Where Danger Hides

by Terry Odell

  “What time is it?” His voice was thick, but not hesitant. Maybe he had forgotten. As if. Someone like Dalton didn’t forget coming unglued. Especially in front of a woman. “Ten-fifty-four,” she said. “Coffee’s ready.”

  “Ten-fifty-four in the morning?” He bolted to his feet. “Shit.”

  “Is that bad? Did you miss an appointment or something?”

  “Fourteen hours. I slept fourteen hours?”

  “More or less. You were tired.”

  “Six hours. That’s a long night. I don’t sleep fourteen hours.” He stomped to the window and pulled back the curtain, as if something outside would disprove her words.

  “Okay. I confess. I set all the clocks ahead, and it’s really four in the morning. Of course, getting the sun up that high in the sky took a little more doing, but yeah, you only slept six hours.”

  Shaking his head, he did a circuit of the living room, mumbling, “Fourteen hours.” He cut his eyes in her direction, looking bewildered. “Excuse me.” He disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.

  When he emerged, he’d put on his shoes, dampened and finger-combed his hair, but the incredulity hadn’t left his face. His duffel hung over one shoulder. She held out the coffee mug. His gaze moved from the mug to her face, to his watch and back to the mug.

  “Thanks.” He sipped and paced the room, dropping his duffel by the door. After half a dozen circuits, he poured the remains of his coffee into the sink and rinsed the mug, seeming not to notice she leaned against the counter barely six inches from him. “I should get going.”

  He moved to the table at the entry where he'd dropped his cell phone yesterday evening. He checked the display, then clipped the phone to his belt.

  She stayed where she was. “Are we still on for tonight?”

  Confusion crossed his face. “Tonight?”

  “A going away party for my sister. Black tie, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. Tux. Seven-thirty.” He gave a quick smile. “Seems like you called a year ago. I’m in.”

  “Seriously, I’ll understand if you want to cancel.”

  “Don’t be silly.” His eyes caught the paper on the counter. “The explosion. Anything in the news?”

  “Nothing much.” She related what she’d read.

  “Want me to poke around?”

  All right, then. Last night hadn’t happened. It worked for her. “Luisa Fernandez. A former resident. Keisha said she saw her on television during the news coverage.”

  “Luisa Fernandez her real name?”

  She glowered. “We went through that yesterday.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. Description?”

  “Hispanic. Twenty-two. Five-eight, thin. Dark hair, long when she left. She wore a St. Christopher around her neck on a silver chain. Never took it off.”

  “Thanks. That helps.” He gathered his things. “See you at seven-thirty.”

  “Right.”

  Until he remembered how he’d revealed his deep, dark secrets. How long before he called to cancel?

  * * * * *

  Dalton sat on a marble bench on the Sandersons’ patio, staring at the lights reflecting off the lagoon-themed swimming pool. Being stuck in a tux for the second time in a week wouldn’t be so bad if Miri would stop pretending he didn’t exist. Hell, at least at Patterson’s gala, he’d had a job to do, and Fozzie had been there for distraction. Fozzie and the rest of the team had gone wheels up in the pre-dawn hours—hours when he’d been dead asleep on Miri’s couch.

  He glanced over his shoulder again. Miri had attached herself to her sister as soon as they’d stepped through the door, and nearly an hour later, the two women circulated through the room like a pair of conjoined twins.

  He’d laid himself wide open last night, every bit of raw, naked pain exposed to someone he barely knew. Was she embarrassed? Afraid she’d embarrass him if she mentioned it?

  Like a coward, he’d picked her up for the party, pretending last night never happened. When she’d opened the door wearing a flame-colored cocktail dress that did more than merely hint at cleavage and clung to her curves, he shot to attention like a teenager.

  Aside from uttering a few navigational directions, she spent the drive staring out the window. A glacial chill rested between them. He vowed to confront the awkwardness on the ride home because, damn, she stirred things inside him he thought had died with Rachel.

