Charade (15 page)

It had arrived in an envelope identical to the first. Also identical to the first, it contained nothing except a newspaper clipping, this one bearing a dateline from Boca Raton, Florida. A sixty-two-year-old woman had been found dead from an accidental fall. While at home by herself, she'd attempted to water a plant hanging from a hook in her ceiling. Her stepladder had slipped from beneath her, and she'd fallen through the patio door. Broken glass had pierced her lung. Like the boy in Memphis, she'd had a heart transplant. Cat didn't know what to make of these cryptic messages. As a former cop, what would Alex's assessment be? Would he think they were cause for alarm, or would he pass them off as the handiwork of a kook? She had almost decided that that's exactly what the first one was, but then she'd received the second. It was an odd coincidence that two heart transplantees had died in such bizarre accidents. Even more odd was that someone was making it his business to alert her to these deaths. "Nuts," she said, impatiently stuffing the clippings back into their envelopes and slamming the nightstand drawer closed. They'd probably been sent just to annoy and perplex her. She wouldn't let them. If she wasted a moment's concern over them, she was letting a nutcase control her mind. Mail sent by wackos was a hazard of her profession. One took it in stride. Unless the messages became outright threatening, they were nothing to fret over. Besides, she had more pressing matters to think about--like what to wear to the Websters' dinner party.

"Wow." Cat arrived at Alex's apartment five minutes ahead of schedule. He was dressed in dark slacks and a dove-gray shirt, which he hadn't yet tucked in. The unfastened cuffs were flapping around his wrists and only two buttons were buttoned. He was barefoot. His compliment hadn't been so much a word as a soft expulsion of breath. Her knees turned to jelly. "Thank you." "You look great." "Thanks again. I'm sorry I'm early. Traffic wasn't as heavy as I

expected. Rather than wait outside in the car, I thought I'd see if you were ready yet. But it's fine that you're not. There's no rush. We've got plenty of--" "What are you so nervous about? I promised to wear shoes and socks, didn't I?" He was very intuitive. She'd been babbling to cover an outbreak of tummy butterflies. It made her even more nervous to know that he could read her so well. But he had a writer's insight. If he were writing this scene, he would have had the nervous character chattering like a moron. His insight into human behavior and motivation put her at a disadvantage. She'd have to watch herself in the future, play with a poker face, not give so much away. He moved aside. "Come in." "Said the spider to the fly." "I don't bite." He closed the door and locked it. "Not hard anyway." Laughing, more at ease now, Cat glanced around the living area of his two-story apartment. It smelled of fresh paint. The vaulted ceiling and tall windows reminded her of her house in Malibu. Above, the second-story gallery encompassed two walls. "Bedroom's up there," he said. "Kitchen back through there. Those double doors open onto a deck." "I like it." "It's okay," he said. "As you know, I'm not much of a housekeeper." Actually she was impressed by the neatness of the apartment, until she noticed the hem of a shirt peeking beneath the sofa cushions. The magazines on the end table appeared to have been stacked hastily, and a Butterfinger wrapper was stuck to the cover of one. On the coffee table were moisture rings linked together like the Olympics logo. "No shit, Delaney. You look fantastic tonight." His compliment brought her around quickly. His gaze was hot and intense. It scorched her like a marshmallow in a bonfire. "Thanks." "I thought redheads weren't supposed to wear orange." "It's not orange, it's copper." "It's orange."

The short, straight slip dress was held up by narrow shoulder straps and was covered with thin metal disks that glittered like new pennies. She hadn't worn anything with a scooped neckline since her transplant. She wouldn't have as recently as a few weeks ago. But Alex had rid her of her self-consciousness over her scar. "Whatever the hell you call it," he said, "it's the same color as your hair and makes you shimmer like flames." "Spoken like a writer. You're a poet and didn't know it." "But you can tell by my feet. They're a coupla Longfellows," he said, completing the banality. He looked down at his bare feet. "Make yourself at home. I'll be right back." He took the stairs two at a time. By the time he'd reached the gallery, he'd unfastened the fly of his trousers and was stuffing in his shirttail. "There might be something in the fridge to drink. I'm not sure. Help yourself to whatever's there," "Okay, thanks. Where's your motorcycle? I didn't see it outside." "I put it in the shop for a complete overhaul." "Shoot. I'd like to ride it again." "Yeah. Once you have that much power between your legs, you get addicted." "Very funny." "I'm going to miss it. The guy said it might take a few months to do the job right." "How's the novel going?" "It sucks." "I doubt that." Her experience with writers was that they typically held low opinions of their current projects. She meandered around his living room, searching for clues into the nature of the man. There were none. The only personal aspect to the room was his hasty attempt to straighten it before her arrival. Otherwise it lacked the stamp of occupancy and ownership. There were no family photos, no memorabilia, no mail or coupons or receipts. The furnishings lacked character and looked rented. She was vaguely disappointed. Stashed beneath the stairs she discovered two shipping boxes with the titles of his two novels stenciled on them. They were still sealed. Why hadn't he dispensed copies of his books to family and friends?

