Rage Factor (9 page)

“Did I ever tell you you’re a beautiful woman?” He continued before she could answer. “When you’re sixty-five, Dixie, you’ll still be beautiful, but
that
woman …” He nodded at Mud. “Even Mean Ugly Dog is better-looking.”

Mud sat back on his haunches, still watching the steaks.

“Yet, you can tell Berinson loves his wife. So when she starts eyeing at a forty-foot party boat, which any real man could never take his fishing buddies on, he makes like it’s okay.”

Dixie thought about the dirty old man in the courtroom today, and Lawrence Coombs, and was glad Parker was telling her this story. Sometimes a person’s outlook could be distorted by the people she dealt with.

“From the way they’re talking,” Parker said, “I catch on that the Berinsons aren’t too worried where their next meal will come from, so I take them out to where we keep the big mothers, eighty feet and better, the size yacht you can pile in twenty people and travel around the world.”

“Do people do that? Just take off and live on a boat for months?” Sounded like fun.

“Some, not many. Mostly they putt-putt out into the Gulf, party all night, maybe fish the next day, then putt-putt back. If you like the water, and you have the money, why not?”

Why not, indeed? Dixie’d never learned the art of leisure. Parker was a master at it. He was a master at a lot of things, like stretching out a story until you wanted to strangle him. By the time he finished describing the boat, the steaks were cooked. By the time he related the couple’s oohs and
aahs, and explained the negotiations, they’d finished the champagne, the meal, and half a bottle of Bordeaux.

“Nearly time for the news,” Parker said. “Why don’t you take the coffee into the living room. I’ll make a fire.” He grinned. “After dessert, I’ll tell you the good part.”

This time even waving her steak knife at him didn’t hurry the words along, so she nuked the leftover slice of fudge pecan pie and placed it on a tray with the coffee, a small bottle of Kahlua, and two forks. Maybe the alcohol, the food, and his good fortune would mellow him out enough that he’d shrug off her new job as no big deal.

“How’d your friend take the verdict on Coombs?” he asked when they’d settled in front of an old movie that preceded the ten o’clock news.

“Brenda? Not well, I’m afraid. But she’s tough. Hey, maybe we could invite her to Galveston some weekend, when the house is finished. She needs a distraction.”

“Sure, why not?” He cut a piece of the warmed pie with his fork. “Maybe she needs a boat.”

“Yeah, well, speaking of boats, what—”

He slid the bite of pie into her mouth. “Curious, are we, George?”

She could only nod. Parker’s fudge pecan pie was the most sinfully scrumptious dessert she’d ever tasted. That’s why there was only one slice left.

“What have you got to trade?” he asked.

Dixie sipped her coffee. “A back rub?”

“Okay. What else?”

“What else?
Stop stalling. Tell me.”

“You’re even more beautiful when you’re nosey. Did I ever tell you that?”

“And you’re more insufferable than a squeaky wheel.” But charmingly insufferable. “Ever heard of being killed in the heat of passion?”

“Heat of passion? Grrrrr, I like the sound of it.” He urged her down on the couch, covering her with his huge body,
and nibbled her neck. One hand slid under her sweatshirt to cup her breast. “Lady, there’s a bump on your chest. I think I need to examine it.”

“Mmmmmm.” The wine and liqueur had made her feel deliciously relaxed. “Maybe you should.”

As his lips nibbled closer to her mouth, and his fingers found their way under her bra, one heavy leg pressed between her thighs. They’d learned weeks ago how to maneuver around the cast. Dixie heard a champagne glass tip over, but the sound seemed to come from very far away.

She awoke shivering an hour later. The fire had died down. Slivers of colored light from the television danced over their bare skin. Parker lay beneath her now on the narrow couch. They’d fallen asleep with her head on his chest, the rest of her spread over and tucked around him like an afghan. She loved the soft rumble of his breathing, the scent of his skin.

But her butt felt like a block of ice, and her body was setting up like concrete. She shifted to unwrap herself.

His arm tightened around her; he opened his eyes.

“Have your way with me, then steal off into the night? Madam, I feel so
used.”

She kissed his chin.
“Useful
is the word. You have proved yourself so outstandingly useful that I’ve decided not to kill you for dragging out that boat story.”

