Taken (18 page)

Last night had been a mistake. They’d gone too far too fast. She couldn’t pretend that he’d talked her into it.

She’d wanted to make love to him. Only now it was the next day, and she had to face the fact that their relationship was more than a little confusing.

She told herself not to do this, not to get crazy, over-analyzing, overthinking. She didn’t need to figure anything out. Last night was last night. For the moment she was just going to let it be.

Drawing several deep, calming breaths, she watched the horses move into the walking ring. At various points the jockeys would hop aboard, and then the horses would turn onto the main track. Kayla had to admit that the thor-oughbreds were beautiful, powerful creatures. Some looked nervous, prancing and pulling away from their handlers. Others seemed calm, almost bored, as if they’d done this a hundred times already.

“Which one do you like?” Nick asked her.

She was grateful for the casual conversation. “I don’t know what to look for. Do you?”

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He shrugged. “No idea whatsoever. I’m sure there are techniques for picking winners, but it all seems too much of a gamble to me. I like to bet on things I can control.”

She could understand that. Nick didn’t like to put his life into anyone else’s hands. “I don’t think it’s considered a gamble if you have control,” she pointed out. “The element of risk is what makes it exciting.”

“So you find the idea of betting on the horses exciting?” he drawled.

The wicked light in his eyes thrilled her far more than the horses, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “It could be fun,” she said lightly.

“Which one would you pick?”

As the horses paraded up and down in front of the crowd, she decided she liked number eight. “That one.”

She pointed to the only gray horse in the race. “Because she isn’t as pretty.”

“Maybe she isn’t as fast either.” He picked up a dis-carded program on the ground and flipped through it.

“She’s not a she either,” he said with a laugh. “Guess what? The horse you picked is named Mr. Right.”

“No way.” She grabbed the program out of his hand.

Damn, it was true. “I’m changing my pick. This one —

Pat’s Mink Coat. I like that. It sounds like a strong, inde-pendent woman.”

“That horse is also a colt,” Nick pointed out.

“Fine, then Pat can buy me a mink coat when he wins.”

Nick’s smile was filled with amusement. “How much do you want to risk?”

She dug into her wallet. “Five bucks?”

“Ah — the last of the big-time spenders.”

She made a face at him and walked over to a ticket ma-TA K E N

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chine. A minute later she had a ticket in hand. “I think I am feeling lucky,” she said. It was hard not to get fired up. The air was filled with the hopes and dreams of hundreds of people believing that today they might just beat the odds. Maybe she could, too.

“Good, let’s hope your luck helps us get some information on Evan’s old pal.”

They walked over to a nearby bar concession and waited for a middle-aged woman to finish filling the order before them. She was a hard-looking woman in her late forties with a lined face and a tattoo of a boat anchor on her wrist. Her name tag read CASS.

“Hi, there,” Nick said, flashing Cass a disarming smile. “We’re looking for some horse experts. The guys who hang out here every day of the week rain or shine and never seem to win as much as they lose.”

“Sweetie, you just described half the men at the track,”

she said with amusement.

“One of the guys goes by the nickname Lucky Seven.

Does that ring a bell?”

“Sure, I know Lucky. Haven’t seen him around in a while, though. You should talk to Roger. He and Lucky always hang out together. They swear they have a secret system for picking horses. They claim the jockeys are sending them signals from the paddock.” She tipped her head to two men sitting at a corner table nearby. “That’s Roger, the one with the cap. Do you want a drink?”

“Thanks anyway,” he said, sliding a ten-dollar bill across the counter.

“You come back anytime now.”

Nick smiled at Kayla as they moved away from the bar. “Looks like your luck is holding so far.”

“Or yours. She gazed at the men Cass had pointed out.

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Roger appeared to be in his mid-sixties and wore a cap on his balding head. His companion looked to be even older, his face weathered, his hands a bit shaky as he raised his beer glass to his lips. Several newspapers were spread out in front of them, as if they were doing some serious hand-icapping.

“Excuse me, are you Roger?” Nick asked, as they walked over to the table.

