His second pounce didn’t catch Troy by surprise. She lifted her gaze finally, her eyes unerringly locating him where he stood by the fireplace. She looked at him, still not speaking.
Dallas laughed shortly. “You’re good with games, lady. And we’ve both learned how to play them, haven’t we? I learned in the boardroom; I don’t know where you learned. All the nice little civilized games meant to avoid honesty at all costs. ‘Don’t be honest,’ it says in the rule book. ‘Don’t let anyone else know what you’re thinking or feeling, or you’ll lose.’ In the boardroom I might lose a lucrative deal; what would you lose, Troy?”
She wanted to reply, “Myself.” but she didn’t know why. She said nothing. Her gaze dropped back to the safety of the wineglass.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked with mocking lightness. Then he laughed again before she could respond. “One of your nicknames, isn’t it? But I gather it’s spelled with a K. Such a…revealing nickname.”
Troy knew now why he was sometimes called Genghis Khan. He was a master of verbal fencing. The scary thing was that the man was fighting fair; there was nothing cruel in his words, no strike below the belt. Just brutal honesty.
Suddenly, violently, Dallas said, “What’s it going to take to convince you that this is not a game to me?”
She looked up again, and her eyes were wetly shimmering gold. “I knew,” she said simply.
The violence draining away, Dallas moved slowly toward her, gazing into her fascinating eyes, riveted by something he saw deep within their golden pools.
“Games.” Troy shook her head in an odd, rueful movement. “Did you ever notice that no one ever really loses in games? You beat me at chess; I beat you at tennis. You own Boardwalk: I own Park Place. It all evens out in the end. I concede gracefully, retire from the field. Or you do. Pride bruised, but ego essentially intact.
“Where did I learn the games?” She watched as he came to sit on the loveseat, half turned toward her just as she was half turned toward him. “I’m a Rhodes Scholar,” she said suddenly. “Studied at the Sorbonne. But I was too young,” she added, brooding.
Dallas waited silently for a moment, then asked softly, “Where did you learn the games?”
“Everywhere.” She laughed without making a sound. “Europe. The Orient. Here. I learned at the Court of Saint James. In embassies all over the world. From watching and listening to the—master gamesmen.”
“Your father was a diplomat?” Dallas probed carefully.
She nodded almost absently, but then her mood changed swiftly. “Games,” she said tightly. “Nice, safe games. I learned how to play before I knew why. And then when I knew why, it seemed wiser to play by the rules.”
“So you decided to play by the rules with me?”
Troy again laughed soundlessly. “That’s the ironic thing. You’ve already pointed out that I’ve been…unreasonable. I guess the psychiatrists would say that I’ve been ‘giving out conflicting signals.’ Saying one thing, doing something else. Pretending it was a game when I knew it wasn’t.”
FIVE
TROY SMILED AT him, a tiny, rueful smile that tugged at his heart. “Like you said—if you don’t play the game, you could lose. If I pretended it was a game, I couldn’t lose…anything important.”
Dallas fought his impulse to touch her, determined to do nothing to disturb this new and fragile harmony. “I believe I told you once,” he said seriously, “that I’d never hurt you.”
She shook her head slightly. “It’s not the same thing. I’m not afraid of being hurt, Dallas; life is full of hurts. I’m afraid of losing a part of myself.”
“To me?”
“To you. Because of you. I don’t know that it would happen. But I knew—even though I wouldn’t admit it—that you weren’t playing games. And that scared the hell out of me.”
“And so—the conflicting signals?”
Troy nodded. She looked down, turned the wineglass in her hand, and studied the reflection of light off the liquid. “And now I don’t know what to do,” she confessed softly.
“Be honest with me.”
Basically honest in spite of the games, Troy thought about what it would mean to be honest with Dallas. And she knew. Vulnerability, a terrifying vulnerability. You knew, she told herself scornfully. You knew what you were doing when you opened the door to let him into your life. You knew. And you know what you’ve already lost to him.
