Illegal Possession (6 page)

There were several references made as to the whereabouts of Jamie and more than one mention of an upcoming charity event in which Troy was apparently to participate. There was also a clue that Troy’s business was called TB Security and was run out of her home.

Between stops Dallas clutched the dashboard and tried to keep his eyes off the dizzily passing scenery. “TB Security?” he asked once, wondering if it stood for her name and nothing else.

Troy threw him a bland look that made him acutely uneasy, especially since it took her eyes off the road, and explained politely. “Teddy Bear.”

“Teddy Bear,” he repeated faintly.

“Uh-huh. A security blanket—like that.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted to call it B and E Security, or Nickel to Dime Security. You know, B and E for breaking and entering, and Nickel to Dime for the time one generally gets for breaking and entering. Five to ten years.”

“Oh, Lord,” Dallas said.

“Mmm. That’s what Jamie said. So I decided not.”

Dallas made a sudden decision and knowingly took his life in his hands—or rather in hers, he thought—by chancing one probing question. “You can tell me it’s none of my business, but—who’s Jamie?”

“James Riley.”

Dallas silently counted to ten. “I know. But
who
is he?”

She didn’t look at him. “A very dear friend.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it,” Troy murmured as she hurled the Porsche around a turn.

Deciding to leave the potentially explosive subject alone, Dallas mentally added up his list of things they had in common. He meant to prove to Troy that they had a solid basis aside from chemistry on which to build a lasting relationship.

Although now considered a businessman, Dallas had founded his own company on expertise in electronics; they had that in common. A casual word from one of her clients had told him that she was a licensed pilot; they had that in common. The Porsche told him they both favored small, powerful sports cars. They both knew, understood, and loved art. They both liked children.

It was a good list. Couples had passed their silver wedding anniversaries having less than that in common, Dallas thought.

But…

He had called her a thief, and that one word was standing between them. He didn’t believe that she
was
a thief—if he ever had in the beginning. But he had called her a thief, and that could never be taken back. Of course, he could tell her that he didn’t think that now. But she wouldn’t believe him.

How to convince her…?

The last stop of the afternoon was at an auditorium, where Tom Elliot was waiting with his band.

Dallas was a sensible man. Usually. The green-eyed monster didn’t trouble him. Usually. And he was well aware of the hazards of holding a stick of dynamite in one hand and a lighted match in the other.

Usually.

“Is he another
friend
?” Dallas muttered as they walked down the dim aisle toward the lighted stage and the noisy confusion there.

Troy stopped. She turned slowly and looked up at him. “He is.”

Unable to read her changing eyes and changing mood, and unable to stop the words and emotions rising in him, Dallas pressed on. “And is he the reason you were hung over this morning?”

She crossed her arms over her breasts. “No. He was the instrument, I suppose you could say. Not the reason.” Her voice was very even.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said good night so early,” Dallas said tightly.

“When I want a watchdog, I’ll buy a Doberman.”

“Troy—”

“You’re pushing, Cameron. And it stops right here. Or everything stops…right here.”

His eyes adjusting to the dimness, Dallas looked down into her glittering green ones.
She’ll never be able to hide her anger from me
, he thought, and didn’t know if that would turn out to be good or bad. He looked toward the stage, where the blond, handsome, very famous and charming man was cheerfully ribbing his pianist. Then he looked back down at Troy.

“I’ve never been jealous before,” he said quietly.

Troy felt her heart jump suddenly. Oh,
damn
the man! Why hadn’t he done what nine out of ten men would have done—exploded? Why did he have to admit jealousy openly in a quiet and rueful tone that left her without the weapon of anger?

She hadn’t meant to explain anything, but Troy was not surprised to hear her voice saying flatly, “If I’d wanted to get involved with Tommy, I would have done so years ago. He’s a friend. I have lots of friends.”

