ONE SILENT NIGHT

by Debra Cowan

  The silence between him and Dallas swelled with apprehension, stretching so thin that Sam was afraid any words, argument or not, would unleash the torrent of frustration and fear he fought to keep at bay.

  Half of him hoped Richie Lewis wouldn't go anywhere tonight, but Sam knew that would only prolong the agony. Dallas wouldn't give up this idea. And she shouldn't, he acknowledged reluctantly. If anyone else had come up with it, he wouldn't have blinked.

  She deserved the chance to nail this slime, not only for Valeria, but for all the other women who'd died. Sam would be listening the whole time. He would be with her in the bar, following her if she left with Lewis. Two teams would be waiting at his house.

  The precautions reassured him, but they didn't assuage the one merciless fear that sawed at him. What if she needed him and he couldn't get to her in time, just like he hadn't been able to get to Brad? That was the fear hacking away at his self-confidence, but he didn't voice it.

  Cold sweat slicked his palms and his belly quivered. He realized his hands were shaking, so he clenched his fists tight, willing away the terror, forcing himself to fall back on his training and his instincts. Doubts immediately surfaced. An insidious little voice reminded him that his training and instincts had supposedly been just as good that day in the warehouse with Brad.

  No. He wouldn't freeze. Dallas was counting on him and he wouldn't let her down. She would be fine. Sam refused to believe anything else. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. And she would be on her guard.

  But it was no use telling himself not to worry. Until this thing was over and she was safe, he would.

  When Richie Lewis got into his car at eight-thirty and pulled out of his driveway, Sam followed at a discreet distance, focusing intently on the suspect's '82 Camaro. They couldn't risk losing Lewis—not tonight of all nights.

  The steering wheel was slick in Sam's hands. Bile rose in his throat. He considered turning onto a side road and calling off the whole thing. The apprehension, the self-doubt threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced them back and drove on. He had to function for Dallas, steel his mind against anything other than success. And he would. Somehow.

  * * *

  As Sam swung his truck into a parking space two rows over from Lewis, he watched the guy walk across the lot toward Whiskey Joe's, the bar where Valeria's photo had been recognized. Sam's gaze narrowed as Lewis disappeared inside.

  Beside Sam, Dallas shifted in the seat and he glanced over to see her unbutton her blouse and adjust the wire taped to her chest. Swallowing hard, he looked away, his fingers curling over the steering wheel. He felt her readjust her shirt.

  "All set?" he asked hoarsely, pushing away the maverick image of his hands on her breasts.

  She slid him a solemn look. "Ready." She sounded slightly breathless as she opened her door.

  His hand closed over her wrist. "Wait."

  She looked back, protest flaring in her eyes.

  He reached down, dipped inside his boot and unbuckled his ankle holster. He held it, and his Walther PPK out to her. Floodlight gleamed on the blue steel of the .380 automatic. "Take this."

  "What about you?" She patted her coat pocket. "I've got my Taurus."

  "My .45's in my pocket. The .357 is behind the seat. Please take this."

  "I guess I'm glad you're a gun nut." Searching his eyes, she took the weapon. She pulled up her jeans leg, buckled the holster in her boot on the inside of her calf. After sliding the Taurus into the holster, she slipped the Walther into her coat pocket. "Thanks."

  "Dallas," he rasped. "Be careful."

  She leaned in and squeezed his hand. "I will, Sam. It means everything to know you're there with me."

  He scowled. "When this is over, we need to talk."

  Wary now, her gaze snapped to his. "Are you going to tell me goodbye?"

  "Hell, no! Not even close. We're going to get some things straightened out."

  "All right." In the darkness, her gray eyes were curious and openly vulnerable. She took a deep breath. "I'm ready."

  Her voice echoed with a thrill, a hint of fear. Energy poured from her. He wasn't ready at all. "I'll be with you the whole time."

  She nodded, smiled and walked off. He gave her two minutes to get inside and get settled, clenching and unclenching his fists the whole time. Dread washed over him in a cold, suffocating wave. Get a grip, Garrett. If Dallas can do this, so can you.

