Authors: Rita Rainville
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Kara reluctantly passed over a blue knee-length robe and reached for a clean pair of jeans and a cotton shirt. After dressing quickly and brushing back her towel-dried hair, she frowned into the mirror. She wasn't about to put makeup on this late in the evening. He'd just have to take her as she was. No, scratch that, she advised herself hurriedly. Too frequently for her peace of mind he had the look of a man who intended to do just that.
She found him examining stacks of photos with absorbed interest. He had made himself very much at home, she noted absently. The cookies were almost gone, and his cup looked ready for a refill.
"Fascinating, aren't they?" she asked, watching him as he kept the pictures in their original order by placing them face-down in a pile. He swept them up and carefully returned them to their assigned space.
"Hm-hmm." He slid her mug closer to him and eased his chair back a bit. "Sit here," he directed, sliding his arm around her waist and easing her down on his thigh.
"I'm too heavy," she objected as she perched gingerly on a leg so muscular it felt like a wooden beam.
"I can handle it," he assured her. "You may eat like a lumberjack, but you still don't weigh any more than a butterfly. Come on, I want you close so you can tell me who these people are. Is the coffee too potent?"
As she obediently lifted her cup to test the strength, Kara realized that once again she had been outmaneuvered. Slick technique, she decided. Every time she argued about something, he gave a rational explanation and asked a question that changed the subject.
Not bad. In fact, it was well worth cultivating.
For the next thirty minutes she pointed out friends and relatives and answered questions. Yes, she was allergic to animal hair, but that didn't stop her from bringing home stray dogs. Yes, that was her at fourteen wearing a ponytail and flashing braces. There she was learning to water-ski. Not exactly star material, but she finally, managed to stay up on her feet.
Kara eventually set her mug down with a definite clink. "You've seen my father, my mother, two brothers and assorted branches of the family tree. You even got a glimpse of Uncle Walter, for heaven's sake. That's enough, the end, finis."
She raised her hand to cover a huge yawn and stood up. He rose with her, and she mumbled, "You make wonderful coffee, but even that can't keep me awake. You're going out the door. I'm going to lock that nice, shiny dead bolt and fall into bed."
As she turned to follow her own excellent advice, she found that her body wouldn't cooperate.
Dane was perched on the edge of the table, legs slightly apart. Kara was pressed against him, fitted to the lean length of his body as if tailor-made. His grasp was light, but she knew she wasn't going anywhere until he let her. The silvery flash in his eyes alerted her drowsy senses.
She opened her mouth to protest . . . and knew she was too late. His breath was warm on her face. Even as she tasted the coffee on his lips, she stretched and slipped her arms around his neck. Dane's hands slid down into her back pockets and pressed her close against the undeniable evidence that his attention had not been entirely on photographs.
Kissing Dane, she thought dazedly, was a bit like going under an anesthetic. It would be so easy to give up, to let him take control. The idea was tempting, and for a moment she did nothing but lean against him and savor the touch of his lips, the warmth of his body.
"Dane?" The whisper was a puff of sound against his mouth.
"Hmm?" he murmured without moving.
Slowly, reluctantly, her hands slid to his chest. She was momentarily distracted as she felt the crisp hair beneath his thin shirt. Her fingers lingered, then curled into small fists and tentatively pushed.
"Hmm?" he repeated, raising his head a fraction of an inch.
"Better stop right now, or God only knows where we'll end up," she said shakily.
"We both know where we're going to end up. In my bed."
"Maybe," she said, getting her second wind.
"No maybe about it," he said flatly.
"But not tonight," she persevered.
"No, not tonight. When it happens, you won't be dead on your feet."
"In that case, may I have my pockets back?" she asked with a straight face.
Tightening his hands again around the softly curved flesh, he pulled Kara against him and leaned down for one last, hard kiss. Raising his head, he stared at her with narrowed eyes, then turned them both toward the door.
Feeling as if she had had a narrow escape, Kara silently released a sigh of relief. Lowering her lashes, she meekly agreed to lock and bolt the door.
"I'll be by about one tomorrow," he said, still in the doorway.
"'Where are we going?" She was definitely going to have to teach him how to ask. His orders were beginning to get on her nerves.
"Del Mar."
"A racetrack? That's like taking a busman's holiday," she protested. "I don't have any fun at the races."
"I have an overwhelming desire to see a semi-psychic in action," he admitted. "Just once. I'll never ask you again."
"All right," she capitulated slowly, suddenly remembering Benito's glasses and the additional clothes. "But you have to let me do it my way. You're not to try to convince me that your system is better and pressure me to change my mind."
"Would I do such a thing?" he asked innocently.
"You would. You do. Constantly."
"I'll have to work on that, won't I?"
"You certainly will," she murmured as she locked the door and turned out the lights. "You certainly will."
"I am absolutely, positively not superstitious," Kara muttered aloud as she smoothed down the lavender sundress and sprayed on cologne.
Dane was due in ten minutes. Ten minutes-just long enough to drive herself crazy. Just because it had been her policy to have other people bring the money and do the betting, it didn't mean it wouldn't work if she supplied the cash, did it? Of course it didn't. Surely a simple change in procedure wouldn't affect her ability to pick the winners. She knocked on wood and crossed her fingers.
The cause was still the same, the children still the beneficiaries, she reasoned. It would make no difference at all that her dollar bills would be slid across the counter instead of Juanito's pesos. If this peculiar ability to pick a winner was God-given, as Aunt Tillie maintained, would He abruptly withdraw it just because she was trying to prove a point?