Maybe he had, and these were extras. Or maybe he didn't have any family and friends. And maybe her imagination was running away with her. She glanced through the miniblinds on the French doors. There was nothing remarkable about the deck. It looked unused. On her way down the short hall to the kitchen, she noticed a closed door he'd failed to point out to her. Closet? Powder room? She stepped back to gauge the dimensions of the space behind the door. The area was larger than a closet or small bathroom. Her hand was on the doorknob before she even realized she was reaching for it. She paused to reconsider. Why hadn't he mentioned this room? Had the omission been intentional? She cautiously turned the knob. The door opened soundlessly. There was nothing to see inside but darkness. She widened the crack and poked her head into the room. Faint light leaked through the drawn blinds. She could barely discern shapes, but she saw what looked like a table, a-- His hand clamped down on her wrist. "What the hell are you doing?"

Chapter Twenty-one

Damn it, Alex!" She wrenched her hand free and whirled around to face him. "You scared the crap out of me! What's the matter with you?" He pulled the door shut with a decisive click. "That room is no-man's-land. No visitors allowed." "Then why didn't you post a No Trespassing sign? What do you do in there, print counterfeit money?" He took her wrist, loosely this time. "Sorry if I startled you. I didn't mean to. It's just that I'm very protective of my work space." "To say the least," she said crossly. "Please understand. What I do in there is extremely personal." He stared at the closed door as if he could see through it. "In that room I'm at my best, and at my worst. It's where I give birth to every goddamn word, and giving birth is painful as hell. It's where I create. Also where I curse the creative process. It's my ultraprivate, masochistic torture chamber." He smiled wryly. "Sounds crazy to a nonwriter, I know, but having somebody invade my work space would be like having somebody rape

my subconscious. It would be violated. It would never again belong exclusively to me and my thoughts." The chastisement was well deserved. She shouldn't have poked her nose into a room with a closed door. Artists and sculptors kept their current projects under wraps until they were completed. No one ever heard a composer's music until it met with his satisfaction. She should have guessed that Alex would be at least as protective of his writing. "I didn't realize," she said remorsefully. "I'm sorry." "Except for this room, you can have the run of the place. I'll allow you access to my pantry and refrigerator, my dirty clothes hamper, even my private collection of erotica, but this room is off limits." "My curiosity," she said, shaking her head. "One of the child welfare counselors predicted that it would be my undoing. But he also thought that chocolate was poison and cautioned me never to eat it." She glanced at him, her expression only partially repentant. "I'm afraid I didn't heed either warning." He propped one of his forearms against the wall, trapping her there. "You're forgiven for your curiosity. Forgive me for overreacting?" He'd draped a tie around his neck, but he hadn't knotted it yet. He smelled of soap--clean, damp, male skin, which to Cat was more appealing than expensive fragrance. His hair was still uncombed and looked only towel-dried. Altogether, he was one gorgeous, incredibly sexy man. "You have a private stash of erotica?" she asked in a hushed voice. "Uh-huh." "How long have you been collecting?" "Since I was old enough to know it was nasty." "That long? Hmm. I'd like to see it sometime." He grinned lazily. "I think you have a wicked streak, Cat Delaney." "That was another thing that confounded the social workers." His eyes scanned her face, then moved down her throat. He was standing so close that, in order to take in the rest of her, he had to tilt down his head. The top of his head glanced her cheekbone. She felt his breath on her chest. He still had hold of her right wrist. He flattened it against the

