He felt something for her that he had never felt for another living being in his life. He imagined it was love, but how was he supposed to know? His life hadn’t exactly been overburdened by that particular emotion, and before he had met Amanda Rose Charles, he had never actually believed in it. In a way, he even halfway hoped what he was feeling wasn’t love, because what kind of future could there be for a cop spawned in the bowels of a Glasgow slum and a dancer of obvious breeding? What did they have in common, aside from a mutual dislike of certain aspects of each other’s professions? She quite obviously hated the gun he wore. And he hated the leering drunks who ogled her in her sexy wee stage costumes and garish makeup.
But there was no denying that his feelings for her were stronger than any he had ever known. And come hell or high water, he would keep her safe. He told her as much, and then suggested she take a bath to calm herself. He’d observed they seemed to be Amanda’s version of a tranquilizer.
She surprised him by laughing into the skin of his chest. When she released him and pulled back, determination had replaced the fear in her eyes.
“I’ve cried so many tears and taken so many baths since the day I identified Maryanne’s body, I’m beginning to feel like an overused sponge,” Amanda explained in the face of his puzzlement. She climbed out of bed and donned a robe, then turned back to study Tristan’s face.
For once, it wasn’t studiously blank; she could actually read his frustrated confusion. She wondered if he was having as much trouble as she was reconciling their relationship. Silently, she handed him his slacks, and slinging his shirt over her shoulder, she got down on her hands and knees on the floor and began crawling around in search of its scattered buttons.
Tristan’s whispered reassurances and the strength of his arms had comforted her greatly, and she felt much calmer. But she wasn’t proud of the way she had been allowing her emotions to rule her every action lately. It was past time to take stock of the situation and recapture the trust in her own intellect and the instincts that she had always relied upon in the past.
Amanda gathered the last button and stood up. Tristan had donned his slacks, socks, and glasses, and was sitting on the side of the bed tying his shoes. When he raised his head to stare at her, she avoided his eyes, opening her fist to show him the buttons, instead. “I’ll sew these back on your shirt,” she murmured distantly. “I imagine you have to leave for work soon.”
Tristan surged to his feet, and in two giant strides, he was towering over her. Amanda found herself standing nose-to-collarbone with him, but when his big hands enclosed her upper arms, she tipped her head back to see his face. He was furiously angry.
“Sod the flamin’ shirt,” he snarled. “And for the moment, sod work, too. You think this is the way I want it to be? You turn me inside out until I dinna know up from down, and I’d give my left testicle for this to be a normal situation that allowed us time to learn about each other. Well, we don’t have that luxury, Amanda Rose, and I’m not exactly happy to know you’ll be doing your damnedest to avoid looking at me the minute I strap on my gun. But damned if I’ll let you get away with acting like you expected all along that I just wanted to fuck you and forget you.” He thrust his face close to hers until they were nose to not. “Not before I so much as even reach for the frigging holster!”
“I did no such thing!” Color flowed into Amanda’s cheeks. “I never said a word about…and I’d never say…call it…”
“No, Amanda Charles wouldn’t sully her mouth using crude words, would she? Not when she can use her best party manners to dismiss me like a polite little girl with an unwanted guest.”
“That’s not fair!” Amanda wrenched out of his hands. She grabbed his wrist and slapped the handful of buttons into his palm. “Here! Sew your own damn buttons on, and then just get out, will you? You’re making me crazy! I don’t know how I’m expected to act with you. One minute you’re my lover…”
“Too bloody right I’m your lover! You can’t just brush that aside when we’re no longer making love.”
“That wasn’t my intention, Tristan MacLaughlin! Quit twisting my words.” Amanda made an effort to calm down. She wanted to make her point in a rational manner. “You and I are lovers, yes. But I held my breath this morning, waiting for you to call me Miss Charles again.” She saw him wince. “I’m not blind, and it hasn’t escaped my attention that you’re bothered about being in charge of a case that involves me. It puts you in an untenable position.”
