A Dangerous Dance (8 page)

At her side, Remy stopped to consult the map in the program. “Looks like the closest food area is this way. You snooze, you lose if you don't eat early and often. You hungry?”

He'd been looking around, his gaze alert and interested, but now he was staring right at her. For a moment, it felt like she zoomed in from some distant place, arriving intensely aware of everything, but mostly him. And the sharp bite of hunger, kicked up by the luscious smell of food.

She nodded. “Yeah, I'm hungry.”

It was a short walk along a lighted path. Dorothy kept looking past the light, trying to pierce the intense dark and being defeated by it. At first she thought it was distant thunder, growing closer, but as they emerged into a circle of light and food, she realized it was voices. Hundreds of voices, some bright, some frantic, all intense and all rising in a vain attempt to be heard.

Around the circle were tables, each area defined by a particular chef from famous local restaurants, each serving up petite portions of their signature dishes. Across from them, Dorothy saw a chafing dish of Bananas Foster flare up against the dark sky before fading back into the silver chafing dish.

Without conscious decision, they moved into a line and were soon blending the tastes of jambalaya, tender steak, and a variety of seafood dishes. The tastes and smells were as heady as the setting. As she spooned up frosty ice cream topped with the Bananas Foster, she watched Remy meet and greet a couple. Their words were lost in the din, but when their gazes flicked her way, it wasn't hard to figure out the subject. She smiled and moved to join them. She never heard their names or what they said to her, but she shook hands and smiled, nodding agreement to who knew what.

With Remy's hand warm against her back, she let herself be steered out of the bright circle to another lighted path. “What did I just agree to?” she asked with her mouth against his ear..

Remy chuckled. “Nothing important. We're doing good. After tonight, the rumors will be flying. Won't be surprised if we're secretly married by morning.”

He consulted a map. “The tents are this way.” He steered her past a sign that pointed to the snake house. “And the dancing, if you're up for it.”

It was only now, when they were clear of the crowd that she again became aware of Titus following behind them. Dorothy looked back. “I hope you tried some of the food.”

He pretended he hadn't heard, as his gaze swept from side to side. “This place is a security nightmare.”

“You'd be in a better mood if you'd eaten something.” Dorothy felt her tension level ease as his kicked up a notch. Now they emerged into another area of lights, but this one was characterized by tent-like booths in long rows. Each one had tables inside the tented area, food and drinks set up and portable toilets in the rear and with the name of the sponsor printed on a banner swathed around the base. As they made their way along the rows, searching for the one sponsored by Remy's radio station, Dorothy saw Bozo and Bubba again, in separate booths kitty-corner from each other. They seemed to be taking care not to look at each other as they went through the political meet-and-greet with anyone they could get a hold of.

Beside her, Remy tensed. “Barnes.”

His tone caught her attention. He nodded at a short, stocky man with very little hair. The man's expression hovered between cynicism and interest, the interest directed at her, or so it appeared. He gave Remy an expectant look. After a short hesitation, Remy obliged.

“Dorothy, this is Clinton Barnes.”

Dorothy held out her hand. “I've seen you before, haven't I?”

“He was Vance's attorney,” Remy said.

“Oh.” Dorothy's jaw slackened and she pulled herself together. She shook the hand he extended toward her and felt the scrape of paper against her palm. When he released her hand, the paper was still wedged between her index finger and her thumb. Dorothy clutched the scrap, trying not to show her surprise. “I'm sorry about your client.”

“Do you really think he was going to talk?” he asked. “I never could convince him to, not even to reduce his sentence.”

Dorothy shrugged. “It seemed to me he was going to. Obviously someone else agreed. I guess he never told you?”

Barnes shook his head, but his eyes told her he knew something. “It was nice to meet you. I liked your father and was very sorry about what happened.”

“Thank you.”

He moved off and Dorothy turned to look at Remy. “That was interesting.”

“Yes,” he said, but something happened when their gazes connected, that diverted her attention from Barnes. Heat began to build, a delicious heat, that should have been uncomfortable when the hot night was already a factor, but somehow wasn't. Her surroundings moved away, leaving her alone with Remy for a brief moment and then she felt someone look at her. It was like being touched with ice. It traced down her back, turning her body leaden and afraid. With an effort, she managed to keep her face from changing, but she couldn't stop herself from stiffening. Remy noticed, his gaze tracking past her to scan the crowd, until he too stiffened.

