Iris Johansen Read Free

one swallow and crashing the glass down on the table beside him. Then he sighed and ran his fingers through his heavy dark hair. “God,” he said wearily, “I’m sorry, Dawson. You were quite right to question it. I would have torn a strip off you if you hadn’t.”
    Santine’s apology surprised Dawson more than his former rudeness. His employer’s bluntness and lack of tact were well known, but he’d never heard him apologize to anyone in all the time he’d worked for him. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle. This new volatility could be as dangerous to handle as nitroglycerine. “It’s understandable that you’d be annoyed, Mr. Santine,” he said carefully, “I never meant …” He stopped as he was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone on the massive mahoganydesk. He looked at Santine inquiringly, and the older man made an impatient gesture for him to get it. “It’s the house phone,” he commented as he picked up the receiver and announced briefly, “Dawson.”
    Santine proceeded to ignore Dawson’s murmured phone conversation and continued staring moodily down at his empty brandy glass. Whatever it was, Pat could handle it. There were certainly no worldshaking decisions to be made at this hellishly boring Shangri-la by the sea.
    It seemed that Dawson didn’t agree with him, for he looked up at that moment, covering the receiver with his hand. “It’s Sal Goldsmith, head of security, Mr. Santine. It seems that we have a trespasser.”
    Santine looked up sharply. “Why the hell are they bothering me with that?” he asked. “Goldsmith has been handling trespassers and thieves without consulting me for years.”
    Dawson’s lips quirked in amusement. “He’s puzzled about exactly what to do with this particular trespasser,” he said solemnly, his blue eyes twinkling. “He finds the situation a bit unusual.”
    Santine’s eyes narrowed. “Unusual?”
    Dawson nodded. “The intruder came over the wall using a rope and a grappling hook. The video camera picked up the breach immediately, and security turned loose the dogs.”
    Santine grimaced. “I can see why the situation is unusual,” he said dryly. “Are there any pieces left to send to the hospital?”
    “Some very nice ones, according to Sal.” Dawson grinned, “And in quite excellent health, at that. When he and Jackson intercepted her as she was approaching the house, both of the Dobermans were frolicking at her heels like lap dogs. She even had to restrain them from attacking Goldsmith when he grabbed her.”
    “She?” Santine asked alertly. “Our trespasser is a woman?”
    “A very attractive one,” Dawson replied, leaning back in the leather executive chair. “And very determined, I would say. Climbing that wall would be no easy task for any ordinary woman, even with a rope. It’s over twelve feet high.”
    “How did she get around the dogs?” Santine asked softly, his eyes narrowed in thought. “She couldn’t have been carrying raw meat, I suppose.”
    Dawson shook his head. “The first thing guard dogs are taught is to eat only out of their own bowls, for that very reason.”
    “Interesting,” Santine said slowly. “Very interesting. Was she carrying any weapons?”
    “Not even a hat pin,” Dawson answered. “Sal says that she went to all this trouble just to speak to you.”
    Santine smiled cynically. “Well, it’s an unusual approach, anyway. Didn’t anyone tell her that I already have a mistress in residence at the moment?”
    “It probably wouldn’t make any difference to someone as determined as our intruder,” Dawson said flippantly. “Anyone who could scale a twelve-foot wall would snap her fingers at another woman.”
    “Perhaps you’re right at that,” Santine drawled. “She certainly doesn’t appear to be shy about going after what she wants. It’s a quality that I admire.”
    “What shall I tell Goldsmith to do with her?” Dawson asked. “He wants to know if he should call