Rage Factor (8 page)

“Hey, ladies!” Julie placed her hands on Clarissa’s shoulders and began kneading the rigid muscles. “Let’s all take a deep breath and start over.”

Brenda shot her assistant a look of gratitude.

But Clarissa shrugged off Julie’s hand. “You saw his smug smile when that jury gave the verdict.” Her face had flushed almost to the color of her wine. “How could they do that? Those women jurors—”

“Maybe he got close to one of them,” Julie murmured. “You said he could be enchanting, Regan.”

“Like a snake charmer, sweetie. Charm a cobra right out of its basket.”

Brenda shook her head emphatically. “There was no indication of jury tampering,” Her voice remained even and firm. “Now, listen, we all need to calm down and put this behind us. A bar is no place to discuss it—I know a coffee shop down the street that makes the most decadent desserts
you ever put in your mouth. Well talk about getting you both some protection—until we’re certain Coombs has lost interest.”

“My husband says we should buy a gun,” Clarissa announced, glaring from Brenda to Julie.

“Maybe he’s
right.
Maybe we should all carry guns.” Regan’s voice rose to a screech. “It’s legal now, isn’t it?”

Brenda shook her head and began herding them toward the door. “Let’s talk first.” Glancing back at Dixie, she paused, allowing Julie to continue ushering the women ahead of her. “Want to join us?”

“Thanks, but I really need to call Belle, and Parker’s probably got supper waiting.”

Brenda smiled. “Dixie, I think you scooped up the last good catch in Houston.”

Probably, though she wasn’t sure Parker could be caught.
“Or maybe there’s one more terrific guy out there, just waiting for you to poke your head up long enough to notice.” Dixie allowed her gaze to flicker toward the balding man at the bar.

But Brenda didn’t follow the lead.

“Unfortunately,” she muttered, “the only men I meet these days have numbers stenciled under their photographs.”

As Brenda turned to go, Dixie realized she was holding the black pebble instead of her car keys. Rolling it between her thumb and forefinger, she watched her friend buck up in the aftermath of failure, frazzled yellow hair swinging above strong, determined shoulders.

Lawrence Riley Coombs slipped his hand under the woman’s elbow and steered her toward the car, shielding her from the rain with an oversized umbrella. Fat raindrops plopped onto the taut fabric. The night was warm for early February, but a cold front was due to blow in and push the thunderclouds across the state line to Louisiana.

“Watch the puddle, darlin’. Don’t get mud on those beautiful toes.”
She did have nice feet, set off by strappy high-heeled sandals. Nice legs, too.

She giggled softly. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you sitting there at the bar all by your lonesome. You’re even more handsome in person than you were on TV today.”

“Dottie, you say the nicest things, and my bruised ego soaks up every word.” They’d reached the Chevy. He handed her the umbrella. The rain had almost stopped. “Give me your keys and I’ll get that door for you.”

“I never believed for a minute all those hateful things the
newspapers said about you, Larry. Those two women must have been crazy. Why, anyone could just look at you and know you wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“It’s
Lawrence
, darlin’, and I don’t want you thinking too harshly of those ladies. You’ve heard about unrequited love.” He opened the car door and brushed off the seat. “I should’ve been more sensitive, should’ve let them down easier.”

“Now don’t you go blaming yourself! You’ve been through too much misery already, with that awful trial. You need someone to make you forget all that.”

Reclaiming the umbrella, he draped a casual arm around her shoulders.

“Dottie, you could make a man forget just about anything.” He tweaked her chin playfully, then handed her into the car. “If you really mean what you say…”

“Of course I mean it! Why, one weekend at my house on Padre Island, you’ll be a brand-new man.”

“Sounds mighty temptin’, darlin’.” He stroked the back of her neck, feeling the fragile bones beneath his palm. Right now he had other plans, plans for a certain golden-haired Assistant District Attorney who didn’t know when to back off. “I hope you’ll give me a rain check.”

“You’ll call me, won’t you? Tomorrow?” She handed him a folded square of pink paper that smelled of honeysuckle.

“Tomorrow, and that’s a promise.” He slid the paper into his pocket. But Dottie was entirely too eager. The woman needed a cooling-off period. “I may not be able to get away this week. You know how it is, work piled up on my desk during the trial.”

“Surely the work will keep another day or two.”

