Bitch Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “There ought to be… something…” Dann’s voice had gone hoarse. He cleared his throat. “… I can say… do…. more than…” He sighed, then raised his eyes to meet hers. “Thanks.”

  Held by the intensity of his gaze, she realized that some part of her had believed in him. There was a decency about him that transcended even the mocking insolence he’d displayed at first.

  “You’re welcome.” She liked the way his hand felt on hers. She wished the rest of her didn’t feel like hamburger.

  He must have noticed the pain in her face. He stood.

  “We, uh, need to do something with that shoulder. You’ll have to take the, uh, sleeve off, give me some room to work on it. I’ll make some more tea.”

  When he turned to put the kettle on, Dixie slid the robe off and wrapped it tight across her chest, feeling incredibly bare beneath it.

  He took the cup, rinsed the grounds out of the bottom, and scooped a spoonful of something out of a plastic bag. Dixie watched him, noticing the way he moved. Any other man his size would look clumsy handling china cups. But he had a powerful grace, as comfortable in the kitchen as he was battling a South Dakota blizzard, as comfortable as she imagined he’d been on that tractor seat all those years ago.

  He put the smelly tea in front of her and moved the ice pack to her shoulder.

  “No, keep your arm on the cubes in the tray,” he ordered when she started to move it. “How’s the soreness?”

  “Better. Almost gone.” Actually, her arm really didn’t hurt as much now. Probably frozen.

  He dabbed peroxide on the cut at her temple, then drew the cut together with a Band-Aid, rubbing it lightly in place. When he was satisified the bandage would hold, he took her arm from the tray and applied the analgesic lotion. His fingers gliding over her skin aroused every nerve. She guessed the arm wasn’t frozen, after all.

  “Drink your tea,” he said gruffly. “It’s getting cold.”

  She sipped and grimaced.

  “Now the shoulder,” he said, squeezing more lotion into his hand, warming it.

  She turned sideways in the booth, her back to him. He rubbed the warm lotion on her back, his touch unbelievably tender.

  “I was worried something was wrong when you took off in such a hurry this morning,” he said. “After last night, I thought you might give up and turn me in.” His fingers traveled around the front of her neck, stroking the hollow beneath her collarbone, down to just above her breast.

  “Last night, I was almost ready to turn you in.” Dixie held very still, allowing the delicious sensations to soothe her. His hand moved gently up, over her shoulder, and down her arm.

  “Hey, you’ve got a bruise back here as big as a dinner plate. What the hell happened out there?”

  Dixie recalled the flash of purple as Hermie Valdez raged out of the shadows, swinging her lead pipe.

  “I made the mistake of coming between a woman and her man.”

  His thumb brushed the line of her jaw as he finished the stroke, back around her neck and over her collarbone, maddeningly sensual. Dixie knew she was making a mistake, but her hand seemed to rise of its own volition. She caught his fingers in hers and brought the back of his hand to her lips.

  The moment seemed to stretch forever. Then she felt his breath feather her hair, and he buried his face in it. He kissed the top of her head, his arms encircling her gingerly from behind.

  “You’ll never know how lousy I felt,” he whispered, “when you came in hurt. All bruised and bloody. I knew it had something to do with your helping me.”

  Dixie closed her eyes and enjoyed the awakening of senses she’d been suppressing. She was very, very glad Parker was innocent of involuntary manslaughter. She only wished she knew what he had going with Heather Burke.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “Mom, Dad! They’re here!” A wreath of bells and holly jingled brightly as Ryan bounded out the door of the Royals’ contemporary split-level home.

  Dixie tugged at a yellow scarf covering her head wound, which matched the yellow silk pants suit Amy had given her. She’d found the scarf at the bottom of a dresser drawer, probably another gift, and she hoped the combination didn’t make her look as much like a big Easter chicken as she felt. Dann kept looking at her like she’d beamed down from another planet.

  “Relax,” he said, when she fidgeted with a gold chain necklace she’d added at the last minute. “You should be going to a doctor, not to dinner, but you look fantastic.”

  Easy for him to say. She wished now she’d worn her jeans and hoped Amy and Carl wouldn’t make a big deal out of her wearing girl clothes. One thing she had to admit, though: the silk felt terrific against her skin. Even when she’d worked in the DA’s office, wearing a suit every day, she rarely attended events that required dressing up. And the minute she got home, she slipped into jeans.

