by Gina Wilkins
Dallas had breakfast ready again by the time Sam was dressed on Friday morning. She was just packing his lunch box when he joined her in the kitchen.
“How come you’re being so domestic on this assignment?” he asked quizzically, as though he could no longer resist. “Your duties don’t really include cooking for me.”
Dallas avoided his eyes by industriously scrubbing the skillet in the sink. “I like to cook,” she said simply. “I don’t get to do it very often. Besides, there’s been so little for me to do around here the past few days that it’s at least something to keep me busy.”
“I never would have dreamed you liked to cook.”
“I’ve warned you before about trying to stereotype me, Perry.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“There are a couple of washing machines and dryers in the basement. Thought I’d do some laundry today. For one thing, it might give me a chance to talk to some of the other tenants.”
“Wait until I get home this evening and I’ll help you,” Sam suggested.
Dallas looked at him with a lifted eyebrow. It wasn’t like Sam to fall out of character on an assignment. What was he thinking? “Sam Pulaski wouldn’t do laundry,” she told him. “That’s ‘women’s work.’”
He grimaced. “Good point. I guess I forgot for a minute.” He nodded toward the harness she’d begun to don with her clothing each morning as a means of keeping her own cover firmly established. “There’s just something about a pregnant woman that brings out my chivalrous instincts, I suppose.”
She made a face. “Gee, and I didn’t even know you had any chivalrous instincts.”
“Sam Pulaski doesn’t,” he advised her. “Sam Perry’s a real prince of a guy.”
“Save it for someone who hasn’t worked with you before,” she advised him. “I haven’t forgotten the last job.”
“Well, wasn’t I trying to save your butt then? Wouldn’t you call that chivalrous?”
“I call it stupid. I’m perfectly capable of watching my own butt.”
He grinned and let his gaze stroll admiringly from her face to her backside. “Trust me, Sanders. The view’s a lot better from this side. Especially in that position you were in when I walked into the bedroom two nights ago.”
She gasped and threw a pot holder at him.
He dodged it with a grin and snatched up his lunch box. “Gotta go. I’ll be late. Walk me to the door?”
“And why should I?” she demanded.
“Because Dallas Pulaski would,” he reminded her logically.
She couldn’t argue with that, especially since she’d just lectured him about staying in character. She sighed and waddled reluctantly behind him through the living room.
Sam opened the door, glanced out, then turned and tugged Dallas against him—or as close as possible with “Junior” between them. Surprised, she stiffened, but he covered her mouth with his before she could ask what on earth he was doing.
He kissed her very thoroughly. Very slowly. And after that first startled moment, she found herself so completely lost in the kiss that she couldn’t remember why, at first, she’d tried to resist.
There’d been a few times during the past year when Dallas had wondered what it would be like to be kissed by Sam—just idle curiosity, of course, she’d assured herself on the few occasions when the question had crossed her mind. She’d always rather suspected that his kisses would be interesting. But if anyone had suggested that it would only take one kiss from him to turn her into oatmeal, she would have laughed in disbelief.
She wasn’t laughing now.
She was breathing rapidly when he finally lifted his head. She stared at him in shock, trying to regain her usual equilibrium. It was marginally gratifying to note that Sam’s breathing wasn’t quite steady, either, and that his eyes were a bit glazed—just as hers probably were.
All in all, she decided, it was much safer fighting with him than kissing him.
“See you this evening,” he told her gruffly. “And you have my dinner ready this time, you hear?”
“Uh—yeah, sure,” she murmured, then forced herself to remember the assignment. “I will, honey,” she said a bit more clearly. “I’m really sorry about last night. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it don’t,” he ordered arrogantly, then closed the door in her face.
It was some time later before Dallas got around to wondering who’d been in the hallway when Sam had first opened the door. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to curse or thank the person for precipitating that kiss.
