Ace appeared less than impressed as he dozed off in her lap, but Amanda was enthralled with the cobweb-fine lingerie. She had spent an almost indecent amount of money on the panties, bras, camies, and nightgowns, but as she picked each item up to admire it anew, she decided it was worth every penny.
For some reason, she’d never owned really pretty underwear before. She’d always worn functional cottons that were practical and plain. But today she had suddenly decided she was tired of wearing Girl Scout undies. Ridiculously pleased with herself, she grinned as she set Ace aside and rose to put her new purchases in a drawer. She carried her old underwear out to the kitchen and unceremoniously dumped it in the garbage can under the sink. Good-bye cottons. She had discovered the near-sinful pleasure of wearing insubstantial bits of satin and lace, and she wasn’t going back, ever.
The phone rang again, just as she glanced at the clock, and Amanda swore. She was going to be late if she didn’t leave immediately. Racing back to the bedroom, she snatched up a sleepy Ace, scooped his ball off the floor, grabbed her purse, and ran from the apartment. Depositing dog and toy in the yard, she took the steps two at a time, and seconds later pulled away from the curb in a squeal of tires.
Tristan hung up the phone and swore. Then he stabbed his forefinger at the bridge of his glasses, settling them back in place, and told himself it was just as well she hadn’t answered. He didn’t know why the hell he was calling her, anyway. Oh, he’d told himself it was only to request she feed Ace for him, since it looked as though he would be working very late tonight. But it was more than that, and since he didn’t make it a practice to lie to himself, he had to face it squarely.
He needed to hear her voice—to make some kind of contact.
His face was impassive as he answered a question put to him by one of his men. He signed a form shoved under his nose. But when there was a lull a few minutes later, he stared down at the floor without really seeing it, and silently berated himself.
He should stay the hell away from her. She was a threat to everything he’d ever worked for. Tristan MacLaughlin didn’t get involved with women on a case. The truth was, he didn’t get more than superficially involved with any woman, period. Needing other people only got you hurt; he’d learned that lesson years ago.
But you want her. And you need to know she’s safe.
That’s what truly disturbed him. Oh, not the wanting; there was nothing new there. He had wanted other women before—temporarily. It would pass with her, too, once he’d had her—and after this morning, he would have her, come hell or high water. But this need to have a connection, this urge to protect…
He was afraid of losing his objectivity. He couldn’t allow himself to be concerned about one dancer—not when there was a whole city of them in peril. And so he broke his own golden rule and, blocking out the truth, told himself it was only because the newest victim had pale blond hair almost the exact shade as Amanda’s that made him anxious for her safety.
The latest victim’s name was Joy Frede. They had learned today that she had been twenty-seven, single, and in debt up to her shell-pink ears when she died. From talking to her roommate, they had learned one other fact that might have a bearing on her case. Joy Frede had received at least two phone calls prior to her murder.
They didn’t know whether the calls had been placed by the killer. All the roommate knew for sure was that Frede had been very disturbed by two calls that she’d refused to discuss with her. At the time, the roommate had assumed they had something to do with Frede’s escalating debts. She’d also suspected Frede of prostituting herself to earn extra money.
In one corner of his mind, Tristan divorced himself from the facts at hand and hoped to hell Amanda was staying out of dark, deserted areas. She seemed to possess a blind faith that nothing bad could happen to her, and it made him nervous.
Damn it to bloody hell, he thought furiously, jerking his attention back to the matter at hand. Stop doing that. You have a job to do here, and you can’t afford to let your mind wander. He decided he wasn’t going to think about her again.
But he couldn’t help but wish she were in just about any other profession.
The phone was ringing again when Amanda unlocked the door to her apartment in the early hours of the morning after the last show. “For the love of God,” she exclaimed in exasperation. Who on earth wanted to talk to her so badly that they had to call at two-thirty in the morning? She plunged into the dark hall, having forgotten to leave a light on earlier in her rush to get to the Cabaret on time, but she turned back to stare at the open door behind her.