She wished that her intentions were as straightforward as they ordinarily were. This time, unfortunately, there was a bit of ego involved. Plus, she reluctantly admitted, a desire to beat Dane's systematic approach to smithereens. Just once, she would like to knock him off his patronizing perch, to dent his belief that whatever she did, he could do better. No, she admitted, as a brisk rap sounded on the door, her motives were far from pure.
An hour later, sitting in a shaded area of the racetrack on the outskirts of San Diego, she sighed in relief. She had opened the program, afraid to look at the names of the horses in the first race. But there they were. Almost as if someone had taken a felt-tipped pen and highlighted them.
Dane's eyes had a quizzical gleam. "Who do you like?"
"Banjo Eyes," she said firmly.
"You've got to be kidding," he said in astonishment. "That's a dog, not a horse. She hasn't been among the first five in her last ten races."
"I don't care if she's tottering out of her stall with an impacted wisdom tooth. She's the one."
Dane stood up to go place the bets. "To show?" he asked hopefully as he took her five dollars.
"No, she's not coming in third. Bet her to win."
Kara could see by the set of his shoulders that Dane thought she was crazy. He was probably also wondering how on earth the children had a roof over their heads if they were dependent upon her winnings.
Ten minutes later, she was vindicated. Dane had all but pulled his horse around the track with body language and hoarse shouts, and still it had come in fourth.
"I don't believe it." He looked at her accusingly, as if she had used black magic. "That horse of yours ran the fastest race of her career. How do you account for that?"
"I can't," she said simply. "I don't even try. I just tell people how to bet and watch them collect their money."
"Do you know what the odds were?"
Kara sighed. "No. But I'm sure that you do."
"Twenty to one."
Her brows knit as she thought about that, and Dane's exasperation grew. "I won a hundred dollars," she announced in a pleased tone.
"And I lost two."
"Dollars?"
"Hundred."
"Dane! You shouldn't bet that kind of money! Especially when you're going to lo.." Swallowing her impetuous words, she bent over and looked intently at the program. Her head immediately bobbed up. "Oh, gosh, I suppose I should pick up my money."
"I'll do that when I place your next bet." He eyed her curiously. "What's your choice for the second race?"
"Bojo's Boy. Put my hundred on him to win."
He looked appalled. "No! Damn it, Kara, he's a mudder. He likes a wet track, and it hasn't rained in months."
"Well, he's just going to have to learn not to be so picky. He'll run on a dry track and like it."
"You're really serious, aren't you?" Frustration had deepened the green of his eyes.
She couldn't help it; she laughed up at him. "Put your money on him, Dane. He's going to win."
"No way. Your method is as haphazard as drawing a name out of a hat. You were lucky the first time, but this one's not coming through for you. I'll bet on one that at least has a chance."
Fifteen minutes later, Dane stoically tore up his tickets. He scowled at Kara. "You now have seven hundred dollars."
"How much did you lose?"
"Never mind."
"This time," she said, "I want you to keep six hundred for me and bet the rest on Harpsichord."
"If you're so sure of yourself, why not bet the whole thing?"
"I try to keep a low profile, not to make any bets big enough to attract a lot of attention."
"Too bad you didn't think of that the last time you were in Tijuana. You wouldn't have--did you say Harpsichord?" His voice rose in disbelief.
She nodded.
"Kara," he lowered his voice to somewhere near its normal tone, "this time you're dead wrong. I'm telling you, don't waste your money. This is a high-strung horse, and only one jockey has ever ridden him. The jockey broke his arm last week. I don't know why they didn't withdraw him."
"The jockey?" she asked in bewilderment.
"The horse." His tone was that of a man pushed beyond his limits but still trying to be reasonable.
"He'll fight this new jockey every step of the way. Pick another one," he urged.
Kara looked at the program again. "No," she said definitely. "It's Harpsichord."
Dane turned to face her. His hand was warm on her arm, his voice filled with utter exasperation. "Why the hell can't you listen to reason? I'm only trying to help you."
She patted his hand. "I know you are, and I appreciate it. But don't you understand? This has nothing to do with logic or common sense."
Her expressive face was pleading for understanding. "I'm sure that everything you're telling me is true. But it simply doesn't matter. I look at this program and I know which horse is going to win. There's nothing rational about it. It has nothing to do with dry tracks, nervous horses, or any other calculable condition."
She stared over his shoulder for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Her eyes were as level as her voice as she continued. "What it has to do with is Aunt Tillie and a special sensitivity, which I've apparently inherited. I know you're still skeptical," she said quickly as he opened his mouth. "Apparently we'll just have to agree to disagree. I can't follow your advice when all my instincts tell me to do otherwise."
Tactfully, she didn't remind him that so far her track record was better than his. "And, just to be fair, I won't expect you to change your lifelong pattern of gathering all the evidence, sifting through it and reaching a conclusion." Ignoring his dissatisfied expression, she asked, "Now will you place my bet on Harpsichord?"
"Under protest," he told her, reaching for her tickets.
"I'll walk along with you," she said. "It'll be a while before the next race."
"You really don't enjoy this, do you?" he asked, sharply aware of her fleeting expressions.
"No." She shook her head. "I think a lot of the fun is the anticipation and excitement. The unknown. Screaming and shouting to encourage your horse, then feeling clever because you guessed right. But there's no anticipation for me. It's a bit like reading a mystery after someone told me that the butler did it. "
He laced his fingers through hers, his voice quiet with conviction. "It's luck, Kara. Phenomenal, admittedly, but just luck."
Obviously she hadn't made a believer of him. Yet.