  Sam got out of his truck, stalking toward the bar. If Richie Lewis—or anyone else—harmed one hair on her head, Sam would beat him to a bloody pulp. There would be nothing of the man left to go to trial.

  * * *

  Giddy with a mix of anticipation and nerves, Dallas stepped into Whiskey Joe's and draped her coat over her arm to the crooning sound of The Judds on the jukebox. Squinting into the hazy light for Richie Lewis, she checked out the interior of the bar.

  Smoke, turned to neon by the flashing lights of the jukebox, swirled around her. A huge wooden dance floor dominated the room. The jukebox sat at the near end. Across the dance floor was a small stage and on this side, nearest the bar, small round tables were staggered down its length.

  The live band, billed as Nowhere Road, was setting up onstage. Until they began to play, the jukebox would provide the music. Dallas raked a not-quite-steady hand through her hair. Sam was right—she'd never done anything like this before. But that didn't mean she couldn't. For luck, she dipped a hand in her back jeans pocket and touched the warmed metal of Brad's silver dollar.

  Only a few couples moved in a shuffle around the scuffed dance floor, but customers streamed steadily through the door behind Dallas. A mound of dance wax, which customers rubbed on their boot soles for easier movement, waited at each corner.

  Not seeing Richie Lewis on the dance floor, Dallas shifted her gaze and spotted him moving through a throng of people. Just like their description, he stood five-eleven and weighed about one hundred sixty pounds. He wore a colorful new-style Western shirt with a standup collar, like most of the other men here.

  She wasn't close enough yet to see if he had a cross tattoo on his right hand, but she would be. He elbowed his way through a group of people and she got a glimpse of his tooled leather belt, which sported a design of galloping horses. He reached the bar and stopped, speaking to the bartender.

  Dallas threaded her way through the crowd, maneuvering until she stood at Richie's right. She didn't recognize the woman behind the bar from her previous visit about Valeria. As she waited for the woman to take her order, Dallas glanced down.

  Richie held a beer in his right hand. Because of the angle, she could see part of a tattoo on his wrist, but couldn't make out the design. She needed to see the whole thing. Tamping down her impatience, she ordered a vodka tonic from the bartender and squinted into the hazy light behind the bar, checking out the other employees.

  A ponytailed man came out of the back, hoisting a keg of beer on one shoulder. Muscles bulged under his T-shirt, black with a neon outline of a cowboy hat. The woman returned with her drink and Dallas pulled some money out of her jeans pocket.

  She picked up her drink and turned to the left, deliberately jostling Richie's arm.

  He turned, balancing his beer mug so it wouldn't slosh and Dallas got a full view of the cross tattoo that began at the knuckle of his middle finger. Bingo.

  "Sorry." She flashed a smile.

  "No problem." The irritation in his hazel eyes shifted to cool interest.

  She turned away and chose a table where she had a clear view of him just at her shoulder. As she hung her coat on the back of her chair, she surreptitiously studied him.

  Bile rose in her throat as she recalled the crime-scene photos she'd seen of Valeria's and the other women's bodies. He looked so harmless standing there, wearing a goofy grin as he turned, hitched one boot over the bar rail and surveyed the crowd milling around the dance floor.

  What are you looking for, Richie boy?

  Lifting her vodka tonic, she pret
ended to sip. Part of their suspect's MO was that he bought his victims a drink. She wanted to give Richie something to go for if he decided to buy her one. As she looked around, she noted the large number of women here, some with men already, but many alone or with other women. Waitresses, clad in denim miniskirts and ropers, weaved through the crowd, taking drink orders.

  Up on the stage, a guitar twanged, drawing Dallas's attention. One of the band members, a man resembling a young Conway Twitty, exchanged a microphone for one in the back, then tapped on it. "Test, Test."

  "Ya-hoo!" someone yelled in the audience. "Y'all are good!"

  The guy onstage grinned, waving a dismissive hand.

  Dallas glanced casually over her shoulder. Richie was in the same place. And she saw Sam, too. He'd slipped past her and now stood down the bar from Richie, at the end facing the door. He had a good view of the suspect. And her.