  He returned to contemplating the flower-shaped candles floating on the pool in their lily pad holders. He watched a pink one drift by for the third time when the approaching click of heels on the flagstone raised hopes that Miri had decided to join him.

  No, not Miri. The scent was all wrong. He pasted a polite smile on his face and turned, half-blinded by the glaring lights mounted under the eaves.

  “Dalton? I thought I recognized you. Don’t tell me you’re still searching for that special someone?”

  He rose, his smile widening into a genuine one. “Grace. It’s nice to see you again.” He gestured her to the bench. “Would you like to join me?”

  “Thank you.” She extended her legs, crossing them at the ankles. Very shapely ankles. She sighed. “Ah, much better. What an old broad like me is doing in these shoes is a question for the ages. What is it that makes women victims of some man’s idea of attractive footwear? I’d take them off, but that would scandalize the Sandersons. I can see the gossip column headline. Mrs. Grace Ellsworth Bares Bunions.

  Patting her silver hair, she moved her head from left to right, then took a small compact out of her evening bag and touched up her lipstick. Dalton’s radar hummed as he recognized the subtle moves of someone making sure they weren’t being watched. In that instant, he regretted not having added Grace’s name to the list when he’d run background checks.

  She smiled at him, her voice soft, her lips barely moving. “Did you investigate Andrew Patterson’s project?”

  Her cheerful countenance didn’t match her words.

  He followed her lead, giving a quiet laugh as if she’d told a clever joke. “Afraid not. I saw the brochure. It looked very . . . philanthropic.”

  She fluttered her hands in front of her lips. “My Edgar used to say, ‘A leopard doesn’t change his spots,’ if you know what I mean. Andrew Patterson has devoted his life to making money. Why start giving it away?”

  “I thought he donated a lot to charity, funded museum and theater trips and the like for school kids.”

  “Barely scratched the surface of his income from the museums and performing arts center. Believe me, he hasn’t given away a dime that didn’t net him a dollar somewhere else.”

  High-heeled footfalls approached. She grasped his forearm. “It was so nice seeing you again. I’d better be getting back inside. Mr. Patterson is coming to send the young Sandersons off with his best wishes.”

  Dalton stood and helped Grace to her feet. As she adjusted the lapel of his tux, he leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. Although she’d been smooth, he knew he’d find a card in his breast pocket.

  “I’m sure our paths will cross again,” he said.

  She gave a friendly wave as two couples walked out onto the patio. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”

  They nodded, lifting their drinks in a silent salute and Dalton mumbled a greeting of his own. His curiosity piqued, he followed Grace at a casual distance. Inside, the Sandersons’ spacious living room was a scaled down version of the previous Saturday, except for the bright colors on the women. He scanned the room, seeking Miri’s scarlet.

  The crowd became mere background. She turned in his direction and a smile lit her face. He tried, not successfully, to keep a goofy grin from spreading over his. Never removing his gaze from his target, he excused himself through the obstacle course of people. As he closed the distance between them, he realized her gaze was trained somewhere over his shoulder. To his left, the sea of guests shifted, effectively stonewalling him as they closed the few gaps between himself and Miri.r />
  Easing his way around a portly couple who seemed to inhabit five times the space their combined bulk required, Dalton found a tall, blond Ken doll standing with Miri. A Ken doll with Miri’s arms around him, and the grins on both their faces said they were much more than casual cocktail party acquaintances. The kiss they exchanged wasn’t one of those society air kisses, either. Quick, not passionate, but definitely a we’re good friends kiss.

  His heartbeat drummed in his ears. He shoved his fists into his pockets and pivoted toward the center of the room, crashing into Mr. and Mrs. Portly.

  “Excuse me,” he muttered.

  Apparently oblivious to his intrusion, they continued their animated discussion, rocking back and forth as he attempted to get by. After some fancy footwork, Dalton timed his moves with theirs and avoided a collision.

  The conversational din dropped to a low murmur. A hand grasped his sleeve. “This could be interesting.”

  Dalton lowered his eyes toward the quiet voice at his side. Grace smiled at him and linked her arm with his. “Over here,” she said and steered him to a gap between two large wooden bookcases.

