Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (17 page)

T
imbrel, this is Sajjan Takkar. He’s a philanthropist.”

Yet another gold digger, she guessed. But keeping her mask of gentility, Timbrel shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr.—”What was his last name?

“Mr. Takkar, but please—call me Sajjan.”

“Why would I do that?”

His smile faltered on that handsome mug of his. He had this older Indian prince thing going on with the olive skin, black hair with smatterings of gray, and a turban. “Forgive me. I meant—”

“No,” her mom said quickly, “it’s not you, Sajjan. Audrey’s a little out of sorts.”

“Actually, I’m quite fine, Mother. Thank you.” Timbrel searched the crowd for Candyman. He’d left the corner. So cute to watch him hunkering down to weather the storm of this party. But then Simone had shown up.

Where did they go?

Timbrel turned her head, searching the partygoers for him. She’d really thought he’d stick out. Probably because in her mind, he was Candyman—bearded, geared-up, and carrying a military-grade assault rifle. But that’s not who stood in this ballroom. The man didn’t
wear
that tux. He personified it. It amplified every good attribute—his size, his good looks. And she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

He stood laughing in the middle of a crowd of women.

She liked the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. A light came to his face then. Her stomach lurched when she realized he was staring back at her.

Timbrel jerked her attention back to Sajjan and her mother, rambling about some organization they were planning to help. “Do you two do this a lot?”

“Do what, darling?” Mom asked, her arm hooked around his elbow.

What’s that about? “Helping causes.”

“Well, baby,” her mom said, as if surprised she would ask. “That’s what Sajjan does.”

Sajjan, ever the gentleman and apparently not one to brag, inclined his head. “It is true. My family is very wealthy, my father a very shrewd investor. Takkar Corporation is known worldwide for our endeavors with worthy causes.”

“Sajjan is why I wanted you to come tonight, darling. I think he could help your dog people.”

Timbrel laughed. “Dog people?”

Her mother waved a hand at her. “Don’t exert yourself, Audrey. You know what I mean.”

“Nina tells me you are a dog handler. And that”—he nodded at Beowulf—“I suppose, is your partner.”

Timbrel lifted her chin. “He’s more than a partner.”

Sajjan smiled and gave a short nod. “My brother handled dogs—he was a police officer in San Jose.”

Surprise cartwheeled through her. “Yeah? What breed?” “A black Lab.”

Timbrel nodded, her hand smoothing over Beo’s skull. “I almost got paired with a yellow Lab, but once I met Beo, it was all she wrote.”

“The bond,” he said with a really nice smile, “is undeniable between you two.”

Hold up. I’m not supposed to like this guy
.

A hyena shrieked from behind.

Timbrel shifted, scowling at the noise.

“Carla Santana,” Mom whispered in her ear. Then nudged Timbrel’s shoulder. “Why don’t you rescue him and bring him to our table.”

“He’s fine.” Timbrel’s stomach churned at the way the women hung on Tony. And he didn’t seem to mind.

Not true. He looked positively ticked.

Her mom nudged her. “Go on. Poor guy looks like a cornered rabbit.”

“Rabbit?” Timbrel scoffed. “That man could bring any woman to her knees if he wanted.”

“I think he already has.” Her mom laughed. “You’d better hurry before you lose your grip on him.”

“My grip?” Timbrel frowned at her mom.

“Carla looks pretty intrigued by your rogue soldier.”

“Oh, come on—wait.” Timbrel’s heart tripped. “How’d you know he was a soldier?”

“It’s written all over him, and let me tell you, a woman knows a warrior when she meets one.” Her mother gave that shrewd, eyebrow-raised/nostril-flaring look Timbrel hated. “A man who’s seen combat, killed people, been in the desert for too long, isn’t going to resist feminine wiles for very long.” She gave a knowing nod. “Especially when they’re being handed to him on a silver platter.”

Heart hammering at the insinuation, Timbrel stiffened. “You clearly don’t know him.” She took in the sight of him with Simone dangling off his arm. Carla fawning. Surely, he wouldn’t … A strange surge of heat rushed through her. Was he enjoying the attention the floozies were all too willing to lavish on him?

“But I’d like to.”

“Ugh. Mom, that’s disgusting. He’s almost young enough to be your son.”

“That’s
not
what I meant.” Her mom’s face reddened, and she shot Sajjan a nervous look mixed with a weak, apologetic smile. “Just seat him at the head table, dear.”

Clearly her mother was already involved enough with Sajjan that she worried what he thought about her. This would make, what, her sixth husband?

Arm in arm with the turban-wearing man, her mother sauntered through the room, greeting guests and smiling. Ever the diva. Sajjan seated her mother then joined her at the table, his arm spilling across the back of her seat as they talked quietly. Ya know … it almost seemed like the man truly had interest in her mother beyond the money and fame.

“Right. You’ve heard that before,” Timbrel muttered to herself. Though she wanted to be frustrated or disgusted, there was something … off about this relationship.

A sickening cackle spun her around.

Candyman, now standing in profile, ducked his head. His neck and face had gone crimson. The ladies were howling. He shook his head. Ticked. He was ticked off.

Scratching the top of Beo’s head, Timbrel said, “C’mon, boy. Let’s save the rogue in distress.”

Every step toward Candyman smacked her with a realization: Carla Santana was determined to dig her claws into him—
Well, good luck with that. Candyman wears tough armor
—and if it wasn’t Carla, it’d be Simone. Timbrel had lost to the loose girl way too many times. But she’d never cared … before …

Weird. I do care this time
.

A lot.

She just wasn’t sure how to tame the beast of jealousy before it ruined what little of a friendship she had with this man.
“A woman knows a warrior when she meets one.”

