She could even smile over the latter, and that was saying something. She hadn’t gone looking for that interview, but she had hoped that if she gave an exclusive, the rest of the press and television people who had been hounding her would finally leave her alone.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected the experience to be like, but she’d certainly never dreamed it would turn out the way it had. Lord, she had itched to smack that woman! But of course a Charles never resorted to violence. Amanda grinned, because she had come pretty close to forgetting that. Ah, well, Mother would approve of her forbearance, and overall, she was quite proud herself of the way she’d handled the interview.
Her well-honed manners and a natural inclination for passive resistance rather than outright rebellion enabled her to control her outward reaction to most provocation. Her tolerance, like anyone else’s, however, had limits, and nothing breeched it quite so quickly as people who dealt in malicious insinuations based on pure, unadulterated speculation. Faced with a situation laden with those properties, she had been known to react first and think second. That she had controlled herself in this instance was a victory important to no one but herself, but one in which she took pride all the same.
And obviously she had done something right, for the press hadn’t bothered her since her interview. Then, too, there was the additional little bonus of having escaped the guilt that always plagued her on the rare occasions her manners failed.
She was smiling when she went to bed that evening, and happy still when she dragged her weary body out of bed the next day at noon. Throwing on old clothes, Amanda hummed as she buzzed around her apartment, giving it its weekly spit and polish. Life was getting back on track, and she reveled in it.
It was therefore all the more disconcerting when her doorbell rang at one-thirty that afternoon and she opened it to Lieutenant MacLaughlin. He was standing on her threshold, Buddy Holly glasses gleaming with a fresh cleaning, dressed in his usual suit of Scottish wool, pristine starched shirt, and a tightly knotted tie, but incongruously supporting the plump belly of a small brown-and-black dog in his big hand.
“Is your apartment still available, lass?” he asked without preamble. “Ace and I want to rent it.”
Chapter
7
Amanda stared at the large man and the little dog on her doorstep as though a spaceship had just deposited them on her front step. Her feeling of well-being deflated like a balloon with a slow leak, and she shivered in the blustery wind blowing through her open doorway.
“I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“I didn’t set out to,” he replied and glanced down at the dog lying trustingly in his grasp. “It just sort of happened.” He scratched the dog between the ears with his free hand.
“Oh?” She watched the blissful expression on the dog’s face at the treatment; then, slowly, she raised her eyes to Tristan’s. “How does one ‘just sort of’ acquire a pet?”
“May we come in, lass? You’re losing all your heat.”
“What? Oh! Yes, sure, I guess so.” Amanda stepped back, feeling a little less than brilliant. Nothing like a nice, decisive statement to get your day rolling right, she decided in self-derision. Lord protect the inarticulate.
She led the way into the living room and gestured for Tristan to sit down. He did, resting the dog on his knee. The mutt sprawled happily, shedding short black and brown hairs indiscriminately on the fine wool of Tristan’s slacks.
Amanda remained standing and stared at them, trying to reconcile Tristan’s apparent lack of concern to the type of man she thought he was. Why, the dog wasn’t even cute. She could picture the stern, humorless man she imagined the lieutenant to be with a handsome breed of dog like a German shepherd or a Doberman pinscher, but this little mutt wasn’t any breed that she recognized. His biggest distinction was his complete lack of distinction. He was just short, fat, and kind of homely, except for his coloring, which was lovely. His coat was a rich, deep brown with clearly defined markings of black on three of his chubby feet, in a saddle across his back, and in a circle around his left eye.
The rest of him was like something right out of Dr. Seuss.
Amanda smiled suddenly and stepped closer. She collapsed cross-legged in front of Tristan’s chair and reached out to chuck the dog under his chin. Ace opened one eye and rotated his neck to allow her greater access. He wasn’t really ugly at all, Amanda decided. “He’s what Teddy used to call a D.A.W.G. kinda dog,” she said and grinned. “How did you end up with him?”
