“Get outta here,” Rhonda scoffed. She didn’t doubt for a moment this big bruiser had the hots for Amanda, but she knew her Mandy. And despite Amanda’s attraction to the cop, Rhonda couldn’t picture her blithely tripping down to MacLaughlin’s apartment and agreeing to spend the night. She had too many inhibitions. Yet, here he stood, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, stating that she had. “Seriously?”
“Rhonda?” Amanda poked her head out of the bedroom door and Rhonda murmured, “Well, I’ll be damned, Mandy Rose…”
“Uh, it’s not what you think,” Tristan belatedly assured her as Amanda’s skin flushed a wild rose. Maybe this hadn’t been the best of times to let his normally caged-in sense of humor run free. “She came down last night to tell me about the calls she’s been receiving and I was ill, so she stayed to take care of me.”
“Uh-huh.” There was a world of skepticism in that low-voiced murmur of assent.
“Rhonda!”
“Okay, okay, just kidding,” Rhonda said, but she gave them a knowing grin. When she turned fully to Tristan, however, all traces of humor had left her eyes. “Lieutenant, what did you think about…well, hi there, Ace.” She interrupted herself to squat down and scratch the dog’s belly as he flopped over at her feet. She spent a moment satisfying Ace’s need for attention, then peered up at Tristan. “What do you think of these calls she’s been getting?”
Tristan hesitated. Discussing the details of a case he was working was not something he would ordinarily consider doing. But he knew how close these two women were, and he knew there wasn’t a hope in hell that Amanda wouldn’t tell Rhonda everything anyway. Better if he had some control over the situation. “I want your word you won’t be discussing this with anyone other than ourselves, Miss Smith,” he began sternly. “No exceptions, you got it?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Lieutenant,” Rhonda snapped. “Call me Rhonda. Miss Smith makes me sound like some old maid schoolteacher.” At Tristan’s stiff nod, she continued seriously, “As for secrecy, you’ve got it. I’m not about to say anything that might jeopardize Mandy. She’s the best friend I have in this world.”
“Aye,” he acknowledged, and proceeded to tell her as much as he felt she needed to know. Rhonda Smith, he noted, was one tough lady. She lost a bit of color, and her jaw clenched, but she heard him out in silence, and then took charge of Amanda. She led her over to the couch, sat her down, and picked up Amanda’s hands in her own. They began to talk quietly. Tristan narrowed his eyes to conceal his intense interest as he watched them for a moment. Then he turned and walked away.
Holding herself rigid, Amanda turned her head to stare at the long, supple groove of Tristan’s spine as he rumbled orders into the phone. She was grateful to Rhonda for providing a hand to clutch, and she sat very still, her lips compressed in a straight line, waiting for Tristan to finish. When he finally went into the bedroom to dress, Amanda let herself go. She allowed herself to cry on Rhonda’s shoulder for a while and to verbalize her fear. She apologized for falling apart and then fell apart some more. Finally, she straightened and wiped her cheeks with the palms of her hands and scooped up the puddles beneath her eyes with the sides of her fingers. With a shaky laugh, she confessed she’d been wanting to do that ever since Tristan had told her who he thought her caller was.
Emerging from the bedroom and crossing to the couch to retrieve his gun and holster, Tristan subjected Amanda to an intense once-over, but Amanda refused to meet his eyes. He was all buttoned down again in his white shirt and tie, a visual reminder—as if she needed it—that the cop was back with a vengeance. She averted her head when he strapped on the holster and adjusted the fit beneath his arm.
Amanda didn’t want to see the professional distance in Tristan’s eyes when he began to explain what he expected of her for the rest of the day and what she could expect tonight after the show, so she avoided eye contact entirely. She stared instead at the minuscule piece of toilet paper stuck to his jaw by a drop of blood where he had obviously nicked himself shaving. She inspected the subdued pattern in his tie and watched his Adam’s apple slide up and down his throat above its perfect knot. Her gaze dropped to his holster, but the sight of his gun was too disturbing, so quickly she raised it again. She didn’t meet his eyes until he suddenly reached out and grasped her upper arms.
