Her smile faltered. Barriers went up all around her like laser beams around a treasured museum piece. If he ventured too close he would trip them and set off all kinds of alarms.
A drum roll drew their attention to the front of the bandstand, where the bride was preparing to toss her bouquet to a group of eager young women all jostling for the best position. Wick stood slightly behind Rennie and to her right. He had read the reactions of enough women to know that his nearness was unsettling to her. Why? he wondered.
By now most women would have either: (a) flirted back and let him know that she was available for the rest of the evening; (but) informed him of a boyfriend who unfortunately couldn't attend the wedding but to whom she was committed; or (can) told him to get lost.
Rennie was in a category of her own. She sent mixed signals. She was still here, but she'd taken cover behind a do-not-touch, don't-even-think-about-it demeanor that was as daunting as a convent wall.
Wick was curious to know how much pressure he could apply before she cracked. So he inched even closer, close enough to make his presence impossible to ignore without actually touching her.
After the bouquet toss, the groom went down on bended knee to slide a frilly garter off his bride's extended leg while several young men reluctantly shuffled forward to form a tight group, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched.
"Ah, the difference between the sexes clearly demonstrated by this simple wedding tradition."
He leaned down and slightly forward in order to speak directly into Rennie's ear. "Notice the men's level of anticipation compared to that of the women."
"The men look like they're going to the gallows."
The groom threw the garter. A young man was forced to catch it when it hit him in the forehead. One of the bridesmaids squealed and rushed out to embrace him. She covered his blushing face with kisses.
"I've got a drawer full of those things,"
Wick said.
Rennie turned. "That many?"
"I always had the advantage of height."
"Anything to show for them?"
"A drawer full of garters."
"All those garters wasted? Maybe your height was a disadvantage."
"I never thought of it that way."
The band launched into a crowd-pleasing song.
Other guests began making their way to the dance floor, but they eddied around Rennie and Wick because neither of them moved.
"Doctor Newton, huh?"
"That's right."
"Dang the luck."
"Why?"
"I'm healthy."
She lowered her gaze to the Windsor knot of his monochromatic necktie.
"Are you here with anyone, Dr. Newton?"
"No."
"Me neither."
"Hmm."
"Dance?"
"No thank you."
"Another ice water?"
"No. Thanks."
"Is it a breach of etiquette to leave the reception ahead of the bride and groom?"
She raised her head quickly, met his eyes.
"I believe so."
"Rats."
"But I think I've had all the gaiety I
can stand."
Grinning, Wick nodded her toward the nearest exit. As they wended their way through the crowd, his hand rode on the small of her back and she made no effort to dislodge it.
The parking valets were lounging against the columns on the wide portico. One sprang forward as soon as he and Rennie came through the door. "I parked your car right over there, Dr. Newton.
Easily accessible like you asked."
"Thank you."
She opened her handbag for a tip, but Wick was the faster draw. He pressed a five-dollar bill into the young man's palm. "I'll walk Dr. Newton to her car. No need to bring it up."
"Uh, okay, thank you, sir. Keys are in it."
Her smile for the obliging valet froze into place. She allowed Wick to guide her down the wide brick steps toward the tree-shaded VIP parking lot, but her posture was as rigid as an I-beam. Her lips barely moved when she said "You shouldn't have done that."
Yep, she was pissed. "Done what?"
"I pay my own way."
"Pay your own ... What? The tip I gave the valet? Getting to walk you to your car was well worth the five bucks."
By now they had reached her Jeep. She opened the driver's door and tossed her handbag inside, then turned to face him. "Walking me to my car is all that five-dollar bill bought you."
"Then I guess going for coffee is out of the question."
"Definitely."
"You don't have to give me an answer right away. Take your time."
"Stop flirting with me."
"I only asked you to have coffee, not--"
"You've been flirting since I apologized for bumping into you. If you expected anything to come of it, you've wasted your time."
He held up his hands in surrender. "All I did was tip a valet for you. I only meant to be gentlemanly."
"Then thank you for being a gentleman. Good night." She got into the car and pulled the door closed.
Wick immediately reopened it and leaned in, putting his face inches from hers. "Just FYI, Dr. Newton, if I'd been flirting you'd know by now that I think your eyes are sensational, and that I'll probably have a real dirty dream about your mouth. Have a nice night."
He closed the door soundly, then turned and walked away.
FROM THE VANTAGE
point of his car, which was parked half a block down and across the street from the country club, Lozada saw Rennie emerge from the wide double-door entry of the club. She was wearing a dress of some lightweight summer fabric that clung to her figure, stirring his desire.
When she stepped out from beneath the second-floor balcony the setting sunlight struck her blond hair and made it shimmer. She looked fantastic. He noticed the grace with which she walked. She would--
"... the fuck is this?"
Lost in his fantasies, he hadn't paid any attention to the man walking alongside Rennie.
When he suddenly recognized the rangy physique and realized who her companion was, he could barely restrain himself from leaving his car, crossing the street, and murdering Wick Threadgill then and there.
It was bound to happen eventually. He was going to have to kill that smart-mouthed motherfucking cop, so why not sooner rather than later? Why not right fucking now?
Because it wasn't Lozada's style, that was why.
