by Kay Hooper
“Get to the point,” she requested shortly, hanging on grimly to her composure.
Slowly he did. “I told you that I had to know you, that you were becoming an obsession with me. You’re like a—a picture not quite in focus, something my eyes are straining to see clearly.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe you’re right, and there’s no future in it; but I have to believe that myself, and I don’t. If you’re so sure about us, Troy, then let me be sure too. Give me a chance to see you clearly.”
“As a lover?” she inquired, her voice constricted.
Dallas hesitated, the curiously beaten expression appearing in his eyes again. “I hope…eventually. But as a woman first, as a person. I wouldn’t ask you to climb into bed with a man who called you a thief, Troy.”
Troy felt the breath catch in her throat, wondering dimly at the rough unsteadiness of his final sentence. What was he asking of her? And why couldn’t she look away from his intensely blue eyes? She shook her head, not certain what she was denying.
“Please, Troy.” His eyes held hers steadily. “Let me get to know you. No strings; no pressure, I promise you. And no taunting. I won’t try to reform you. I won’t rush you into a relationship you think we aren’t ready for. I just want to see you…wearing all your hats.”
Troy became suddenly aware that the band was playing another tune now, a love song, and the seductive, throbbing sound of it was undermining her resolution. She tore her gaze from his with a force that broke something inside of her, and confusion welled up again. “Damn you,” she said very quietly.
“Troy.” He took another step toward her, her name a plea, a caress, a demand on his lips.
She kept her face averted. “I don’t want you in my life. You’re a potential heartache walking around on two legs, and you’re asking me to show you everything that I am.”
“I won’t hurt you.” He was standing directly in front of her now.
Troy chuckled, only a breath of sound, and there was no amusement in it. “I don’t believe you, you know. I’ve heard empty promises before, and that promise has all the earmarks of being empty.” She looked up at him with eyes that seemed to be pure gold, and what he saw there nearly stopped his heart. “Keep your empty promises to yourself,” she spit softly.
Dallas saw pain in her eyes, an old, half-healed scar. It shocked him oddly; until that moment he would have sworn that Troy had traveled lightly through her life, avoiding hurts. But the sight of her pain and vulnerability roused in him an anger at whomever had hurt her, and a fiercely protective emotion that he didn’t try to define. He reached out to capture her resisting hands, holding them securely in his own.
“I don’t make empty promises,” he told her flatly. “Troy, all I’m asking is the chance to get to know you.”
“And then what?” Molten gold burned up at him. “A roll in the hay because spring is in the air and you’ve never slept with a thief before?”
“Stop it.” His hands tightened on hers. “Stop making what I feel for you sound cheap, because it isn’t. I want you. Troy, because you’re a beautiful, desirable woman. I want to be your lover, and at this moment I don’t care if you’ve stolen the crown jewels of England.”
Troy wanted to call him a liar, but the words wouldn’t come. She looked down at the large, strong hands holding her own, and knew suddenly why she couldn’t accuse him of lying. And she knew then that Dallas Cameron was going to hurt her, and hurt her badly.
Opposites could and did attract. The passion that was still a stubborn weakness in her body told her that. Opposites did attract…for a time. And she was drawn like a moth to the flame that would destroy it. Dallas had taken something from her, something she would never be able to recover. And when he left her one day…
“All right,” she heard herself say quietly.
“Troy?” he breathed softly.
She met his gaze steadily. “You’ve got your chance. We’ll get to know each other. But I won’t let you interfere in my work.” Because it’s all I’ll have left when you’ve gone, she added silently.
His chest moved with a sudden deep breath. “That’s all I want—a chance,” he said huskily.
Troy very gently pulled her hands from his grasp. “Now, since my guests will soon be drifting out, I should be there to say good night.”
Dallas nodded. “I’ll say good night now,” he told her with an odd gentleness. “May I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ve got a busy week planned,” she hedged.
He smiled a little. “Mind if I tag along?”