Dallas looked down at her for a long, silent moment. Then his hands lifted to rest on her shoulders, lightly, tentatively, as though he half expected her to shrug the touch away. “Troy…” He shook his head slightly. “It wouldn’t bother me so much if you’d just meet me halfway.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” His hands tightened. “There’s been a challenge in your eyes since I first walked into your house this morning. You’ve dropped bits of information and worn them like chips on your shoulder, expecting—hoping—that I’d provoke you and give you a reason to…to call off our agreement. You’ve drawn a line between us, and you’re daring me to step over it.”

“If you don’t like the game—” she began hotly.

He gave her one quick shake. “It isn’t a game! That’s what I’m trying to make you understand.
It isn’t a game
. You’re not winning points for being stubborn, and I’m not winning them for being patient. I want to be a part of your life, Troy, and I want you to be a part of mine.”

Troy stared up at him, mentally resisting, physically stiff.

Dallas returned her stare, feeling frustration well up inside of him. “What are you afraid of?” he demanded softly. “Me?”

She stepped back, shrugging away his hands. In a voice so low, he barely caught the words, she murmured, “No. Me.” Then she went down the aisle and climbed the steps to the brightly lit stage.

He followed more slowly, stopping short of the stage to take a seat in the second row. All things considered, he decided that he really didn’t want to have to shake hands with Tom Elliot. And he needed the dim privacy of the seats; he needed to think.

“Hi, Blondie,” Tom called cheerfully as Troy tossed her jacket to the grinning drummer and approached the piano.

“Hi,” she returned calmly, picking up a tall stool on the way and hefting it like a weapon.

“Any last requests before I kill you?”

“The punch?”

“In spades. I woke up with somebody else’s head this morning.”

Tom lifted his shoulders in a shrug and spread his hands defenselessly. “I told you it had a kick,” he reminded innocently.

“Uh-huh.” Troy sighed as she set the stool beside the piano and climbed up on it. “I am definitely going to kill you. Once for that damn punch, and once for roping me into what’s going to go down in history as this infamous duet.”

“I’d like to rope you into joining the band permanently.”

“Forget it, chum.”

It was Tom’s turn to sigh. “Don’t you think I get tired of hearing the sound of my own voice?” he asked in a long-suffering tone. “I swear if one more hostess archly asks me to sing for my supper, I’ll—”

Amused, Troy said, “It’s your own fault for living in a city full of parties and hostesses. Live in Hollywood instead; there are so many entertainers out there, they’d never notice you.”

Tom grimaced slightly. “Not a chance.”

“Not going to accept the studio’s offer, then?”

“Oh, no. I’ve seen what happens when some misguided studio decides to turn a singer into an actor; I can deal with the potshots from music critics, but I don’t need film critics blasting me as well.”

Smiling at him, Troy picked up a sheaf of music from the top of the piano. “Probably a wise decision, although you’d make a terrific actor.”

“Why, thank—”

“You’re pure ham.”

“—you very much!” Tom’s pleased tone turned indignant on the last three words.

“You’re welcome.”

Tom leaned an elbow on the piano. “While we’re attacking personalities, was that Ace Cameron I saw you come in with?”

“Whose personality are you attacking with that question?” Troy inquired dryly.

“Don’t avoid the question.”

“It’s him.”

“Mmm. Should I ask why you brought him along?”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t.”

“In other words, mind my own business?”

“Those words cover it nicely.”

“I only wondered,” Tom said innocently, “because it looked as if you two were having a disagreement up there in the aisle.”

“You see too much, Tommy.”

“Shut up and sing, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, all right. But if you need a shoulder, Blondie—”

“I’ll keep you in mind.”

For the next two hours, Dallas sat quietly, watching and listening as Troy rehearsed several songs with Tom Elliot and his band. Her voice, though untrained, was richly powerful and huskily seductive, and Dallas wondered idly if anyone had ever told her just how good she was.

A chameleon, that’s what she was. As changeable and unpredictable as a spring storm.

And afraid of…herself.

Since he wasn’t a vain man, Dallas didn’t believe that by that admission she meant she was afraid of how he could make her feel. Troy was a blunt woman; if she’d meant,
I’m afraid of how you make me feel
, then that’s what she would have said. No, for some reason he didn’t—yet—understand, she was afraid of herself.