The man looked up, wariness in his eyes. “Who said I was?”

“The bartender, Cass.”

“Oh, well, if you’re a friend of that doll, then you can sit.” He kicked out the chair next to his.

“Great. I’m hoping you can help me find someone,”

Nick said, as he and Kayla took the seats. “His name is Will, and he goes by the nickname Lucky Seven. Do you know him?”

Roger exchanged a look with the man next to him. “Of course I know Lucky. Everybody does. He’s a legend around here. Always wins the seventh race. I swear, sometimes I thought he had the jockey in his pocket.”

“Is he here today?” Kayla asked.

“Nah. Lucky hasn’t been here in a few months, I don’t think,” he said. “Had a stroke a while back, and he ran into some bad luck.”

Kayla’s heart sank. Great, just when she’d thought they were getting somewhere.

“Do you know where to find him?” Nick asked.

“Where he lives?”

“What’s the name of that hotel?” Roger asked his friend. “Where Lucky is?”

The other man frowned. “Something with a bird in it.”

“Pelican, that’s it,” Roger said with a snap of his fin-TA K E N

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gers. “Off Sixth Street in San Francisco. What do you two want with old Lucky?”

“We just want to speak to him about one of his friends.”

Roger let out a loud guffaw. “Lucky don’t have no friends. The man’s full of shit, always has been. He’d steal from his own mother, you know?”

That sounded like one of Evan’s friends, Kayla thought. Maybe they were on the right track.

“I wouldn’t believe a word he says,” Roger continued.

“Lucky don’t know a lie from the truth.”

“Thanks, we’ll keep that in mind,” Nick said, getting to his feet. He paused. “You don’t happen to know a friend of Lucky’s named Evan — a tall, blond guy?”

Roger shrugged. “Don’t think so.”

“What about Lucky’s real name?” Kayla asked.

“Will Jacobson,” Roger replied.

Kayla stood up as well. “Thanks for your time.

“What do you think?” she asked Nick as they walked away from the table.

“I think we should try to find a hotel off Sixth Street with the word
Pelican
in it.”

“Another long shot,” she pointed out.

“So far so good. Hey, I think your horse is running.”

They rushed back out to the rail. Kayla caught her breath at the magnificent sight, the flying hooves and flowing manes, the jockeys battling for position, the excitement of the crowd screaming for their favorites. The gray horse was out in front . . . Mr. Right. Wouldn’t it figure that the one time she didn’t go for him, he’d probably win.

“Looks like we should have gone with the long shot,”

Nick murmured.

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“Where’s Pat’s Mink Coat?”

“Close to the back, I think.”

She stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better view of the far side of the track. “I think he’s making a move.” Sure enough the announcer followed with, “And now moving into second is Pat’s Mink Coat.”

Kayla gripped the rail as the horses made the final turn. They pounded down the stretch, the jockeys using their whips, the horses straining with each movement.

Pat’s Mink Coat suddenly made a dash for the lead.

“Go!” she screamed. Pat’s Mink Coat crossed the finish line first by a nose. “We won. We won.” She jumped up and down, and suddenly she was in Nick’s arms. She didn’t know who kissed who first, but the lingering sparks from the night before suddenly roared again. One kiss turned into two, then three. Finally she pulled away to catch her breath, to neaten her hair, to get her wits about her.

“Let’s collect our winnings,” Nick said, an odd note in his voice. “And then we can decide what to do next.”

His words sounded strangely ominous. But he wasn’t talking about what to do next in a personal way, she told herself firmly. Their next move would be to find Will, then Evan. Nick was with her only until they found Evan.

After that . . . they would be finished.

Nick’s nerves were jumping as they left the track. He feared his latest adrenaline rush had little to do with the information they’d dug up or Kayla’s winning horse. His heart was pumping faster because of Kayla, because he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop wanting her. He had the terrible feeling he could get lost in her big
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brown eyes, in her lush, soft body, and he’d never find his way out.

He had to focus, concentrate.
Stop touching her.

First things first — he had to find Evan. Nothing else was as important. His brain knew that for a fact. Unfortunately, his body was having a little trouble repriori-tizing.