Yeah … Timbrel could relate.

At his side, she smiled. “Having fun?”

He glowered. “Loads.”

Man, she wanted to laugh, and she could feel the shade of it tugging at her lips.

A bell resounded through the ballroom.

She raised an eyebrow. “Saved by the bell. Mom wants us at her table.” When she turned, her hand caught.

Tony’s large paw wrapped around hers, and he leaned down, his mouth near her ear. “You leave me to the cougars again”—his warm breath skated down her neck, goose bumps racing through her spine—“and I can’t be responsible for what happens.”

“Like them that much?”

He grunted. “I’d probably make a sizable donation to some charity looking for plastic containers for impoverished children.”

Timbrel burst out laughing but quickly scaled it back. She frowned at him. “That was terrible.”

“Yeah?” His irritation seemed to have a sharp edge to it. “Well, consider yourself warned.”

Timbrel couldn’t help laughing again as she moved to the seat catty-corner from her mom. She reached for the chair, only to have it slide out for her. Candyman. “What’s this?” Timbrel asked as she tucked herself into the spot. “A gentleman, too?”

“My mama didn’t raise no hick, ma’am,” he drawled out.

Saying it that way … Timbrel heard her own giggle and wanted to cut her throat out. Had she really resorted to that? As Tony took his place at the table, Timbrel’s gaze snagged on a man making a beeline toward the table. Who…?

Something … familiar …

She sucked in a breath. “Can’t be.”

Quiet descended as the plates of food glided to rest in front of the guests. Utensils clanked delicately in the room, the chatter fading as everyone dug into their food. Tony stared down at the top sirloin atop a bed of mashed potatoes with a brown mushroom sauce. Taste buds popping, he quickly tucked his chin and prayed, asking God’s blessing on the meal and that he could make it out of this dinner intact and alive.

Timbrel eyed him, question begging for answers.

“What?”

“You pray at every meal?”

“Every time I can.” He sawed through the meat and stabbed it with his fork. He lifted it to his mouth.

Beowulf wedged between their chairs, noisily sniffing the air.

Tony arched an eyebrow at the brindled dog. “Sorry, champ. This is mine.” He chomped into the meat and tried to ignore the way the hound whiffed at the food. “You don’t pray?”

Timbrel ducked. “Mom wouldn’t let me. She is fiercely antiorganized religion.”

“What about you?”

“What?”

“Where do you stand regarding religion—or better yet, faith?”

She sighed, chewing the edge of her lip. “Undecided.”

“What’s undecided—believing He exists?”

“No … I just—”

“C’mon. Don’t give me the whole ‘I’ve seen too many things’ line.”

She adjusted her position, leaning closer, an elbow on the table. “Haven’t you? What about what you see out there every time you get deployed?”

Tony took a gulp of his drink. “What I
see
is the corruption and greed of
man
. We live in a fallen world.”

“Why doesn’t God do something?”

“Well, therein lies the dichotomy. First—if He
made
us do anything, then we’d be puppets to a puppet master. God wants a relationship.” He winked at her. “Just like me.”

Timbrel ignored him and went on, her brow tightly knit. “But there are innocent children out there. Children raised without fathers.”

Those words sounded seriously personal. Was this more about innocent children or Timbrel? It slammed him from out of left field that she’d never mentioned her father. He’d have to ask her about that later.

She turned a little more so her right knee almost rested against his thigh. There, she rubbed the side of Beo’s head. “I struggle that God could leave them defenseless and unprotected.”

As he cut away another piece of steak, Tony grinned at her. “Unprotected? Babe, why do you think God put me here?”

Her brown eyes, framed by those bouncy curls, held his gaze. “You really believe God put you out there, in danger?”

“He gave me a choice, but He’s the One who put the drive in me to join up, so I went with it. Wanted to serve the greater good the way my father did. But yes, I believe without a doubt He wired me to want to protect those who can’t and won’t protect themselves. I
know
it.” He stuffed the bite into his mouth. “What about you? Where do you stand with God?”

Timbrel lifted a shoulder lazily. “I grew up in the Catholic Church, and I believe in God, but I haven’t been terribly close to Him.” She met his gaze. “Not the way you seem to be.”

Tony winked. “Stick around, babe. Maybe He sent me to help you find Him in a better, stronger way.”

Something washed over her face that he couldn’t make out. It was that thing again—that thing that made him think she admired him. Instead of saying it, instead of denying it with words that might come next, Timbrel went silent. Nibbled at her salad.

She had both legs turned now. As much as he’d like to believe her interest in the conversation—which was legit—focused her attention on him, a shadow lurking beneath her eyes warned him something was wrong.

Over the next hour, ice clinked. People chatted. Divas cackled. Men acted like stupid peacocks trying to show their colors for the women around them.

Tony gritted his teeth and chomped into the last piece of his steak. Here a hundred people dined on caviar, sushi, and drank wine and champagne and, by the look of the bar across the room, mixed drinks. Yet on the other side of the world, troops would bed down on canvas cots and thin mattresses with only memories, dust, and the threat of bombings to keep them warm. It didn’t sour his food. It actually made it sweeter because he knew it’d be a long time before he got something of this quality again.

A bubble of conversation rose and fell at the other side of the table. Tony polished off his meal, listening and watching. Timbrel’s mother seemed enthralled with the gentleman to her left, who sported a dark tailored suit that bespoke his wealth. That and the way he carried himself—or maybe that mighty attitude was about the gray-blue turban atop the man’s head. How well did the man’s deeply held religious beliefs fit with Nina Laurens’s lavish lifestyle? The values seemed opposed at the least.