Retribution by Elizabeth Forrest Read Free Book Online Page B

animal, a handsome and happy animal, and his inner self recoiled at the thought, and he wondered if the family was stupid, insane, or desperate.

    "Why?"

    "Why?" The driver pursed his thick lips in thought a moment. " 'Cause the girl needs protection, sir."

    "Whose dog is this?"

    "Hers, sir."

    John looked from the dog to the driver, who stood in square, thick heaviness, his neck bulging out over the starched collar of his uniform. He looked like a short bull, and whatever his background might have been on the streets or in the barrio, he did not look like he could provide protection, not savvy protection. He might be good for intimidation or brawling, but there was no finesse about him. The driver blinked back at him, dark brown eyes showing just a hint of John's assessment, his swarthy face bland. The eyes remained open and honest.

    "You can't do the job?"

    The driver blinked slowly. "She lives alone, sir. I drive for the family. But I am just a driver. The dog stays with her all the time." His mouth thinned. "She doesn't want anybody to make a fuss."

    "What's the problem?"

    "Stalker." His eyes flared momentarily, and a flush came to his full cheeks.

    John's stomach knotted a little. The golden whined a bit, growing uneasy at not knowing what was expected of him in the situation, and then shook his head, flapping his ears noisily. He reached for the leash. "All right, I'll do it."

    The driver let out a sigh and shoved the envelope at him as well. "Your check is in here. Give me a call when Jagger is ready to be picked up. Feeding instructions are in there, too, plus his command list."

    "I'll need at least a couple of weeks."

    The driver nodded curtly. "Yes, sir. And…" He paused, already halfway back into the car. "Thank you, sir."

    John fingered the envelope, fine, watermarked paper rustling at his touch. Jagger whined again as the car left, not a fearful sound, but just one that showed he was alert to what was happening and that he was uncertain about it. He leaned over and thumped the dog on the ribs.

    "Good boy."

    Jagger lolled his tongue out again, pleased. The feathery tail gave one quick wave. He knew he was a good dog. That had never been in question.

    John Rubidoux remembered laughing in spite of his misgivings.

    Jagger had been perhaps one of his most successful failures.

    * * *

    John slowed the van down, eyeing the procession of expensive vehicles turning into the hillside home and park grounds where the Peppermill Galleries held residence. He flexed his jaw as if he could ease the neck of his tux by doing so, made a right turn to avoid the procession and eased the van into a spot under a blue gum eucalyptus on a side street. Normally not embarrassed by his van, tonight did not seem to be the time to show up flanked by vigilant guard dogs painted by a talented young local mural artist. As he stepped out, the fragrant eucalyptus tree reminded him that the van smelled of dogs and he flicked a few stray hairs off the elbow of his coat.

    This was only the third time he could remember wearing a tux. The first was his high school prom, the second three years ago when his sister Lyndel had gotten married. He'd still had a limp then and had to use a cane. A rueful smile pulled the corner of his mouth in memory at that; he still had the cane at home, a handsome black stick decorated with a silver dog's head. Lyndel had bought it especially for the wedding. He hadn't used the cane in the years since, though there were days when his hip hurt badly enough that he should have. He should pull it out of the dark corner of the closet where he kept it and polish the grip.

    John lifted his chin yet again, then started uphill in a long-striding clip to the Peppermill grounds. California pepper trees graced the grounds with their long, almost weeping willow type limbs and foliage, their delicate leaves still green from spring rains, tiny flowers beginning to bud. It would not be dark until almost eight, but the