They didn’t say anything as they got back on the freeway. Kayla spent an inordinate amount of time trying to pick a piece of lint off her jeans. Of course, glancing at her jeans only reminded him of how great her ass was. He cleared his throat and turned on the air conditioner. He needed to cool down fast.

He pushed his foot down on the gas pedal, eager to get to their destination. “Damn this traffic,” he muttered.

“Has the Bay Area gotten more crowded since I’ve been gone? It’s Sunday. Why isn’t anyone home?”

“It’s too nice a day to stay inside. And it was a long winter. Spring fever is setting in.”

Maybe that was his problem, he thought, as her smile drew his gaze to her soft mouth, her sweet, delicious lips.

“Nick, you have to stop looking at me like that,” she whispered.

His hands jerked on the wheel, and he swerved, hitting the bumps along the lane dividers. He immediately corrected, turning his gaze back to the road. Kayla was right: He did need to stop looking at her like that. He needed to find Evan and move on. And Kayla needed the same thing. What
else
they both needed he wasn’t going to think about.

As they drove off the Bay Bridge back into San Francisco, Kayla shifted in her seat, relieved that she now had
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something else to think about besides Nick. They needed to find the hotel and hopefully Evan’s old friend. Sixth Street ran for many blocks, but it grew seedier as they entered the part of San Francisco known as the Tenderloin.

Homeless people and ragged-looking panhandlers were everywhere, some standing at intersections with signs, begging for food, others sprawled in doorways or on steps, one drunk lying half on the curb, half off. Kayla wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead.

“I haven’t been down this way in a while,” she muttered. “It’s pretty bad.”

“Maybe I should take you home.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m a big girl, and it’s broad daylight.”

“This isn’t your pretty world of stained glass.”

“It’s not your world either, Nick, but it exists and I’m not afraid of it. If anything, I’d like to do something to help. I’ve been so self-involved the last few weeks I’ve forgotten about the rest of the world.” She suddenly realized how completely engrossed she’d been in the fantasy world she’d created with Evan. It was as if she’d entered a twilight zone, a different dimension where nothing was real. But now she was back.

“I think that’s it.” Nick pointed down the street to a four-story building in disrepair, a sign swinging off one nail that claimed they’d reached the Grand Pelican Hotel.

There was nothing grand about the hotel or the pelican statue that sat out front and was currently being used as a urinal.

Kayla grimaced as a man zipped up his pants and stumbled on his way.

Nick found a parking spot not too far away. He took her hand in his as they walked down the sidewalk together. A few bums approached them for spare change,
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but Nick brushed them off. She’d appease her conscience later by making a nice donation to a homeless shelter, she told herself.

The Grand Pelican was a low-income residence hotel, Kayla realized, as they stepped inside the dark, murky in-terior that smelled of booze and other odors she didn’t particularly want to identify. After they asked for Will Jacobson, the bored clerk watching a rerun of
Jeopardy!

muttered, “Sixty-two, sixth floor.”

Relieved that they were getting somewhere, they boarded the elevator and got off at the sixth floor. The door to number sixty-two opened at the first knock, and they found themselves face-to-face with a disheveled old man who appeared to be in his sixties. His hair was white and rose in unkempt tufts across his head. His cheeks were unshaved, his whiskers gray. He had a large, bulbous nose, a red face, and bleary blue eyes. He wore an old T-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms.

“Who are you?” he asked, his expression confused.

“You’re not Candy. Candy said she was coming by to bring me lunch. Where’s my lunch?”

Kayla didn’t know how to answer. She drew a little closer to Nick, not sure why she felt so unsettled. This man wasn’t going to hurt them, but the whole building felt a little spooky.

“Candy’s coming along later,” Nick said. “We want to talk to you, Will. Are you the same guy they call Lucky Seven?”

His mouth suddenly widened, and his eyes sharpened.

“That’s me. Who told you about me? You brought old Lucky a tip?”

“Your friend Roger said we could find you here,” Nick told him. “Can we come in?”

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