  Despite the lack of a band, it was as if a drumroll filled the room. All conversation ceased, and caterers scurried to provide flutes of champagne to the guests. Andrew Patterson, his teeth flashing brilliant white against his tan, strode to the staircase in the center of the room. He glided upward until he perched high enough to be visible to all without over-exaggerating his importance.

  “And let the show begin,” Grace said. She lifted two crystal flutes from a waiter and handed one to Dalton.

  Patterson swept his hair from his forehead, emphasizing the white streak against the jet black. “Friends. First, I apologize for being late. Second, I thank the Sandersons for putting this evening together on short notice. And last, I promise that I did not come with any intentions of fundraising.” He paused for the undercurrent of laughter that rippled through the room.

  “Like hell,” Grace said.

  Dalton studied her, but her expression was one of rapt attention. He decided it would be wise to mimic it.

  “Most of you have known Hunter Sanderson for years—some of you for his entire life,” Patterson continued. “Although I had the pleasure of meeting him recently, I knew immediately he would be the perfect choice to oversee my new project. I’m confident that within a very short time the living conditions of those souls who help put food on our tables will be vastly improved.” His eyes scanned the crowd, and he dipped his head as a king might command attendance. Dalton watched as Miri’s Ken doll emerged from the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea at a wave of Moses’ staff.

  When the Ken doll joined Patterson—one step below him, Dalton noted—Patterson raised his glass. “A toast to Hunter Sanderson, and the beginning of the newest Patterson enterprise.”

  On the stairs, the two men tapped their glasses and sipped champagne. So, Ken was Miri’s brother-in-law. Good thing he hadn’t grabbed him by the collar and punched his lights out. Shit. He shoved those feelings aside and watched the action on the staircase. Ken—no, Hunter—turned his back on the crowd and said something to Patterson. There was some minor head shaking from both men. Patterson’s color deepened, his smile faded for an instant, and when it returned it was forced. Patterson clapped Hunter’s shoulder and escorted him down the staircase. Handing off his champagne glass to a passing waiter, he worked the room, managing to shake hands with guests while never releasing Hunter from his grip.

  “What happened up there?” Dalton asked.

  “You saw it, too, then.” Grace tilted her head to meet his gaze. “Hunter said something, and Patterson was not pleased.” She smiled, and the corners of her eyes creased. “I think I’ll go offer my congratulations to the guest of honor.”

  Dalton resumed his quest for Miri, sifting through the feelings she aroused in him. Aroused being the operative word. Not good. He tried switching gears. What could have triggered that fleeting standoff between Patterson and Hunter? Hunter spoke and Patterson hadn’t liked it. Beyond that, he had nothing.

  Maybe Grace would ferret something out. He gazed in her direction, but she’d disappeared like morning mist on a warm day.

  Who the hell was she?

  A flash of scarlet caught his eye. With a stride indicating she wasn’t used to high heels, Miri approached, moving through the crowd as if the room were empty. Her gaze met his, then moved to the champagne flute in his hand. Her lips—full, lush, and as scarlet as her dress—narrowed.

  “You okay to drive? Because if we need a cab—”

  He handed her the glass, stretched his arms to the side and touched his fingers to his nose. “Totally, Officer.” Did he detect the start of a smile? He grinned, trying to coax it all the way out. “Seriously, I had one glass of champagne an hour ago. As you can see, the one you’re holding has barely been touched. And I’ve been eating. Shall I walk a line for you, too?”

  Even the hint of her smile disappeared. Shit. He’d gone too far. “Sorry,” he said. “Did you want to leave?”

  “If you don’t mind.” She marched, a little unsteadily, toward the door. He waited half a beat so he could trail behind her. Those high heels made for some delightful hip action.

  She brushed off his assistance climbing into the SUV. He tugged off his bow tie and dropped it in a cup holder before starting the engine. Miri stared out the side window. Ten minutes later, she hadn’t looked at him or said a word.

  “Miri. About last night.”

  She faced him. At last. “Did you find anything about Luisa?”

