Kincaid's Dangerous Game. Kathleen Creighton

like to.” She paused and gave him her game smile—confident, apologetic, serene. “And you know…sooner or later, one of us is going to have to call.”

      He expelled air in an exasperated puff, then looked over at the buffet tables, frowned and muttered, “I need some dessert,” the way someone might say, “I need a drink.”

      “Have some of mine.” Having obviously rattled him, she was enjoying herself again.

      He aimed the frown at her, then at her plate. His eyebrows rose. “Is that pudding?”

      “Yeah, and you’re welcome to it.” She slid the plate toward him, then rested her chin in the palm of her hand and watched him pick up his spoon, scoop up a bite of the stuff, frown at it, then put it in his mouth. She felt an absurd and totally unfamiliar urge to giggle.

      “So…” Still frowning, he took another bite. “Who’s going to call—you or me?”

      “You really aren’t much of a card player, are you?” She was feeling amused, relaxed, confident, sure she had the upper hand again. “If I call, you’ve got two choices—fold or show me your cards.”

      He stared at the spoon, his frown deepening. “Yeah, but you have to pay for the privilege, as I recall.” His eyes lifted and shot that keen blue gaze right into hers. As if he could see through her dark glasses. As if he could see into her soul.

      Cold fingers took another walk across the back of her neck. A reminder that with this guy she couldn’t afford to let her guard down, not even for a moment.

      “This isn’t poker,” she snapped, no longer amused, relaxed or confident. “And let’s quit the poker analogies, which I could think of a whole lot more of, but what’s the point? Here’s the deal—I don’t give a damn who you’re looking for or who you’re working for, and if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay with me. Now—” she slid out of the booth and stood up “—are we done here?”

      “The person I work for,” Holt said, pushing aside the dessert plate and reaching for his wallet, “hired me to find his two younger brothers and twin sisters. So far, I’ve found the brothers and one of the twins.” He took out some bills and laid them on the table, then looked up at Billie. “That twin’s name is Brooke Fallon. Her sister’s name is Brenna. She ran away from home when she was fourteen.” He tucked his wallet away again and waited.

      The silence at the table was profound, but inside Billie’s head was the tumultuous crashing sound of her world falling apart.

      “So?” she said, and could not feel her lips move. She was vaguely surprised to find she was sitting down again.

      “So, I thought you might be my client’s missing baby sister,” he said softly, as he slid out of the booth. “And if you were, I thought you might be interested to know you’ve got a family that’s looking for you.”

      She shook her head…pursed her lips, stiff though they were. “Sorry. Not me. Don’t know her.”

      “Hmm,” Holt said, gazing down at her, “if that’s true, I’ll be really disappointed. I guess I’ll have to wait for the DNA to tell me whether I have to keep looking for Brenna Fallon, or whether I’ve already found her.”

      “Wait.” A breath gusted from her lungs. She reached out and snagged his jacket sleeve as he turned away. “What are you talking about? I’m not giving you my DNA. You’re not a cop, you can’t—”

      His smile was gentle. “Oh, but you’ve already given me what I need.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out what appeared to be a folded paper napkin. Unfolded it and showed her what was inside.

      Only years of practice at keeping her face and body under strictest control prevented her from blowing it completely. She stared at the thin wooden stick nestled in white paper in complete silence, and her mind was empty of thought. But somewhere in the primal recesses of her consciousness, a terrified child was screaming—Run.