Here Comes Trouble (10 page)

And, perversely, that turned her on even more.

“I—uh—” was pretty much the extent of her verbal ability.

He moved in closer then, the extremely hard length of him pushing up against her belly, reminding her just how much taller and bigger he was than her. He pushed his hips in, pinning her to the wall, then slid his hands up the sides of her waist, brushing his thumbs over her still tightly budded nipples, making her twitch, gasp, then framed her face. Her gaze was riveted to his, her body his to do with whatever he pleased.

“I want you right here…right now. But while spontaneity is great…I didn’t come down here prepared for this.”

Oh.
Oh!
“I’m safe,” she said. “And I can’t—I won’t get pregnant.” She didn’t illuminate. Let him think she was otherwise protected. The end result was the same.

“I am, too. Safe, I mean.” He slid his hands into her hair. “Will you trust me, then?”

He was a biker, from Vegas. She had no reason to trust him. For all she knew he’d slept his way across the country. But that’s not what her instincts told her. And certainly not what she wanted to believe. And…he’d asked. He could have just taken. But he’d asked.

And then that twinkle surfaced, glittering playfully, and she was so gone, and not just her body. “Race you to my bedside nightstand,” he said, giving her the graceful out, and in such a way as to make it fun, easy. Not awkward.

And she knew then that it was never going to be awkward. Not with Brett.

“I’m fine…here,” she said, answering the trust question her own way. It was that or shake him and beg. And she was trying to at least pretend not to appear desperate and beyond needy.

“Really,” he said, that slow grin easing back across his handsome face. He tilted her head, lifting her mouth up to his. “Well, then…” He closed his mouth over hers, and all she could think was that it was always, always going to be just that good. Better, even.

Kirby wound her arms around his neck, and let herself go, let herself take, and open to him, and just sink into the pleasure that could be had just from kissing.

But Brett had other ideas. He gripped her hips and pulled her thighs up, urging her to cross her ankles behind his back. He hiked her up farther, until her face was even with his. He took advantage of the shift and took the kiss deeper. Then he slowly slid her down the wall…and onto him.

She sucked in a deep breath, and he slowed. “It’s okay?”

“Very,” she gasped.

He grinned against the side of her mouth, but said, “You sure?”

“Very.”

He took his time, given that gravity alone was pushing her down on him, and lifted her hips away from the wall a little so she could have some control over the movement.

And then, oh, there was movement. Heavenly, wonderfully invasive, incredibly fulfilling movement. If she’d thought she might die from the bliss of having his tongue on her…in her, well, this…? This was pretty much proof that she really had died and gone straight to heaven.

Their kiss was broken by the necessity of him arching his hips to keep her pinned so she could move. He still gripped her hips, she held on to his shoulders, her own head tipped back now pressing against the wall as her back arched away…pushing her more deeply onto him.

They found their rhythm, and she lost track of who was moaning, who was growling. His hands were wide, warm, and secure on her hips. He was deep, and strong, and steady in taking her. She’d never felt so wanton, so wanted, so purely sexual in her entire life.

She felt him gathering, and he pressed her back against the wall then, pinning her there with every part of his body. His mouth was on the curve of her neck and she felt devoured, invaded, claimed…and thrilled at the very intensity of it all.

When he came, he found her mouth, and took her there, too. She was gripping his shoulders so hard her fingers cramped; her legs shook from holding him so tightly. She took his pounding release and reveled in every pulse, every beat of her heart and of his.

They were both breathing hard, clutching each other, when he said, “Hold on.”

She already was, so she wasn’t sure what he meant. But as he slid from her body, he hiked her up higher again, and she instinctively tightened her legs around him. He turned, leaning his weight against the wall as he fought to regain his regular breathing. “Bed?” he said, nudging at her hair, her face tucked against the rapid pulse still beating in his neck. “Or shower.”

She might have growled a little at that last suggestion. A growly groan. It was a primal response and she was feeling nothing if not absolutely primal in that moment.

