Winter's Daughter (16 page)

Dillon’s laughter caused heads to turn their way. A small eruption of warmth filled Tannis’s chest. She felt the warmth spread to her cheeks before she identified it as pleasure.

"I’ll always love acting," she said softly. The twinkle in Dillon’s eyes pricked her skin like the cold fire of Fourth of July sparklers.

"Cold?" he asked as she absently rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms.

"No," she said truthfully, "it’s just—When I get emotional I get the shivers."

"I’ll remember that." His chuckle was low and intimate; it triggered warning Klaxons in Tannis’s head, and she shook it, hard, like someone coming out of a daze.

Control.
"Um," she said distractedly, "well, let’s see, where was I?"

"Acting," Dillon prompted, looking amused.

"Yes." Tannis carefully cleared her throat. "I’ve always been a ham, I guess. Loved to dress up, mimic people. That will never change. But while I was learning to observe people, to understand what makes them tick so I could interpret them as an actor, I found out I was more interested in the people than I was in the acting. Acting is fun, and seems to come naturally to me, but people fascinate me. So—" she lifted her shoulders as if to say,
There you have it
"—I’ve been studying them ever since."

"And in the meantime," Dillon said quietly, "you’ve never married."

"No." Her heart gave a little kick and picked up its pace. Darn him, somehow he’d managed to sneak up on her again. She had to be more alert.

"Why not?"

Steeling herself, she met his eyes and held steady under their regard. "That’s a pretty personal question."

His voice became quieter still. "Tannis, don’t you think it’s time for personal questions?"

The candlelight seemed to waver. She turned her face to the dark glass and looked past the gold–tones reflected there to the big city brightness beyond. "Never met anyone I wanted to marry, I guess." She gave him the stock answer in a light, brittle voice.

"Never?"

There was a touch of militance in the look she turned back to him. "Look, marriage, kids, the little house in suburbia, the white picket fence—that stuff’s not for me. I’ve got too many things I want to do—exciting things. Important things. It would take somebody pretty extraordinary to make me give all that up."

Dillon’s eyebrows rose. "Why should you give it up? Haven’t you heard? This is the 21st Century, girl, you can have it all."

"Yeah, sure, in theory maybe. But it’s been my observation that once you’ve committed to those vows, the picket fence isn’t far behind."

"Are you sure it’s the picket fence you’re afraid of," Dillon asked softly, "and not the commitment it stands for?"

There was a pause, filled with the tinkle of silver and crystal, soft ripples of conversation, and the sound of the piano playing a tune from Rodgers and Hammerstein whose title Tannis couldn’t recall. And then she snapped, "What about you?" lifting the question out of the silence like a defensive parry. She glanced pointedly at the heavy signet ring on his left hand. "You’re not married either."

His lashes dropped like shutters across his eyes. "I was once," he said in a neutral voice. "A long time ago."

"Divorced?"

He nodded.

A long time ago.
It occurred to Tannis a lot of things had happened to Dillon "a long time ago." She wondered what connection there might be between a failed marriage, a booze problem, and being a vice cop in downtown L.A.

"Any children?"

"No." He reached for the check tray and became very busy sorting out his change. "No children." He handed her a candy mint. "Shall we go?"

"Speaking of children," he said casually as he came around to help her out of her chair, "why haven’t you told anyone about the kids in that vacant lot?"

Dillon had known he would her ask her about the children at some point—just hadn’t known he was going to do it right then. Her response made him feel half triumphant, half ashamed. She froze and threw him a quick guilty look that was replaced by one of momentary panic, as if, he thought, she was about to choke on her after–dinner mint.

"How––" she began, then stopped.

She would have sunk back into her chair, but Dillon inserted a hand under her elbow and firmly raised her to her feet. "It looks like the band is coming back," he said smoothly. "Shall we have our coffee in the lounge?"

On their way through the dining room he snagged a passing cocktail waitress and put in his request for coffee.

When he caught up with Tannis in the darkened lounge, she said furiously "I want to know how you found out about—"

At that moment the band launched loudly into its late–evening set with a current rock hit, effectively putting an end to conversation. Dillon lowered his head until his lips brushed the tendrils of hair near her ear and said loudly, "Sorry—can’t hear a word you’re saying. Guess we might as well dance."