“Aye, it is bloody awkward,” Tristan interrupted. “I’ll not deny it. But if you really believe I’m capable of informing you one minute that your caller is the guy who’s wanted for killing all those lasses and then turning around the next and trotting off to work, leaving you to cope on your own, then we’ve not made a lick of progress since the day you called me a robot.”
“Oh, Tristan,” she whispered. “I think I’ve come to know you better than that. I just wanted to make it easier for you to do your job.” Amanda brushed his solid chest with conciliatory fingertips, and then slowly raised her gaze until she was staring directly into his clear gray eyes. “Don’t you see? I can’t cling to you. I want to—you don’t know how much I want to. But I realize that you can’t be with me every minute. You have a job to do.”
“And I’ll do it.” Her touch had robbed him of his anger. And those eyes—God, those beautiful, honest eyes. “Ah, lass, let’s not fight. If we work together, it’s possible we’ll come up with something we haven’t considered before. Go get dressed. Then we’ll sit down and hash this out.” He turned her toward the bathroom and, stroking a hand down her bottom, gently boosted her on her way.
Amanda was groomed and fixing a pot of coffee in the kitchen when Tristan used Rhonda’s key to let himself back into the apartment a short while later. She eyed the armful of clothes he brought with him, but there was a knock on the door before she had a chance to ask him about it. With Tristan standing to one side of the door with his hand on the butt of his gun, Amanda opened it cautiously.
It was Rhonda.
“Good morning, boys and girls,” she said cheerfully, breezing into the apartment. “Or should I say good afternoon?” She eyed the stack of clothes that Tristan had dropped on the couch in response to her knock. “Well, well, well. What have we here, my fine big laddie? Moving in?”
“Aye,” he agreed shortly, and his eyes, on Amanda, dared her to disagree. She asked him about provisions for Ace, instead, and he flashed her one of his rare white smiles and hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her to him to bestow a brief, hard kiss on her mouth. He left with the dog to get the rest of their belongings, carefully locking the door behind him. Amanda, slightly flushed, turned to face Rhonda.
“Well, don’t just stand there, kiddo,” Rhonda demanded. “Tell me. Is he as good as he looks?”
“Better.”
“Ooh, God, I knew it.” By the look on Rhonda’s face, Amanda could tell her friend was gearing up to launch an entire battery of embarrassing questions. Partly to avoid them, but mostly because it was uppermost in her mind, Amanda blurted, “My caller is the Showgirl Slayer.”
“No! That is, are they sure?”
“Yes. The lab called Tristan not too long ago with the results of the voice print, and it matches that of the man who’s been calling him at the station. There is very little room for doubt.”
“Oh, shit, kiddo. What are…?” Rhonda broke off as Tristan and Ace reentered the apartment. He took one look at them and carefully lowered the large box in his arms. Picking the dog bowls off the top, he straightened and regarded them gravely.
“Let me fill these and put them in the kitchen for Ace,” he said quietly. “Then we’ll sit down and talk about it.”
The women trailed him into the kitchen. Tristan filled the pup’s dishes with food and water and placed them on the floor, out of the way. Amanda poured coffee and they sat around the small table. There was an awkward moment of silence while Tristan studied Amanda
.
“Do you want to leave town?” The instant he gave her the option, Tristan felt divided. If it were anyone else, he would be trying his damnedest to convince her to stay. Amanda was his first direct link to the killer, and by letting her leave, he would dramatically reduce his chances of catching the man before he killed again.
But it wasn’t anyone else; it was Amanda. And on a purely emotional level, he wanted her somewhere safe. He balked at the idea of Amanda as bait, knowing better than most that no matter how many precautions the police took, she’d still be vulnerable. They couldn’t make her one hundred percent secure. And historically, serial killers possessed a formidable native intelligence. There were just too many things that could go wrong.
“And go where?”
Lost in his personal conflict, Tristan’s head snapped up at the sound of Amanda’s voice. He hesitated, thinking of her options. “Your family?”
