Read Online Retribution by Elizabeth Forrest - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Forrest
Tags: Fiction
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"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank you for coming to the Peppermill tonight in support of the many projects this night is benefiting." Charlie smiled, and put a hand down to her dog's ruff, the only slight sign of disquiet in her.
He found a sturdy chair to lean upon as she began a spiel about the local arts programs, the festival, and other charities and opportunities. She introduced a handful of artists whose works had been in the auction, waiting for scattered applause for each, and then began to read off the pieces and the winning bidders. John found himself wishing he'd bought a painting, just to hear what she had to say about it. Jagger watched as people came onto the stage one by one to claim their artworks, his tail waving in slow acceptance and warning, leaning a little against her black-satin-covered leg protectively. Rubidoux watched him as the golden looked up once or twice, whined anxiously, but settled immediately at a low word.
John found himself a little uneasy at Jagger's distress, but he decided it was an outward show of what Charlie must be feeling, on the stage, in front of everyone, using the podium to steady her slight weakness of body, and whatever inner strength she carried to steady her inner self. He found himself watching her more and more, in spite of the fact his interest should be in the dog.
An older woman pushed her way from the back of the crowd, determined to get as close as she could. The wave of movement caught John's attention, his old training immediately surfacing, and he watched her carefully as she drew near his own spot in the audience. She did not have the same casual air of elegance as most of the onlookers, and lines creased a face that had never seen cosmetic surgery, giving her a somewhat careworn look. She wore a hand-painted blue silk dress that was somehow more monied and more comfortable than the formal wear of the other women.
Unconscious of his scrutiny, she gave a tiny sigh of relief as she stood next to John, unable to get any closer to the stage, yet obviously pleased at the progress she'd made. He watched her, wondering if she was a fan of Charlie's painting, for it was painfully clear that she had come to see Charlie.
His policeman's nerves twanged a bit, honed by his years on the force, and his years of working with guard dogs. There were those whose obsession often turned deadly, and he was never so aware of it as he was at that point in time. Who was this woman and why did her eyes fix so avidly on Charlie as she spoke? What did she want— and what was she capable of doing?
On the stage, Jagger paced a step or two and whined, loudly enough that the microphone picked it up, his ears flattening in worry. He glanced up at Charlie once or twice and shook his head uneasily.
Then, Charlie stumbled to a halt, her voice breaking. She put her hand to her temple and looked out, toward Rubidoux, blinking in confusion as though the brightly lit tent hid him from her eyes. "I'm sorry… I seem to have forgotten…" She swallowed. "I can't—" She put her free hand to her brow, shading her eyes. "I'm sorry," she repeated in bewilderment. "I can't seem to see…." She let go of the podium abruptly, both hands groping for the dog. "Jagger—" she forced out, and swayed.
Then she dropped in her tracks.
A woman screamed.
The woman in blue standing near John blurted in absolute horror, "Oh, God, not again."
Chapter Eight
Jagger immediately dropped into a guard stance, his ears back, and his lips skinned off his teeth. Rubidoux could not hear the low-toned growl he knew had begun to issue from deep in the dog's throat, but those standing nearest could. He knew what it would sound like, a rumbling, burbling growl. Rolling out slow and steady, increasing in fervor and pitch and loudness. A sound born from primitive instincts and vocal cords, provoking an equally primal reaction of fear and warning.
A balding gentleman tore
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank you for coming to the Peppermill tonight in support of the many projects this night is benefiting." Charlie smiled, and put a hand down to her dog's ruff, the only slight sign of disquiet in her.
He found a sturdy chair to lean upon as she began a spiel about the local arts programs, the festival, and other charities and opportunities. She introduced a handful of artists whose works had been in the auction, waiting for scattered applause for each, and then began to read off the pieces and the winning bidders. John found himself wishing he'd bought a painting, just to hear what she had to say about it. Jagger watched as people came onto the stage one by one to claim their artworks, his tail waving in slow acceptance and warning, leaning a little against her black-satin-covered leg protectively. Rubidoux watched him as the golden looked up once or twice, whined anxiously, but settled immediately at a low word.
John found himself a little uneasy at Jagger's distress, but he decided it was an outward show of what Charlie must be feeling, on the stage, in front of everyone, using the podium to steady her slight weakness of body, and whatever inner strength she carried to steady her inner self. He found himself watching her more and more, in spite of the fact his interest should be in the dog.
An older woman pushed her way from the back of the crowd, determined to get as close as she could. The wave of movement caught John's attention, his old training immediately surfacing, and he watched her carefully as she drew near his own spot in the audience. She did not have the same casual air of elegance as most of the onlookers, and lines creased a face that had never seen cosmetic surgery, giving her a somewhat careworn look. She wore a hand-painted blue silk dress that was somehow more monied and more comfortable than the formal wear of the other women.
Unconscious of his scrutiny, she gave a tiny sigh of relief as she stood next to John, unable to get any closer to the stage, yet obviously pleased at the progress she'd made. He watched her, wondering if she was a fan of Charlie's painting, for it was painfully clear that she had come to see Charlie.
His policeman's nerves twanged a bit, honed by his years on the force, and his years of working with guard dogs. There were those whose obsession often turned deadly, and he was never so aware of it as he was at that point in time. Who was this woman and why did her eyes fix so avidly on Charlie as she spoke? What did she want— and what was she capable of doing?
On the stage, Jagger paced a step or two and whined, loudly enough that the microphone picked it up, his ears flattening in worry. He glanced up at Charlie once or twice and shook his head uneasily.
Then, Charlie stumbled to a halt, her voice breaking. She put her hand to her temple and looked out, toward Rubidoux, blinking in confusion as though the brightly lit tent hid him from her eyes. "I'm sorry… I seem to have forgotten…" She swallowed. "I can't—" She put her free hand to her brow, shading her eyes. "I'm sorry," she repeated in bewilderment. "I can't seem to see…." She let go of the podium abruptly, both hands groping for the dog. "Jagger—" she forced out, and swayed.
Then she dropped in her tracks.
A woman screamed.
The woman in blue standing near John blurted in absolute horror, "Oh, God, not again."
Chapter Eight
Jagger immediately dropped into a guard stance, his ears back, and his lips skinned off his teeth. Rubidoux could not hear the low-toned growl he knew had begun to issue from deep in the dog's throat, but those standing nearest could. He knew what it would sound like, a rumbling, burbling growl. Rolling out slow and steady, increasing in fervor and pitch and loudness. A sound born from primitive instincts and vocal cords, provoking an equally primal reaction of fear and warning.
A balding gentleman tore
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