Winter's Daughter (15 page)

She shivered suddenly, and blinking her image into focus, saw a face that was deathly pale, a mouth that looked blurred, and eyes that had darkened with remembered pain. Hating the look, she determinedly banished it, lifting her chin and setting her mouth in lines of self–derision.

All right, so I got my comeuppance. Big deal. And why am I all of a sudden thinking about Dan so much anyway? He’s ancient history.

Maybe, a niggling little voice in the back of her mind suggested, you’re thinking about him because somebody who definitely is
not
ancient history reminds you a lot of him.

No! she said staunchly to herself.
Dillon James isn’t anything at all like Dan.
And the way she felt when she was around Dillon wasn’t anything at all like the way she’d felt with Dan.

Of course, it wasn’t anything like the way she usually felt with an attractive, interesting man either. She liked men, but she wasn’t sure she liked Dillon. She couldn’t think of him as a friend because she felt so uncomfortable with him. She didn’t feel
safe.
She was used to being in control, being the one who set the tone and tempo of the relationship, but with Dillon—
Oh, Lord, with Dillon—
She closed her eyes, feeling again that terrifying sensation of falling, that giddy upward surge inside her chest when he kissed her. With Dillon she definitely wasn’t the one in control.

That’s it, she thought with relief.
I just need to get back in control.
Opening her eyes, she was pleased to see a bit of sparkle back in them. So a man had invaded her confort zone before she was ready, and it had knocked her a little off balance? She’d handled that kind of thing before. All she had to do was keep
him
off balance instead.

The eyes in the mirror narrowed thoughtfully. Now, she thought, as for tonight—He’d asked her to wear "civilian clothes," but that could mean almost anything. So far, except for her bag lady’s clothes, he’d seen her wearing jeans and a sweater, and toting a motorcycle helmet. What was the last thing he might expect of her tonight?

In the mirror Tannis watched her lips curve into a Mona Lisa smile.

Dillon wished he’d worn a tie. That was a spontaneous gut reaction; he knew he looked perfectly okay in slacks, dress shirt, sweater–vest, and sport jacket—and his favorite maroon one, at that. It was just kind of a shock, he told himself. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

She was wearing black, something slim and slinky that didn’t hug her body, but rather caressed it, moving subtly over its curves in a way that made his hands itch to do likewise. It had long sleeves, a scooped neck, and a pencil–slim skirt with a deep slit in the back; and when he put his hand on her back to usher her ahead of him through the door, he discovered there was another slit in the top part of the dress, in a location that raised tantalizing questions about the nature of her underwear. Her legs were long and graceful in sheer black nylons and high–heeled shoes with open toes. Her hair was twisted and coiled high on her head with a few tendrils lying casually on her neck—and again his fingers tingled with the impulse to do the same.

Her adornment was simple and stunning: thin gold hoops in her ears, and a scarf in the rich jewel tones of garnet, black, and gold loosely arranged around her shoulders. Her makeup was flawless, accenting the haughty arch of her brows and lending her mouth a lush and sultry pout. She was a temptress, as sleek and seductive as an otter, expensive as ermine, elegant as mink.

And, Dillon realized as she smiled up at him from under a sweep of dark lashes, this was no more the "real" Tannis than the bag lady had been.

Funny, he thought as the disappointment registered itself in his consciousness, after his talk with Logan, he’d been half expecting her to put on some sort of protective camouflage again. And that was exactly what she’d done.

The ambiguity of his feelings irritated and confused him. In the first place, he didn’t know why the bag lady disguise annoyed him so, or why he’d felt such a yearning to see her face again in its natural state, so fresh and animated, with all her fire and enthusiasm showing in her eyes. And her body, tanned and supple, slender and graceful—He’d imagined her—well, to be honest, he’d imagined her pretty much the way a man might be expected to imagine a beautiful woman. In his bed, in his arms, in varied and exciting ways.

But he’d discovered yesterday—to his considerable shock—that his desire to see and touch her wasn’t only a physical thing. If it had been, he sure wouldn’t have any reason to be disappointed now, would he? Because here she was, looking like a million dollars, and everything about her—the dress, the hair, the way she moved, even the look in her eyes—seemed to whisper seductively,
Touch me.

And yet he knew it wasn’t real. She was like an actress, costumed and in character for the role of the glamorous sophisticate. And the warm, passionate woman who had stood in his office and spoken of homeless people with tears in her eyes was still buried somewhere beneath that lovely, brittle shell.

"Very nice," Dillon exclaimed, knowing she waited for his response.
Her
response was a husky chuckle that grated on his nerves like nails on slate. Setting his teeth, he said smoothly, "Shall we go?" and offered her his arm.

As he walked her down the driveway to his car, he felt pressure in his jaws and made a conscious effort to relax them. He had an idea the smile on his face might have given Tannis pause if she’d happened to look up just then.

He was thinking about the way he’d peeled her mask from her once before—her physical mask, at least. Remembering the way he’d felt, kissing her, and her response to him, and the way it had seemed to compound and escalate so quickly. He remembered the way he’d had to clamp down on his own responses before they could escape his control.

He was wondering how long it would take him to strip this disguise away, and what might happen when he did.

The restaurant on the top floor of the Clifton Hotel was probably the closest thing to elegant dining Los Padres had to offer. The service was gracious, the decor heavy on natural wood, leather, brass, and candlelight, the food so–so, and the view magnificent, contrasting the milky rhinestone glitter of the Los Angeles basin on the north and west with the desert’s brooding purple vastnesses and star–studded indigo sky.

Dillon hadn’t made reservations, so they had drinks in the lounge by a gas log fire while they waited for a table. He ordered a club soda for himself and a margarita for Tannis.