Forsaking the ringing phone for the moment, she went back and retrieved her dangling keys from the outside lock and closed the door securely behind her, locking up and placing the chain across the door. When MacLaughlin had been lambasting her in his cool, authoritative manner this morning—God, was that only this morning?—about policemen and their guns, he had also said something about her making it a point to forget there was a killer out there stalking dancers.
As much as he infuriated her, he was partially correct. She did want to pretend everything was the same as it used to be, so as much as possible, she conducted her life in its accustomed manner.
But at the same time, regardless what he might believe, she wasn’t taking foolish risks. She might wish things were different, but she wasn’t blind to reality. She made it a point to park her car in a well-lighted area near the casino. She was usually with Rhonda, but if Rhonda had other plans, as she did this evening, then Amanda walked in a group to and from the casino. And there was no denying that her life had changed to the extent that she was aware of everyone around her these days. She wasn’t so dumb as to place herself in a potentially dangerous situation, no matter what MacLaughlin might think. She had even had floodlights installed in all the dark corners of her property as he’d demanded. You had to look hard to find a shadow out there these days.
The phone stopped ringing an instant before she reached it. Amanda uttered a word she didn’t normally use and went to take a quick shower. She thought she heard the phone ringing underneath the roar of water, but when she stuck her head out to listen, it was quiet. The idea of someone trying to reach her at this hour of the morning made her uneasy, and her heart began to beat unevenly with apprehension. She wished Rhonda or MacLaughlin were home. She probably wouldn’t call either one of them, but it would be nice to know that she wasn’t entirely alone in this rambling old triplex. She would have sworn she knew every creak and moan the building made, but tonight the house seemed foreign and rather threatening.
She poured herself a glass of wine and spent longer than usual brushing her hair and her teeth and preparing for bed. Finally beginning to relax, she stood in front of the full-length mirror and admired her slinky new nightgown of midnight-blue silk with matching insets of lace. She loved the way it made her skin glow all golden in contrast. On sudden impulse, she hummed a little tune and began easing the nightie off again. Dropping the shoulder straps and inching the hem up her thighs, she executed a little bump and grind, smiling saucily at her image and deciding she wasn’t half bad. If Charlie ever bumped her from the Cabaret, maybe she’d look for work as a stripper. Easing the fragile shoulder straps back into place, she decided she’d be effective as all get-out with rip-away clothing.
Blushing only a very little, she met her gaze in the mirror. Think you’re pretty hot stuff, don’t you? she demanded half sheepishly of her image. Having MacLaughlin slam you up against a wall and kiss you like you’re the hottest babe on earth has clearly gone to your head.
Damn straight, toots.
Her image obviously had no shame. It kept dancing seductively, hands skimming up its sides, rubbing lightly over the fullness of its breasts, fingertips trailing over collarbone and neck, gathering up a handful of hair, and then letting it go to stretch lazily in the air. Amanda smiled. Maybe she had been missing out on something all these years after all. Maybe, as Rhonda had repeatedly ins
isted, she’d been too particular. Wouldn’t it be ironic if, having only just discovered her passionate, sexy side, she suddenly found she couldn’t live without…it?
It? Amanda laughed out loud, despite the faint throbbing of awareness that plagued her body. It? Amanda Rose, it’s doubtful you have to worry about not being able to live without it, when you can’t even say the word! She climbed into bed and turned out the light. The way MacLaughlin’s face had looked this morning just after he pulled away from her flashed across her mind.
“Sex,” she whispered. “S-E-X, sex.” Oh, she could do much more than say the word, she decided. She’d learned exactly what she was capable of this morning. And what was truly shocking was that after only a few hours, she didn’t even have the grace to be shocked by it at all. “Sex,” she murmured fervently once again, and she smiled, rolling over on her side.
