Winter's Daughter (10 page)

There was a faint gasp from somewhere, quickly stifled. Dillon put his hand over his eyes. And then, morbidly fascinated, he opened his fingers and stole a peek at the mayor.

But George Flintridge had dealt with tougher adversaries than Tannis Winter. Leaning forward, the canny old politician adopted an expression that reminded Dillon of a school principal addressing a miscreant—stern, and a little disappointed.

"Ms. Winter," he said softly, "I do appreciate your concern. But let me remind you of one thing, young lady. I have been a member of this town’s council since you were in diapers, and in every one of those years there have been people sleeping in its streets. Of course, in those days we called them bums and vagrants—we’re more enlightened now. But the problem of homeless people isn’t new, and it isn’t going to go away, not today, not tomorrow, and not because you are here to champion the cause. It’s a problem that’s so big and so complex, there aren’t any easy answers. They don’t exist. The plain truth is, there isn’t a lot we as a city can do. I am well aware that these people need more than a bed, a shower, and a square meal. They need low–cost housing, they need jobs, medical care and, in most cases, some sort of counseling. We simply don’t have the resources—the money."

The mayor filled his lungs, drawing himself up to his best public–address posture. Even Dillon had to admit he was impressive. "But there is one thing I can do, young lady, and that’s see that the citizens of this city, and its guests, at least don’t have to look at cardboard box shantytowns in its streets and alleys. I can make it so that people can walk down our streets without stepping in filth, or over the legs of people sleeping in doorways. I can’t do much, Ms. Winter, but, by God, I will do what I can!"

There was a weighty silence. Dillon switched his fascinated gaze to Tannis and saw that though the flush in her cheeks had deepened, the eyes behind the ghastly glasses were unwavering. His admiration for her grew.

"Mr. Mayor," Tannis said evenly, "I appreciate your problem as well as your sincere efforts to solve it. If I can come up with better alternatives, would you be willing to listen to them?"

Another silence. The mayor pursed his lips, then leaned back and smiled benignly. "I would, indeed. Of course I would. And I think I can safely speak for the council on that subject. We all want to do the best we can for all our citizens. And now, Ms. Winter, if you’ll excuse us, I believe Councilman James has a proposal we need to vote on."

Tannis swallowed, nodded, and shuffled toward the door. Logan jumped up to open it for her. Dillon coughed, muttering, "Think I’d better abstain; let me know what you decide," and went after her.

She’d stopped just outside the meeting room door. Dillon almost ran into her, and caught her by the arms to steady himself. Even through all the layers she was wearing he could feel her body shaking.

"I’m sorry," she said, sounding out of breath. "Did I mess things up?"

Dillon shook his head. "I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out in a minute."

"I don’t know what got into me. I really shouldn’t have said that about image, and political gain."

"It’s okay. It needed to be said. I just wish I’d had the courage."

"Then— you aren’t angry?"

"Angry?" Dillon stared at her, frowning. His hands still gripped her arms; now his thumbs began to stroke the rough fabric of her coat. He was really beginning to hate that coat.

"You looked angry, in there, when I walked in."

Remembering his disappointment and frustration with the way she looked, Dillon said softly. "I wasn’t angry." He watched her tongue run lightly across the surface of her lips, and noticed again that her upper lip was uneven, slightly irregular in shape. It gave her mouth a piquant quality he found very provocative.

She was saying, "I got to thinking about what you said about my eyes, and I realized you were right—I did need to disguise my eyes. So I went to this novelty place over on Fifth, and I found these. I just love them. Aren’t they great?"

"Terrific," Dillon said. She gave a small gasp of surprise when his fingers touched her face, and he lifted the glasses from her nose. "There," he stated, "that’s better." Her winter–bright eyes stared up at him. He saw confusion in them. He tried to explain, but all he could say, an unfamiliar roughness in his voice, was, "You don’t need to hide them from me."

The sounds of their breathing filled the silence. Dillon’s hands settled on Tannis’s shoulders, and he felt the vibrations of heat and energy coursing through her body. His fingers tightened.

The door to the meeting room opened.

"Approved," Logan announced, closing the door and leaning against it. "Unanimously."

Dillon stared down into Tannis’s face. It came as a shock to him to see a wrinkled old lady. Except for those eyes, of course, looking back at him with cold fires in their depths, reminding him that underneath the makeup and rubber wrinkles her skin was as fine–grained as silk and dusted with cinnamon freckles. Reminding him that under the layers and layers of cloth in his hands there was a young woman’s taut, healthy body, and that inside the gloves that were clutching the sleeves of his jacket there was a pair of hands whose touch he’d once felt on his forehead as fleetingly and enchantingly as a chaste kiss.

"Hey, buddy, did you hear what I said? They’ve given you the green light."

Dillon exhaled softly and forced his stiff fingers to relax. Tannis slipped slowly out of his grasp.

"That’s great." Dillon said, forcing a smile for the benefit of Logan’s interested appraisal. His heart was beating as if he’d just run up more than a few flights of stairs.

"Yes. Great," Tannis echoed.

There was a little silence, during which Logan looked from Dillon to Tannis and back again. Dillon wished he’d go away.

"Well," Tannis said after a moment with a laugh and a shrug, "where do we go from here?"

Good question, Dillon thought. At the moment he wasn’t sure just where he and Tannis were going, but he had a feeling it might be a lot further than either of them had expected.