  Dann had driven, since her left shoulder wouldn’t move two inches without jolting her with pain. Before she could open the Mustang’s door, he was around the car and offering her a hand. Dixie felt a twinge of nostalgia. Barney had always insisted his “girls” wait patiently until he opened doors for them. In those final months, with all the trips to doctors, Dixie often had to steel herself against jumping out to help Barney from the car. Instead, she sat ticking off long, tedious moments as he extracted himself from the passenger seat and shuffled around to open her car door. He’d been a gentleman all his life. She wasn’t about to deny him the few dignities he clung to as that life withered away.

  Dixie accepted Dann’s hand and stepped to the sidewalk.

  “Is this collar high enough?”

  “Looks fine.”

  She tugged it higher. “I don’t want Amy to see any bruises. She’s always on my case, worried I’ll get hurt. She thinks I should be a tax lawyer.”

  “Maybe she’s right.” He squeezed her left shoulder, sending a mild jolt along her collarbone.

  “Hey, ow!” Dixie looked up to find his face etched with a teasing mockery she’d come to recognize as a challenge. On the drive over, he’d continued to insist that she see a doctor.

  “Wow!” Ryan said, bounding up to meet them at the curb, staring. “You look different.”

  “Different how?” She had put on eye shadow and lipstick. Maybe it was too much. “I look okay, don’t I?”

  “Yeah, you’re okay. Kinda yellow.”

  He studied Dann. Dixie introduced them, ruffling Ryan’s hair and grabbing a quick kiss before he could escape. He folded something into her hand.

  “The E-mail printout,” he said.

  “Okay.” Dixie nodded, hoping to show her appreciation without too much encouragement. One big reason for being here tonight was to stop the Find-a-Fellow-for-Dixie game that had somehow gotten started.

  “Read it,” Ryan urged, “so I can get your reply on-line before Mom makes me shut the computer off for supper.” He slid a sideways glance at Dann, frowned, and then looked back at Dixie, taking in the makeup, the yellow suit, and the cinnamon midheel pumps she’d found in the back of her closet.

  “Where’s your boots?” he demanded.

  “Thought I’d give them a rest tonight. You don’t like these?”

  “They’re okay.”

  He sniffed the air, scowling. Maybe she’d overdone the perfume.

  As they approached the house, with Ryan bounding ahead of them, Dann whispered, “You smell like a sea breeze.””

  Was that good? Or did it mean she smelled like dead fish?

  The house, however, smelled great, like pine boughs and smoked turkey. Amy, in rose-pink hostess pajamas, tiny gold bells tinkling at her ears, and Carl, in his “Texas Chili Peppers” barbecue apron, came in from the kitchen. Dixie introduced them to Parker Dann. Carl eyed her clothes, glanced at Dann, and grinned wickedly. Dixie’s face flushed. The men shook hands, sizing each other up.

  “Dann… Dann, Parker Dann,” Carl said. “Unusual name. I’ve heard it somewhere.”

  “There�
�s a pro golfer named Palmer Dann,” Dixie said, blurting the first lie that came to mind. Dann’s trial hadn’t been featured in the newspaper lately, only a few lines near the back. But she’d forgotten Carl’s habit of reading the news cover to cover every day.

  “Pro golfer?” Carl said. “No, that’s not it…”

  Amy drew Dixie aside.

  “Where have you been keeping him? He looks just like that actor, that… what’s his name? The one with the other two men and a baby?”

  “Amy, don’t you ever watch recent movies?” Dann did look a bit like Tom Selleck, though. A young Tom Selleck. Or maybe Sean Connery. Dann had a face that would age well.

  “Dixie, any man that can fill out a shirt like he can is worth having around just to look at.” Amy tucked the yellow scarf behind Dixie’s ear, patted a stray hair in place. “And look at you! Positively glowing. How long have you two been dating?”

  “Whoa! Slow down. Who says we’re dating?” Dixie watched miserably as Carl guided Dann toward the dining room. She hoped Carl’s name-remembering had been diverted. Amy would have a nerve attack if she discovered Dann’s true claim to fame.