“It’d keep, but I’d be distracted, pretty lady, and I want to give you
all
the attention you deserve.” He brushed a light kiss on her yielding lips.

“Mmmmmm …” She clutched his lapel, deepening the kiss.

Randy bitch.
He loosened her fingers.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, darlin’. We’ll have dinner next week.”

He kissed her fingertips, shut the door firmly, and winked at her through the rain-streaked window.
Easy screw. He’d bet six-to-one she was ready to come in her seat.

Sliding behind the wheel of his Jaguar, he watched the Chevy’s taillights disappear down the street. He’d wait until late tomorrow to phone her. Maybe even wait until next week. She’d be pissed, but flowers would perk her right up. Women were so predictable.

He found the bottle he had tucked between the seats, Johnnie Walker Black, a man’s drink. A silky fire, like burying himself in a fiery pussy. He’d bet that ADA’s pussy was plenty fiery.

Turning the Jaguar toward Bellaire, he drove to the red brick bungalow with its single gaslight, the swinging name-plate announcing the Benson residence, home of ADA Brenda Benson and her young sister, Gail. Pretty brown-eyed Gail, almost as sweet as her amber-eyed sis. Maybe he should do them both, let Brenda watch while he did the sister.

He coasted to a stop as he neared the driveway. Listening to the rain pelt the Jaguar’s metal roof, he took another nip from the bottle.

Lights were on in the front of the house. No car in the driveway, but with a two-car garage, that didn’t mean anything. On Monday nights Brenda spent an hour or two at the health club, then stopped at a local newsstand to buy a
Houston Business Journal
before joining her sister at home.

He tilted his watch toward the light. By this time the pair would be tucked up dry and cozy, reading the business news, maybe sipping a cup of hot chocolate. It would be so easy to knock on the door right now, muscle his way in, and do the both of them.

His dick hardened, thinking about it. He shifted on the seat, dropping a hand to his crotch, and eased his pants seam over enough to relieve the tightness. The rain had picked up again, pounding the hell out of the Jaguar’s roof. He liked the sound. Rain always made him horny.

The dark house gave Dixie a start. The kitchen windows should be lighted, at least, Parker creating something scrumptious at the stove. He’d told her once that he never spent more than three years in any town. Before they met, before he moved in “temporarily” with Dixie, he’d already lived in Houston nearly three years. Every day she half expected to find a note saying he’d moved on. Was this the night he chose to drift away?

When they parted that morning in Galveston, she was certain they’d agreed to sleep at her place tonight. The rented summer cabin was only theirs for a month, and the month was up. Parker’s own house on the island wouldn’t be finished for several more days.

She didn’t look forward to telling him about Belle’s bodyguard job. But as Barney’d often said, “If you have to swallow a bullfrog, it’s a good idea not to look at it too long.” She wanted to get the telling part over with. The work she did was part of her life, part of who she was, what she believed in.
While Mud had been in doggie paradise these past weeks—running on the beach, chasing waves, worrying sand crabs out of their holes—and Parker had driven off to sell boats every day, Dixie’d been bored witless. Even chauffeuring a teenager around town was beginning to sound exciting.

Driving toward the garage, she looked for smoke wisping skyward from the chimney. Parker liked sitting by the fire after dinner. Maybe he’d eaten early, as he sometimes did when she worked late. But tonight there was no smoke in the night sky.

She parked her taxicab in the old barn that now served as a four-car garage, housing a variety of vehicles she used from time to time. The taxicab made a fine surveillance car, and was the only one of her recycled vehicles that boasted an automatic transmission. Until her clutch foot was operational again, the van, tow truck, and Mustang, a retired DPS unit, were about as useful as a trunk of Confederate money.

At the kitchen door, the
tick-tick-tick
of Mud’s toenails said at least someone was eagerly awaiting her arrival.

“Hey, boy.” She patted his great ugly face. “Bet you thought we forgot you.” She stooped to Mud’s height, using the crutch for support. Mud nosed her ear, his warm breath a small measure of comfort.

Parker was merely working late, she reasoned. Maybe he’d hit some heavy traffic in the fifty-mile drive from Clear Lake, where he sold boats. Or maybe he’d stopped off at one of the gourmet supermarkets he enjoyed shopping at in Houston. Or maybe he’d driven back to Galveston to check progress again on his new place.

