Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (53 page)

“You’ll see.” Khaterah smiled. “It’s going to be fantastic tonight. I cannot wait! We are gaining so much support, we might be set for several years.”

“Wow, that’s amazing.” Timbrel couldn’t deny the truth. She glanced down. And froze. “Khat.” Timbrel stared at Beo, who had sat at Khaterah’s side and stared up at her. “Don’t move.”

Her friend glanced down. “Wh … what’s wrong?”

Timbrel punched the emergency button. “Beo has a hit.”

Eyes bulging, Khaterah went rigid. “How?”

“That box.” Timbrel nodded to the one perched on Khat’s hip. “What’s in it?”

“Nothing,” Khat whimpered. “I used it to bring up my purse, water, and notebook.”

“Beo, heel,” Timbrel said and waited for her loyal guy to move to the side. “Okay, Khat, set down the box—
very
carefully.”

Despite her fried nerve endings, Timbrel knew it didn’t make sense. Why now? Why would they put the bomb in Khat’s bag? An elevator explosion wouldn’t do enough damage. If they wanted to strike a blow, it’d be tonight. With all the dignitaries, politicians, officers.

Still, as she knelt and peered into the box, Timbrel used a pen lying on the bottom to nudge the purse open. Nothing. Of course, some bombs were small.

“Timbrel, this is insane. There’s nothing in there. Everything in there is what I brought. Nothing new.” Khaterah retrieved her box. “And I don’t have time to let you call in the cavalry.”

Releasing her breath, Timbrel nodded. “But Beo never gets a false hit. He’s got a perfect record.”

Khaterah freed the elevator and winked. “I promise not to tell. Maybe he’s just tired. You worked him pretty hard down there earlier.”

Timbrel cupped Beo’s face. “What was that, boy?”

Beo swiped his tongue along her face. She laughed and patted his broad chest. “C’mon. We both need to get cleaned up a bit.”

She let herself into the suite, and—

“Oh, hello, darling!” Her mom sauntered toward her, dolled to the nines in a stunning navy number with enough bling to light the city. “Look. I just have to say this. You were abominable to Sajjan last night.” Her eyes skittered around the suite. “But you didn’t pursue it, and for that I’m thankful.”

Timbrel said nothing because, for one, she saw the hurt plastered all over her mom’s face. Nina Laurens truly cared about this man. And that angered Timbrel all the more because she could not win in this conversation—she’d only hurt her mother further. Her only hope would be proving that man’s guilt resolutely.

Her mom motioned with her engagement-ring hand toward the plastic-shrouded garment hanging from the armoire. “And I’ve brought up a dress for you.”

Timbrel grunted. “Thank you, but I’ve got my slacks and top.”

“But it’s from Caroline. Asymmetrical, one-shouldered—your favorite design. A modest number, down to the knees. No fluff or frills.” Her mom gave an all-too-innocent shrug. “It has this darling flounce that drapes the left shoulder and arm—simple but elegant. Just the way you like it.”

The cursed woman knew how to strike a low blow. “Not fair, Mom.” Timbrel had been close to Caroline Whittington before she launched her runaway fashion line. And because of that, Timbrel had often worn Caroline’s numbers whenever she could. “I’m sorry, but I have to be comfortable tonight because Beowulf will be there with me. I have to be sure I can move without restraint.”

She lifted the pant ensemble from the closet. Not too casual, but it’d give her enough freedom to work Beo and the room.

“Darling, you can’t. It’s the organization’s big night, and Caro will be so hurt.”

“I’m sorry. Besides, nobody will notice or remember if I’m in slacks or some skimpy number.”

Her mother deflated. “I’m not going to argue with you.” She stared for the door. “Just remember, this evening isn’t about you. It’s about your friends. About your dog.”

Low blow. Timbrel watched her mom leave then pushed herself into the shower. All the same, she had to wear the slacks. She had to be ready to stop whatever Sajjan Takkar and Bashir Karzai had up their Middle Eastern sleeves.

Wrapped in a towel, Timbrel cut off the water. Bent over to dry her hair, she heard a noise in the suite. She paused, head angled toward the door and holding the towel.

