MAD DOG AND ANNIE

by Virginia Kantra

  "Is that an offer?" he asked quietly.

  Her heart skipped. What would he do if she said yes? She flushed. "No."

  The corners of his eyes crinkled suddenly. "Not used to turning down sex?"

  There was so much tender amusement in the question that she smiled cautiously back. "I'm not used to having the choice," she said without thinking.

  His grin disappeared as if it had never been. Tension coiled his muscles. He was angry. And even though his fury wasn't directed at her, Ann's heart stumbled.

  She hurried into speech. "I didn't mean—I'm not used to a lot of things. That's all I meant. I need to have control."

  "Control of what?" he asked through his teeth.

  "Things." Her hands fluttered. "My life."

  "And you think I'd threaten that?"

  "Without meaning to, maybe. I just can't afford to let myself get involved with anyone right now."

  "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?" he asked bleakly. "If I try to change your mind, I'm doing exactly what you're afraid of."

  She winced at the bitterness in his voice. "I know," she said. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't apologize," he snapped.

  "I'm—" She stopped, twisting her hands on her purse.

  "Hell, I'm sorry, too." He blew out a short, explosive breath and then rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand. "Okay," he said, visibly clamping down his temper. "Fine. You're in control. Now figure out what you want." His hooded gaze stabbed her, hot and compelling. "Because from where I'm sitting, as long as you're alone and miserable, Rob is still calling the shots."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  «^»

  Ann balked on the clubhouse steps smack between two marble planters as big as bathtubs.

  "I still think this was a mistake," she said.

  Val, glowing in a green-patterned gown that pulled slightly across her stomach, patted her arm. "It'll be fine. We'll sit with my parents—"

  "Who are friends with all Rob's friends."

  "—and we'll leave right after Rob notices you're here." Ann fussed with the catch on her black evening bag. "I don't want you to have to talk to him."

  "I won't."

  "You may not be able to avoid it. If he comes over—"

  "He won't. He's too afraid of my husband."

  "Your husband isn't here."

  Val looked at her sharply. "You're whining."

  "I know." Ann said humbly. "I'm sorry. I'm terrible company. Let's go."

  Val laughed. "Nice try. No." Her expression gentled. "Sweetie, we'll be fine. Come on."

  "I don't feel good about this," Ann muttered.

  "Well, you look good," Val said, tugging her up the terraced steps. The trees outside the tall windows were twined with fairy lights. Piano music filtered through the glass. "I'm glad you borrowed the dress."

  The dress. Another lurch of misgiving fixed Ann on the spot. Black and fitted, it flared at her hips and floated around her calves. She'd borrowed Val's dress as a flag of defiance, hoping some of her confidence would shake out of the folds. Only now, facing the arena of her last defeat, Ann wondered if the dress had been another mistake.

  Her hand crept to finger one of the spaghetti straps that threatened to slide off her narrow shoulders. "Are you sure it's not too much? I feel naked."

  "It looks great," Val said firmly. "And you look wonderful. What I'd give to have your bones."

  Ann smiled. "Bones are all I have. No cleavage."

  "You don't need cleavage in that dress. No one's going to be able to take their eyes off you."

  "Dear Lord." She felt light-headed. "I can't breathe."

  "You'll be fine. We'll be fine. You'll see."

  Ann had never been comfortable at the club. Even after she learned how to transfer her olive pit to her plate and not to call the towel attendant by name, there were a thousand subtleties of conversation that marked her an outsider: fashionable resorts she hadn't seen, sorority sisters she hadn't met, clothing designers she'd never heard of.

  She never broke the plane that separated her from the club wives, never found the topic that made her one of them. Oh, she pretended. Maybe they pretended, too. Maybe behind their double-foiled hair and manicured hands they kept their own secrets: a child's failure, a malign growth in the breast, a morning cocktail, a husband who extracted payment for the SUV and new living room drapes in pain and fear and blood. But they didn't talk about these things over tennis lunches or drinks poolside. They never confessed the flaws that might have made them kin.

  It was better coming as a guest, Ann decided as she trailed Val through the gleaming lobby. Entering the chilled and scented dining room, she could almost pretend she was in some upscale department store at Christmas, admiring the larger-than-life displays and perfectly dressed and posed mannequins.

