Read Online Winter's Daughter by Kathleen Creighton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathleen Creighton
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looking at him.
She shook her head. "Nothing." His eyes rested on her for a few moments while his smile slipped awry. She had to avert her eyes as warmth flooded into her cheeks.
It was more than clothing and a little growth of beard, she decided. It was a whole attitude, a way of moving, standing, speaking; facial expressions, a certain look in the eyes. He’d cultivated a different personality, so completely different it even altered his physical appearance. And yet, he wore both identities so comfortably, each one had seemed absolutely believable and real.
As if, she thought, they were both a part of him—two sides of the same coin. The light and dark sides of Dillon James.
"Here’s one," Tannis said as she picked out a bench in the warm sunshine overlooking a bed of pansies. As she sat, she peeled back her coat, then took off her gloves and stuffed them into one of her pockets.
"Why do you wear those?" Dillon asked, sitting beside her. "I’ve wondered."
Without a word Tannis held out her hands. Smooth, slender,
young
hands.
Dillon nodded. "Ah, I see. Dead giveaways." He held out one of the subs.
"Mmf," Tannis said, holding up a hand. "Wait a minute."
"So that’s how you do that." Dillon watched with narrow–eyed interest as she removed the padding from inside her cheeks. "Amazing what a difference it makes."
"Not enough of a difference, apparently." His scrutiny was making her heart malfunction again, flushing more of that excess heat into her cheeks.
"Not enough? Why? You mean because I recognized you?"
She shrugged. "You did—instantly."
"Not quite instantly." His smile hovered. "Don’t let that worry you. I was trained to be observant."
"Oh?" she asked, interested. She’d been taught to observe people, too, or thought she had. "Why?"
His smile vanished; his features seemed to sharpen and solidify, like a picture coming into focus. For a moment, then, Tannis saw the derelict’s face again. The dark side…
With a curious lack of expression Dillon said, "I used to be a cop."
"A cop," Tannis said. "Oh, boy." She took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. "Where, here?"
He shook his head. "Los Angeles. Vice, mostly." He flicked the brim of his baseball cap and laughed, but his laughter had a dry and hollow sound, like an old newspaper blowing down an empty street. "I’ve spent a lot of time in getups like this, working undercover on downtown streets."
Tannis had a very graphic imagination. The series of images it projected in her mind took away her appetite. Staring down at the sandwich in her hands, she swallowed and murmured, "I guess by comparison Los Padres must seem—"
"Like a nursery school playground," Dillon confirmed flatly, looking at her, then away.
Tannis knew then that she’d been right; Dillon James knew the darkness well. He’d lived in it. And it had left its mark.
She heard the husky whisper of a sigh as Dillon shook off the shadows, pulling the cap from his head and raking his fingers through his hair, trying to catch whatever breeze might be passing. His hair looked clean, and captured the sun in reddish highlights. As she watched him, Tannis felt the fingers of her right hand curl with an unexpected but undeniable desire to comb through his hair, smooth it away from his forehead. Discomfited, she looked at the offending hand with reproach and rubbed it against her thigh.
When he was finished with his sandwich, Dillon stretched and draped his arms across the top of the park bench. As he lifted his hand to give the pompon on Tannis’s cap a lazy tug, his smile appeared like the sun from behind a windblown cloud. "This must be hot. Why don’t you take it off?"
Tannis clapped her hand over the cap and shook her head. Swallowing a bite of her own sandwich suddenly became very difficult. "I’d have to take the wig off too."
"Well? Why not?"
She looked at him, unable to explain to herself or him why the act of taking off her wig in front of him seemed so
She shook her head. "Nothing." His eyes rested on her for a few moments while his smile slipped awry. She had to avert her eyes as warmth flooded into her cheeks.
It was more than clothing and a little growth of beard, she decided. It was a whole attitude, a way of moving, standing, speaking; facial expressions, a certain look in the eyes. He’d cultivated a different personality, so completely different it even altered his physical appearance. And yet, he wore both identities so comfortably, each one had seemed absolutely believable and real.
As if, she thought, they were both a part of him—two sides of the same coin. The light and dark sides of Dillon James.
"Here’s one," Tannis said as she picked out a bench in the warm sunshine overlooking a bed of pansies. As she sat, she peeled back her coat, then took off her gloves and stuffed them into one of her pockets.
"Why do you wear those?" Dillon asked, sitting beside her. "I’ve wondered."
Without a word Tannis held out her hands. Smooth, slender,
young
hands.
Dillon nodded. "Ah, I see. Dead giveaways." He held out one of the subs.
"Mmf," Tannis said, holding up a hand. "Wait a minute."
"So that’s how you do that." Dillon watched with narrow–eyed interest as she removed the padding from inside her cheeks. "Amazing what a difference it makes."
"Not enough of a difference, apparently." His scrutiny was making her heart malfunction again, flushing more of that excess heat into her cheeks.
"Not enough? Why? You mean because I recognized you?"
She shrugged. "You did—instantly."
"Not quite instantly." His smile hovered. "Don’t let that worry you. I was trained to be observant."
"Oh?" she asked, interested. She’d been taught to observe people, too, or thought she had. "Why?"
His smile vanished; his features seemed to sharpen and solidify, like a picture coming into focus. For a moment, then, Tannis saw the derelict’s face again. The dark side…
With a curious lack of expression Dillon said, "I used to be a cop."
"A cop," Tannis said. "Oh, boy." She took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. "Where, here?"
He shook his head. "Los Angeles. Vice, mostly." He flicked the brim of his baseball cap and laughed, but his laughter had a dry and hollow sound, like an old newspaper blowing down an empty street. "I’ve spent a lot of time in getups like this, working undercover on downtown streets."
Tannis had a very graphic imagination. The series of images it projected in her mind took away her appetite. Staring down at the sandwich in her hands, she swallowed and murmured, "I guess by comparison Los Padres must seem—"
"Like a nursery school playground," Dillon confirmed flatly, looking at her, then away.
Tannis knew then that she’d been right; Dillon James knew the darkness well. He’d lived in it. And it had left its mark.
She heard the husky whisper of a sigh as Dillon shook off the shadows, pulling the cap from his head and raking his fingers through his hair, trying to catch whatever breeze might be passing. His hair looked clean, and captured the sun in reddish highlights. As she watched him, Tannis felt the fingers of her right hand curl with an unexpected but undeniable desire to comb through his hair, smooth it away from his forehead. Discomfited, she looked at the offending hand with reproach and rubbed it against her thigh.
When he was finished with his sandwich, Dillon stretched and draped his arms across the top of the park bench. As he lifted his hand to give the pompon on Tannis’s cap a lazy tug, his smile appeared like the sun from behind a windblown cloud. "This must be hot. Why don’t you take it off?"
Tannis clapped her hand over the cap and shook her head. Swallowing a bite of her own sandwich suddenly became very difficult. "I’d have to take the wig off too."
"Well? Why not?"
She looked at him, unable to explain to herself or him why the act of taking off her wig in front of him seemed so
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