Riiiiiiiiiiiip. Rip. Riiiipp
.

Timbrel lunged out of the bathroom. “No!”

Like rose petals strewn across the floor, shredded fabric graced the carpet and led to the bed. Amid strips of fabric—black palazzo pant fabric to be exact—Beo looked up at her, a black strip dangling from his mouth. His wiggling butt thumped against the bed as he pulled to his feet. Tugging one more piece free, he seemed to grin at her.

“You beast!”

His tail thumped harder.

The dress, the heels, the attitude—so reminiscent of days long past that Timbrel felt like a ghost haunting the hall of the hotel. She glided down the industrial-grade carpet as she aimed toward the elevator with Beowulf on his lead. The hotel. She glided down the industrial-grade carpet as she aimed toward the elevator with Beowulf on his lead. The hotel manager made sure Timbrel had a clear awareness that city ordinance required all dogs to be on a lead. She understood their point of view, but really, Beo could do more damage with his flatulence and drool.

But tonight was the night. If Bashir was going to make his move, it’d happen tonight. Intestines wound tighter than a detonation cord, Timbrel crouched—ladylike, of course—beside her loyal guy. Wrapped her arms around his chest. Kissed the top of his brindled head. “You better strut your stuff since you made me wear this number,” she whispered and stroked his ear, imagining what Ghost and the others would have to say about her attire. And considering she had on a dress that cost her several months’ wages, she couldn’t exactly just go sans makeup and hair updo. So here she stood. Dolled up more than Prom Date Barbie.

“You’re going to sleep on the floor. For a
month
!”

He panted contentedly, seemingly oblivious to her threat.

“I know better.” She roughed his ears. “That dumb-dog trick doesn’t work on me. And there’s no cat to blame this time.”

The counterbalance of the elevator shifted, indicating they’d arrived. Timbrel straightened, drew in a breath. She knew to expect ribbing and taunting from Ghost, and probably Dane, though the latter was less prone to brotherly torment.

After a ding, the doors slid open.

Gripping Beo’s lead, Timbrel stepped from the elevator and strode across the hotel’s lobby. Harp music floated down the highly glossed corridor, luring Timbrel toward the gala.
Nice touch
.

Outside the doors, two massive dog statues stood guard. Timbrel plucked her ticket from the small pocketbook and passed beneath an arc of black and white balloons stretching over the guests from one side of the door to other.

“Good eve—” Khat’s eyes went wide. “Timbrel!”

Already the heat tempted her cheeks to redden. Timbrel pushed her gaze away. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Khat shook her head. “You’re wearing—”

“A dress. Don’t collapse, Khaterah.” She handed the ticket to her friend and let her gaze surf the perimeter. “There must be fifty or sixty guests already.”

“Great balls of fire,” came a familiar voice. “Wait till Candyman gets an eyeful of this!”

Timbrel’s face burned. “He’s coming?”

Ghost pointed to the check-in table. “He was invited.”

She shot Khaterah a look, but her friend was already talking with another guest.

“You really clean up good, Hogan.”

Poking a finger in Beo’s direction, she sighed. “It’s his fault. He ate my slacks.”

Ghost held out his hand to Beo. “Good boy.”

Timbrel gave him a playful slap. “Hey.”

Ghost laughed. “All kidding aside, Timbrel, you look amazing.”

“You’d better be careful or your wife will get jealous.”

“Hardly,” Darci Kintz-Daniels said as she slid her arm around Ghost’s shoulder. “I am supremely confident he loves me.”

Timbrel eyed them. “Seriously?”

Darci also had that exotic thing going on with her Asian features subdued, but only a little, by her half-Caucasian side. “Of course. Because I know Heath wants to keep breathing.”

The teasing threat hung between their laughter. Ghost tugged Darci in closer and kissed her.

“Wow, get a room, okay?” Timbrel laughed off their mushy romance stuff, but she could not deny the hurt that spiraled through her veins. What must it be like to be so free in love? What did it—?

Timbrel stopped dead in her tracks. What on earth? In the center of the room, at least two hundred books sat on the floor forming a cone shape, wide at the base and growing narrow at the top. Where did that come from? It wasn’t there this morning.