Tristan wondered who Teddy was. Damned nancy name for a bloke with the slightest shred of masculinity, if you asked him. He tried to imagine letting someone called him Tristy and had to suppress a snort. Not bloody likely.
Tristan noticed Amanda looking at him quizzically and realized he hadn’t answered her. What was the question, then? Oh, yes, how he had come to acquire the wee pup.
“It was outside a building where we were conducting our investigation,” he began, and Amanda felt the warmth that the dog’s presence had imbued on the moment turn to chill at the unwelcome reminder of this man’s profession. Watching him with the pup, she had forgotten for a moment that Lieutenant MacLaughlin was actually a ruthless individual.
“We came out and found a man abusin’ the poor mite,” the ruthless individual said, and then added with some heat, “You can see he’s just a wee little bugger, and the great sod was kicking him and knocking him about the head. Well, lass, I must say I dinna care for bullies much, so I objected. Seems the mon was attempting to teach the wee doggie some tricks, and when Ace didn’t catch on promptly, the bloke threw a bloody blooming fit. Joe Cash pointed out nice and calmly that whipping was no way to teach anything to anyone, and I pointed out less than calmly that if the bloke kept it up I could slam his arse in jail, and dead happy it would make me, too.” His voice was flat with remembered anger.
“And did you?” She would have liked to have been there to see the unflappable, enigmatic lieutenant lose his temper. She hadn’t thought he did such things. He was so controlled, it hadn’t even occurred to her he might have a temper.
“No. The mon slapped the pup’s leash in my hand and said if I thought I was such an effin’ expert then I was effin’ well welcome to try my hand with Ace. He was a right charmer, that one. Then he bloody scarpered. Mind if I take my jacket off, lass?”
Amanda didn’t want him to make himself at home, but politeness was too ingrained for her to say so. She rose to take his jacket, then stared with horrified fascination at the smooth butt of his gun nestled in its underarm shoulder holster. He was a policeman, so she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to see he carried a firearm. In reality, she couldn’t have been more shocked if she had suddenly spied a rat peeking out from under his armpit.
Tristan saw the repugnance she couldn’t hide, and he could have punched a hole in the nearest wall. Damn it to bloody hell. For once in his misbegotten life he was in the presence of a woman of her sort—not a barfly or a whore, but a woman an entire world removed—and he’d had something to say. He hadn’t even had to search for the words; they had just appeared, with surprising ease. She was the type of elegant, self-assured woman with whom he was generally at his worst, yet he had actually been sitting here conversing with her about subjects other than business, and his tongue hadn’t tied itself into a dozen knots in the process.
Well, they said a picture was worth a thousand words, and he couldn’t disagree. He had been talking right along like he’d had flamin’ good sense, thinking he was getting somewhere. Then he had taken off his damn coat.
Hell, yes. Worth a thousand words.
Tristan ground his teeth in bitter frustration, feeling defensive. Well, how was he supposed to know? The type of women he didn’t have a problem talking to, usually found in bars, always loved his gun. They seemed to find it highly erotic. But the Charles lassie was regarding him as though he’d suddenly unzipped his fly and exposed more than a piece of hardware.
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br /> Amanda further distanced herself by backing to the chair farthest from where Tristan was sitting and slowly sinking down on the edge of it, her back ramrod straight, ankles neatly crossed, and hands resting palms up in her lap, as prim as a little girl at her first grown-up function. “Why do you want to rent my apartment?”
“I’m being bounced from my motel,” he replied. “Ace took a day or two to adjust to his new surroundings, and he cried a wee bit late at night.” Tristan looked fondly at the mutt slumbering on his lap. “Well, he didn’t know what was going on in his life, did he, then? The poor mite’s had more than his share of knocks, I’m afraid, but very soon he settled right in.”
“But?” Amanda asked drily. In spite of herself, she was slightly charmed by this tough man’s obvious affection for the homely little dog. Whoever would have guessed? She would have sworn he didn’t have a human emotion in his entire body.
