Charade (17 page)

"No. It's not a line. I mean it. You're quick. Smart. Competitive. A good sport." "Hmm, quick, smart, and competitive. And a good sport. Maybe I should give up trying to be a sex symbol and audition for Jeopardy instead." For the remainder of the drive they kept the conversation light. They were still laughing over an anecdote from the dinner party when they turned down her street. Cat braked suddenly. "Who's that?" A dark sedan was parked at the curb in front of her house. Although it was visible from half a block away, it was partially obscured by the shadows of the overhanging branches of the live oak trees in her yard. "You don't recognize the car?" Alex asked. She shook her head. "Expecting company?"

"No." She had told herself that the two clippings sent to her anonymously were nothing to worry about, but she knew it would be foolish to dismiss them entirely. Nutcases were known to have committed heinous crimes due to their fixations on celebrities. She'd been taking extra safety precautions--making certain her doors and windows remained locked, scanning parking lots before leaving buildings, and checking her backseat before getting into her car. She hadn't gone completely paranoid, but exercising common sense couldn't hurt. "Hey. What's got you so spooked?" Alex asked. "I'm not spooked. I just--" "Don't lie to me. You're practically choking the steering wheel. I can see your pulse racing in your carotid. What gives?" "Nothing." "Cat!" "Nothing!" "Liar. Pull over."

"Do it!" She parked at the curb but left the engine running.

"Cut the lights. Be quiet. Stay put." He opened his door and got out. "Alex, what are you going to do? Alex?" Ignoring her, he sprinted across the neighbors' front lawns toward her house. Soon he melded with the shadows and she could no longer see him. Her initial anxiety had abated. She had been spooked, but only for a moment. Her skittishness now seemed silly. For all she knew, the car belonged to someone visiting a neighbor. Impatiently she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. "Be quiet. Stay put. Sit, roll over, play dead," she muttered with pique. She didn't need him to rescue her. In seconds she was out of the car. Following the path Alex had taken, she ran on tiptoe, sticking to the shadows. The closer she got to her house the more ridiculous she felt. Would someone with a grudge against her park in front of her house, announcing his presence? On the other hand, how could she account for the eerie feeling of being watched that she'd experienced lately? Those damn white envelopes and their cryptic warnings were playing mind games with her. She'd always scorned cowardice. It wasn't like her to be jumpy, to imagine bogeymen lurking in shadows, ready to pounce. Yet, her nervousness increased the closer she came to her house. Except for the soft glow of the porch light, all was in darkness. There was no sound; nothing moved. Then, coming from the backyard, she heard raised voices. A shout. A grunt. Scuffling sounds. Shortly, two figures materialized out of the darkness. Alex was struggling with another man as he virtually dragged him into the front yard. "I found him trying to break in the rear door," he told her. "You son of a bitch," the other man growled. "Let go of me." "Not a chance." Alex threw him facedown onto the ground and crouched over him, planting his knee in the small of the man's back. He shoved his right hand up between his shoulder blades. "If you so much as move, I'll break your frigging arm," he threatened. "Cat, call 911."

Galvanized, she ran up the front walk, but almost tripped on the steps when her name was once again called out, this time by a voice ragged with indignation and pain, but nevertheless familiar. "Cat, for crissake, call this cocksucker off me." She whirled around, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Dean?"

Chapter twenty-three

Cat swabbed the scrape on Dean Spicer's cheek with peroxide. The cardiologist winced and cursed beneath his breath. Alex, straddling a chair backward, struggled to contain his smile. They were gathered around Cat's kitchen table. It was exactly the kind of kitchen Alex would have assigned her if she were one of his fictional characters. The basic color was white, accented with splashes of color--a Georgia O'Keeffe poppy on one wall, African violets blooming on the windowsill, a whimsical black and white teapot patterned like a Holstein cow. Spicer brushed aside Cat's hands. "It's fine," he grumbled. "Do you have anything to drink?" "You mean liquor? No." "Aspirin?" She shook her head remorsefully. He sighed. "Well, I guess you weren't expecting a guest to be attacked and wrestled to the ground." He glared at Alex. "I think an apology is in order." "I won't apologize for reacting to what I saw, which was you trying to pick the lock on Cat's back door."