Into the peaceful darkness, the bedside phone suddenly rang, cutting through her relaxation with the shrillness of a dentist’s drill.
Chapter
13
Heart pounding, Amanda rolled back toward the nightstand and turned on the light. She stared at the phone for a moment as if it had abruptly morphed into something she’d never seen before. Then, hesitantly, she reached out and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Amanda?” The voice was low, scratchy sounding, and not one she recognized.
“Who is this?” she demanded. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” the voice said gently. “I did try earlier, but there was no answer, and I suppose I lost track of the time.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend.” The voice was nonthreatening, but it was also not one she recognized. “Just a friend who wanted to let you know how much I admire you.”
Amanda controlled her impatience and replied levelly, “Thank you. That’s very nice to hear, but it is really very late and I need to get my sleep. So, if you’ll excuse me, Mr.—er…”
“Good night, Amanda.” There was a soft click, and the phone went dead.
Slowly, Amanda replaced the receiver. That was odd—and disturbing. She picked up the phone again and punched out Maryanne’s old number. It rang three times before she broke the connection. What was she going to tell him—that someone knew her name and had called to say he admired her? That he’d spoken pleasantly and had promptly hung up when she’d said she was tired and it was late? After this morning, MacLaughlin was more likely to think she was just reaching for an excuse to contact him. Forget it. She’d mention it to Rhonda tomorrow.
But it was a long time before she finally relaxed enough to fall asleep.
Three nights later, Amanda heard a crash from MacLaughlin’s apartment shortly after she went to bed. The silence that followed seemed to beat in her eardrums. Then, faintly, from a distance, she heard Ace whine anxiously.
Her heart tripping over itself, she climbed out of bed and picked up her robe. She got as far as the front door before she hesitated, looking down at her night apparel. She couldn’t go down there like this. Showing up at this hour was bad enough without doing so in her bathrobe and nightie. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea, but she did need his advice—desperately.
It had been three days since the first telephone call—three long days of watching for MacLaughlin to come home so she could ask him what to do. Pulling velour sweatpants over her panties and zipping a matching sweatshirt over her silk chemise, she thought of Rhonda’s advice and knew she probably should have followed it. When Amanda’s caller had phoned again the second night, Rhonda had urged her to quit waiting for MacLaughlin to come home and immediately call the work number on the business card Joe Cash had given them the night they’d identified Maryanne’s body.
“What am I supposed to tell him?” Amanda had demanded. “That some man keeps calling me to pay me compliments? That he says I’m a virtuous woman in an unvirtuous profession?”
“Yes, dammit! This is not natural, Mandy.”
She knew that. The calls were beginning to unnerve her. It had reached the point where she jumped every time the phone rang. But the man had in no way threatened her, and she couldn’t bring herself to call the police station to file a report. So she had kept a close lookout on MacLaughlin’s apartment, instead.
It was amazing how hard it was to pin him down. She knew he was in and out, but she kept missing him. For such a big man, he moved very quietly. Tonight was the first time she had ever heard a sound from his apartment, which was why she was going down there in the middle of the night to talk to him. She was afraid if she waited, he might not be there in the morning. Either she would toss and turn all night for fear of not waking up on time, or she would actually do something stupid like sleep late or take too long in the shower and miss him entirely.
Ace’s whining grew louder, the closer she got to MacLaughlin’s front door. The door was slightly ajar, and Amanda hesitated, hand raised to knock. What was going on here? It wasn’t like MacLaughlin to be lax, or to make noise, and the dog sounded as if something were very wrong indeed. She retreated a step.
“Ah, bloody hell, Ace,” she heard MacLaughlin’s voice rumble. “Would you get your soddin’ tongue outta my ear then, mate? I’m okay; I’m okay. I’ll get up in a minute.”
Amanda knocked and cautiously stuck her head inside the door. “Lieutenant?”