“It's Darius Smith,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear so she could hear him. His breath was warm and comforting, but not enough against the icy blast that emanated from Smith. “Number three on our list of suspects.”

Dorothy drew a sharp deep breath as Smith approached. His gaze was an icy blow, but with something else at its heart, something that made her uneasy and feeling exposed.

He must have been around before, but she didn't remember him at all, which seemed odd now. What she knew about him came from Magus's file on him, which was very little. It was a spare recital of facts and figures, as chilly and remote as Smith himself. It was the first time he'd left her unprepared. She wondered why, as Darius approached them, tall and cadaverously thin, but with a panther-like grace and menace. Because she felt like a staked out doe, she lifted her chin and stood her mental ground.

He stopped in front of Dorothy, something in his stance tacitly shutting Remy out of the conversation. The air was dark and hot, but she still felt cold, a cold so deep if felt like she'd never be warm again. His gaze plowed into hers, as if taking an answer to a question she didn't want to know, let alone acknowledge. Her throat dried to parchment and her whole body seemed to go numb with shock from the mental assault. She couldn't feel Remy gripping her arm anymore. She couldn't feel the ground under her feet. There were just those icy, blue eyes and the roaring in her ears that sounded like glaciers wrenching lose to crash into the depths of the sea. It took enormous effort to lift her brows in haughty inquiry.

The thin lips curved in a humorless smile. “Darius Smith. I knew your parents.”

Something unwholesome flickered hot, but brief in his eyes. He took her hand before she could react and lifted it to press a cold, but lingering kiss on the back. Ice spread from the spot, but there was an unwholesome heat at its core, like a stealth bomb finding its target. It refused to let her be indifferent to him and she hated it and hated his obvious satisfaction. His vaguely animal scent spread out like an oil slick into the air around her. It wasn't cologne. It was the man. It was a direct contrast to the obscenely expensive suit he wore with casual grace.

His hands reminded her of spiders, the fingers were long and thin, but devoid of color and dead looking. His touch transmitted no warmth from contact.

“You have the...look of your mother. She was an interesting woman.” The pale, pink tip of his tongue traced around his mouth, as if remembering something tasty. His tone was coolly intimate.

It was like being licked by a reptile. The words were innocuous on the surface, but slimy nonetheless and his eyes stripped with insolent detachment. After her meeting with Bozo, she should be through with shock, but she wasn't. What on earth could this man, or Bozo for that matter, have found interesting about her oh, so practical, down-to-earth mother? It was like finding out that sun had really been rising in the West or that Jupiter, not the moon, orbited earth.

He studied her thoughtfully for a brief eternity, before flicking a contemptuous look in Remy's direction. To her surprise, Remy seemed unfazed by Smith. Dorothy felt violated and angry—and even more estranged from her memories of her mother. Maybe ignorance really was bliss after all.

“So, Mistral, you think to blow your way into the mansion?” Somehow Smith managed to make it both question and insult, with his phrasing and the hint of incredulity.

Remy grinned. “I'm guessing I won't be collecting
your
endorsement. Who will you be backing this time?”

“Always the reporter. That's the first thing you'll need to change,” Smith said, his cool voice sneering.

“You're still better at giving advice than answering questions. Oh well, I think I can guess. You've been grooming that protege of yours for years. A pity no one likes him but you.”

Smith's thin lips twitched. The only indication that Remy's shot may have hit home. His gaze shifted back to Dorothy.

“Politics are a nasty business. I hope you'll be wiser than Mistral?”

The statement was mildly delivered, but still managed to sound like a threat.

“I'm my father's daughter, too, sir.”

That seemed to amuse him as well. “Are you? Well, we'll see.”

After another period of probing appraisal, he left them, slithering off into the crowd. He didn't need to touch anyone or speak. People seemed happy to clear a path for him.

“That is one creepy guy.” Dorothy shivered. “Do you like him for hiring Vance?”