Timbrel hurried back to the check-in table to ask Khaterah, but her friend was engrossed in helping a sponsor find her badge. Once the lady moved on, Timbrel edged in. “Khat, what’s with the books?”

Sparkling eyes met hers. “Isn’t it great? Sajjan’s friend donated them—that’s what I was talking about in the elevator. Everyone can take one home as they leave. He’s very generous to do that. I know the books aren’t cheap.”

“What friend?”

“And he gave a sizeable contribution to A Breed Apart, so he’ll get time to address the crowd tonight.”

“Khaterah,” Timbrel said, her heart rate ratcheting. “His name.”

Khaterah greeted another guest then turned back. “What? Oh. Bashir Bijan.”

Timbrel whirled toward the books. Bashir. Books. They had to be trouble. Had to be chemical weapons—that’s what Burnett suspected. That’s what Beo had hit on at the warehouse, yet it’d gotten shrugged off. She spun back to Khaterah. “Where did those books come from?”

Khaterah shot her a sidelong glance as she helped more guests. “I told you.”

“No, I mean who put them up? Bashir’s trouble, Khat. I’m afraid he might’ve set up—”

“Timbrel,” she said with a huff. “The books are fine. I’m the one who set them up in the room.”

“You … you did?” Timbrel reconsidered the mound. Okay, so if Khat set them up, then there couldn’t be a bomb lurking in the middle. Right? Unless Bashir slipped in afterward. There was one way to find out if there was a bomb or chemical weapons. She tightened her hold on Beo’s lead.

“Time to start,” Khaterah said. In her long burgundy gown, Khat glided to the dais at the front of the ballroom.

Jibril, all decked out in his tux and slicked-back hair—the dude cleaned up nice—joined her, and together they took the stage. “Good evening,” he spoke into the microphone that stood like a lone sentry in the middle.

The crowds quieted and took their seats at the tables around the perimeter. Leaving the dance floor and the mound of books alone. Which meant Timbrel couldn’t just go up and lead Beo through a search. She’d have to wait … or be sneaky.

With a smirk, Timbrel eased along the edges of the room, working her way to the middle. Her mom and Sajjan sat toward the front with none other than Bashir Bijan. Timbrel had to admit the guy’s presence alone struck her with a preternatural fear. She drew in a sharp breath. Beo looked up at her as if to ask if she was okay.

Applause erupted across the room as Jibril turned the microphone over to Khaterah, who looked tiny next to her brother.

Timbrel kept moving, knowing her bullmastiff would feed off her nervous energy that flowed to him in the form of scents, so she paused as the applause died down. No need to rush.

A waiter approached her, and she stepped back to give him a clear path. But he moved into her path. She frowned, and her gaze tracked down his outfit then back to his face and stilled. Heat splashed her stomach.
Rocket!

Eyebrow arched, he let his gaze roam her dress, legs, and back to her face. “No wonder Candyman went nuts for you,” he whispered around a smirk as he leaned toward her with the tray, hiding his conversation with his actions. “A drink, ma’am?”

“Thank you.” She made her movements slow, strategic to buy some time. “What are you doing here? Dressed like
that
?”

“I could ask the same thing.”

Timbrel glowered.

“We’re probably here for the same reason you are skulking about the ballroom while your friends are onstage.”

“We?” Timbrel’s heart tripped. “Who … who’s here?”

“Sorry. Not him.”

Disappointment chugged through her heart. When he navigated around her, she caught his arm. “The books.” Timbrel sipped the drink then replaced the glass. “The books were a last-minute addition.”

Rocket hesitated. Then bowed. “Enjoy your evening, ma’am.”

Futility strangled her. There was no joy in the knowledge that she’d been right. In fact, she was a little peeved that she’d tried to warn them and gotten blown off. And now—she was here, the team was here, but Tony wasn’t.

She just had to accept he’d walked out on her.

You know what they say about payback …

So. Focus. On tonight. Stopping whatever it was Bashir Bijan had planned. Burnett wouldn’t have ODA452 here if this was just a nice evening to make money and new friends. Timbrel guided Beowulf up the middle, clinging to the columns when she could. Trying to act normal. A man in a tux next to a woman—