“Shower it is then.” He pushed away from the wall, holding on to her tightly. “Closest?”

“Mine,” she said, and when his hands reflexively tightened at the word, she instantly had a flash, a blink, of what it would be like if he actually was. “Front hall, first door,” she managed, thankful her face was averted from his. He saw too much with those soulful, wicked, sexy green eyes of his. She doubted the world would look the same to her after today; that was how altered she felt. Like the colors would be brighter, the sounds crisper, the smells sharper. All of her senses felt ignited to the point of hyperawareness and she wondered if they’d ever really return to the way they’d been before. At the moment, it didn’t seem possible.

She was a changed woman.

She slid her arms more tightly around his neck, knowing this was all some kind of hormonally induced nirvana. And given her past experiences, it was normal, even, at least for her, to feel these ridiculously out-of-place, over-the-top things. So it was good he didn’t know what was going through her mind. She’d just have to make sure he never knew.

She tried her best to maintain her balance, wrapped around him as she was, so he wasn’t hefting dead weight as he made his way to the front hall, to the door leading to her bed and bathroom. He adjusted her weight to free a hand up to open the door.

“You can put me down, you know.”

“Yep.” But he didn’t. He pushed open the door and kicked it shut behind them.

“Bathroom is the door on your left.”

They made it as far as the bed.

“But—” she started, then stopped as he lowered himself down next to her.

“I’ll do the laundry. I thought our legs could use a pit stop.”

She laughed. “I don’t care about the laundry part. And, now that I’m laying here…you’re right. My legs are shaky.”

“Mine, too,” he said, smiling.

“I should have told you to bring me in here before; I’m sorry.”

He rolled to his back and sighed with what sounded like deep appreciation. “Please, don’t be sorry for one second of that. Lord knows I’m not.”

She smiled. He slid his hand over until it found hers, and covered it. Something about that, about his wanting to still feel connected, sent her shooting willy-nilly into very dangerous territory. The fact that she knew it was the hormonal rush, the lack of male companionship, on all levels, and…well, a culmination of a lot of things she’d refused to let herself think about for the past few years…didn’t make it any less terrifying. More, perhaps.

Kirby wondered again about him. About his story. What had led him to her inn, what it was he had to work out while he was here. She wanted to just be curious, but not really care. Only when his fingers traced little patterns on the back of her hand, she felt her heart squeeze a little. And she knew that if they kept this up, even for a little while longer, it was going to hurt like hell when he left. And he would leave.

She closed her eyes. Dammit. Had she really thought she was cut out for casual relationships? Had she really thought that what life had handed her had changed her so profoundly that she could control this, too?

The simple answer was yes. Yes, she had. She’d been numb. So numb. For so long. Of course she thought she could call the shots, control the emotions. Hell, she hadn’t really thought she’d have any of the latter. She’d been thrilled just to have gotten back to the place where she was wanting the fundamental pleasure that sex could bring. If not anything beyond that. Surely she could control that. Most especially with a complete stranger. Simple.

Right.

To her horror, she felt that tingling burn gather behind her eyes. No. She absolutely, positively was not going to ruin what had otherwise been a stellar, stand-alone, exultant moment in her life. One she’d call upon for months, no, let’s be honest, years to come, when she needed a little pick-me-up. Or some good fantasy fodder.

Fantasy. That’s what she needed to latch on to. This was, for all intents, a pure fantasy. And as they went, it was pretty much the apex. So she’d fix her mind on that, on enjoying that, on being lucky enough to get that. Because, really, when she thought about it, it definitely beat not ever having had it. Emotional threat or not.

There. She squeezed her eyes a bit more tightly and focused on how lucky she was…and the threat subsided.

“Kirby,” he said in a drowsy, perfectly sexy, gravelly kind of way.

She rolled her head to the side, looked at Brett, just as he did the same. Their gazes collided. Then he smiled. And it wasn’t knowing, or a come-on, or even post-coitally dazed. Nope. It was sincere and honest. And…well, sweet.