Dorothy did. In spades.

Remy shrugged. “He likes to sound spooky, but I've never heard of him doing worse than the occasional career kill. He's careful, maybe too careful for final solutions. “

Had the undercurrents of what Smith said really gone right past him, she wondered? Maybe it was a female thing. She felt like she needed a long bath to be clean again. And maybe a mind purge to get the picture of him with her mother out of her head. There was no way to reconcile that image with the one of her mother, worn and gray waiting tables with an expression of bored interest. The one thing Dorothy had always been sure about was that her mother didn't like men. Not any more. Her whole focus and drive had been survival from as early as Dorothy could remember.

She could feel the bile of bitterness surge through her, temporarily over powering the emotional sliming by Smith. Had anything in her past been real? Even if her mother had had affairs, surely she would never have gone willingly into that man's arms.

“Are you all right? Did he upset you?” Remy moved to give her partial cover from the crowd. He seemed both worried and a bit surprised. “That's just his shtick, you know. He likes to imply he knows things.”

“And does he know things?”

Remy shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes not.” His worried look deepened. “What do you think he knows?”

“That's the problem. I don't know much of anything.” She bit her lip. “Did you hear what he said about my mother?”

“Sure. From what I hear, everyone found your mother interesting. She was a beautiful, high spirited woman. If she wasn't in the society pages, it was because she was out of town.” Remy tipped his head to one side. “You didn't know?”

“How could I? The mother I knew was worn out from trying to put food on the table, then dying of cancer. There was nothing beautiful or high spirited about her. She was incredibly ordinary. She was gray and worn. She waited tables and harped on my manners. And told me we were lucky to have little money.” She shook her head. “It's like we're talking about two different people.”

“Well, parents are never really real to their kids, are they?”

He didn't say she was over-reacting and for that she was grateful. Maybe she was, but it didn't feel like it. She tried to smile.

“I guess not.” Maybe this life had so damaged her mother that she'd fled it and vowed to reject it? Dorothy wouldn't know, because she'd never talked about the past. If Bozo and Smith played large roles in that past, maybe she had good reason to leave it all behind. Maybe she hadn't wanted Dorothy to know all this? She gave herself a mental shake. There was no way to know now what her mother had wanted or felt. And Remy was right. She was in no position to judge her parents with any clarity.

“Are you sure you're all right?” Remy took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

She felt the crackle of the paper Barnes had slipped into her hand. Smith had driven it completely out of her mind. Someone approached Remy, giving her a chance to unfold the sheet and read the brief note.

"Monkey house. Midnight. Come alone."

Dorothy crumpled the paper again. Why did people who wrote notes, always say that? Come alone. She looked at her map and found the monkey house on it. It wasn't too far off the beaten path, but still...

She looked at her watch. She had five minutes to decide what to do. Her first impulse was to ask Remy to go with her, but he was a reporter. Barnes wasn't likely to talk in front of him. And Titus? Yeah, his manner encouraged confidences.

She wasn't without resources. Titus had taught her some defensive moves. And she had a small, personal pistol in her sassy, little hand bag that he'd made sure she knew how to use.

“I'd like you to meet Dorothy,” she heard Remy say.

She looked up and smiled at the people he was introducing her to, without hearing their names or what they said. She wasn't even sure what she said, though it must have been all right. They smiled and nodded. After a moment, they found the KPRX sponsored booth along the row.

She looked at her watch again. She'd lost two minutes to indecisiveness. Maybe it was hubris to believe she could handle the situation and it could come back to bite her on the ass, but it was her ass, after all. In the end, she was the one with the most to gain or lose.

She leaned close to Remy. “I'm going to check out those charming facilities in the rear.”

Remy chuckled and nodded, then turned back to his conversation. She noticed that Titus started to follow her, but stopped when he realized she was heading for the “charming facilities” courtesy of Port-O-Let. To give guests of the booth another layer of privacy, the bright blue cubicle was draped in a small, canvas cubical in the corner. She slipped between the flaps and out of sight of both men. It only took her a minute to untie the flaps at the corner and slip out of the enclosure. According to her program, the monkey house was back in the direction they'd just come.