“Troy?” He reached out tentatively to touch her shoulder, his arm lying along the back of the love seat. “I meant what I said before; I only want to get to know you. No games, no chip on your shoulder.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I want very badly to be your lover, but I won’t press you on that.”
She looked at him with clear, rueful eyes. “Won’t you?”
Dallas grinned a little. “Well…no more than I can help.”
After a silent moment Troy reached over to press a small button on the end table beside the love seat. When Bryce came soundlessly into the room a minute later, she waited for Dallas’s slight nod, then told the butler, “Mr. Cameron will be joining me for dinner, Bryce.”
It was a peculiar evening, Troy decided later. They were both a bit wary; having agreed to honesty, each was mindful that it wouldn’t be easy.
Dallas had shrewdly hit on a major stumbling block between them; the games they both played so well. Oh, in the right situation, both of them would be considered brutally honest. But there was honesty, and then there was honesty. He was an honest man and she was an honest woman—and both played the games because that was the way it was done.
And although neither spoke the doubt aloud, both were conscious of the uncertainty of dispensing with games and rules—and fumbling their way.
They talked over dinner—guardedly, cautiously. Strictly casual, because there was, after all, a limit to the emotion it was wise to provoke in a single evening. Dallas did ask where Jamie was and, although he looked at her rather sharply when she briefly replied that Jamie was “busy,” he said nothing more about it.
Dallas left late that evening, asking quietly if he might “tag along” with her the next day. Never one to look back in regret after finally having come to terms with herself, Troy agreed.
She said good night to Bryce and climbed the stairs thoughtfully, mentally going over the events of the day and wondering what she had foolishly let herself in for. She met Jamie on the landing as he was coming down from the third floor, which contained their work area.
“It’s set up,” Jamie told her.
Troy looked at him absently, his words sinking in only marginally. “Is it? Good. That’s good. We’ll go over everything tomorrow night, okay? Good night, Jamie.”
“Mon enfant?” He caught one of her hands in a huge paw. “Are you all right?”
“Do you remember once telling me,” she murmured, “that if I ever met a man who could keep up with me, he and I would both be in trouble?”
“I remember.”
She sighed. “I think—I very much think, my friend—that I’ve met him. My Waterloo.”
Jamie squeezed her hand gently. “It’s about time.”
Troy laughed in spite of herself. “You’re a lot of help! Are you going to sound the cannons while I go down in defeat?”
He grinned, his broad, stolid face wearing the expression with a curiously endearing unfamiliarity. “No, but I’ll be watching the battle from the sidelines. It ought to be interesting, chérie.”
“You’re on his side, damn you,” she told him ruefully.
“No. On yours. I just happen to believe that the two of you are on the same side.”
Troy yawned suddenly. “That’s too cryptic for me. I’ll see you in the morning, Jamie.”
“Good night, mon enfant.” He watched her head toward her bedroom, then shook his head slightly and headed for his own.
Characteristically always willing and able to live with her own decisions, Troy startled Dallas the next day by seemin
gly becoming a different woman. The chip on her shoulder was gone as though it had never existed; the cool challenge in her incredible eyes vanished.
Bemused, intrigued, and half wary that she was just in an unusual mood that would pass, Dallas nonetheless took advantage of it.
Their day was more or less a repeat of the day before. They visited a different orphanage, different clients. Troy took the children a basketful of kittens, and Dallas saw her unobtrusively slip a check to one of the administrators while she was talking to her. He said nothing about it.
The clients were dealt with briskly, questions answered and problems handled smoothly. Losing her temper only once, and that with an electrician who’d promised repairs and failed to deliver, she swore like a sailor as she talked to him over the phone and never once looked or sounded anything but a lady.