Claws scrabbled on the hardwood floor, and Ace came charging around the corner. Amanda closed the door behind her and leaned down to pat the dog reassuringly. She advanced into the apartment. “Lieutenant? Are you all right?”
Tristan fumbled for his glasses and dragged himself into a half-sitting position against the couch. Pain blurred his vision, but he’d recognize that voice anywhere. He reached out an unsteady hand to right the coffee table he had overturned when the pounding in his head had dropped him first to his knees, then flat on his face, but the effort brought about an upsurge of nausea, and his normally powerful arm dropped uselessly to his side. The pain was almost manageable if he remained very, very still.
God, make her go away, he thought. Never, in his adult life, had anyone seen him in the midst of one of these, and he didn’t want her to be the first. He could barely hold his own with Amanda Charles when he was one hundred percent fit. The idea of watching the contempt she was bound to feel when she saw him like this was more than he could handle.
Amanda forgot why she had come when she saw MacLaughlin on the other side of the dimly lighted room, sprawled out on the floor. His head and one massive shoulder were braced against the front of the couch, and his color was pasty. Beads of sweat stood out on his high forehead and upper lip, trickled down from his temples. His jacket was on the floor, and sweat ringed the underarms of his limp white shirt and plastered it in a large, damp patch to his chest. Underneath the straps of his leather shoulder holster, the shirt’s material was transparent with moisture. Amanda dropped to her knees in front of him and laid a concerned hand on his forehead. It surprised her to find it cool.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Go home, Miss Charles.”
“MacLaughlin, tell me what’s the matter.”
He was in no shape to battle her persistence. “Migraine,” he said through clenched teeth. He peered at her through slitted lashes. Even allowing in the dimmest light was like having needles rammed through his eyes. “Haven’t had one in over a year, and I thought maybe I’d finally outgrown them.” The effort of being stoic under the pressure of such pain proved too much for him. His eyes slammed shut and he gripped his head in both hands. “Oh, God, lass, my head feels like it’s getting ready to blow off my shoulders.”
“Have you taken anything?” Amanda loosened his tie and pulled it off. She unbuttoned his shirt and cuffs and pulled the tails from his slacks.
“No. Got myself home, then fell. Makes me sick, trying to move. Used to have a prescription for it, but like I said…”
“Oka
y. Hang on, I’ll see what I can find.” She left for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, but paused in the doorway. “Where can I find your pajamas?”
“Haven’t got any.”
That figured. Amanda detoured into his bedroom before collecting every article she felt might be useful from the bathroom. She carted her items back to where he was slumped, eyes closed, by the couch. Dropping down beside him, she popped a thermometer in his mouth and instructed him to hold it under his tongue.
“I haven’t got a temperature,” he mumbled around it. “It’s the pain that makes me sweat. Happens every time.”
“It doesn’t hurt to check,” she informed him with quiet firmness, and he decided it was easier to let her do as she wished than argue with her.
Amanda unlatched the buckle securing his shoulder holster and eased it off, handling it gingerly as she set it on the couch. She worked the limp cotton over his shoulders and off his arms, tipping him forward to remove it. He groaned in protest, but then sighed with almost inaudible appreciation as she mopped the sweat from his chest and arms with a bath towel.
She hesitated over his slacks, but finally reached for his belt and unzipped his fly, instructing him to raise his hips so she could ease the pants down his legs. She didn’t want to be, but she was highly aware of the scratchy texture of his body hair as she wiped the dampness from his hard, long-muscled legs.
Setting the towel aside, Amanda reached for a pair of gray sweats and manhandled them over his feet and up his calves to his thighs. When her request that he raise up was met with silence, Amanda glanced up at his face. His lips were folded in on themselves, clamping the thermometer tightly, and his skin was tinged green. His eyes, normally so cool and laser-sharp, were dull, clouded with pain as he stared blankly at the ceiling. No help there. She’d clearly have to wing it on her own.
Shadow Dance Page 21