  Okay, she wasn’t going to bring up his meltdown. He could wait. “I called in a favor or two. I should know by Monday, if it hasn’t already hit the news.”

  “You must have a lot of people who owe you favors.” Her words hung in the air like so many icicles.

  Where was a red light when he needed one? Traffic demanded his attention so he couldn’t watch her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Just Dalton. Drive. I’ll give you everything when we get to my place.”

  Which couldn’t be soon enough for him. He checked his mirrors and stomped on the accelerator.

  Chapter 14

  Miri shoved her anger aside, which to her frustration, was far too easy. When she'd found Dalton’s envelope under the coffee table this afternoon, she’d been ready to do him grievous bodily harm, or at least cancel the entire evening—but that wouldn’t have been fair to Nancy. She garnered a small helping of satisfaction from the way he clenched his jaw and his knuckles whitened on the wheel.

  She shouldn’t have drunk so much champagne. Turning her head, she watched the streetlights fly by so she wouldn’t have to deal with how damn luscious he looked in that tux. And his scent. If only she didn’t have to breathe. The man must pump pheromones along with his cologne. Being furious with him didn’t seem to make him any less enticing. Besides, he’d been a good sport when she’d abandoned him for Nancy. She cracked the window, hoping the cool air and exhaust fumes would reverse his effect on her.

  Enough. She let her mind drift to the way she and Nancy had kept Mrs. Sanderson at bay all night. The biddy was polite enough not to make disparaging remarks when someone else was present, and Miri made sure Nancy was never alone. And when Mr. Patterson arrived, Mrs. Sanderson had no choice but to rave about how wonderful it was that her son, his wife, and even his wife’s sister were doing such good works for the poor downtrodden masses. Miri’s lips twitched in an involuntary smile.

  The car stopped. This time, Dalton parked on the street in front of her building. Guess he’d had enough of Mr. Liebowitz. They’d left the party at eleven, so it wasn’t yet midnight. Why did Cinderella come to mind?

  The car door opened beside her. Dalton’s hand hovered. What the hell. As Prince Charmings went, he was way up there. She took his hand. Warm, dry and strong, it sent a tingling jolt from her fingers to her toes.

  When she stepped out
of his car, he smiled. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze, but it was too low for eye contact. As if they knew he was watching, her nipples stiffened. If a glance could do that to her, could it be happening to him? Well, she wouldn’t stoop to his level. She had more class than that. She kept her eyes lifted.

  After she unlocked the entry door, she crossed the small foyer and paused at the foot of the stairs. Champagne and three-inch heels. Not the best combination. She should have eaten more canapés. She grabbed the railing.

  “After you,” she said. She swept her arm upward.

  He tilted his head in question.

  She shrugged. “You had your turn, now it’s mine. I’m going to enjoy the view.”

  He arched his eyebrows but took the lead. She followed. Being mad at him didn’t matter. She did love his manly assets.

  As soon as she opened her apartment door, the sight of the envelope on the entry table undid most of her mellow. She marched inside, threw her purse onto the couch, and snatched it from the table.

  “You forgot this.”

  “Right.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “Thanks.”

  The fury she felt when she’d found it flooded through her again. She almost smacked him with it. “That’s it? Thanks? I think I deserve more than that, Just Dalton.”

  He closed the door and she noticed her too-shrill voice, sensed her rapid breathing. One part of her brain said too much champagne left her a few synapses short of reasonable, but the part that made the words gush from her mouth didn’t seem to understand.

  It wasn’t until he tugged at the envelope that she realized she clutched it in a death grip. She let go, only to stumble backward. Dalton grasped her forearm. She shrugged away.

  “Don’t touch me.” Her voice echoed in her ears. She didn’t sound convincing.

  He stepped closer, cradling her face in his hands. His eyes bored into hers. A smile played across his lips. Yummy, tempting lips.

  “How much champagne did you drink?”

  She frowned. “Not that much.” Then again, the wait staff kept her glass full and she hadn’t kept track. “I’m not drunk.”