And that, Dallas realized suddenly, was the key to Troy Bennett. She was a lady. A misused word these days, he knew, but it fit her perfectly. She was both sexy and tough; the beautiful, smooth exterior sheathing tempered steel beneath. Her soft, clear voice was capable of both deep gentleness and icy command. There was a curious pioneer strength reflected in her remarkable eyes, the kind of strength that could cradle a baby on one hip and a rifle on the other—and knew how to handle both.
Absorbing that, Dallas probed cautiously into her past during the moments they spent alone while she hurled the Porsche around town. She answered his questions readily but briefly, letting him know that she really didn’t like to talk about herself. But at least she answered.
“So your father was a diplomat?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’ve obviously seen a lot of the world.”
“Most of it, I sometimes think.”
“And your mother?”
Troy didn’t have to ask him to clarify the question. “She was an actress when Dad met her. French. She was also a very talented artist, and that talent won out in the end.”
“Which explains your knowledge of art.”
“I grew up with it.”
“I see.”
Suddenly, unemotionally, Troy said, “They were killed years ago. Terrorists.”
Dallas looked at her swiftly. “I’m sorry, Troy.”
A nod acknowledged his sympathy. Determined not to talk anymore about that painful part of her life, she changed the subject. “You’ve been curious about Jamie, I know. He was my guardian for a couple of years before I came of age. Dad trusted him more than any man he’d ever known; they were very good friends for years. He’s my godfather.”
Studying her with his full attention since he’d grown accustomed to Troy’s habit of turning the Porsche on a dime, Dallas noted curiously, “Am I wrong in thinking he uses French endearments with you? His name’s Irish.”
“So’s he.” Troy smiled a little and said calmly,
“He spent a lot of time in France, and always loved the language. That’s where he met my mother and fell in love with her.”
Dallas thought about that for a moment. “He was in love with your mother, and yet he and your father were good friends?”
“Very good friends.” She laughed softly. “It wasn’t a case of a romantic triangle. Jamie’s love for my mother was a very special thing.”
Dallas reflected silently that it must, indeed, have been special.
“And since you obviously didn’t recognize his name,” she murmured, “I should tell you that Jamie is also one of the most famous stunt pilots in aviation history.”
“Good Lord. The name rang a bell, but I just couldn’t place it. I suppose he taught you to fly?”
Troy frowned for a moment, obviously puzzled. Then her frown cleared. “You’ve been paying attention, I see. Mr. Styles mentioned my being a pilot yesterday.”
“Yes.” Dallas smiled slightly. “I never did hire that detective, Troy. I’m finding out about you without hired help.”
Another frown flitted across her brow, brief but troubled.
“Does that bother you?” he asked perceptively.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She seemed to shake the thought away. “Tell me about yourself.”
Dallas wondered if he should stick with the point, but decided not to. “There’s not a lot to tell.”
“He said modestly,” she murmured.
Making a grab for the dashboard as the Porsche swung merrily around a corner, Dallas said suddenly, “I don’t like to be driven.”
She started laughing. “I suspected as much!”
“Witch.”
“Flatterer.” Troy sent him an amused glance, and immediately slowed the little car’s headlong rush. “I wondered how long it’d take you to—”
“Swallow my pride?” Dallas supplied dryly.
“Something like that. Anyway, I promise to have a little more regard for my passenger’s nerves from now on.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“So. Tell me about yourself.”
Dallas looked at her for a moment, then began to speak in a deliberate litany. “I’m thirty-six years old. I was born and raised in California. I have a younger brother and sister, two nieces and one nephew, and my parents live in California. I graduated from M.I.T. with a degree in electronics. After graduation I borrowed every cent I could get my hands on to start my own company, and I’ve built from there.”
“And very well too,” she murmured.
“Thank you,” he responded, then went on with the recital. “I have no vices that I’m aware of. I’m reasonably neat and can cook in a pinch. I possess something of a temper—as you’re aware—but generally manage to fight fair even when I’m mad.”
“As I’m also aware,” Troy noted wryly.