  Sam caught her eye and raised a questioning brow. Is this our guy? Are you okay?

  She gave a barely perceptible nod, turning away as the bartender approached him. Dallas lifted her glass, but didn't drink. Unless someone sat down with her, they wouldn't notice.

  After strumming a few warm-up chords, the band announced they would start with a "bus stop." Dallas had figured out last night that a "bus stop" was a line dance. As the line dancers queued up in the middle of the floor, several other couples took to the outside. They would move counter-clock-wise and dance their own preference.

  The band struck up "Reggae Cowboy" and the floor erupted into motion. Dallas tapped her foot, hoping Whiskey Joe's was similar to The Rodeo in that they only played two or three line dances in a night. She didn't know any line dances, but could fake her way through a shuffle or a waltz, possibly a two-step.

  As soon as the song ended, the band launched into "My Maria." Couples paired up for a shuffle. A thickly muscled man with a dark mustache introduced himself as Jamie and asked Dallas to dance. She accepted readily, hoping Richie was watching. She'd observed that if a woman was asked to dance and refused, no one asked her for the rest of the night. She wanted Richie to ask her.

  Jamie was a pretty good dancer, as he enjoyed telling her "I dance all the clubs. Been dancing most of my life."

  She nodded, moving to the six count, trying to loosen up and pretend she was enjoying herself. She found she needed to stay on her toes to keep up with Jamie, who should have been nicknamed Swifty.

  "I haven't seen you around before."

  "I'm new in town," Dallas lied. The occasional glance showed Richie still at the bar, scanning the couples on the floor. She hoped she was a passable dancer. Here, just as at The Rodeo, she'd noticed that people judged your ability by the first dance. If you were good, there was no shortage of partners.

  By the time the song ended, she was starting to perspire. Jamie led her back to her table and thanked her. She smiled, dropping down in her chair and casually glancing around. Richie was looking her way so she smiled noncommittally and let her gaze sweep past his.

  Despite the crush of bodies and the smoke, Dallas could feel Sam's eyes on her like a laser. She lifted her glass to her lips, pretended to sip, then casually lowered her drink and dribbled some of the liquor onto the floor.

  "Ma'am?" a deep male voice said above her.

  She was soon on the dance floor again for another shuffle. This man, Van, was taller and less bulky than her last partner, and more comfortable to dance with.

  At the end of that dance, the band went straight into a song by Vince Gill and she danced a second time with Van—a waltz this time. Between dancing and trying to appear relaxed, Dallas felt her nerves were stretching thin.

  "Maybe we can dance again later?" Van asked when he returned her to her table.

  "I'd like that." She smiled encouragingly as he walked away.

  "Can I buy you a drink, ma'am?" Sam's voice startled her and she schooled her features into friendly aloofness.

  He held a tumbler of clear liquid out to her.

  "Is that water?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." She accepted it and took a dainty sip, though she longed to down it.

  "Dance with me."

  That sultry no-one-ever-refuses-me tone sent a shiver through her. She hadn't heard it in a long time and it made her want to do more than dance with him. Hoping her reaction didn't show in her face, she let him lead her onto the floor as the band launched into "He's Got You."

  At the slower rhythm of the lonesome ballad, couples scooted closer and she found herself hip to hip with Sam. Even though this reminded her of what they'd shared the other night, it felt so good to touch him, to have him hold her. She fought the impulse to lay her head on his shoulder.

  He smiled into her eyes. "I've had worse jobs than this."

  "Me, too."

  They moved in a one-two-three beat around the floor, gliding in perfect rhythm. Sam's hard body silhouetted hers, his chest to her breasts, thigh to thigh. It would be so easy to forget why they were here.

  "He's been watching you," Sam said close to her ear. His warm breath tickled and she shuddered, fighting not to tighten her hold on him. Beneath her palm, his arm was solid and muscular. His other hand, broad and strong, curled around her free one. His woodsy scent wrapped around her, set off a flurry low in her belly.

  Or maybe that was due to the hypnotic touch and retreat of their bodies, the brush of their thighs against each other, the heat of him. She forced herself to focus on the case. "Think he'll try to hit on me?"