  Val's parents, Edward and Sylvia Cutler, were propped at their table like a pair of dummies. He could have modeled Better Clothing for Men. She was a breathing display of Ladies' Jewelry. Tanned and toned and cool and polite, they managed to greet Ann without making one reference to the fact that she and her ex-husband had robbed their daughter and their bank of twenty thousand dollars. It didn't matter. Ann still felt as if the word Thief was tattooed on her forehead.

  "Smile." Val hissed at her as they made their way to the bar for a drink.

  "Everybody's staring." Ann excused herself softly.

  "It's the dress. Oh, shoot, there's Mackenzie."

  "Val, darling!" Mackenzie Ward, her Outer Banks tan set off by her white silk pantsuit, bore down on them like a yacht in full sail. Her bright eyes flicked over Ann's bare shoulders. She did not say hello. "I wonder if you would mind coming over to our table? Charlene Wilks is throwing her niece's bridal shower, and I told her all about your darling little restaurant, and she's just dying to talk menus with you."

  "Maybe another time? I—"

  Ann was not going to cost Val another penny—or a lucrative catering contract. "You go ahead," she said. "I'll be fine."

  "No," Val said.

  Mackenzie tucked her hand in Val's arm. "Charlene is just going out of her mind planning this thing. The niece doesn't eat meat, and her sister breaks out in spots if she so much as looks at fish, so you're their only hope."

  Val tossed her head, making her earrings dance. "Really, Mackenzie—"

  Ann fought the flutter of panic in her stomach. "It's all right. I want you to go."

  She needed her to go.

  If she could find Rob while Val was discussing tapenade and strawberry tarts with the bride-to-be, she might be able to keep the two of them apart.

  "Well… If you're sure…" Val said doubtfully.

  "Positive," Ann lied.

  "We'll only be a minute." Mackenzie Ward flashed her teeth at Ann, reward for her cooperation. "I'll bring her right back."

  Ann nodded. Val was dragged away, throwing worried looks over her shoulder. Just for a second, Ann warmed herself with her friend's obvious loyalty and concern. And then she drew a deep breath and went in search of Rob.

  She bumped around the edges of the room, trying to scan the chardonnay crowd without snagging anyone's attention. Most of her old social circle seemed as eager to avoid her eyes as she was to miss theirs. Occasionally someone would stare back and then deliberately look away. Ann felt the heat crawl into her face. She might be tolerated in town, but she wasn't welcome here. She accepted that. This was Rob's turf.

  But where was Rob?

  She braved the bar again, but she couldn't get past the anteroom where men were lined six and eight deep to bring their spouses drinks.

  "…doing here?"

  "…on the fourteenth hole."

  "…see what she was wearing?"

  She did her best to shut out the voices, to ignore the pit-deep conviction they were all discussing her. Craning her neck, she searched for her ex-husband's blond head and heavy shoulders in the crush. Someone stepped on her shoes. An Armani-wearing golfer rushed the
bar, forcing her back into a potted palm.

  She wanted to go home, back to her son and her garden. The memory of Maddox's deep voice taunted her. As long as you're alone and miserable, Rob is still calling the shots. She ignored him, too. What did he know?

  "Are you all right?" a man asked gruffly behind her.

  Maddox?

  Her heart leapt. She turned, battling resentment and gladness.

  And found herself looking up at the red-faced, gray-haired, hard-jawed chief of police. Wallace Palmer. Maddox's father.

  Her heart plummeted from her throat to the tips of her black silk shoes. Would he ask her to leave?

  But what he actually said was, "Can I get you a drink?"

  "N-no," Ann stammered. "Thank you."

  The chief looked almost as uncomfortable as she felt. Maybe it was being out of uniform? His summer jacket and starched white shirt sat oddly on his squared shoulders.

  "Looking for someone?"

  Ann blinked. She didn't know what to tell him. He'd been Rob's fan and then Rob's champion. As far as she knew, the chief hadn't been in on the deal that traded her guilty plea in return for her testimony in Rob's embezzlement trial.

  "I'm here with Val MacNeill," she said. The victim. The woman her ex-husband stood accused of trying to murder.