“Look at me,” he commanded. When her violet eyes snapped up and locked with his, he growled, “Have you heard a bloody word I’ve said, then?”
“I heard every word you said, Lieutenant,” she replied crisply and repeated it back to him. “I’m to behave as normally as possible at rehearsal. If I don’t feel I can accomplish that, then I should make an excuse to stay at home, which you think might be wisest in the long run. I’m to go nowhere alone. Your men will set up their equipment in my apartment this afternoon, and they will be in place by the time I get home. They will be discreet upon entering my apartment. Have I got it all?’
His teeth clenched. “Aye.”
“Good.” She rolled her shoulders and glared up at him. “Let go of me.”
Tristan’s grip tightened momentarily, bringing her up on her toes; then, abruptly, he set her loose. “I’ll need a key to your apartment.”
“You can have mine,” Rhonda offered as her gaze flew between Amanda’s tense, angry face and Tristan’s equally tense but controlled countenance. She’d sure love to know what had gone on here earlier. The air fairly crackled with hostility and sexual electricity. “I’d like to spend the night with her, anyway, as an extra precaution.”
Tristan’s head snapped around and he stared at Rhonda blankly for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but the doorbell rang in that instant. He closed his mouth, ground his teeth, and went to answer it.
“You okay?” Rhonda whispered, and Amanda barely had time to nod before Detective Cash and another man she didn’t know entered the room behind Tristan. The remainder of the afternoon was a blur. They went up to her apartment and the policemen checked the strength of the locks on all her windows and door. The new man, whose name was Edwards and whose dramatic good looks made him appear more like a Hollywood leading man than a Reno policeman, took her phones apart and hooked in wires that led to the machines he had set up on her nightstand and on the marble-topped end table in the living room.
She insisted on going to rehearsal, and once there, she made her mind a blank and let the music seep into her bones, concentrating on nothing but the movement of her body. Home again, she cooked dinner for herself and Rhonda and the three detectives, and she watched Rhonda flirt with Edwards. When Rhonda turned her attention to Joe Cash, Amanda ignored the gray eyes burning a hole in her back and talked quietly with Edwards herself until it was time to go back to the Cabaret for the eight o’clock show.
After the two women departed, Tristan paced Amanda’s apartment. He prowled from room to room, picking up and examining her possessions, then setting them down again and restlessly moving on until something else caught his eye. He tried to catch up on his paperwork, but he couldn’t concentrate, and finally, he tossed the folder he was reading onto the coffee table and stood up. “I’m going out for a while,” he informed the two detectives, and, ignoring the looks of relief they exchanged, let himself out of the apartment.
Tristan spent the next couple of hours driving to the places where the four victims had been found. He wondered if the killer ever did the same. It was a peculiarity of serial killers that they often revisited the scenes of their crimes to fantasize about the manner in which they’d killed their victims, and he wondered if Duke was typical.
At eleven-thirty, he found himself in front of the hotel that housed the Cabaret. He drove around to the lot where the dancers parked, left his car, and went into the casino.
Tristan killed ten minutes at a blackjack table, then tipped the dealer with his last chip and bought a ticket to the midnight show. He slipped in just as the house lights went down, ordered a whiskey sour from a cocktail waitres
s in a skimpy outfit, sat back, and watched the curtain rise as music swelled from the orchestra pit.
The dancers opened the show, and Tristan’s eyes scanned the lineup until he located Amanda. His eyebrows knit together when he finally spotted her. She looked so different.
Her blond hair was hidden beneath a close-fitting sequined cloche, and with her dark eyebrows, one might be forgiven for assuming she was a brunette. The makeup she wore was closer to what he’d expected of a dancer before he had ever actually met one. It was heavy and dramatic, and he didn’t care for it much. It changed her appearance, made her look like some damn tart on the town. And her costume, what there was of it, exposed a great deal too much cleavage and sleek, trim butt. He heard the man sitting at the next table, obviously the worse for drink, mumble lewd comments on the various merits of each female dancer’s body. Tristan drilled him with a savage look. When the man’s head turned in Tristan’s direction, his loose, inebriated smile was met head-on with cold rage, and he swallowed the rest of his comments unsaid. Tristan turned his attention back to the stage.