  "If he has any taste at all," Sam said tightly. "You look indecent in those jeans. I'd like to peel them off your body and I guarantee you I'm not the only man here who feels that way."

  Her breasts grew heavy at the thought of Sam undressing her, but she couldn't ignore the risk she might be walking into. She looked up at him. "I'll be careful."

  He nodded curtly and she felt his body harden. "This isn't helping my concentration worth a damn."

  "Mine either," she offered with a nervous laugh. Her leg dipped between his, teasing, fleeting. Their bodies strained together, then shifted automatically to the best fit. Her breast here. His hand there. Familiar, comfortable, disconcerting. If she and Sam danced like this much longer, it would be obvious they had been lovers.

  They moved into a deep shadow in the corner and Sam groaned at her temple, "Are you trying to drive me crazy?"

  "It's mutual." Her voice sounded foreign, labored. She wanted to get Sam in a dark corner and kiss him until the world disappeared. He hadn't touched her since they'd made love, and her body craved his.

  They danced back into the light. Lines of strain fanned out from his beautiful mouth. Blue eyes, telegraphing silent, sultry messages, seared her.

  His focus shifted abruptly to their steps and the people around them. She knew he was trying to disguise what was between them.

  "I'd like to take you home and make love to you for about ten hours."

  Dallas shivered in his arms and his eyes darkened. Before she did something stupid like kiss him, she laughed. "Too bad I don't do that on the first date, sweetness."

  Her light reply broke the sensual web enveloping them. He grinned and when the song ended, he led her across the wooden floor. "You're doing great. This will soon be over."

  She nodded, growing more anxious. It wasn't easy pretending to be here only to have a good time. "Thanks for the dance," she said as other couples followed them off the floor, milling around.

  He smiled and dropped her hand as they reached her table.

  "I've got your back," he said for her ears only.

  She trusted that, but this waiting made her restless, edgy. Dancing with Sam had reaffirmed her purpose, bolstered her flagging optimism about Richie. She knew she had to be patient, but she was starting to wonder if she could get his attention.

  She danced another waltz with an older gentleman named Buzzy, then the band took a break. During the fifteen minutes they were gone, the jukebox played. She kept close tabs on Richie and fel
t a moment of panic when he partnered a petite brunette for the last dance before the band returned.

  Fearing he might leave with the woman, Dallas had a tense few minutes, but after the song's end, he handed the girl over to another man and returned to his spot at the bar.

  "Another vodka tonic, miss." A waitress appeared at Dallas's elbow.

  "Oh, I didn't order—"

  "It's from the gentleman over there." The stocky redhead hitched a thumb over her shoulder.

  Dallas glanced around and saw Richie touch the brim of his hat in recognition. Finally.

  Her senses prickling, she took the drink and lifted it with a shy smile. He dipped his head in acknowledgement, then pulled out his wallet. Light flashed on silver and Dallas made out the chain that secured his wallet to his belt loop. This had to be their guy.

  Come over here, you creep. A short two minutes later, her request was answered.

  "Hello." He had a pleasant voice that, surprisingly, sounded a little tentative.

  She looked up and summoned a smile, feeling Sam's antenna go up as if it were hers. Her sense of triumph was mixed with caution and an insistent, drumming dread.

  Richie pulled up, his knee bumping hers in the crowded space. "I haven't seen you here before."

  "I'm new in town."

  "Where're you from?"

  "Denver." She toyed with her napkin. "Are you from here?"

  "Yeah," he said. "You're a good dancer."

  "Thanks."

  "Would you dance with me?"

  "Sure," she said brightly. Why had she believed she could do this? she wondered, on the wings of a sudden panic. She thought of Valeria and the other dead women. She recalled Sam's resistance to the idea—and her own determination to nail this guy.

  Richie rose and held out his hand to her. She accepted, amazed that her own hands were dry and cool while her insides felt hot and jumbly.

  They danced a couple of shuffles in which she asked his name and he told her it was Winston, the same name he'd given Christine Liddell.

  When she told him hers, his eyebrows arched. "Dallas? That's kinda weird."