Dixie switched on the kitchen light and opened the refrigerator. Habit. They’d cleaned it out before leaving for Galveston, and she wasn’t really hungry. The freezer held leftover spaghetti sauce. Sausage biscuits. The last piece of fudge pecan pie. She put the pie on the counter, Mud padding alongside. When he scooted his empty water dish, Dixie filled it, then noticed the telephone message light blinking.

Snatching up the receiver, she dialed the message center. The first two calls were solicitations, the third was from Parker.

“You
turned the cell phone off again”
he said. Outside the window, Dixie saw a pair of headlights swing into the driveway. They paused at the gate. Mud’s ears twitched forward.
“If I could’ve reached you, wherever you are”
Parker’s message continued,
“you’d already know Til be late tonight. Tell you why when I get there.”

The headlights bounced through the gate. Dixie could hear the faint rumble of Parker’s Cadillac. She skinned off her jacket, and hobbled to the kitchen closet to hang it up. By the time his heavy, reassuring footsteps sounded in the utility room, she felt as antsy as Mud, and wondered if her ears were twitched forward, too.

The door opened. Parker’s wide grin beneath the dark mustache settled Dixie’s fluttering stomach right down.

“You’re home! Great!” He scooped her off the floor in a one-armed bear hug, his other arm filled with grocery bags. “How was the game?”

“I lost, and it felt wonderful.” Dixie pulled him tight. Holding him felt so damn good, she prolonged it, nuzzling her face into his cool neck.

“Hey, lady,” he said softly. “For a greeting like this I’ll come home late more often.” His lips covered hers in a lingering kiss that quickened Dixie’s blood.

Mud nosed insistently between them. Parker ignored him for a moment, then slowly released her. Dixie could have stood there for hours.

“I suspect Mud’s enthusiasm is for the steak he smells in this bag.” Parker scratched Mud’s ears as he set the packages on the counter. “You, however, must have learned to sniff out champagne.” He crooked his elbow around her neck, gently forcing her to look up at him. “What gives?”

“Champagne? What are we celebrating?”

“What gives?” He stroked her cheek with his thumb.

“Can’t I just be glad you’re home? I missed you.”

He held her for another moment, testing the truth of it in her eyes, it seemed.

“Missed me after, what, fourteen hours? I like that.” Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he let her go and started unloading the grocery bags. “I called your cell number.”

“I know. I was in court for the jury verdict. Can’t let the phone ring in there, and it won’t fit in my gym shorts.”

“Heard Coombs got off.” He cocked a finger pistol, aimed it out the window, and made a popping noise with his mouth. “Maybe now I’ll get a shot at the bastard.”

Parker was joking, of course. At least she hoped he was. He unwrapped the champagne bottle and, beaming at her, displayed the label with a flourish.

“Whoa!” Dixie didn’t buy the good stuff often, but she knew what it cost. “You made a sale today?”

“Not just
a
sale, sweetheart.” He emptied the grocery bags: fresh asparagus, cucumbers, lettuce, red bell peppers, and three huge ribeye steaks. “A big sale. A
very
big sale.”

“So tell me.”

“Welllll.” Rinsing the vegetables under cold, slowly running water, he wiggled his eyebrows. “Notice how I draw out the suspense?”

Dixie menaced the butcher knife at him. “A dangerous habit, Dann. Tell me!”

“Okay, okay!” He encircled her and captured the knife, then began slicing a pepper into skinny strips. “Remember last week I told you about a guy I met having lunch at the Clear Lake Hilton? Berinson. Always wanted a fishing boat, but his wife refused to be a weekend widow, and she likes to entertain a lot. Now they’re retired.”

Dixie rubbed a wooden salad bowl with olive oil and crushed garlic. She wasn’t much of a cook, but doing the easy tasks made her feel less like a door prop when Parker was performing his kitchen magic. He finished the pepper and started slicing a cucumber.

“The Berinsons came into the shop today. I took them out on a boat—actually I showed them three. The first was a
weekend fishing craft, perfect for the bay area. He loved it, she hated it. I think he’d’ve bought it anyway, but next week they’d be divorced. Don’t need that on my conscience.”

He tossed the vegetables into the salad bowl and unwrapped the steaks. Mud paddled closer and rested his muzzle on the ceramic tile counter, his eager nose practically touching the meat. Dixie nudged him aside. She tied the asparagus bundle with string, stood it up in a microwave jar, added water and a dash of salt. She looked up to find Parker watching her.