“But they took exception all the same, Miss Charles. And they want us out, lass. Tonight.”
Amanda’s heart dropped. So he had a soft spot for the mutt. So what? He was still ninety-nine percent robot. And she didn’t want him around as a constant reminder of the vicious deaths of three of her fellow dancers. Not now, when she was finally starting to put it all behind her.
Still…
She had promised Rhonda. “Have you tried other motels?” she asked hopefully. “There are several that accommodate pets.”
“Oh, aye, lass, that there are.” Tristan’s gray eyes were unreadable behind his clear lenses. “But a dog needs a yard to stretch his legs.” He extended Ace’s right rear leg to its full three inches. “Such as they may be.” His eyes raised and impaled her. “And you have a perfect yard, fenced and all.”
“How is he with cats? Rhonda has a cat, you know, and she wouldn’t like it if your dog terrorized it.” Rhonda, Amanda knew, would give the damn cat away, even if she had owned it for six years and loved it dearly, if it would mean having Lieutenant MacLaughlin move in.
“Oh, Ace is a proper gent with cats. Actually, he’s right cowardly,” Tristan said, and he grinned. “You may have noticed he’s not overly large, and just this morning I took him to the park and a good-sized tomcat crossed our path. My brave laddie here cowered behind my feet until the cat went on his way.”
Amanda stared at him, immobilized. She had forgotten his smile. God, it made him look different. And momentarily, it chased all further objections from her mind. “Very well,” she said. “The rent’s seven twenty-five a month. The first and last month’s rent, plus a three-hundred-dollar damage deposit, are due before you move in.” She rose.
Tristan’s Scottish frugality cringed at paying out nearly eighteen hundred dollars all at once, but his dismay didn’t show as he stood. They made arrangements for him to move in at four, which would give him time to check out of his motel and go to the bank. Moments after the transaction was finalized, he bade her good-bye and left.
Amanda closed the door behind him and sagged back against it, running a hand through her hair.
She assured herself she hadn’t just made a big mistake. Then, why, oh why, did the thought lack conviction?
Tristan stopped by the station after vacating his motel room and withdrawing the rent money from his account at the bank. Joe Cash was there, working at a desk. He looked up as Tristan walked in.
“Hey there, Lieutenant. Got a number of messages for you.” He handed the pink slips across the cluttered desk. “One guy musta called nine or ten times, wanting to talk to no one but you. But he refused to leave a name or number.” Joe shrugged.
So did Tristan. Cases of this nature generated a lot of unsubstantiated rumor, gossip, and misinformation. Quite often it turned out to be nothing more than simple out-and-out trouble making, aimed at a disfavored acquaintance or spouse. There were days, particularly when the moon was full, when their phones rang off the hooks. Information of all types found its way to the police, where it became part of the chaff of the investigatory process. Occasionally, it was important. More often, it was not. And since Tristan’s name was mentioned frequently on television or in the papers in connection with the case, a large percentage of the information was directed to him personally.
“How’s the search for a new place coming?” asked Joe, and once he heard about Tristan’s new living arrangements, he promptly offered to help him move.
“There’s not much to move,” Tristan said, then surprised himself by adding, “but you’re welcome to come along. I’d appreciate the company.”
He was finding it a little easier every day to make the effort with Joe. The more time he spent around the other man, the more he came to realize that Joe was someone he could place his trust in, both professionally and, more amazing still, personally.
This type of friendship was new to Tristan. His wasn’t an outgoing personality at the best of times. The most he had usually managed in the past was an occasional drink with co-workers after a long day’s labor, and even casual get-togethers such as those hadn’t always been the greatest successes. The men he drank with generally ended up talking about their families or their women, and as he had neither, he never had much to contribute. Oh, aye, he had sexual encounters here and there, but they were invariably short-lived affairs, containing no real commitment. It wasn’t quite the same thing.
By putting into his career the time he might otherwise have spent with others, he had quickly advanced, and loneliness had become an established fact of life never closely examined. He didn’t care to analyze it now. But he wouldn’t mind getting to know Joe Cash; not at all. He was a comfortable man to be around, and easy to talk to, as well.
