Public Secrets Part 237

did howl occasionally, but that could have been in response to Michael's

singing. When they were both wrapped in towels, Michael searched

through the linen closet for his hair dryer. He found it, and a frying

pan he'd given up for lost.

He dried Conroy first, though the dog had yet to forgive him. "You

ought to thank me for this," Michael told him. "One whiff of you and

s.l.u.t dog's going to crumble like an oatmeal cookie. She won't even look

at that stuck-up German shepherd."

It took Michael thirty minutes to mop up the flood of water and dog

hair. He was about to try his hand at salad making when he heard a car

pull up. He hadn't expected her to take a cab. He'd imagined her

arriving in a limo, or some spiffy rental car. As he watched,"she

pa.s.sed bills to the driver.

There was a breeze to ruffle her hair and the boxy cotton shirt she

wore. Its size and mannish style made her appear smaller and only more

feminine. He watched her draw a hand through her hair, brush it out of

her face as she looked toward the house. She'd lost weight. He'd

noticed that at the airport. Too much weight, Michael thought now.

She'd gone from looking slender to almost unbearably fragile.

There was a hesitation in her he'd never noticed before, in the way she

walked, in the nervous glances she sent over her shoulder. He'd been a

cop long enough to have seen that same kind of controlled panic many

times. In suspects. And in victims. Because she looked as though she

might bolt, he opened the door.

"So you found it."

She stopped dead, then shielding her eyes from the sun, saw him in the

doorway. "Yes." Her stomach muscles slowly unknotted. "You've bought a

house," she said and felt foolish immediately. "It's a pretty

neighborhood."

Before she could step inside, Conroy raced to the door. He intended to

bolt, to roll around in the dirt and gra.s.s until he'd rid himself of the

undignified and all too human scent of shampoo.

"Hold it!" Michael snapped.

That wouldn't have stopped him, but Emma's soft purr did. "Oh, you have

a dog." She crouched to rub his head. "You're a nice dog, aren't you?"

Since Conroy was disposed to agree, he sat down and let her scratch his

ears. "Yes, such a nice dog. Such a pretty dog."

No one had ever accused him of being pretty. Conroy mooned at her with

the one eye that showed beneath his hair, then turned his head to sneer

at Michael.

"Now you've done it." Michael took her hand to help her to her feet.

"He'll expect to be complimented on a regular basis now."

"I always wanted a dog." Conroy leaned against her slacks, the picture

of devotion.

"I'll give you fifty bucks to take this one." When she laughed, Michael

drew her inside.

"This is nice." She turned around the room, comforted by the sound of

the dog's nails on the floor behind her.

A big gray chair looked cushy enough to sleep in. The couch was long

and low, inviting afternoon naps. He'd tossed an Indian blanket in gray