wall a little above her head, the underside facing outward. He kissed that delicate, translucent patch of skin where her pulse was racing. He stroked it with his tongue. Then his lips grazed hers. "What time does that party get under way?" "Ten minutes ago." "Damn." Ducking his head, he nuzzled her neck where it merged with her shoulder. "But I'd planned for us to be fashionably late." "How come? Figured I wouldn't be ready in time?" "No. just in case . . . Uh . . ."It was difficult to think while he was nibbling her earlobe. "You know, just in case we got . . . tied up." "You want to get tied up?" Her stomach rose and fell. There was a catch in her throat. "I meant tied up in traffic or something." "Oh. Traffic. Right." He began to pull away, but Cat grabbed his necktie. "We're not missing anything," she whispered. "They'll have an extended cocktail hour." "And neither of us drinks." He placed his hand beneath her breast and pushed it up, bending his head down to the fullness that swelled above the neckline of her dress. He gently sucked her skin against his teeth. Cat moaned in pleasure and arched against him. He raised his head and kissed her mouth, his tongue wily and provocative. When the kiss finally ended, he kept his lips resting against hers. His breath rushed in and out. "So . . . ?" "What?" "Wanna fuck?" The unexpected vulgarity doused her desire like a bucket of cold water in the face. She shoved him away. He raised his hands at his sides in a gesture of innocence and surrender. "You accused the heroes in my novels of never asking permission. Thought I'd give it a try, that's all." "You could have phrased it a little more politely!" "Okay." Looking contrite, he folded his hands beneath his chin. "Wanna fuck, please, ma'am?"

"Cute." She tried to move past him, but he caught her around the waist and placed her between him and the wall again. There was no doubt as to whether he was teasing when he kissed her this time. More possessive than seductive, he continued to kiss her until her anger evaporated and she was kissing him back with equal ardor. When he finally released her, Cat's lips throbbed hotly. Her entire body was flushed and tingling. "I want you," he said. "But not when I have to worry about messing up your hair or makeup." He ran his thumb roughly over her lower lip. "Not when I'm in a hurry and under a deadline. Not when we're expected at a party that might earn you some cash for your kids. Because I doubt that once with you will be enough. Got that?" Left breathless and aroused by his speech, she could only nod in response. "I was having some fun with you by being crude, but the invitation stands. As stated." His eyes went measurably darker. "It's only a matter of you choosing the time and place. Understood?" Again she nodded. He held her stare for a ten count, then turned away. "Give me a few more minutes."

"Cat, you're here!" Nancy Webster embraced her. "Everyone's dying to meet you." A uniformed maid had shown Cat and Alex into the living room of the Websters' impressive home. Tonight it was brimming with the city's affluent and influential. The noise level was indicative of Nancy Webster's ability to make her guests feel at ease. "I apologize for being late," Cat said. "We--" "It was my fault," Alex interrupted. "Something came up." That earned him a dirty look from Cat, but Nancy was so eager to meet him that both the wisecrack and Cat's silent rebuke escaped her notice. Nancy clasped hands with him. "Mr. Pierce, welcome." "Alex, please." "I was so excited when Bill told me that Cat was bringing you tonight. I'm honored and delighted to have you in our home."

"I'm very pleased to be here." "Come meet my husband. What would you like to drink?" Nancy was a flawless hostess. With seemingly no effort she soon had a Perrier and lime in Alex's hand, and he and Bill on a first-name basis. "I read your first novel and thought it very good for a first effort," Bill said. It was one of those qualified compliments to which there was no appropriate response. Alex wondered if Webster realized that, and decided immediately that he did. The man was trying to discredit him without it being obvious. He mustered some graciousness. "Thank you for the compliment and the royalty." "Are you working on another book?" "I'm hard at it, yes." "Is the story set in San Antonio?" "Parts of it." Cat looped her arm through Alex's. "Save your questions, Bill. You won't squeeze anything out of him. He's very cloak-and-dagger when it comes to his work." Webster looked at him curiously. "Why's that?" "Talking about the story before it's written spoils the surprises. Not for the reader, but for me." "You're writing the book, but you don't know what's going to happen next?" "Not always, no." Webster frowned, looking doubtful. "I'm afraid I'm too goal-oriented to work like that." Who gives a fuck? was Alex's thought. Cat broke the awkward silence. "I hate to brag, but Alex has asked me to help with his research." "Really?" Webster said. "He was finding the bedroom scenes difficult to write, so I told him some stories from my sordid Hollywood past and gave him permission to . . ." She gestured as though trying to grasp the right word. "Elaborate?" Nancy said helpfully.