  “Now, Dixie, when was the last time you brought a man to our house for dinner?” Amy gushed. “What does he do? Sort of a handyman, you said? He was doing some work at your house?”

  “That wobbly porch rail. But he actually sells heavy equipment. You know, cranes, backhoes.”

  A high-pitched buzz sounded from the hallway. Everyone looked up as Ryan taxied the Cessna model across the rug, between their feet and into the dining room, where Carl was opening a bottle of Piesporter. The airplane crashed into Dann’s shoe.

  “What’s this?” He picked the plane up and examined it.

  “Ryan,” Amy said, “apologize to Mr. Dann for bumping into him with that thing.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No harm done.” Dann smiled graciously at Amy, then turned back to Ryan. “Model 185. Classic.”

  “You know about airplanes?” Ryan rushed to take it, the remote in his other hand.

  “Sold Cessnas for a while,” Dann said. “Long time ago. The 185 was top of the line in single engines.”

  “Wow! Did you ever ride in one?”

  “Had to get over being airsick first. Can’t sell an airplane sitting on the ground. Later, I got my pilot’s license and flew one occasionally.”

  “Cool!”

  Carl handed around glasses of wine. “About that waterfront property,” he told Dann. “What I’m saying, you’ll find some good investments along the Texas coast.”

  “Seabrook, Galveston?”

  “Rockport. Nice little town farther south,” Carl said. “You should check it out.”

  “You’re thinking about moving?” Dixie asked.

  Dann shrugged, his face inscrutable. “My neighbors aren’t as friendly as they used to be.”

  Dixie wondered if he was about to drift on, now that his future didn’t include prison. The thought of it bothered her. Maybe he’d drift back to Louisiana, back to Heather Burke.

  “Waterfront lots can be risky,” Carl said. “What I’m saying—”

  “Dinner’s ready!” Amy announced. “Let’s sit down before it freezes over. Parker, take this chair beside Dixie’s.”

  Dann pulled out Dixie’s chair at the round table and waited for her to be seated. Amy beamed at the conspicuous courtesy, while Ryan claimed the seat on the other side of his new airplane buddy. It seemed Dann knew how to win hearts of all ages.

  “Do you have a real airplane?” Ryan asked.

  “We could rent one for a couple hours. Want to go up some time?” Dann looked at Carl for approval.

  “For real?” Ryan’s eager gaze grabbed Dixie’s as if seeking assurance that Dann wasn’t pulling his leg.

  Dixie shrugged. “Better pray he flies airplanes better than he fixes porch rails.”

  Amy passed a heavy platter, which Dixie almost accepted with her lame arm. When she hesitated, Dann took it for her.

  “Look at this—baked yams!” He forked one onto Dixie’s plate. “I love these things. How about you, Ryan?” He helped Ryan’s plate, then his own, before setting the dish down. “Your mom sets a heckuva fine table.”

  Amy’s proud smile was enough to make Dixie glad Dann had come to dinner, despite a growing uneasiness. Her family had warmed quickly to his easy charm and directness. But behind his charming demeanor lay a past with more twists than a pretzel factory.

  “How did you two meet?” Amy asked, passing the cranberry sauce.

  “A friend of Parker’s,” Dixie blurted. “Heather Burke.”

  Dann’s wineglass clinked as he knocked it over, catching it just before it hit the table.

  “Sorry.” He dabbed at the spilled droplets.

  Amy’s eyes had widened, heart undoubtedly skipping a beat. The cut crystal was a family heirloom.

  “The glass was… nearly empty,” she stammered. “Carl, open another bottle, would you? I’ll refill Parker’s glass with what’s left in this one.”

  While they bustled around with the wine, Dixie looked up to find Dann staring at her, a twinkle of malice in his blue eyes.

  “How’d you happen on the name of Heather Burke?” he murmured.

  She riveted her attention on cutting a bite of turkey. “Open a can with no label and you never know what will pour out.”

  “Mr. Dann,” Ryan piped, “can we go flying before school starts? That’s Monday.”

  “Don’t pester him, Ryan,” Amy said. “Parker, you don’t sound as if you were born around here. Where did you grow up?”