“What about your company? Shouldn’t you be minding the store?”
“I haven’t had a vacation in years; what’s the use of being the boss if I can’t take some time off?” he asked lightly.
Troy summoned a smile from somewhere. “All right then. But you’ll probably be bored silly.”
“I doubt that. What time?”
“Eight tomorrow morning.”
His brows rose in faint surprise. “After a late night?”
“After a late night.”
“I can take it if you can,” he said wryly.
Troy watched him hesitate, observing that he had nearly bent his head to kiss her and wondering why he had apparently decided against it. But she didn’t ask. Her eyes followed as he moved slowly to the door, absorbing the cat-footed grace that would rivet her gaze even in a crowd.
He half turned to look back at her. “Good night, Troy.”
“Good night, Dallas.”
She stood alone in the silent room for a long moment, her mind a blank. And when her own voice shattered the stillness, it roused her as if from a trance.
“Who’s the thief, Dallas? Me or you?”
Squaring her shoulders, Troy went to see if Tom Elliot’s punch had as much of a kick as he’d promised.
It was better than kicking herself for being a fool….
FOUR
WHEN TROY DRAGGED herself out of bed at seven the next morning, she vowed between gritted teeth to get even with Tom Elliot before either of them was much older. Her head was going to fall off, she knew it was going to fall off, and there was not a damn thing she could do about it. She staggered into her bathroom with one hand clutching the throbbing weight and the other groping blindly.
Steaming hot water pummeling her in the shower helped, and the aspirin she swallowed promised relief, even though it dissolved sadistically on her sensitive tongue. By the time she’d managed to dress in jeans and a gold cowl-neck sweater and brush her hair gingerly, she felt almost human.
Standing before the steam-clouded vanity mirror in her bathroom, Troy cleared the glass enough to see her reflection and camouflage her reddened eyes with makeup, trying to think dispassionately about the events of last night. In the inebriated hours before dawn, her best tactic had seemed to be a fast charge through forward enemy positions. She had definitely arrived at that decision at some point, although she couldn’t remember exactly when or exactly what it had meant at the time.
But Troy realized that she would just have to play it by ear. She frowned at the reflection of a woman who appeared paler than usual, remembering the sense of loss Dallas had left her with.
It all seemed unreal now, those abandoned and confusing emotions he had ignited within her. But she knew that it had been real, because even as she thought about it, her body ached emptily. She leaned her weight on the hands braced on the vanity and stared at her reflection.
“Have an affair with him,” she told herself fiercely. “Take what you can get before the novelty wears off and he gets bored with you. You’re twenty-eight years old; Lord knows, you’re entitled to a fling if that’s what you want.”
But was it what she wanted? Did she really want to break a long-held rule and follow in the footsteps of so many of her friends—living for the moment rather than the future? Did she want to allow this man into her life and into her heart, knowing full well that she would suffer for it?
Because, dammit, she w
as already half in love with him….
That was what had shocked her last night in the arms of a man she barely knew—not morals or scruples, but the sudden and certain knowledge of what she was beginning to feel for him.
“He thinks you’ve had a dozen lovers,” she told her reflection with faint bitterness, “and it doesn’t matter to him. That should tell you something, idiot. He may be obsessed with you, but it’s a lead pipe cinch he won’t take you home to meet his mother!”
With uncharacteristic violence Troy shoved the painful revelation away. He wanted to know her? Fine. She’d show him Troy Bennett wearing all her hats, and if his obsession survived the onslaught, she’d think of some other way to get him out of her life. She wouldn’t let Dallas Cameron hurt her.
Bryce had done his usual perfect job in clearing up after the party; the only evidence of the night before were the flowers, sent to the hostess this morning, that were now decorating the entrance hall and sitting room. On her way through to the dining room Troy checked several of the cards accompanying the arrangements.
“The hospital as usual, Miss Troy?”