  Wallace Palmer nodded. "I saw her parents. Sylvia looks well."

  "Um … yes." Ann twisted her hands together, practically backing into the palm tree. Fronds tickled her shoulder blades. This was awful. Awkward. Why didn't he go away? The police chief always struck her as more a public servant than a social leader. For the first time, she wondered if that made him an outsider here, too.

  The thought gave her courage to ask, "Are you—that is, you're not working tonight?"

  "No." He unbent enough to give her a small smile. "Though maybe I should be. In case the bar runs out of ice and this crowd, you know, gets out of control."

  He'd actually made a joke. To her.

  Cautiously, Ann smiled back. "That could get ugly."

  Chief Palmer cleared his throat. "It looked like it was getting pretty ugly already. Let me get you that drink."

  She was touched by his stiff gallantry. "Oh, you don't have to do that."

  "Humph. According to my son, I haven't done enough for you in the past. The least I can do now is fetch you something."

  Unexpected tears stung her eyes. Oh, dear. She was not—she absolutely was not—going to lose it because Maddox's father was being kind. She bowed her head, grateful for the screening palm. "Thank you," she whispered. "That would be … very nice."

  He hesitated. "White wine?"

  She nodded. His shiny brown loafers squeaked away. "Whew." Val's cheerful voice forced Ann's head up. "If Charlene Wilks had been in charge of my bridal shower, I would have eloped."

  Ann struggled to answer in kind. "Be nice. For all you know, your mother's recruited her to host your baby shower."

  Val laughed. "Bite your tongue. Why are you hiding out in the decorations? Did you see Rob?"

  Ann bit her lip. "Not yet."

  And now she didn't want to. Not with Val standing beside her. But before Ann could ferry her friend back to the safety of the Cutlers' table, Rob entered the bar, big and blond, affable and assured. Ann shrank back into the palm tree.

  But of course he saw her anyway. Or maybe he smelled her fear, like a predator scenting prey. Under the sleek black dress, Ann felt a thin trickle of sweat crawl down her spine. Rob used to tell her she would never get away from him. They were bound together in pain and shame and blood. Maybe he just knew she was here.

  Ann grabbed Val's arm. "Should we go sit down?"

  Val lifted her perfectly arched brows. "Are we in a hurry?"

  "Yes," Ann said baldly.

  But it was already too late.

  Rob negotiated the crowd around the bar as easily as Moses parting the Red Sea. He waited until she met his eyes before he smiled, cool and knowing. A chill chased up the back of her arms.

  Once she would have screamed when he looked at her like that, as if he had an enjoyable secret only she could share. Once she would have run. But screaming never brought help. And running only brought him after her.

  She stayed where she was, sick and dumb, trapped between her friend and a stupid plant and sapped by a familiar paralysis.

  She still heard, dimly, polite laughter from the dining room, the persistent flourish of the piano, the clink of glasses and bottles. At the edge of her vision, she saw the sudden consternation on Val's face and movement in the lobby. But all of that was wavy and distorted. None of it penetrated the fishbowl world she shared with Rob.

  He stopped in front of them. "Isn't this nice," he said.

  The movement at the corner of her eye stabilized into a large, dark mass on her right, solid and close enough to distract her.

  Maddox—it was Maddox's voice, now that she heard the real thing she wondered that she'd ever confused it with his father's—said, "Turn around."

  A different kind of tension gripped Ann. Even out of uniform, he looked dangerous. It was more than his ill-fitting jacket or unruly hair and slouching posture. He broadcast menace.

  But for Ann, Maddox carried with him the promise of rescue, the possibility of comfort, as much a part of him as his badge or his gun. And that promise was the most dangerous thing of all. She couldn't trust anybody else to solve her problems ever again.

  Rob stiffened in offense. "Excuse me?"

  Maddox gave him a hard look from under hooded lids. "Turn around and walk away."

  He didn't raise his voice, but Rob heard him. The man next to them, waiting to give his order to the bartender, heard him, too. They were attracting attention. Maddox gave no sign that he observed the sidelong looks, the suspended conversations in the bar. But Rob would notice. Rob would care.

  Ann shivered.

  "You can't talk to me like that," Rob said, low and cold. "You don't belong here."