"We hit the streets," he said, dragging himself back to the business at hand. "The first thing I’d like to do is meet some of these friends of yours."

"Sure. Right now?"

Logan said, "Uh—buddy," and jerked his head toward the conference room door.

"Right—the meeting. I guess this’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Tell you what. You come to my office in the morning—there’s going to be some paperwork to take care of anyway—and well leave from there."

"Dressed like this?" Tannis asked, the smile in her eyes crinkling the latex around them like old tissue paper.

"Yes," Dillon said reluctantly, "dressed like that." He held out the glasses. He noticed she accepted them gingerly, careful not to touch his hand in the process.

"Okay then. See you tomorrow." Her voice had that breathlessness again.

"Yeah—take care now."

"Bye—"

"Interesting lady," Logan said under his breath as they watched Tannis’s shuffling progress down the long hallway. "I gotta tell you, though, your tastes sure have changed."

Dillon turned to scowl at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I’m talking about the fact that if I’d been a couple seconds later interruptin’ you two, I’d have gotten the shock of my life, that’s what."

"Come on, Logan."

"You aren’t going to try to tell me you weren’t just about to kiss her?"

Dillon snorted irritably. "For Pete’s sake, she looks like Ma Kettle."

"My point exactly."

Dillon glared, then burst out laughing. "She doesn’t really look like that. You ought to see her without all the makeup. She’s really something. You wouldn’t recognize her."

"I guess I’ll have to take your word for it," Logan drawled as he pushed open the conference room door. "Otherwise, I’m gonna have to start worryin’ about you."

"Next time I get her out of the makeup, I’ll introduce you," Dillon whispered. But as he took his seat at the table he was frowning again, and feeling a little bit wistful. There were quite a few things he’d like to do with Tannis if he could just get her out of that bag lady’s disguise. But at the moment he couldn’t think how he was going to accomplish that.

Going down in the elevator, Tannis ignored the stares of two teenagers holding traffic citations and a woman in a janitor’s uniform. She took off her glasses and carefully wiped her eyes on her coat sleeve.

She was shaken.

She could still feel the weight of Dillon’s hands on her shoulders. She could still feel the rigid muscles of his forearms under the soft wool fabric of his jacket, muscles that had been rawhide tough and quivering with reserves of strength and self–control.

She was remembering the first time he’d touched her, out there on the street, when she’d thought he was a homeless derelict. When she’d first felt the attraction and found it so unsettling, she’d run from it, and from him.

It was different now. He wasn’t a derelict after all, but a very charismatic and entirely eligible city councilman. Why did she still feel so shaken by his touch that her legs were trembling? Why did she still feel like running?

He’d wanted to kiss her. She’d felt it in the rigid muscles beneath the soft wool fabric of his coat sleeves, and she’d seen it in his eyes. Tannis had been kissed enough times in her life that she had no trouble at all recognizing that look.

How could he?
She made a little sound of astonishment that drew a wary glance from the janitor.
How could he want to kiss me when I looked like—what I look like!

Oh, but if he had—
Just for a moment she let herself think about kissing Dillon. It wouldn’t be a polite hello, a tentative exploration, a gentle quest. No, she thought, kissing Dillon would be like jumping off the high diving board—dangerous, exciting, a heart–stopping plunge into deep waters, with no turning back.

"Wow, two nights in a row," Lisa said, coming out to the garage as Tannis was stripping off the last layer of socks. "What’s wrong? Did you run into that guy again?"

"No," Tannis said with a soft, ironic laugh. "Not exactly. Well, sort of."

"Okay, that definitely clears things up. Are you going to get right into the shower? Do you want anything to eat? How about some coffee?"

"Coffee would be great. Thanks."

As she fished a crumpled pair of sweats out of the dryer, Tannis thought for the thousandth time about how lucky she was to have a sister like Lisa. They’d always been close—best friends, really—in spite of the differences between them. In fact, they were so different, sometimes Tannis wondered how they could even be sisters. Though when they were very small, strangers had often taken them for twins, understandable since there was only fifteen months difference in their ages, and in those days their coloring had been almost identical. Two adorable little blond, blue–eyed pixies, as different as day and night.

Day and night. Dark and light.

And just like that, she was thinking of Dillon again.

In the kitchen Lisa was sitting at the table with a cup of steaming coffee between her hands. Tannis went to her and put her arms around her from behind.

"Oh, Lisa," she said with a sigh, "sometimes I envy you."

Her sister looked up in surprise. "You envy me? For heaven’s sake, why?"

"I don’t know. You always know what you want. Even when we were kids you were always so stable, so even–tempered and unselfish. And I was always in trouble. I threw temper tantrums, I was naughty and disobedient, my room was a catastrophe, and I used your things without asking. How did you put up with me?"

"What in the world is this mood?" Lisa said, laughing. "You envied me? Tannis, I was klutzy and shy. You were funny and exciting, and you thought up the most marvelous adventures—"

"Which always ended in disaster."

"And without which my childhood would have been boring as hell. You were the one having a wonderful time. You were the one with all the boyfriends. Remember that time you told me you and your roommates in college decided to see if you could remember all the boys you’d ever kissed? And you made a list and counted them up, and you won, hands down. I couldn’t believe how many—something like fif—"