“Mmm. I have a fondness for Italian food, adventure movies, mystery novels, sailing, hang gliding, children, animals, and redheaded cat burglars.”
Troy silently rode out the roller-coaster surges of her heart at that last fond remark, trying to ignore it. “Hang gliding,” she murmured. “You’re more reckless than you seem.”
“I’m also,” he added deliberately, “adept at mountain climbing, and I hold a sharpshooter classification with most handguns.”
“Now where did you pick that up?” she wondered curiously.
“My father’s career Army. And a great teacher.”
“I see.” Troy mulled over the information. Clearly, she realized, Dallas was a man of action. Hang gliding alone required strong nerves and cool self-command. And he was also adept at sailing and mountain climbing—hardly a sedentary life-style in spite of his white-collar occupation.
Troy pulled the Porsche into a parking space in front of a museum where her company provided electronic security, and took a moment to study Dallas thoughtfully. “It seems there’s more to you than I’d realized, Mr. Cameron,” she observed.
“I’m glad you realize it now,” he responded.
Dallas tagged along with Troy for several days, their relationship remaining on its cautiously amiable footing. They shared casual lunches during the day and peaceful dinners each night at Troy’s house, and they learned more about each other.
The subject of Troy’s nocturnal activities having been tacitly avoided by both, it wasn’t until Friday night that the issue was finally confronted. An unavoidable business appointment had caused Dallas to cut short their day together, and on impulse he stopped by her house around nine that night.
Bryce opened the door to him, and Dallas immediately noticed the butler’s faintly guarded expression. Stepping inside the hall to avoid the possibility of having the door closed in his face, he asked casually, “Is she here?”
Bryce’s butlerly composure didn’t falter, but he hesitated for an infinite second. “If you would care to wait in the sitting room, sir?”
Absorbing Bryce’s refusal to commit himself, Dallas merely nodded slightly and went to wait. He had been in the sitting room for only five minutes when the butler returned, and politely asked to be accompanied upstairs. Following Bryce up
to the third floor, Dallas silently put two and two together and knew, with a faintly sinking sensation, that he had arrived at the correct conclusion when the butler opened a set of double doors into what was clearly a…command center.
The room was large and airy, and crammed to capacity with electronic equipment. There were three separate computer terminals, a wall-size bulletin board with cryptic diagrams tacked to it, and a huge oak desk covered with papers and an elaborate phone system. And in the center of the room, bending over diagrams on a large work table, were Troy and Jamie.
Troy straightened slowly as Bryce closed the doors behind Dallas, and she looked across at him gravely. Without glancing at her companion, she murmured, “Would you give us a few minutes, please, Jamie?”
The big man shot a glance at Dallas and then, silently, left through a connecting door leading into another room.
“Does that outfit mean what I think?” Dallas asked tautly, obviously referring to her black pants, sweater, and the black gloves and ski mask that were tucked into her belt.
Troy leaned a hip on the table’s corner, continuing to meet his gaze levelly. “I have a job to do,” she told him quietly. “Tonight.”
“Let me go with you.”
She shook her head, and Dallas took a quick step forward. “Troy, I can’t let you—”
Holding up a hand to stop him, Troy said reasonably, “Where’ve you been for the past five years? We both know I’ve done this before, and that I can take care of myself. Dallas, I don’t need a Galahad.” Softly she added, “I don’t want a Galahad.”
Dallas took a deep breath and released it slowly. Why, he asked himself, couldn’t she have been the helpless, clinging type? But he knew why.
Because she wasn’t that type. And he wouldn’t have fallen in love with her if she had been.
“What do you want?” he asked finally.
Troy left the table, coming to stand before him, just within arm’s reach. “Someone who understands that I can’t be less than I am.”
He looked down at her, grimacing slightly. “Women’s lib,” he muttered.
She smiled. “I’m not a card-carrying member. But I won’t be protected like a hothouse flower. I’d smother.”