Managing to place his hand squarely over the slit in the back of the bodice of her dress, he steered her deftly toward the dance floor. A little tremor rippled beneath his hand. He wondered whether it was caused by anger or by fear.

She danced differently now—a little clumsily, steadfastly refusing to look at him—but he enjoyed watching her all the same. Anger and exercise—and maybe the margaritas—had touched her cheeks with color and made her eyes sparkle as if she’d just come in from a romp in the snow. A few more tendrils of hair came loose to waft gently around her face or cling damply to her temples and the nape of her neck. The scarf around her shoulders got in her way, and she snatched it off with an impatient gesture that reminded Dillon of a flamenco dancer. She looked exotic and passionate, and he was stirred by the sight of her, more than he’d been stirred in a very long time.

The song ended. Tannis turned to leave the floor, but the band, with only the briefest of pauses, slipped easily into the moody rhythms of a pop standard. Dillon caught her arm at the elbow. She hesitated, then lifted her chin and threw him a look of challenge over her shoulder. He felt his chest expand with a strange excitement as he pulled her into his arms.

She moved easily but resisted closeness, maintaining space between their bodies as she tipped her head back and looked straight into his eyes.

"You followed me, didn’t you?" Her voice was accusing, and as cold as her last name. "That’s how you managed to be there to—"

"Save your life?" Dillon said pleasantly.

Her eyes faltered; her breath sighed through parted lips. In that moment of uncertainty he drew her close and experienced the remainder of her exhalation as a kind of melting of her body against his own. His hand sought the bare skin between her shoulder blades; his fingertips moved up and down in the gentle indentation of her spine, just barely brushing the fine hairs that gave her skin the texture of velvet.

"I knew it!" she whispered furiously, her breath warm on his collar. "Once a cop, always a cop!" But he felt the betraying tremors inside her. And when he moved his hand farther down and splayed his fingers over the small of her back, pressing to bring her lower body into exquisite contact with his, he heard the sharp catch in her breathing.

Sorry now he’d brought the coldness of the street between them, he led her in simple, uncomplicated movements, wanting her to think of nothing but the way his thighs slid against hers as they swayed together, and the way their heartbeats merged in a duet of syncopated rhythms. He wanted her to be deaf to the music; he wanted her to be dizzy, but not from the dancing. He wanted her to lose all sense of time and space while her nerve endings awakened to the newness of his touch.

He hooked her hand around his neck, freeing his own to gently massage her upper back. His fingertips teased the silky ribbons of her hair and burrowed under them to trace the curve of her skull, kneading the vulnerable cords and hollows until her neck lost rigidity and her head tipped forward, bringing her moisture–beaded brow to rest against his lips. He moved his open mouth back and forth across her forehead, then blew softly on her temple, and felt the hand on the back of his neck tremble.

Under his hand her neck muscles felt liquid and malleable. It took so little pressure to tilt her head so that her face was slowly lifted to his. His mouth slid downward, tenderly brushing an eyebrow, a quivering eyelid, mink–soft lashes, and a dewy cheek. When he came to her lips and found them parted, he paused there, barely touching her, while her warm breath bathed his lips with the scent of mint.

He heard a tiny, desperate sound. Her muscles jerked suddenly. The hands on his neck tightened, clutched at his shoulders, then flattened against his chest. Her eyes opened wide; he had one gut–wrenching glimpse into them before she broke from his arms. What he saw there shocked him so badly, he let her go.

Panic—sheer panic. He’d seen that look in her eyes once before, when he’d accosted her in his wino’s rags. He hadn’t liked it much then. Right now he felt as if she’d punched him in the stomach.

It was several minutes before he could go after her. He had to pay for the coffee he’d ordered and retrieve the coat she’d forgotten. He stuck his head in the ladies’ room door, to the profound dismay of its current occupants, on the off chance she’d sought a temporary refuge there, then rode the elevator to the main lobby in an agony of frustration, knowing he was almost certainly too late to catch her.