Crimes of passion were for amateurs with no self-control. While he would enjoy having the matter of Wick Threadgill finally and satisfactorily settled, he had better things to do than spend the rest of his days on death row, exhausting appeals until they finally ran out and then having the state put a needle in his vein for killing a cop.
If Wick hadn't screwed up, Lozada probably would be awaiting execution for killing his brother Joe. Lozada knew that that mistake still chafed Wick. It must drive him crazy to know that his brother's murderer was living well in a penthouse, wearing hand-tailored suits, driving expensive cars, eating, drinking, fornicating-living free thanks to him.
Lozada fingered the scar above his eye and snickered. He was too clever to react in the heat
of the moment as Wick had. Others made mistakes like that, but not Lozada. Lozada was a pro. A pro without equal. A pro didn't lose his head and act without thinking.
Besides, when he finally got around to killing Wick Threadgill, the anticipation of it would be half the fun. He didn't want to take him out now, quickly, and deny himself the pleasure of planning it.
However, as he watched the cop walking close to the woman he would soon possess, he gripped his car's steering wheel as though he were trying to pry it off its mounting.
What the hell was his Rennie doing with Wick Threadgill?
The initial shock of seeing them together gave way to concern. This was a disturbing turn of events.
Threadgill had interrupted his breakfast this morning and he was at a wedding reception with Rennie tonight? Coincidence? Not likely.
What was Wick's interest in Dr. Rennie Newton? The role she'd played in his recent trial? Or was it something to do with the Howell murder case that remained unsolved? Lozada wouldn't have known her plans for this evening if he hadn't seen the wedding invitation the day he went snooping through her house after delivering the roses. How had the cop known where she would be tonight? Had Wick also been snooping in her house?
These were troubling questions.
But the one possibility that really nagged him, that made him see red, that caused heat to rise out of his hairless head, was that Rennie might be in league with the police. Had they somehow discovered his attraction to her? Had Threadgill and company enlisted her help to try to trap him?
Oh now, he would hate that. He really would.
Having to kill her for betraying him would be a waste of good woman.
He watched with increasing suspicion as Threadgill leaned down into her car, then straightened up and shut the door. She backed out of her parking space, turned out of the country-club parking lot, and drove right past Lozada without noticing him. Her eyes were on the road straight ahead, and she wasn't smiling. In fact, she looked angry. Threadgill's parting words must've made her mad. He was a wiseass with everyone else, he probably was with women, too.
Lozada started his car and executed a tight U-turn. He followed Rennie home. She went in alone. Parking farther down the block, he watched her house for hours. She didn't leave again. Neither Threadgill nor anyone else showed up there.
It was after midnight before Lozada began to breathe easier. His suspicions about Rennie receded. There was a logical explanation for why she'd been with Threadgill. Perhaps he had been investigating her in connection with the Howell murder.
It was well known that she and Howell had had their differences. Fort Worth's finest would have learned that. Being questioned by a cop at a social event would have made her angry, which explained why she'd looked pissed when she drove away from the country club.
Satisfied that he'd reached the correct conclusion, he picked up his cell phone and dialed her number.
Chapter 9
Wick trudged up the stairs in the dark.
Carrying his new suit jacket and the department-store shopping bag in one hand, he yanked on his necktie with the other. By the time he reached the stuffy second-floor room his shirt was hanging open and his belt was unbuckled.
From the country club he had trailed Rennie into her neighborhood. He didn't turn down her street, but took another route to the stakeout house, which put him there about the same time she pulled into her garage.
He went straight to the window and looked through the binoculars. He toed off his boots and peeled off his socks.
Rennie passed through her kitchen without stopping and disappeared through the doorway leading into the living room.
Wick shrugged off his shirt.
The light in Rennie's bedroom came on.
Like him, she seemed to have found her clothes confining.
She stepped out of her shoes--high-heeled sandals, he remembered--and then reached behind her neck for the zipper of her dress.
Wick kicked out of his trousers.
Rennie pulled her dress off her shoulders, worked it past her hips, then stepped out of it.
Wick stood stock-still.
Sexy undies tonight. Pale lavender. Mere suggestions of raiment that made her look more naked than nakedness. Fabric as sheer as breath. Totally inadequate, but damned effective.
She replaced the sandals on a shelf in the closet and hung her dress on the rod, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Wick closed his eyes. He leaned against the windowpane to cool his forehead on the glass. Had he actually groaned? He was salivating.
Jesus, he was becoming Thigpen.
Leaving the binoculars on the table, he took a bottle of water from the small refrigerator.
He didn't come up for air until he'd drunk it all. Still keeping an eye on her house, he groped inside the shopping bag until he located the jeans he'd worn into the department store. He pulled them on but left his shirt in the bag. It was too damn hot up here to be fully dressed.
"What's wrong with that freaking air conditioner?" he complained to the empty darkness.
Seeing Rennie come from the bathroom, he grabbed the binoculars. She had swapped the fantasy lingerie for a tank top and boxers, which actually held their own against the fancier stuff but disabused Wick of the notion that she might be waiting for a lover to arrive.
For the wedding she had worn her hair pulled back and wound into a bun at her nape. Now it was hanging long and loose. It was a coin toss which he liked best. Both served their purpose. One looked like a professional woman. One looked like a woman, period.
She rubbed her arms. Chilled? Or nervous?