“Well, hey there, Ace,” Joe said a moment later as they stopped in front of Tristan’s recently issued car in the parking lot. He tapped on the passenger window to attract the dog’s attention. While Tristan walked around the car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and pushed the button to unlock the passenger door, Joe directed nonsensical kissing sounds through the window at Ace and produced a patter of sweet talk that almost, but not quite, induced the dog to raise his head up off the upholstery. Climbing in, Joe edged Ace over to make room for himself on the front seat, talking all the while. “This here’s gotta be the sleepin’est dog I’ve ever met. So, Acer, what’s this I hear about you going to live with a whole bevy of beauties?” He scratched the mutt’s head and Ace rolled over onto his back, ecstatic. “You’re a sly ole dog, aren’t you?”
Tristan glanced over at Joe and smiled slightly. “Do two women constitute a bevy?”
“Lord, yes, Lieutenant. They do when they come packaged like the Misses Charles and Smith,” Joe replied. “Man, those pretty, pretty little rear ends. It gives me palpitations just thinking about it.” He grinned comfortably at Tristan’s raised eyebrows. “I guess you would have had to meet my ex-wife to appreciate my appreciation. When Carol walked, her butt just sorta rolled around in those polyester pants she favored, like two angry tomcats in a burlap bag. And when Carol ran…” Joe shook his head as though it simply defied description. Then he sighed happily. “I tell ya true, MacLaughlin, I could just sit by the hour and do nothing but eyeball a dancer’s buns.”
Tristan considered it for a moment and decided he was more of a leg man, himself, but invited Joe to drop by, whenever, to enjoy the view. He listened to his friend’s easy banter until they pulled up in front of the triplex.
Without being asked, Joe reached into the trunk and dragged out the large box he had seen Tristan effortlessly heft on his shoulder at the airport the day of his arrival. “Jesus, MacLaughlin, what’ve you got in here?”
“My weights.”
“Weights?” Joe deposited the box on the car’s fender. “As in barbells and whatnot?” he asked. Then he shook his head. “Naah! Nobody drags their barbells from one city to the next.” He peered inside the container to see what was really there. “Well, I’ll be damned—it is weights!”
“Aye, did I not just say so?” Tristan was slightly
irritated, unused to being the recipient of sarcastic male give and take. “Do you not work out yourself, then, mon? How can you hope to keep up with the bloody buggers on the street if you don’t stay in shape?”
“Well, sure, I work out,” Joe replied and stooped down to get his shoulder beneath the box. With a grunt, he rose. “I just can’t quite imagine dragging this shit with me everywhere I go. I guess if it were me, I’da probably just stored it and bought myself some more in the next town.”
Heat crept up Tristan’s neck. He had a definite problem when it came to spending his hard-earned money. He knew it. Privately, he was even somewhat embarrassed by the tendency, but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. It was probably the result of going too long without any money at all. For years, he had scrimped and cut corners and taught himself not to want. He had forced himself to save every last penny, setting goals and slowly attaining them. He was dead proud of how far he’d come, too. Yet, now that he was free to loosen some of the restraints he had imposed upon himself, he found it a difficult habit to reverse. He had a respectable bank balance now, but he still didn’t know how to spend his money simply for the sheer bloody enjoyment of it.
He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably as he followed Joe down the stairs. No, that wasn’t exactly true. He liked suits of fine Scottish wool, so he’d bought himself a few. And, hell, yes, he’d bought…he had bought…
Nothing. That was it, basically—just the suits. The rest of his wardrobe was certainly nothing to brag about, and his car was a rust bucket, which was why he hadn’t bothered to drive it to Reno. He had feared it wouldn’t make the trip. And his apartment in Seattle…Tristan sighed. Oh, bloody hell, mon, admit it. The Union Gospel Mission for the homeless is probably furnished with more style than your apartment.
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