She was a hell of a dancer. Tristan nursed his drink and watched her closely each time she came on. It wasn’t hard to tell she loved it; in fact, seeing her up on the stage, it was hard to imagine she had anything even faintly sobering on her mind. All the dancers smiled, but on many of them it was a professional grimace, pasted on for the benefit of the audience. Amanda’s smiles were spontaneous and natural, clearly inspired by doing what she loved best. She moved with boneless grace, as though the music were an integral part of her. She glowed up there in a way he had never seen her do before.
Tristan waited around after the show as over, and unobtrusively trailed Amanda and Rhonda back to the lot where Rhonda’s car was parked. Once he saw them safely out, he gunned his motor and raced back to the triplex, beating them by a matter of minutes. His engine was still pinging in the cool early morning air when he climbed out of his car to greet them as they pulled up to the curb in front of him. Rhonda expressed pleased surprise at his unexpected appearance, but Amanda merely met his eyes briefly; then, as quickly, she dropped them again. All the joy he had observed when she was dancing was extinguished as thoroughly as though it had never existed outside his imagination.
Once inside, Amanda dropped her purse on the couch and headed straight for the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and washed her face; then, bracing her hands on the edge of the sink, she raised her still-dripping face and met her apprehensive reflection in the mirror. Tension knotted her stomach. For a short time while she was on stage, she’d been able to put all her anxiety on hold and simply revel in her body’s automatic response to the music. But the fear and worry were back now, and she needed to prepare herself to deal calmly with whatever happened. She was determined not to fall apart.
Rhonda handed Amanda a cup of hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps when she rejoined the group in the living room a short while later. Amanda sipped at it, but while she was grateful for its spreading warmth, she wondered if it was wise to be drinking alcohol. She was barely hanging on to her composure as it was. God only knew what sort of fool she was likely to make of herself if the liquor further frayed the threadbare restraints she was rigidly imposing on herself.
She stood off by herself, but her eyes were drawn to the three detectives gathered around the coffee table. It was stuffy in her apartment and the men had all removed their jackets. Until she had met Tristan MacLaughlin, she’d never even seen a real gun, and now there were three men in her home, each with a lethal weapon tucked under his arm. It was insane—the men in her world didn’t wear guns strapped to their chests. How on earth had she gotten involved in this outlandish situation? Amanda began to tremble.
Stop it! she commanded herself with abrupt fierceness, and slowly she unclenched her muscles. Just calm down. Having hysterics will accomplish nothing, girl, so get a grip on it. Take a deep breath…that’s right. Now, slowly, let it out. Good. Now, another. Breathe in…hold it…let it out. She shook out her hands and told herself she was going to be fine. And if fine isn’t in the game plan, she thought grimly, then at the very least I will not make an absolute ass of myself.
Feeling calmer and at least marginally in charge, Amanda squared her shoulders and moved to join the others. She didn’t even avoid Tristan’s sharp eyes when he abruptly looked up and watched her cross the room.
Then, as Amanda was bending down to place her empty cup and saucer on the coffee table, the telephone rang, sounding strident and shrill in the quiet apartment.
Her fragile control splintered.
Chapter
15
The cup and saucer fell from fingers gone nerveless, and for a millisecond, Amanda existed in a vacuum as she stared without comprehension at the mess she’d made. Her ears rang, her peripheral vision receded, and the object of her scrutiny grew dim and gray. It was like viewing a soundless, flickering black-and-white television picture through the wrong end of a telescope. Then her peripheral vision returned as abruptly as it had disappeared, color reemerged, and sound and activity suddenly buffeted her from all directions. She was aware of Rhonda’s hip gently nudging her aside to clean up the spilled dregs of chocolate and right the tilted cup, and of the warmth of Tristan’s hand on her forearm. Joe Cash was moving into her bedroom at MacLaughlin’s nod, and Edwards was fiddling with the machine connected to her phone and watching her.