Yeah. She was totally screwed.

B
rett had promised Kirby a shower. And, in theory, it sounded like one of his better ideas. If only he could will himself to move off the bed. He could honestly say that he’d never met anyone like her. And he’d definitely never had sex like that.

How it had seemed perfectly natural to carry on a lengthy conversation while standing that deep in each other’s personal space, all that sexual tension leaping off them both, without just ripping each other’s clothes off and having at it…he had no idea. But he was pretty damn sure it wouldn’t have been nearly as spectacular, or just plain damn fun, if they’d gone about it any other way.

She was singular, Kirby was. Nothing like the women who normally crossed his path. There was no fear in talking about what was going through her mind…and yet beneath all that, or actually right there on the surface along with it, there were some pretty hefty vulnerabilities as well. He wasn’t sure whether or not she thought she’d done a good job of hiding the fact that her past still colored her present. But he’d pulled too many marathons at too many poker tables, staring at hundreds if not thousands of faces, to not be good—damn good—at reading people.

He’d been curious about her before. After the tree. And dinner. And psycho kitty stuff. But now, after having her, tasting her, taking her like that…He closed his eyes.
Yeah. Like that.
Damn, that had been fucking amazing. She’d been fucking amazing. And he wanted her again.

Which he’d do something about. Just as soon as his body recovered. It had been a while since he’d played like that, and he was still dog tired from the past couple of weeks. Months. Hell, longer, to be honest, if he factored in mental fatigue. But she’d stirred up more than his long-neglected libido. She’d stirred his mind up, too.

Since she didn’t seem to be in any hurry, either, he laid there, lazily stroking the back of her hand, liking the contact with her warm skin as he listened to her breathing even out. And, despite the fatigue, the worry, the concern, that had been dogging him for what felt like ages now…at that moment, he felt almost peaceful. Certainly more relaxed than he’d been in a long time. He smiled. He could hear Dan now.
Well, of course you’re feeling mellow. You finally got laid.

He was still smiling as his eyes drifted shut. He sure as hell had.

He thought about what he’d tell Dan about Kirby. The two of them went back so far, there was very little if anything one didn’t know about the other. So it was kind of foreign, this feeling he had, of wanting to keep this, keep Kirby, to himself. At least for now. Maybe it was part of the whole thing about her getting to know him outside of his professional persona. It felt pretty damn good, he had to say. And in ways that had nothing to do with sex. Though he knew that played a role, too.

He’d tell Dan about her eventually. After he’d taken off. Right now, he didn’t want any outside influence at all. He just wanted this.

To that end, he covered Kirby’s hand and tugged her gently until she rolled toward him. He tucked her easily, and almost too naturally, against his side. He’d never necessarily thought of himself as the post-coital cuddler type, if he even was a type, but there was a lot to be said for having the warm body of a naked woman tucked up against him. Didn’t happen all that often. No point in sleeping alone if a guy didn’t have to.

Yeah, right. He tucked her head beneath his chin and she mumbled something in her sleep. He pressed a kiss against her hair. She drew her leg up over his thigh. He let sleep claim him, well aware of the big smile on his face.

The ringing phone jerked them both awake some indeterminate amount of time later. She groaned when her head connected with his chin, and they both sucked in a quick wince of pain as their cat-scratched skin stretched when they moved apart and sat up too quickly.

His eyes went to the jagged, flame-red marks that streaked across her stomach. His back probably looked much the same. He didn’t mind his so much, but he hated seeing all that creamy skin of hers, skin he’d tasted now, all raw and ravaged. He was happy the little heathen’s attack skills would come in handy in her new life…and equally grateful the cat would never get a chance to mark up Kirby’s champagne-sweet skin again.