In the lobby he described Tannis to both the desk clerk and the doorman, but neither had seen her go by. Finally, figuring she’d somehow slipped past them unseen, he took the elevator to the parking garage. If she
was
out there, it had to be on foot, and he stood a better chance of finding her in his car.

She was waiting for him, leaning against the front fender of his car, idly pulling her scarf back and forth through her fingers.

"I figured you’d end up here eventually," she said in a froggy voice.

Dillon stopped a few yards away, put his hands in his pockets, and looked at her.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run out on you like that. It was childish." The last word ended with a tight, choking sound.

Knowing she was crying but not ready yet to forgive her for the shock she’d dealt him, Dillon said harshly, "Why did you?"

She shrugged, opened her mouth and closed it again, gave the scarf a helpless little wave, and abruptly turned her back to him. Now that his heart rate had slowed and his breath no longer burned his chest, Dillon moved close to her. "Want to talk about it?" he asked carefully, after clearing his throat of lingering traces of hoarseness.

When she only shook her head, he reached out to her, fitting his palms to her shoulders and kneading in a gentle circular motion. "Tannis—"

"No—please! Don’t—" It was a cry that lacerated his heart. "Don’t touch me like—that."

"Like this?" he said huskily and, turning her, took her face between his hands and held it as if it were a priceless treasure. As he raised her face to the light, he saw her eyes were so tightly closed there were stress lines in the center of her forehead, like a watermark on satin, and that her mouth had a soft, blurred look. A tiny tear quivered at its corner. He brushed it away with his thumb just before he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.

He kissed her with a tenderness he hadn’t known he was capable of; a sweet, aching tenderness that somehow rendered him as fragile as she. When her mouth trembled under his, he felt the same trembling within himself; and when she whimpered, the cry pierced him to the depths of his soul.

She tried to pull away from him, but this time he was ready for her. "Tannis," he said, his voice hoarse and gritty, "what is it? What’s wrong?"

Since he wouldn’t let her run away, she had to shield her naked emotions from him by covering her face with her hands. "I don’t––" She drew in a sobbing breath. "I don’t want to feel like this. I didn’t ever want to feel like this again."

"Feel like—" he began, bewildered. And then, as understanding came to him, he gently pulled her hands away. Her eyes stared up at him through a curtain of tears. "Why not?" he asked softly, brushing her lips with his thumb.

Fueled only by a shallow, quivering breath, her voice emerged precariously. "It hurts too much." Her mouth and eyes clamped shut once more.

"Oh, God." Dillon drew her close, cradling her head against his chest. There was something almost reflexive about the way he folded himself around her, as if he were protecting both her and his own vulnerable parts.

And while he held her that way, he wondered how it could have happened, how he could have left himself open to such an emotional onslaught. After ten years of exposure to the whole rotten range of human suffering, how could something like this strike so deeply at the strongholds of his heart?

"Tannis," he said as soon as he could speak again, "loving isn’t supposed to
hurt
. Who’s hurt you, baby?" When she didn’t answer, he held her awhile longer and tried again. "Did someone hurt you?" She nodded. "Do you want to talk about it?" She shook her head emphatically. After a moment Dillon cleared his throat and said slowly, "I think you have to, babe. I think you’re long overdue."

Taking her by the arms, he separated himself from her far enough so he could look at her. "You can trust me, you know," he said. "I’d never hurt you like that. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you." And as he listened to the echoes of his voice, it stunned him to realize he meant every word.

"Talk to me," he pleaded through emotion–tensed jaws. "Talk to me."

It seemed a long time before he felt her muscles relax and heard her sigh of capitulation. "It’s no big deal," she said, swiping angrily at her eyes. "It’s silly."

"I doubt that." When she shivered, he pulled her coat around her shoulders. "So tell me anyway."

"I’m not sure I can."

"Of course you can," Dillon said grimly. "You start by telling me his name."

In the anonymous darkness of Dillon’s car, with the motor running and the heater going full blast, Tannis talked about Dan. Dillon sat facing forward, and so did she; it was easier that way, like being in a confessional. She told him the easy stuff first, about how it had been in high school, and about meeting Dan, and all the little traumas and tragedies that came with being seventeen and in love before your time. It was like talking about something that had happened to somebody else, or like telling the plot of a movie she’d seen.