She looked over her shoulder as she paused in the doorway to the formal dining room, no longer able to be surprised by the butler’s soundless approach. “Send them around later this morning, Bryce,” she said, glancing back at the colorful flowers. “The geriatrics wing, I think.”
“Yes, miss; I’ll take care of it.”
“Of course, you will,” Troy murmured, stepping into the dining room.
Jamie was seated halfway down the long table, a newspaper spread out before him and a cleared plate pushed to one side. He looked up as she entered, his blue eyes bright and appraising. “Morning, mon enfant.”
“Morning.” Troy went immediately to the antique sideboard, and poured out a cup of steaming black coffee.
“The punch?” Jamie questioned sympathetically.
Troy threw him a grimace as she sat down across from him at the table. “It’s not supposed to be so obvious; the cosmetics companies claim that they can hide anything.”
“Try those eyedrops that ‘get the red out’ instead,” Jamie suggested, deadpan.
“Breakfast, Miss Troy?” Bryce asked from behind her.
“No, thank you. Just the coffee.”
“She’ll have toast and fruit,” Jamie instructed.
Bryce left the room, and Troy stared across at her very large and very dear friend with a faint smile. “Jamie—”
“You have to eat.”
“And you’re mother-henning me again, friend.”
“Somebody has to.”
Troy sat back in her chair and sighed softly. “Maybe you’re right; I can’t seem to take care of myself these days.”
Jamie looked at her steadily for a moment, then calmly folded his paper and set it aside. “Not entirely the punch,” he said slowly. “Something else is bothering you, chérie?”
She didn’t answer until Bryce, after silently placing fruit and toast in front of her, had left the room again. Ignoring the fruit, she picked up a piece of toast and nibbled absently. “Someone,” she replied finally.
“Cameron,” Jamie guessed in the tone of a man who knew it was more than a guess. “I saw him last night.”
Troy summoned a smile. “Before or after you disappeared into Daddy’s den with your cronies for the game?”
“Before. He was talking to the general, and I had to wait to gather the last of my ‘cronies.’”
She nodded, knowing that the general had spent the larger part of the evening—along with several other men—in the den with Jamie, playing poker. “Did the general win as usual?” she asked idly, finishing the toast more to placate Jamie than out of hunger.
“As usual, and stop changing the subject. Is Cameron going to be a problem?”
“Going to be?” Troy smiled in spite of herself.
“He already is a problem. But he’s my problem, Jamie.”
“You’re going to see him again?” Jamie asked carefully.
Before Troy could answer, Bryce stepped opportunely into the room. “Mr. Cameron to see you, Miss Troy.”
“Send him in.” Troy shrugged rather helplessly at Jamie’s startled look. With the first real amusement of the morning she wondered what the two men were going to make of each other.
Dallas strode into the room a moment later wearing a blue turtleneck sweater over dark slacks, his black hair a little windblown, and Troy felt her heart skip a beat. Oh, damn, how was she going to be able to keep things from getting serious when just the sight of him affected her like this?
“Good morning—” Dallas began cheerfully, breaking off abruptly as he saw Jamie rising from his chair.
“Dallas Cameron,” Troy murmured, “James Riley.” Deliberately she didn’t add any explanatory information. The two men shook hands, eyeing each other, she thought wryly, like stray cats preparing to be either amiable or hostile, depending upon how things went.
Deciding to avoid the issue, she asked Dallas briskly, “Have you had breakfast?”
He nodded slowly, still eyeing Jamie thoughtfully. “Yes, thanks.”
“Fine. Then we’ll be on our way.” She rose from her chair.
Jamie resumed his own chair, donning the inscrutable expression he wore whenever his “enfant” was about to get herself into trouble. He addressed himself to Troy in his deep, lazy voice. “Making the rounds today as usual?”
Troy realized what he was asking. “Uh-huh. Mr. Cameron is…tagging along for the day.”
Jamie’s penetrating light blue eyes shifted to Dallas. “Mmm. Well, he looks to be in good shape. Might even be able to keep up with you.”