* * *
A TATTERED LAUNDRY basket filled with clothing and supplies tucked under one arm, Dallas peered over the bulge beneath her floral maternity top, trying to watch her feet as she navigated the three flights of stairs down to the basement laundry room. Just guiding herself around was very tricky these days. She was feeling extremely clumsy at the moment. Thank goodness she didn’t really have the safety of an infant to worry about on these treacherous stairs! At least if she fell now, she would be the only one injured.
Unless, of course, she landed on top of someone. The thought of Sam Perry sprawled on his smug rear end was quite a satisfying image.
She tried to put Sam out of her mind as she pushed through the cracked peeling door to the laundry room—or at least, she tried to forget about Sam, the enigmatic undercover cop. It was Sam Pulaski, loutish boyfriend and reluctant expectant father, with whom she had to concern herself now.
Ms. Blivens, the surly landlady, was the only one in the room when Dallas entered. The heavy redhead was pushing a mop across the dirty floor without visible enthusiasm—or results. “Don’t you go messing this room up,” she warned when she saw Dallas. “Got an inspection later this afternoon.”
“I won’t mess anything up,” Dallas promised in her meek, eager-to-please tone. “I just have to wash a few clothes. We’re out of clean things.”
Blivens nodded, as though regally granting permission. Dallas set the heavy basket on a battered table with a smothered sigh of relief.
“I hear your man got a job working on that new building goin’ up on Twenty-first Street.”
Rather surprised by her landlady’s first attempt at social conversation, Dallas glanced up from the machine in which she was stuffing Sam’s filthy jeans. “Yes. He did.”
“I also hear you and him don’t always get along so good.”
Dallas widened her eyes. “Has someone complained?” she asked anxiously. “We didn’t mean to disturb anyone. We’ve had a few quarrels, but they don’t mean anything. It’s just that Sam gets so tired on his job, he can’t help being a little grouchy sometimes.”
“Lawd, don’t apologize for the guy,” Ms. Blivens said in disgust. “He’s the one who should be apologizing—yelling at you in your condition. He think it’s easy being pregnant?”
“Well, he—”
“It ain’t. I should know, I had five kids. All gone now. I’m lucky if I get a card at Christmas,” the woman added bitterly.
Dallas didn’t quite know what to say, so she kept quiet, hoping the woman would say something of relevance to the investigation. She dropped quarters into the washing machine and held her breath until she heard water gushing into it. From the appearance of the aging machine, she wouldn’t have been surprised had it failed to start.
“You been seeing a doctor? You healthy?”
The blunt questions recalled Dallas’s attention from the laundry again. She looked over her shoulder. “Yes, I’ve been seeing the doctor at the free clinic. She said I’m fine, and so is the baby. Thank you for asking,” she added, though she wasn’t at all sure the questions had been motivated by simple concern for her welfare.
Blivens grunted, then pushed her mop toward the door. “Maybe you and me will be talking again,” she said rather obscurely. “I might be able to help you out a bit if you get in any financial trouble.”
Dallas kept her expression blandly anxious. “Thank you, but I’m sure
we’ll be fine. Especially now that Sam’s working again. He’ll take care of me and the baby. Once we get a little money saved, he’ll feel better about everything.”
The condescendingly pitying look the landlady gave her reminded her of the way Polly had responded to Dallas’s naive optimism. These were women who had long since stopped believing in fairy tales and happy endings; women for whom distrust and pessimism had become second nature. Either one of them would probably be willing to bet much-needed money that Dallas would be raising her baby without the assistance of the father.
Well acquainted herself with men who fathered babies without hanging around to help see them raised—like the man who’d sired her, for that matter—Dallas wasn’t surprised by their lack of confidence in Sam. What did surprise her was her own certainty that he wouldn’t be the kind who “screwed and split,” as Polly had put it. Sam had meant every word when he’d said he would personally make sure any child he fathered was provided for.
Funny. She believed him. And like Polly and the embittered Ms. Blivens, Dallas had all too many reasons not to trust any man’s words.