“Do you remember what we discussed earlier, Amanda?” Tristan’s voice was stern and detached, but his eyes were laser-sharp as they passed over her face. She nodded uncertainly, and he shook her without gentleness. “Look at me!”
Her gaze, which had been flitting from one object to the next, snapped back up, and after a brief struggle, managed to focus on his.
“Pick it up on the fourth ring,” he commanded her coldly, without regard for her obvious terror. “Joe will pick up the extension in your bedroom at the same time.” It should have been his job, Tristan knew, since he was the only other person to have heard Duke’s voice firsthand. But he had traded places with Joe when Amanda had shown signs of passing out. He could feel the chill of her flesh beneath her thin blouse, and without realizing what he was doing, his hands rubbed briskly up and down her arms. “Keep him talking as long as you possibly can, lass. Okay, there’s the third ring.” He released her and stood back where Joe could see him, his arm raised. “Quiet! And four—pick it up, Amanda.”
Amanda watched his arm drop as she removed the receiver from its cradle. In the other room the extension was quietly picked up. “Hello?”
“Where were you last night, Amanda?” The whispering voice demanded, and Amanda’s heart began to thud heavily in her chest. She glanced at Tristan, and a small measure of warmth returned to her extremities. The man on the phone couldn’t hurt her as long as MacLaughlin was here.
“Who are you?” She sank onto a cushion of the davenport, clutching the receiver with enough pressure to turn her knuckles white.
“I asked you where you were last night!” There was fury and a cold demand in the disembodied voice, and Amanda rushed to explain, resenting the fear that made her do so.
“I sat up all night with a sick friend.” Then, on a small spurt of courage, she demanded, “What business is it of yours, anyway? You won’t even tell me your name!”
“I’m your friend, Amanda,” the voice said gently. “I worry about you, out at night on your own.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s dangerous out there.”
“Tell me your name,” she breathed softly.
“It’s not important. What was the matter with your friend?”
“Migraine, I guess. At least a murderous…”—oh, bad choice of words, Amanda—“um…incapacitating headache and some nausea.” God, had he caught that? She shook her head impatiently. “Listen, I don’t like this. You seem to know a great deal about me, but you won’t tell me anything in return.”
“You’re a good woman, Amanda,” the voice said softly, res
ponding selectively to her end of the conversation. “Beautiful and talented, kind and pure.”
Amanda closed her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Won’t you tell me your name? You call me late each night, and you…you pay me such lovely”—she nearly choked over the word—“compliments, but you won’t say who you are.”
“Good night, Amanda.”
“Please! Who are you?”
“Sleep well.” The line went dead.
“Damn you!” Amanda screamed and slammed the receiver back in its cradle. She buried her head in her shaking hands. Rhonda sat down beside her on the couch and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, whispering reassurances.
Tristan looked at Edwards, who shook his head. There hadn’t been enough time to run a trace. Joe emerged from the bedroom. Tristan talked to both men quietly for a moment, then crossed over to where Amanda was huddled on the couch. Rhonda moved her legs to make room for him, and he crouched down in front of Amanda, picking up one of her limp hands. Stroking his thumb up each of her fingers, he said with quiet gentleness, “You did well, lass.”
Amanda shuddered. “He makes me feel so…crawly. Dirty.”
“Aye,” Tristan agreed. “He’s a sick one. But he’ll not be harming you, Amanda.”
“Why don’t you go take a nice bath?” Rhonda suggested as she stroked Amanda’s tumbled hair from her face. “I’ll make you another hot drink so you can sleep.”
“Okay.” Amanda struggled to her feet. Tristan positioned himself so he could watch her until she closed the bathroom door behind her, then he turned to Rhonda and began to speak briskly. Moments later, he let himself out of the apartment and loped down the stairs.
Amanda didn’t climb out of her bath until it had quieted completely in the outer rooms of her apartment and she was reasonably sure that everyone except Rhonda had left. She was grateful not to be left alone tonight, but she really didn’t feel up to making small talk.
Shadow Dance Page 24
