CHAPTER Seven

The slick-handed son of a bitch.

First he puts the moves on her, then he worms his way past her better judgment with that cute, trust-me act, then he makes it clear he wants to have sex.

Ripley ground her teeth as she jogged along the beach.

Then,then , at the first chance, he cozies up to Mia.

Men, she decided, were slugs.

She might not have gotten wind of it either if Nell hadn't casually commented about Mia having Mac up to her house for dinner.

Dinner? she snorted. Right, dinner.

She just bet he had his mind on his stomach when he bought a bottle of Mia's favorite fancy French wine at Island Liquors. She'd heard about that, too, after the fact. He'd evenasked the clerk which type-vintage-Mia preferred.

Well, he was free to put the make on Mia and on every female on the island. Butnot when he'd put it on Ripley Todd first.

Bastard. City-slicker bastard getting her all stirred up and twitchy, then sneaking off to nibble on Mia. Mia had probably cast out lures just to get her goat.

It would be just like her.

She swung around at the end of the beach, pounded in the opposite direction.

No, damn it, it wasn't. However much she would have enjoyed jabbing her elbow in Mia's face on principle, she couldn't delude herself. Mia never went sniffing after someone else's man. The fact was, she didn't sniff after men at all, which was probably why she was such a moody, irritating woman. A little recreational sex would improve her attitude.

But it wasn't Mia's style, and however much at odds they were, Mia Devlin was entirely too loyal, and too damn classy, to poach.

Which brought Ripley back full circle to Mac.

His fault, completely and totally. All she had to do now was figure out the most satisfying way to make him pay for it.

She finished her run, showered, dressed for the day in dark wool slacks and a turtleneck, buttoning a flannel shirt over it. She laced up her boots. Then took a good long look at herself in the mirror.

She could never compete with Mia in the looks department. Who could? Then again, she'd never wanted to. She had her own style and was comfortable with it. Still, she knew just how to bump up the package when she was in the mood.

Toying with the outline of an idea for vengeance, she slicked on lipstick, smudged on eyeliner and shadow, brushed on mascara. Satisfied that she'd made the best use of what she had to work with, she sprayed on some of the perfume Nell had put in her Christmas stocking.

It was a deep, earthy scent and suited her more than anything floral or airy.

After some debate, she ditched the flannel shirt. She might be a bit chilly before end of day, but the turtleneck and slacks showed off her curves. Pleased with the results, she strapped her holster to her belt and headed out to work.

Pete Stahr's mutthad gotten off the leash, again. He'd nosed out a goodly pile of frozen fish guts, feasted on same. Then had sicked them up, along with his morning ration of kibble, on Gladys Macey's pristine front stoop.

It was the sort of neighborhood crisis Ripley preferred leaving to Zack. He was more diplomatic, more patient. But Zack was on the windward side helping to deal with a couple of downed trees. That left her stuck.

"Ripley, I'm at the end of my patience."

"I don't blame you for that, Mrs. Macey." They stood, hunched against the cold, and several steps downwind from the mess on the front stoop.

"That dog-" She pointed to where the unrepentant hound sat tied to a tree trunk by a length of clothesline. "He's got no more sense than a block of wood."

"No arguing there, either." Ripley watched the dopey-faced dog grin and loll his tongue. "But, you know, he's affable."

Gladys merely puffed her cheeks full of air, blew it out. "Why he's taken such a shine to me I don't know, but the fact is, every blessed time he gets loose he's over here doing his business in my yard, burying some mangy bone in my flower beds, and now this."

She set her hands on her hips and scowled at her stoop. "Just who's going to clean up that awful mess?"

"If you're willing to wait, I'll see that Pete does it. It's coming up to lunchtime, and I'll root him out and make him come over and deal with it."

Gladys sniffed, nodded sharply. Justice, she thought, was justice, and the Todds usually found a way to meet it. "I want it done soon and I want it done right."

"I'll see to that. Pete's going to get slapped with a fine, too."

Gladys folded her lips. "Been fined before."

"Yes, ma'am, he has." Okay, Ripley thought, what would Zack do? The dog was harmless, puppy-friendly and dumb as a turnip. His major flaw was his obsession with dead fish parts, which he either joyfully rolled in or greedily consumed. Each with revolting results.

As inspiration struck, Ripley hardened her face. "The fact is, that dog's a public nuisance, and Pete's been warned." She tapped her fingers on the butt of her weapon. "We'll have to impound the dog this time."

"Well, I should think ..." Gladys trailed off, blinked. "What do you mean, impound?"

"Don't you worry about that, Mrs. Macey. We'll take care of the dog. He won't be coming around your yard to do any kind of mischief in the future."

The little clutch in Gladys's throat had her voice quavering. "Now wait just a minute."

As Ripley had counted on, Gladys gripped her arm. "Do you mean to take that dog in and ... and have it put down?"

"He can't be controlled ..." Ripley let the sentence, and its implication, hang. The dog cooperated by sending out a pitiful whine.

"Ripley Todd, I'm ashamed of you for suggesting such a thing. I'm not having it, not for a minute."

"Now, Mrs. Macey-"

"Don't you Mrs. Macey me." Incensed, she wagged her finger in Ripley's face. "That's the most heartless thing I've ever heard! Putting that harmless dog down just because he's stupid."

"But you said-"

"I said he pooped in my yard!" Gladys waved her arms, currently covered in the shocking-pink wool of her sweater. "What are you going to do, pull that gun and put a bullet in his ear?"

"No, I-"