Biting back a laugh at Dallas’s rather stiff expression. Troy hastily made her way from the room. “See you later, Jamie,” she called over her shoulder.
“Take care, mon enfant,” Jamie called back meaningfully.
Troy snared her sheepskin jacket from Bryce’s hands before he could offer to help her into it, and had the front door open before the butler could perform the task. Clearly aggrieved, Bryce did manage to halt her characteristic rush with a message.
“Mr. Elliot just phoned, Miss Troy. He asked me to remind you of the rehearsal this afternoon.”
“Lord, is he up already?” Troy murmured, more to herself than anyone else. She shrugged into her jacket, highly conscious of Dallas standing just behind her. “The man’s stomach must be cast iron, and I hate to think of what his head is made of. If he calls again, Bryce, tell him I’ll be there.”
“Of course, Miss Troy.”
She breezed out the door and down the steps to the front drive, with Dallas right behind her.
Parked in the drive with the engine already running was a low-slung, audibly powerful Porsche. It was strikingly, gleamingly black, top down, and promising hell with the lid off.
Troy paused a moment to watch Dallas’s face assume a somewhat guarded expression as he saw the car, and she challenged coolly, “D’you mind being driven by a woman?”
“Not at all,” he answered immediately. “In fact, I’d consider it an honor.”
“Then get in.” She climbed in the driver’s side and waited while Dallas, who’d politely closed the door for her, went around to the passenger side and carefully folded his tall length into the cramped quarters.
His door shut firmly, Dallas looked across at Troy with lifted brows. “Where are we off to?” he asked cheerfully.
She put the car into gear and sent him a wicked smile. “First, we’re going to pick up a monkey. You get to hold him.”
“Great,” Dallas murmured rather faintly, his fingers digging reflexively into the dashboard as the little car erupted from the driveway and into the quiet street with a roar.
It didn’t take ten minutes for Dallas to find out that Troy was the wildest driver this side of the Indy 500. Not unsafe—just wild. And in a city filled with innumerable cops, they weren’t stopped once. She waved cheerfully at uniformed off
icers she encountered, and all of them waved back, their faces set in the identical expression of resignation.
By the time they reached the pet shop that was obviously their destination, Dallas had managed to get a grip on himself. He did not like being driven—by anyone, man or woman. It was, he’d long ago decided, a dislike of surrendering control to someone else. He’d even accepted that dislike to the point of learning to fly the company jet himself rather than sit back and let the company pilot earn his pay.
And he had a sneaking suspicion that Troy knew, or had guessed, his particular phobia. The little witch…
As the car stopped in front of the pet shop he forced his hands to assume a relaxed pose on the dashboard. “Where,” he asked carefully, “did you learn to drive?”
“Learn?” Her smile was gentle. “Why, it came naturally. D’you want to wait here while I go get the monkey?”
Dallas nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Watching as she disappeared into the shop, he reviewed the list of questions branded into his brain since he’d walked into her house only a few minutes before.
Who was James Riley? What “rehearsal” had Elliot called to remind Troy of? Why was she getting a monkey? How was it that all the cops in D.C. seemed to know her to the point of being clearly resigned to her wild driving?
After a moment Dallas wryly elected to keep his questions to himself. He’d already seen the results of provoking her; it was not something he cared to see happen again. Besides, he fully expected this day with her to answer some, if not all, of the questions. Those that went unanswered, he decided, he could deal with.
Maybe.
The monkey, complete with red jacket and hat, was named Jinks, and busied himself by combing through Dallas’s hair during the blessedly brief trip to their next destination, an orphanage.
The privately sponsored institution was overflowing with children, all of whom welcomed Troy with a joyous enthusiasm only slightly surpassed by their welcome of Jinks. Dallas, watching in fascination from the sidelines, noted Troy’s obvious affection for the kids, and marveled at her endless patience with them. Odd, he thought, remembering the short fuse to her temper that he’d encountered once or twice.