“No.”
“You could go to my flat in Seattle.” The idea made him cringe. If she ever saw the rat hole he occupied there, she’d probably run as fast and as far from him as she could manage. Why the hell had he been so tightfisted with his money? He could afford to have fixed the place up a bit.
Amanda was thinking furiously. “Tristan, if I did leave, what would happen to your investigation?”
He eyed her warily. “It would continue on as before.”
“But it could continue on for months…or even years, couldn’t it?”
He was silent, tight-jawed, and she pressed. “The Green River killer in Seattle—I’ve read about him, and that case went on for—what?—something like twenty years before they finally made an arrest?”
Sod professional responsibilities. Ignoring her question, Tristan said with quiet force, “I’ll not let you set yourself up as bait, Mandy, if that’s what you’re thinking. So just put the idea out of your mind.”
Rhonda, who up until then had been silent, added her vehement agreement.
Amanda looked at them both with determination. “I’m not exactly thrilled with the prospect myself,” she admitted quietly. “But the alternative is a professional and personal limbo that could last for God alone knows how long. I refuse to put my entire life on hold, waiting until this maniac has been captured.”
Tristan gave her words serious consideration. Much as he wanted her safe, he could understand her feelings. It could be years before it was safe for her to return. And selfishly, he didn’t want her to go away and start a new life somewhere else without him. He wanted her near. “We’ll leave it the way it is—for now,” he finally agreed. “As long as Duke limits himself to calls that are admiring in tone, you should be safe enough. But at the first hint of a threat, Amanda Rose, you’re getting out.”
“Hmm,” she said, knowing he assumed her consent. And it wasn’t that she harbored a burning desire to flout his authority or set herself up as a madman’s target. But for her entire adult life, she’d had no one but herself to depend upon in times of crisis. If she had a problem, she fixed it.
Now here she was, thrust in the midst of a situation not of her making. And it shook her right down to the ground that she was seriously tempted to forsake her hard-won self-reliance. She had realized earlier this morning that if she did that—if she let her fears and emotions rule her to the extent where someone else was allowed to step in and make all her decisions for her—then she would be enabling a maniac to destroy her mental health as surely as he’d attempt to destroy her physically if he decided to make her his next victim. In all likelihood, should it come right down to the crunch, she’d follow Tristan’s orders, for he knew a great deal more about dealing with this type of situation than she did. But darned if she’d arbitrarily offer a blanket promise to that effect before the fact.
“Will you at least get yourself a gun, lass? I’ll show you how to use it.”
Amanda’s head snapped up. “No!”
The flatly stated, instinctive rejection was like a slap in his face, and Tristan’s eyes turned opaque, all expression erased. He shoved his coffee cup aside and rose to his feet.
“Excuse me,” he said stiffly. “There are still a few things downstairs I need to bring up.” He left the kitchen and a moment later Amanda heard the front door close behind him.
Amanda stared across the table at Rhonda. “I think I hurt him.”
Rhonda nodded. “Go talk to him, kiddo. Straighten it out.” She examined her closely. “That is…is this a relationship you’d like to see progress?”
Amanda was already rising, and she shot her friend a helpless look. “I think I love him, Rhonda.”
“I think you do, too, kid. And I think he’s a man who could use a lot of love. So don’t allow a misunderstanding to fester into something more serious. Go straighten it out.”
Sitting back in her chair after the door closed behind Amanda, Rhonda raised her cup of coffee. “Would you listen to me?” she marveled. “I sound just like a mother.” But Tristan MacLaughlin had earned a special place in her heart, and she wanted to see things work out for him and Amanda.
Tristan’s door was open, and Amanda followed the sounds of activity to his bedroom. She stood in the doorway and watched him slam exercise equipment into an oversized cardboard box. “Tristan?”
He stiffened and turned slowly. His eyes assessed her with apparent indifference.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The idea caught me by surprise.”
Tristan shrugged. “It was just a suggestion. You didn’t like it. It’s not important.”