She tried to push herself up, her muscles protesting, but he held her tighter.

“Want to hear the end of it?” he teased.

“Now? Right now I want to jump into a hot shower and a warm robe while you stoke up the fire.” She levered herself against his chest, but it was useless. Like pushing against rock.

“Tomorrow, you and I are invited to attend a ribbon-cutting party,” he said, “on Mr. and Mrs. Berinson’s new yacht. Champagne christening, then sail away for dinner and dancing.”

Uh-oh.
Tomorrow, she had a brat to sit.

“Just us and them?” Dixie wasn’t keen on fancy dinner parties, but the old couple sounded nice. How would they feel about a teenager?

“Twenty or thirty couples. The guest list reads like a roster of retired money magnates—which means yours truly will be racking up a few more sales before summer.”

Forty people?
All dressed to impress, bubbling with witty good manners and expecting her to make conversation? She could hold her own in a crowd of lawyers, all talking the same language, but—

“Our very first party together.” Parker looked as excited as a puppy. Of course he’d be excited, he loved being with people, even in boisterous crowds. He expected her to be at least as enthusiastic.

“What time would I have to be there?” Dixie’s hours on the bodyguard job started before dawn and ended well after dark. “I—have this kid I’m taking care of tomorrow.”

Parker’s arms loosened, and she was able to push herself off him, off the couch. He looked vaguely astonished.

“A kid?”

“Teenager. It’s a job for Belle.”

His bushy brown eyebrows kicked up suspiciously. “Belle Richards is a criminal defense attorney. Any job you do for her involves criminals.”

He would know. Belle was
his
attorney. She’d hired Dixie to find Parker Dann when he skipped out on his trial and took off for Canada.

“This girl isn’t a criminal.”

“Then she’s the daughter of a criminal, or she’s running from a criminal. Since when did you take on baby-sitting jobs?”

“Since Belle asked me this afternoon.”

“Can’t you get out of it?”

“I—don’t see how.” Dixie scooped up her clothes and headed for the shower.

As the hot water sluiced over her skin, the cast protected by a plastic bag, Dixie counted all the reasons she should go to that party. Number one, Parker wanted her to go. That’s what building a relationship was all about, wasn’t it—doing things for each other, even things you didn’t want to do? Number two, this party was important to him, important to his future. As long as he was doing well at his job, selling boats and enjoying it, he wouldn’t drift away to another job, another city. Number three, if Dixie couldn’t bring herself to be a part of that life, somebody else would. Parker Dann was attractive, loving, supportive—like Brenda said, he might be the last good catch in Houston.

Then Dixie counted all the reasons she
couldn’t
go to the party. Number one, she had a job of her own to do. She could still weasel out of it, get someone else to take it on, but she’d promised. Number two, she was a coward. She was nowhere near as socially adept as Parker. She always felt awkward making small talk. Number three, what would she wear? She’d never been on a yacht in her life. A speedboat, fishing boat, sure, but never a yacht. What did people wear to parties on yachts?
Dance
parties. Number four, she was a spineless, gutless, yellow-bellied, lily-livered coward.

But what about Parker? Did she expect him to sit at home every night, cooking dinner, watching the ten o’clock news? Parker Dann was flamboyant, fun-loving, gregarious—he would hate the sort of life she led. Probably the only reason he hadn’t taken off before now was—what? The sex was good? Yeah, the sex was great. Learning the new sales job, that probably took a lot of his attention. And Mud, he liked Mud a lot.

Dixie wrapped her hair in a towel, pulled on her terry-cloth robe, and looked at herself in the mirror. Glamour puss. Tomorrow night Parker would be wining and dining with twenty fancy-assed women.

He’d said he loved her. Sort of. No, he’d said she wasn’t easy to love. Well,
he
was, dammit, and it was infuriating,
him being so lovable. Maybe there was something wrong with her, but she didn’t want a love relationship that required her to change. Well, maybe a
little
change.

She dried her hair, fluffed it, and put on some lipstick. Then she scrubbed off the lipstick. She was going to bed, for Pete’s sake.

In the kitchen, Parker had finished the supper dishes, and was rattling pans back into their cupboards. He hung the dish towel on a hook and turned to face her.

