was a good choice.

      She hauled in a determined breath. “Actually, roses do very well in a desert climate. Less trouble with disease. You just have to give them enough water.”

      “Hmm. Roses kind of go with weddings, don’t they?”

      “Sure. I suppose so. Yeah.”

      “They’d definitely be impressive,” he mused.

      “Yes, they would.”

      “And they have pretty flowers.”

      About then Billie realized they’d both stopped walking and were standing in the middle of the aisle smiling at each other. Really smiling. And her heart was beating faster, for no earthly reason she could imagine.

       Okay, I’m not a squirrel. I know what happens to squirrels who run into traffic.

      She cleared her throat and walked on with purpose, making her way quickly to the rosebushes. “Your timing is good, actually. They put out a nice fall bloom, once the weather cools. Couple more weeks, though, and we’d be pruning them back for the winter.”

      The customer picked up a red rosebush in a three-gallon pot, read the tag 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.

Chapter 2

      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?”

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