* * *
“HEY, PULASKI.”
In response to the deep bellow, Sam looked over his shoulder as he was walking away from work that afternoon. A group of four men stood together behind him, one of them Jack Reynolds. The one who’d called him, a short, beer-bellied heavy-equipment operator who’d introduced himself as Pete Talley, was mopping at his florid face with a grimy handkerchief. “We’re going for a cold beer over at Kelley’s,” he said, when he saw that he had Sam’s attention. “You with us?”
Sam hesitated. “I don’t know. My—uh—wife’s probably got dinner ready.” They had worked almost half an hour late as it was.
Talley snorted. “C’mon, man, it’s Friday. Every guy deserves a little break after a tough week. You can call from the bar if you have to report in.”
Sam stuck out his chin. “I don’t have to report in,” he insisted. “I’m just kind of hungry.”
Talley shrugged. “They serve sandwiches at the bar. But you do what you want. We’re thirsty.”
“C’mon, Sam,” Jack urged. “Have a couple of drinks with us. Your wife will understand. Mine does. She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t gripe about it anymore—much.”
“I don’t have to answer to my wife,” Sam insisted again, allowing himself to sound increasingly defensive.
“Then, come on.”
Thinking this might be his best shot at finding out if these guys knew anything about baby brokers in the neighborhood, Sam gave Dallas a mental apology and moved toward the waiting group.
* * *
DALLAS SHIFTED INTO A somewhat less uncomfortable position on the couch, turned a page of the newspaper she’d been trying to read, then glanced at her watch. Only ten minutes had passed since the last time she’d checked. It was almost eight o’clock. And the dinner she’d been ready to serve by six was still sitting in the kitchen, cold and increasingly unappetizing.
She reminded herself for perhaps the tenth time that Sam was working. He’d probably found a lead and was chasing it down. She envied him. Anything would beat sitting in this grimy apartment, with twenty bulky pounds of stuffing in her lap and nothing to do but read the newspaper through for the second time or try to watch the fuzzy picture on the TV.
If only she had a book to read. She’d brought a couple of paperbacks, but she’d finished the last one earlier that morning. She’d found plenty of time to read during the past couple of days. Her own part in the investigation was turning out to be increasingly boring and nonproductive.
She’d hoped to talk more to Polly today, or maybe to some of the other tenants. But she hadn’t caught even a glimpse of Polly, and the other tenants were still making themselves scarce. Other than that strange conversation with Blivens in the laundry room earlier, Dallas had exchanged less than a dozen words with anyone all day. No one had done any laundry while she was washing—didn’t anyone in this building wear clean clothing?—and the two people she’d passed in the hallway had responded to her cheery greeting with wary looks of suspicion.
What ever happened to old Southern friendliness? she asked herself, thoroughly disgruntled. Used to be that everyone greeted everyone. Smiles, waves, nods—even to strangers.
But things had changed, she thought sadly, even in the South. Especially in the poverty-stricken neighborhoods of large Southern cities decimated by crime and drugs and government neglect. No wonder the other hapless tenants of this gloomy residence had learned to distrust everyone who approached them with a snake-oil salesman’s smile.
She ran a hand through her brown hair, noting absently that it needed to be trimmed and styled. She hadn’t been styling it much during the past week—simply washing it and letting it dry straight and limp, rather than curling it into the sleek curve she favored when she wasn’t undercover. And she’d switched from her usual tastefully understated makeup to the brighter colors normally associated with less expensive brands—rosy blusher, blue eye-shadow, bright pink lipstick. Not to mention the cheap, frilly, tent-size garments she’d been forced to wear.
Her appearance usually didn’t bother her when she was working on an assignment. There’d been times when she’d been so filthy and bedraggled she hardly recognized herself in the mirror. So why was she fretting about it this time?
She looked at her watch again and cursed under her breath at the realization that only five minutes had crawled by since the last time. Where the hell was Sam?
