Roan by Jennifer Blake Page B

noticed? Would she report it to Roan? Dear God, she was going to have to be more careful.
    She tried for a confused look, followed by a sigh. “Oh, I almost thought—but no, it’s gone.”
    â€œToo bad. Maybe next time.” Johnnie moved to the bedside table and began to gather the toiletries there. “Right now, we’d better get you ready to go, since Roan will be back any minute. He’s a lot of things, but patient is not one of them.”
    Tory didn’t doubt that at all. And she wondered just how far he could be pushed before his control snapped.

5
    â€œ T his is Dog Trot?”
    Tory could hear the hollow disbelief in her own question as she sat staring at Roan’s home from the front seat of the police unit. The house was an antebellum mansion with thick, bell-bottomed columns lining the broad front and wrought-iron railings in lacelike patterns stretched between the tall supports on the upper porch level. Wide front steps protected by more iron railings mounted to solid entrance doors on the second floor, giving the ground floor the appearance of a raised basement. These lower brick walls were nearly eighteen inches thick, and faded to a mellow rose-red under their tracery of vines. The most outstanding feature, however, was the tunnel-like porte cochere that cut through the center of this ground floor. Sunlight and shadow made interesting triangular patterns on its interior walls, while the flowering plants of a private rear garden could be seen through the wide opening. The whole place was well maintained, with an indefinable aura of quiet grace and solid comfort.
    â€œIt’s home,” Roan said.
    â€œBut it’s huge!”
    â€œNot really,” he answered as he got out of the car, thenmoved around to open her door. “That is, not until it’s time to paint. Then I swear it becomes a monster.”
    Tory had seen larger places: the Vandergraff winter home on Sanibel Island, though thoroughly modern and without noticeable character, was spread over more acreage. Her father’s family home in Italy had been bigger as well, a beautiful old villa of golden stone with a brass lion’s head on the ancient, hand-carved front door. Still, there was something about the house in front of her. Dog Trot’s sturdy walls and thick doors promised peace and safety. It had the look of a sanctuary.
    She eased from her seat and stood. Roan put his hand under her elbow in a quick gesture of support. It was then that a great mud-red dog came trotting out of the shadows of the center carriageway. He paused and stretched his back haunches as he reached the sunlight. Then he tilted his head back and gave a deep bark that had the sound of rolling thunder.
    â€œGood lord,” she said under her breath. “What is that?”
    A corner of Roan’s mouth lifted in a smile. “Don’t panic, it’s just old Beauregard—Beau to his friends—doing his duty as guard dog.”
    â€œHe’s not a…bloodhound?” It was all she could do to keep from shuddering, the direct result of too many movies featuring such canines.
    â€œPurebred and pedigreed, though he’s too lazy to trail much more than a rabbit.”
    The sheriff’s voice carried a strong hint of affectionate insult that suggested the opposite was true. No doubt the animal was a trained man-hunter. He didn’t seem vicious, however, as he trotted up to have his head rubbed, then leaned against Roan’s pant leg in beatific enjoyment. Watching Roan’s hands smoothing over the dog’s sleek peltand floppy ears in rough tenderness caused an odd, heated sensation in the lower part of her body.
    â€œDoes he bite?” she asked, her voice sharper than she’d intended.
    Roan barely glanced at her. “Only when I say so.”
    â€œWhat a comfort.”
    â€œYou don’t like dogs?” Roan asked as he straightened.
    â€œLittle ones are fine.”