  Maddox shrugged. "I'm here now. And you're leaving."

  "You're not even a member."

  "I'm a member of the Cutler Police Department. And I'm telling you if you don't turn around and walk away, I'm going into the dining room to find Judge Brailsford and get a restraining order that will keep you away."

  Rob sneered. "You can't. He won't. I haven't threatened her."

  "Threatened who?" Maddox asked, real quiet.

  But Ann could still hear him. Everybody standing around could hear him. Beside her, Val watched the two men with fascinated interest.

  Rob made an abrupt gesture. Ann flinched. "Her. My wife."

  "Ex-wife," Maddox growled. "And the restraining order is for Mrs. MacNeill. I figure a murder attempt is threat enough to have you thrown out."

  The charge rippled through the room like a rock tossed in a pond. No one was comfortable with the reminder that one of their own was accused of the attempted murder of the banker's daughter.

  Rob turned an ugly red. "You're making a mistake, MD. The police haven't proved anything."

  "It's three weeks to trial. What do you want to bet I can turn something up?"

  Rob's anger was a palpable thing. It pulsed against his collar and escaped like sweat into the air. Ann shrank inside her skin. Did anyone else smell it? Did anyone else feel it?

  Because Rob smiled his I'm-the-good-guy smile and shook his head in bemused acceptance. "I'd try to tell you how wrong you are, MD, but unlike some people, I don't relish making a scene." He nodded to the lineup at the bar. "I'll leave the nice folks here to enjoy their evening."

  It was retreat with dignity. But it was a retreat. Ann could calculate the cost in the set of Rob's shoulders and the tiny tic in his right cheek. And she wondered as he stalked away: now that she wasn't there to take the force of his anger, who else would pay for the damage to Rob's pride?

  Val blew out an exaggerated breath. "Mad Dog Palmer. This is quite a reunion."

  Maddox turned his attention from Rob's back. "Now you kno
w why I never made it for homecoming."

  She grinned appreciatively. "We missed you."

  "Did you?" he asked, but his eyes were on Ann, demanding a response she wasn't sure she knew how to give.

  Her body didn't know that. Her stupid body was ready to give him anything he asked for. She blushed.

  A handsome giant in a wilted suit entered through the tall glass doors that led to the lobby. He paused, surveying the room, and then strode purposefully toward them.

  "Am I late?" Con MacNeill asked.

  Val's whole face lit up. "I thought you were spending tonight in Boston. What are you doing here?"

  He kissed her, a brief, hard kiss. "Annie's cop called me. I caught an earlier flight in." His astute blue gaze took in Maddox, big as a house and much more hostile. "You Sergeant Palmer?"

  Maddox nodded. "Maddox Palmer."

  "Con MacNeill." He offered his hand. They shook, testing grips.

  Val hugged her husband's arm to her breast. "What is this, a wrestling match? You already missed the countdown, MacNeill."

  "What happened?"

  "That's what I'd like to know." Chief Palmer appeared from the direction of the bar, bringing Ann's drink and a cloud of displeasure with him. "You overstep your authority, MD?"

  Ann sucked in her breath. There was enough testosterone swirling around to qualify the club bar for Danny's Roadhouse on a Saturday night. So, she felt a little shaky surrounded by oversize, overbearing males. So, she had reasons of her own to doubt Maddox's stepping in. That didn't mean she wasn't grateful to him for rescuing her friend from an uncomfortable confrontation that was largely Ann's fault.

  "Val and I were just thanking your son for his preventive police work," she said softly.

  The chief snorted. "Is that what it was?" But his eyes, as be handed over her wine, were surprisingly approving. "I guess you think you're entitled to some police protection."

  "Overdue," Con MacNeill said in his brief, cool way.

  Val squeezed his arm.

  "Maybe," the chief said.

  Ann went still. He believed her?

  Rob had said the police would never believe her. He explained it to her, over and over, punctuating his words with his fists until she finally accepted it as true. The chief would think—because Rob would tell him—that Ann was only bored. Or jealous. Or insecure. Or vindictive. He would never believe that Rob could simply heat her up. Or maybe he'd wonder just enough to drop a warning word to Rob, and she and Mitchell would be worse off than before.