He really should have told her he would be late, she thought sullenly.
* * *
“C’MON, SAM, HAVE another beer. It’s still early yet.”
Sprawled in a too-small bar chair, Sam tried to focus on his watch. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’d probably better get on home.”
“That woman really does lead you around by the short hairs, don’t she, Pulaski?” Pete Talley asked mockingly, his small eyes glassy from the number of drinks he’d tossed down in the past couple of hours.
Sam thrust out his chin. “Hell, no. I wasn’t going home because of what she might say.”
“So how come you’re leaving?” Talley prodded. “Ain’t you having a good time?”
“Maybe you had better go on home, Sam,” young Jack Reynolds interceded. He looked at Talley as he explained, “Sam’s wife is pregnant. It’s probably not good for her to get mad at him.”
Sam snorted. “Then she’s already in trouble. She stays mad at me,” he said with feeling.
“Pregnant women,” a thin, balding man by the name of R. J. Brewer groaned. “They’re crazy, I tell you. Both times my wife was pregnant I thought I was going to have to lock her up somewhere. Cried all the time, whined about every little thing, ate like Godzilla.” He shook his shiny pate in bewilderment. “Never seen anything like it.”
“Tell me about it,” Sam muttered, carefully hiding his amusement.
“When’s the kid due, Sam?” Jack asked. Unlike the others, Jack seemed to get more cheerful and optimistic with each beer.
Sam shrugged and scowled. “Another month or so, I think. She said, but I forgot.”
“You forgot?” Jack echoed, looking startled.
“Yeah. At least, I keep trying to forget,” Sam added with a twisted smile.
“Not real happy about it, huh?” Talley inquired.
Sam shook his head. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Wouldn’t have been mine, either,” Talley fervently agreed. “Ain’t no woman tying me down to a houseful of whining brats to support. My brother’s working three jobs now to keep his daughter in beauty-pageant dresses. Beauty pageants,” he repeated in disgust. “The kid’s ten years old, looks like she’s been splattered with freckle paint and is twenty pounds overweight, thanks to her pampering mama. Put her in one of those ruffled satin pageant dresses and she looks like an overstuffed sofa pillow with Shirley Temple curls.”
“She ever win any of the pageants
?” Jack asked.
“Hell, no. My sister-in-law keeps saying it’s all politics. Claims little Melisande can’t win because they ain’t rich. She just can’t accept that the kid’s ugly.”
Sam choked on a swig of beer. He’d have to relate that story to Dallas, he thought with a hidden smile. She’d get a kick out of it.
Then he brought himself sharply back into character. “I ain’t working three jobs,” he grumbled. “This one’s bad enough.”
Jack nodded, his cheerful mood affected by the others’ pessimism. “I just hope I can make my wife wait to have kids until I finish computer-repair school. I really want to work at an inside job. I want air-conditioning,” he added wistfully, wiping his brow as though still affected by the vicious heat of his workday.
R.J. looked thoughtful. “Oh, it ain’t so bad,” he offered. “I didn’t like it when my wife was pregnant, but we got us a couple of good kids. Two boys,” he added for Sam’s benefit. “Nine and seven. The oldest one’s already one hell of a baseball player. Little one likes soccer. They play on city leagues.”
Jack perked up visibly. “Yeah, Sam,” he said. “You’ll like that, won’t you? Throwing a ball around with your kid?”
Sam sighed heavily. “Doctor says it’s probably a girl,” he complained. “Just what I need. Another griping woman in the house.”
The other three men nodded in sympathy. Sam tried very hard not to picture Dallas’s reaction to the painfully chauvinistic turn the conversation had just taken.
This next part was going to be tricky. He needed to try to elicit information without arousing suspicions—or alienating his sources. He sighed heavily and stared into his beer, trying to project the image of utter dejection. “I just wish this hadn’t happened,” he said. “I can’t afford this right now. I really didn’t want it.”
There was an awkward pause as his three co-workers digested his misery.