He turned that over in his mind, examined it from every angle, held it up to the mental searchlight that had always penetrated to truth. But there was still darkness, because he didn’t yet know enough about Troy to be able to see what was there.

And then there was the matter of how to convince her that he didn’t consider her a thief. Dallas Cameron, boardroom strategist, tireless planner, went to work on that problem.

With an effort that left her head aching, Troy put Dallas from her mind long enough to rehearse with Tom. But during the brief intermissions between songs, while Tom discussed various changes with the band, echoes of their conversation—confrontation?—disturbed her.

“You’re not winning points for being stubborn, and I’m not winning them for being patient.”

“I want to be a part of your life….”

“It isn’t a game!”

She didn’t look out into the dim auditorium. She wouldn’t let herself look to see if he was still out there watching. But reluctantly she realized that his accusation had been deserved. She
had
been wearing a chip on her shoulder all day. She had behaved with a grim determination, and that bothered her suddenly.

What was wrong with her? If she didn’t want the man in her life, she had only to tell him that in no uncertain terms; he wasn’t, she knew intuitively, the kind of man to press his—attentions?—on a woman who really didn’t want him around.

Why all the hedging? she wondered broodingly. Hedging and halfhearted protests—and “agreements,” for God’s sake. Why couldn’t she just flatly tell the man that she wasn’t interested?

“Blondie! Hey, kid, pay attention!”

Snapping back to her surroundings, Troy bent her mind to the songs, and tried to ignore Tom’s curious, speculative look. “Let’s see. Where were we?”

“I don’t know where
you
were, but—”

“Sing, Tommy.”

“Uh…right.”

After the rehearsal was finally concluded to their satisfaction, Tom cheerfully released the band and then reminded Troy politely that her
escort
was still waiting for her. With a faint grimace she waved and collected her jacket, going down the steps and into the still-dim auditorium. A patch of darkness detached itself from the second row and moved out into the aisle to join her.

“You two sing well together,” Dallas said as they started for the lobby.

“Thanks. Tommy has a wonderful voice.”

“So have you.”

Stiffly Troy replied, “I wasn’t fishing.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

Troy said nothing more. She was half puzzled and half wary; the even, controlled tone of his voice bothered her. Darkness had fallen while they’d been inside, and they walked beneath the harsh glare of the parking-lot lights in silence. Silently they got into the Porsche. Silently they made the drive back to Troy’s house.

It was Dallas who broke the strained and uncomfortable silence when they reached her house. Ignoring the silver-gray Mercedes—obviously his, she realized for the first time—parked in her drive, Dallas joined her on the walkway, and said evenly, “Mind if I come in for a few minutes?”

She wanted to say that she did, indeed, mind. Wanted to—but couldn’t somehow. Without speaking, she led the way up the walk and into the house.

Bryce, for once a second ahead of her, opened the door for them. The butler took her jacket with a faintly gratified expression, telling her in his curiously paternal yet formal tone that dinner would be ready in an hour.

Troy hesitated for a moment, then looked up at Dallas. “Join me?”

“Maybe we’d better talk first,” he replied flatly.

The rebuff stung, but it roused no anger in Troy. He was entitled, she thought, to that shot. She led the way into an informal den off the main hall and went immediately to a built-in bar in one corner, glancing back over her shoulder. “Drink?”

“Dutch courage?” he asked.

It didn’t sound like a taunt.

“D’you want a drink?” she repeated quietly.

“Whiskey.”

She fixed the drinks silently, carrying his across to him and then sitting down in one corner of an overstuffed love seat (and why had she chosen that? she wondered) with her own glass of wine. Sipping the cool liquid, she watched him prowl, catlike, around the room.

While the silence lengthened he gazed at the paintings on the walls, the comfortable overstuffed furniture, the collection of figurines from
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
in a curio cabinet. Almost without thinking, he realized that this was Troy’s room. He didn’t know how he knew.

Abruptly he said, “It’s amazing how reasonable you become when I get angry.”