“Dixie, this thing tomorrow night … it’s important that I go”

“I know. I want you to go. I—wish I could go with you.” She
did
wish she could go. Even a yellow-bellied, lily-livered coward could make nice with strangers for a few hours.

“There must be someone you could get—”

“There’s no one. And it’s a kid, a sixteen-year-old kid.”

“Dixie, you’re not the only reputable bodyguard in Houston. Who would do it if you were sick? Or out of town?”

“I’m not sick or out of town.”

“You don’t want to go, do you?”

She sighed. “I can’t go—unless the kid can go with us. And I’m not sure how her mother will feel about that.”

He studied her solemnly for a long moment, then turned and walked into the bathroom.

When Dixie heard the shower going, she clumped over to the telephone. Stared at it awhile. Mud sat on his rump and stared with her. In her mind’s eye, Dixie saw one of Kathleen’s needlepoint maxims. Though she couldn’t recall precisely where in the house it could be found, she could see clearly the brown and green cross-stitching: A
Loose Horse Always Seeks New Pastures.

She could pick up the receiver, call Belle, and weasel out of the job, at least for tomorrow. But what about the next job that came along inconveniently?

Instead, she opened her locked gun cabinet, hidden behind a sliding bookshelf, and lifted out a battered metal case. The foam insert was shaped to fit a twelve-gauge, pump-action
shotgun, a .45 semiautomatic, and a holstered .38 revolver—Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special Airweight—the model Dixie preferred when forced to carry a gun concealed. She checked all three weapons, then put the case on the dining table. Stacked ammunition alongside it. Now that she’d taken the job, jeopardizing a perfectly terrific relationship for it, she’d better damn well keep the kid safe.

Lawrence Coombs stowed the Johnnie Walker under the seat and started the Jaguar.

“No, Marianne,” he whispered gruffly, “we won’t do sexy little Brenda Benson just yet. Let her think about it awhile.” Let her worry about what he’d said as he left the courtroom today, wonder if he’d go through with it, and when. He wanted to scare the bitch so bad those amber eyes would roll right back in her head when he slipped the meat to her.

Doing the kid sister while Brenda watched would be a bonus, though, a new experience, something he wanted to think about. Get it just right. Maybe wait until they took one of their long Sunday drives after church, catch them on a country picnic when they’d least expect it. Afterward, leave them tied naked from a tree limb, tied face-to-face, so Brenda would see the pain and shame in her dear sister’s eyes.

Before the fun could start, though, he had to figure an angle to keep the bitch quiet later.

A station wagon passed by. He waited until its tail-lights disappeared around the next corner before easing the Jaguar away from Brenda’s house and starting home, windshield wipers swishing time to a Clint Black tape wailing from his stereo. At that hour, the drive to his town house took only minutes. Clint had barely finished two songs when Lawrence entered the circular driveway to his garage.

He was glad he’d sold the big house with its enormous yard always needing upkeep. Who the hell needed a yard when you had all of Memorial Park less than a block away? Jogging trails, tennis courts, and no gardening bills.

His floodlight was out again. He’d have to fix that. Dark as hell back here when that light was out.

Garage opener not working, either. Maybe the electricity was on the blink. Neighbor’s lights were on, though. Hadn’t missed paying his bill, had he? Hated doing shit like that, handled most of it by bank draft at the first of the month. Probably something screwed up in the Light Company’s computer.

Leaving the motor running, headlights focused on the garage door, he stepped out of the car, snapping the big umbrella over his head. Water swirled around his shoes as it ran down the concrete drive. Four-hundred-dollar shoes, goddamn water better not seep in. Any deeper, it’d be over the tops, up to his ankles. Texas dew, they called it.
Shit!

Picking his way carefully, he headed for the single bright path lit by the headlights. Above the drumming of the rain, a sound like someone coughing cut through the darkness.

He paused, listening.

“Who’s there?”

Probably a dog. The woman next door had three dachshunds, creepy, big-eyed, wimpy dogs, never barked. He thought she’d carved out their voice boxes until one day he heard one of them growl at a bird. Not loud, just a rumbling deep in its throat.

He moved toward the light again. That’s probably what he’d heard, one of those wimpy dogs—

Shit! What the
—

His feet whipped out from under him. He grabbed hold of the Jaguar’s side mirror to keep from sliding facedown in the water—