“Yes, it is. You think I was rejecting you, but I wasn’t.”
“Like hell.” His eyes focused on something above her head.
“I wasn’t, Tristan!” She stepped up to him, and when his gaze remained fixed above her, she grabbed his tie and gave it a yank, forcing him to look at her. She hated it when he wiped every trace of emotion from his face. She didn’t have the first idea what he was thinking as his level gray eyes met hers. “Don’t you see?” she pleaded for his understanding. “Guns make me nervous. Before I met you, I had never even seen a real one. But the fact that I’m uncomfortable around them has nothing to do with you, Tristan. I understand your need to wear one.”
“You bloody well don’t!” Tristan’s eyes blazed with sudden fire. “Or you wouldn’t turn away every time I put mine on!”
“You’ve had it on since you dressed, and I haven’t turned away, have I?” He hesitated, and Amanda continued insistently, “I’ll admit it’s taken some getting used to. But I’ve accepted it as part of you. Don’t you see, though, your job requires wearing one. If I bought a gun, I’m scared to death I’d end up shooting you or Rhonda or some other innocent person by mistake. You hear of that sort of thing happening all the time.”
The implacable indifference that shielded Tristan’s eyes lifted, replaced by determination. “I could teach you to use it safely, lass. Guns wouldn’t make you so nervous if you gained some knowledge of them.”
Amanda didn’t know why he was so insistent, but apparently it was important to him. It was a new experience for her to give in to someone else’s wishes against her own better judgment, and she struggled with it for a moment before she acquiesced. “All right,” she finally agreed. “I’m not comfortable with the idea, but I’ll try it.”
“Good.” The muscles in the back of Tristan’s neck relaxed. If he could teach Amanda something about guns, perhaps he’d never again have to see that look in her eyes—that expression of repugnant disdain that never failed to set off a chain reaction in his gut. He could tell she didn’t understand why it was so important to him, but he didn’t know how to describe the hit his sense of self-worth took every time he strapped on his gun, and he saw her turn away as if he were suddenly unclean. He was the same man with or without it, but he doubted she would ever truly believe it until she learned how to handle and care for a firearm. Once she learned even the rudiments, she would see that picking up a gun didn’t automatically turn a person into a tr
igger-happy goon.
Tristan looked at her helplessly. He knew he should try to explain his feelings to her, but he wasn’t accustomed to expressing himself to another person, and he didn’t know how or where to begin. Instead, he smiled at her and contented himself with saying, “Thank you. You won’t regret it, lass, I promise you.”
She looked less than convinced, but she returned his smile gamely. A flicker of heat began to smolder in him and he bent down to kiss her, passion igniting at her instant response. It was immeasurably exciting the way she pressed herself against him and automatically raised her arms up to wrap around his neck. His arms tightened against her back in response, pulling her into him, and he edged her backward until the bed bumped the back of her knees. Before he could lay her down on it, however, Joe Cash called to him from the outside doorway, and once again reality intruded into their private world.
He straightened away from her slowly, reluctant to let her go. Were they never going to get two minutes to themselves? He resisted the urge to swear, slam the bedroom door shut, and finish what he had begun. He’d do it in a red-hot minute, too, if he thought he had a prayer of getting away with it. He knew better, though.
Because, right now, real life called. And it was time to get back to work.
Chapter
17
Tristan and Amanda weren’t able to go on dates like an ordinary couple. He was afraid she would be put at risk if she were seen in public with him. But tonight they had decided to chance it and had driven to a small Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of town. They were both feeling lighthearted as they flirted across the smoky, flickering flame of the red glass votive candle in the middle of the table.
“Get your chopsticks away from my prawns, MacLaughlin.”
Tristan withdrew his chopsticks from Amanda’s plate, pretending he didn’t notice there was still a nice, fat prawn between them. He got it as far as the edge of her dish and thought he was home free. But then Amanda rapped him across the knuckles with her own chopsticks and the prawn tumbled back onto her plate.
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