  “Montana. Until I graduated college. Then I traveled to northern Florida to sell time-share condos. Sold cruise packages in Maine. Indian art in Arizona, ski equipment in Colorado.” He dropped a casual hand on Dixie’s bad shoulder. “Texas is my favorite, though. Met some friendly, interesting people here. Stubborn as crabgrass, but friendly.”

  Under the table, Dixie gouged her salad fork into Dann’s leg. She turned to smile at him sourly. Flinching, he lifted his heavy hand from her shoulder and slid a glance at her. His blue eyes were as teasing as a small boy’s.

  “Where’d you sell airplanes?” Ryan piped.

  “Montana, Canada.” Dann’s smirk disappeared before he turned to Ryan. “Crop dusters, mostly. Ranchers up that way use a plane to get around. Especially the Hollywood ranchers.”

  “That’s right!” Anything to do with movies always sparked Amy’s interest. “People magazine said a number of actors have bought ranches in Montana.”

  “Wouldn’t mind going up myself,” Carl said. “I’ve flown in your commercial puddle jumpers, sixteen-passenger jobs, and a charter jet once, but never a private plane like Ryan’s there—what I’m saying, a real one.”

  “Haven’t taken one up in a while,” Dann said. “But my license is still good. We could make a day of it.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Amy said. “Carl, are you going to pour that wine or just hold it?”

  Dixie watched her family grow more and more enthralled as Dann described the difference between high-wing Cessnas and low-wing Beechcraft. They liked him, had opened their big hearts and scooped him right in. There was something warm, vital, and electric about Parker Dann. Watching how easily he talked to Carl about investments, complimented Amy on her cooking, patiently answered Ryan’s unending questions about flying, Dixie could see how he’d made all the money in those various bank accounts. Damn him, her family could no more resist his piratical charm than a fly could resist flypaper. He was one hell of a salesman.

  Today he cut a particularly dashing figure, in blue flannel slacks and a crisply pressed white shirt. His hair waved over his ears, slightly longer, she imagined, than was normal for him. He looked like everybody’s favorite hero. Dixie found herself wishing that Smokin had never uncovered the disturbing trail to Dann’s past.

  “Those little planes aren’t dangerous, are they?” Amy asked. “Oh, I suppose they have to be, b
ut… so many people fly them these days. I feel so adventurous!”

  “You’ll go up in the plane, won’t you, Aunt Dixie?”

  “Well…” Her earliest heroine had been Amelia Ear-hart. But that was before Dixie’s first air travel, a flight to Disneyland with the Flannigans.

  “Your aunt spits in the eye of danger,” Dann said, lightly brushing Dixie’s bruised shoulder. “Isn’t that right?”

  Dixie bit down on a curse. “Maybe we should wait till spring, when the weather’s better.” She hated flying, even in first-class splendor on a supersafe 747, with earphones, relaxation music, and movies to take her mind off the fact that she was hovering miles above the earth in a sardine can with wings. She wanted to love it. But she truly hated flying. “Anyway, since Parker hasn’t flown in a while, maybe he should go up alone first.”

  Ryan looked like someone had stolen the goodies out of his Christmas stocking. Carl, seeing Dann finish his dinner roll, handed him the bread basket.

  “Not something you’d forget, I imagine,” Carl said. “Like riding a bicycle. You get on, and it all comes back.”

  “Except when you fall off a bicycle, the buzzards don’t circle.” Dixie snatched a roll for herself.

  “Now, Dixie,” Amy said. “Stop being a wet blanket and pass Mr. Dann another piece of turkey.”

  Dixie took the plate and shoved it at Parker. He grinned at her with bland, mocking impudence.

  New Year’s Eve morning, four days before Dann’s trial date, Dixie awoke late with a gripping ache at the back of her head and a talking bear clutched in her arms, two good indications she’d enjoyed more than a fair share of wine at Amy’s dinner party the night before. The stuffed bear, a gift from Ryan, said things like “Hug me, I hug back.”

  “Take me with you,” it pleaded now as Dixie stumbled to the bathroom.

  Parker Dann had made such an impression that Amy and Carl had invited him to dinner on New Year’s Day. Dann insisted on bringing dessert. Everyone assumed Dixie would be pleased with the arrangement. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.