Skin he was thinking of sipping, much like the finest Perrier-Jouet, and was dipping his head to put thought to deed, when the phone rang again. It occurred to him as the muzziness of sleep cleared with the continued ringing that she was running a business here, so he reluctantly aborted his mission. “You need to get that?”

All he got in response was a grunt, which made him smile. There wasn’t much about her that didn’t make him smile, he realized. She rolled to a sitting position, her lovely naked back to him, her hair all sexy in a mussed-up, bed-head kind of way. The kind of way that made him want to pull her back down and roll her underneath him. He felt his body come to life at the thought, and his smile widened. So, maybe he wasn’t all that road weary after all. Or she was the elixir of life. Either way, things were looking up for him. Literally.

The phone continued to ring. “Yes,” she said at length, fighting a yawn. “I should. But the machine will pick up. I’ll screen it.”

“Do you have more than one line? I mean, a private one for you?”

“My cell is my private line, and I have the line here forwarded to that one if I am out or away. But that line, the ringing one, that’s for the inn.”

He could have pointed out that, given the dearth of guests at the moment, possibly she didn’t want to avoid taking the call. But if ignoring the phone meant he had her all to himself a little while longer? Well, he was all for that. Who was he to tell her how to run her business?

The phone cut off, mid-ring, and he thought the caller had hung up until he heard the echo of a voice—a man’s voice—coming from the room beyond. There was a door between this room and that one, partially opened now. He vaguely remembered seeing the other space that looked like an office before he’d kicked the door shut and dropped them to the bed. He hadn’t really been paying attention, as he’d had a naked woman wrapped around him at the time.

“—know who that is staying at your place?”

Brett’s attention was immediately yanked from Kirby and all the wonderful things he wanted to do to and with her, and directed to the disembodied voice coming from the next room. He felt his spirit sink, like his entire body kind of just caved in a little. He could have spoken up, said anything, and drowned the voice out. But it would only have delayed the inevitable. He’d hoped, thought, that being the only guest here and not having left the inn since checking in, that he’d keep his anonymity a while longer. Like, until he decided to leave. He’d been in Vegas for so long, where everyone knew who he was. The thrill of being unknown hadn’t worn off yet.

But he remained silent and watched as Kirby slowly turned enough so she could look at him.

“—Brett Hennessey.
The
Brett Hennessey. He’s like the Tiger Woods of poker. Guy’s won millions.” The man on the phone chuckled like he’d personally hit some kind of jackpot. “Hey, maybe you should get him to do some kind of commercial for you. Or at least autograph something to hang on your wall. Guests would love that kind of stuff. When you get guests, that is. Anyway, just letting you know you have nothing to worry about.” There was a pause, then, sounding highly amused with himself, the caller added, “As long as you don’t play five card stud with the guy.” On a final, self-satisfied chuckle, the call finally, mercifully, ended.

Brett held Kirby’s gaze and braced himself, even as he mentally began packing his bags and wondering where he’d head to next. Maybe Dan was right, and he should just head home.

But she merely lifted her eyebrows in question. He lifted a shoulder in response.

And, rather stunningly, she didn’t ask a single question. Well, she did ask one.

“You still thinking about taking that shower?”

He stared at her a second longer. As if he wasn’t entirely sure he was hearing things properly. Or maybe he’d just hallucinated that entire phone call. His worst fear. Well, not his worst, not given what was going on back home, or had…but in this particular intimate situation, certainly up there on that list. “Who was the guy?” he asked, wondering both who knew he was here…and, maybe, what he was to Kirby.

“Thad. Deputy Johnson,” she clarified. “That’s who I faxed the copy of your driver’s license to.”

Brett supposed he’d been kidding himself, thinking he’d remain some kind of phantom lover or something. Although, outside of Vegas, unless you were a gambler, an online player, or a late-night watcher of ESPN, it would be kind of unusual to know of him. He wondered which category Deputy Thad fell into.

“It does explain a few things,” she said, apparently mistaking his silence for a desire on his part for her to say something, anything.

“Like?”

“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.