“Don’t you worry.” She gestured toward the door, thinking philosophically that the sooner they were gone, the sooner she’d have her girl back. “I’ll take care of him, and them. Try to enjoy yourself.”

“And I’ll try to bring her back in one piece,” Michael added, for the hell of it, as he opened the door.

“See that you do,” Ann muttered and began to worry the moment the door closed.

“It’s nice of you to drive me to the club.” She would put things on the proper footing, Laura determined. And keep them there. “You don’t have to feel obliged to entertain me once we’re there.”

He’d been planning to say pretty much the same thing himself, but he resented her saying it first. He opened her door, leaned on it. “Who are you pissed off at, Laura? Me, or the world in general?”

“I’m not angry with you or anyone.” Gracefully, she slipped into the passenger seat of his Porsche. “I’m simply explaining matters so that we get through the evening comfortably.”

“And here you said you liked mongrels.”

She blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right.” He resisted—barely—slamming the door. The evening, he thought as he rounded the hood, was off to a flying start.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

It could have been worse, Michael supposed. He could have been back in some Central American jungle sweating bullets and dodging them. He could have had his skull bashed in, as he had once when a stunt gag went wrong.

Instead he was standing in a room with people he didn’t know and didn’t care to know.

He’d rather have had his skull bashed in.

He thought the room itself was overly cute, with its glossy red hearts hanging from swatches of paper lace. The flowers were nice, he supposed. He didn’t have any objection to flowers. But he thought they carried the obsessive red and white theme too far.

All of the pink-draped tables were centered with a grouping of white tapers ringed by a halo of fluffy red and white carnations. At least he thought they were carnations. And the music. He decided it represented the widest culture clash, with its mild strings and discreet piano, all played by middle-aged men in white suits.

Give him blues or honest rock any day.

But there was a spiffy view of the coastline through a wall of windows. The drama of it, the war of fretful waves against mean-edged rocks, provided an interesting contrast to the quiet, undeniably stuffy group inside the polished, overheated club.