“You want anything to drink? Or eat?” he asked, frowning, remembering the way she’d lurched out of the coffee shop downstairs, looking decidedly green around the gills. Chances were, he thought, she’d lost most of that Chinese food he’d bought her.

He knew he’d been right yet again when she smiled wryly.

“Yeah, actually, I am.”

He picked up the phone, pressed the button for room service, then looked over at her and raised his eyebrows.

“A BLT on wheat and a chocolate shake would be fine.”

He nodded, and she watched him while he gave the order, adding a cup of black coffee for himself. Noted the way his hair hugged the back of his head and receded-only a little bit and very attractively-at the temples. There were touches of silver there, too, and she wondered for the first time how old he was. Not that it mattered, she told herself. What did matter was that he was attracted to her, and she could use that to her advantage. She told herself the shiver of excitement she could feel running like a current under her skin was only the thrill of the game, the same excitement she always felt when she knew she was holding the winning hand.

He hung up the phone and looked over at her, eyes narrowed in a Clint Eastwood squint. She looked back at him, and the shiver beneath her skin coalesced in the center of her chest, a tight ball of warmth.

Take it easy, Bren, don’t be too obvious or you’ll scare him off. He’s got scruples-who would’ve guessed a P.I. would have those?

She eased herself carefully back in the chair, elbows on the chair’s arms, her hands clasped across her middle. “So, what now? You want to hear more about my misspent life?”

“No,” he said, still frowning at her in that thoughtful way, “I really don’t.”

“O-kay.” What now? She returned his gaze unflinchingly, but inside she felt off balance, as if she’d missed a step in a dance. She had to pause an awkward moment in order to pick up the beat, and her voice sounded artificial even to her own ears when she finally said, “So, tell me about yours, then.”

“Nothing to tell.” It was brusque, a door slammed in her face with such finality she caught her breath in a small, involuntary gasp. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned toward her, hands clasped between his knees. “What I would like to know,” he said in a hard voice, “is why you don’t want to even meet your brothers. Cory especially. He’s been looking for you for a long time, you know. He was the one who protected you when you and Brooke were small. You were just babies, and he kept you safe when your father went on his rampages. He sheltered you both in his arms the night your father shot your mother and then killed himself. Without a doubt your father intended to kill you all. You’d be dead, too, if it hadn’t been for Cory.”

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

Holt 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?