There was a small dance floor and a fairly decent band. Dillon watched the firelight play over the back of Tannis’s neck and across the curve of her cheek as she watched the dancers and the band. He watched the way she smiled and moved in response to the music, and after a while, asked her if she’d like to dance. He knew by the quick way she turned and smiled at him, and the way the firelight flickered in her eyes, that she’d been hoping he’d ask.

It wasn’t slow dancing, but Dillon didn’t mind; that would come for them, too, he knew, in its own good time. Meanwhile, he liked watching her move to the heavy rock beat. He liked the way she danced,
with
him, even though they weren’t touching, maintaining contact with her eyes. And through that contact Dillon felt a surge of exultation; for although Tannis might be dampening her natural enthusiasm and inhibiting her body movements to suit the role she’d chosen, she couldn’t hide the flush of excitement in her cheeks or the sparkle of pure enjoyment in her eyes.

"That was fun," she said sedately when they left the dance floor.

Dillon chuckled. The band was taking a break, and a piano player was getting ready to entertain the dinner crowd. Since there wasn’t anything Dillon liked better than listening to a mellow piano, he ordered another club soda for himself and another margarita for Tannis and found a table nearby.

When the cocktail waitress had gone away, Tannis looked at Dillon and said, "You don’t drink."

"No," he said, and shifted so that he could watch the piano player. He was deceptive, that piano player—reminded Dillon of his high school geometry teacher. But he sure did have a knack for evoking moods and memories.

"Do you have a problem with it?"

He glanced at her. She was frowning, playing with the salt crystals on the rim of her glass, licking them delicately from the tip of her index finger.

"I did once," he said, looking away again. "A long time ago. I’d rather not find out if I still do." The piano player’s eyes met Dillon’s across the top of the baby grand. Almost imperceptibly he nodded.
He
knows, Dillon thought.
He’s been there too.

He looked at Tannis and caught her studying him with an intent and thoughtful look. He knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to turn the tables on him with her personal questions, trying to crack him while she stayed safe and inviolate inside her own elegant facade. But he had no intention of letting her succeed.

"What do you want to hear?" the piano man asked softly.

"How about ’As Time Goes By’?" Dillon said without taking his eyes from Tannis’s. He heard the soft hiss of an indrawn breath.

"You got it," the piano player said.

Dillon grinned and started to hum along with the melody of that most evocative of all saloon songs. After a moment, still holding fast to Tannis’s luminous, transparent gaze, he began, very softly, to sing.

A kiss is still a kiss…

The words stirred sensory memories in Tannis as they wafted across her. Her gaze drifted unbidden to Dillon’s mouth and rested there, its focus narrowing until she could see nothing else. The room around her became warm and still.

You must remember this…

Oh, she did remember, not just with her mind but with all her senses. As she watched Dillon’s mouth form the words of the song, she felt the movement of his lips on her own, inhaled the warm cinnamon scent of his breath, and tasted his essence on her tongue. Her body grew heavy and languid; she fought valiantly against the compulsion to close her eyes.

A sigh is just…

" James, party of two?"

Relief washed over her, shocking as a cold shower. She jerked her gaze to the hostess, feeling obscurely guilty and at the same time disoriented, as if she’d awakened abruptly in a strange place.

Control, she thought desperately as she got up to follow the smiling hostess. She had to maintain control. And she couldn’t do that if she let herself think about that kiss, and the way his hands felt on her body. She mustn’t think about those things at all.

For a while the procedures of being seated, perusing menus, making decisions, and ordering provided a welcome distraction. Finally, though, inevitably, the moment came when she and Dillon were left to confront each other across a small, intimate puddle of candlelight.

"So," Tannis said brightly in the silent wake of the departing waiter, "you said you used to be a cop?"

Dillon nodded, watching her through half–veiled eyes as he unhurriedly lifted his soda glass and drank. "That’s what I said." His mouth curved, somewhat sardonically, she thought. "It was a long time ago."

"What made you decide to leave law enforcement?" A certain wariness in his attitude awakened her curiosity, and she forgot that she was only making conversation. She found she really did want to know the answer, along with many other things about Dillon James.

His gaze lowered, following the glass as he placed it carefully on the tablecloth. He shrugged. "Why does anyone change jobs? I decided it wasn’t what I wanted to do."

Unsatisfied, she persisted, "So you went into politics instead?"

He looked up at her in surprise. "Politics? Furthest thing from my mind, actually. No, I went into law. Criminal law. Only I couldn’t decide what side of the fence I wanted to be on, so while I was trying to make up my mind, a friend of mine talked me into entering the city council race." His smile was both charming and dismissive. "Surprised the heck out of me when I won. Now then, you told me you’ve lived in Paris. I’d like to hear about that."

Tannis didn’t mind having the conversation turned back to her. Regaling friends with lighthearted tales of her adventures—and misadventures—was one of the things she did best. She knew she was a gifted storyteller—animated and droll and often downright hilarious. It was a rare family gathering that she didn’t have her parents looking dismayed and her brothers and Lisa all but rolling on the floor with laughter. And Dillon was a good listener, a responsive and appreciative audience. He seemed to relax; his full smile appeared often, and his laughter held genuine enjoyment.

They’d finished eating by the time she got around to New York, and her acting school and off–Broadway experience.

When she mentioned the acting, Dillon smiled and nodded, as if to himself. When Tannis said, "What?" he just shook his head and asked, "What made you give it up?"

"Acting?" She smiled and adopted her bag lady’s cracked and ruined voice. "I’m not sure I did give it up."

While Dillon was chuckling over that, she picked up his soda glass and toyed with it, mimicking his earlier gesture. As she placed the glass back on the table, she dropped her voice an octave and intoned, "Why does anybody change jobs? I decided it wasn’t what I wanted to do."