True, he'd roughed Spicer up before discovering that he was friend, not foe, but he hadn't really hurt him. All that was wounded was his pride, and Alex couldn't work up any sympathy for that. "You shouldn't have been prowling around in the dark trying to break into her house," he said. "You should have asked for some identification before attacking me." Alex snickered. "That's a good way to get your head blown off. You don't walk up to a perp and politely ask to see some ID. You contain him, then ask questions. You wouldn't last ten minutes on the streets doing it any other way." "I wouldn't know. Unlike you, I'm not from the streets." Alex came out of his chair so fast that it went over backward. "You'd better be glad Cat recognized you when she did. I was about to sew your asshole shut for calling me a cocksucker." "Guys!" Cat exclaimed. "We're all friends here, right? A mistake was made, but it's the kind of thing that we'll laugh over in a few weeks." Alex doubted that either he or Spicer would ever think this was funny, but he didn't argue with Cat. She was already as jumpy as her namesake. He righted his chair and sat back down. He and Spicer continued to eye each other with animosity. As Cat recapped the bottle of peroxide and set it aside, she mildly chided her unexpected guest. "If only you'd called and told me you were coming, this could have been avoided." "I wanted to surprise you." "Well you certainly succeeded in doing that!" she said brightly. Too brightly. Her smile seemed forced. Alex guessed that she wasn't too thrilled to see Dr. Spicer, whom she'd introduced only as her friend. Alex didn't need it spelled out that Spicer had been more to her than that. Her voice sounded thin and strained now as she politely asked about his flight. "Did you get a meal on the plane? Can I fix you something?" "I didn't eat the meal they served, but I've had your cooking. Thanks anyway." "Coffee?" "None for me." "Me, either."

"Well then, we should go into the living room." Neither of them moved, so she joined them at the kitchen table. "I can't believe you actually came to San Antonio," she said to Spicer. "I didn't think you'd be caught dead out here in the provinces." "From what I've seen so far, it lives up to my low expectations." "Thanks a lot!" Her umbrage was in jest, but he took it seriously. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Your house is nice." He gave the kitchen a critical glance. "Nothing compared to your place in Malibu, of course." "True. There is a shortage of beachfront property in San Antonio." Cat laughed nervously at her joke. Neither Alex nor Spicer cracked a smile. They left it to her to carry the conversation. "When did you decide to make the trip, Dean?" "It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I had only a few appointments over the next several days. It was easy to reschedule them and take a few days off." "However it came about, I'm awfully glad you're here." She was lying and Alex knew it. Furthermore, so did Spicer. "Actually your timing was good," she said with forced gaiety. "We were just returning from a dinner party hosted by the Websters." Spicer made a noncommittal grunt. "Nancy's organizing a celebrity fund-raiser for Cat's Kids." "How nice." "The creme de la creme of San Antonio society were there." "Which I'm sure isn't saying much." Alex admired the self-control it must have cost her to ignore Spicer's insulting remark. Even her smile held up. "The women there were all aflutter over meeting Alex." Spicer turned to him. "You're a cop, right?" "Formerly." Another harrumph, rife with disdain. "Alex writes crime novels now. He's become quite famous. Have you read either of his books?" Spicer looked at her as though the very idea was unthinkable. "No." "Maybe you should," Alex said blandly. "I can't think of a single reason why I'd want to." "You might learn something useful, like how to defend yourself."

Spicer shot to his feet, then swayed dizzily and had to grab hold of the back of his chair to keep from pitching forward. Alex suppressed another satisfied grin. Cat had sprung up to assist the cardiologist back into his chair. As soon as he was resettled, she planted both fists on her hips and said angrily, "All right, I've had it with you two. I'm trying to be Emily Post, and trying to referee, and neither role suits me. Now cut it out! You're acting like jerks. Over nothing." "I wouldn't call this nothing," Spicer said, pointing to the scratch on his cheek. "Gimme a break," Alex muttered. "You almost did." Spicer sneered. "In fact, you threatened to break my arm." "Dean--" "Because I thought you were a burglar. Turns out you're only a fool for creeping around in the dark and--" "Alex ..." He came to his feet. "Save it, Cat. Doesn't matter. I think I heard my taxi pull up outside." "You've already called one?" "While you were getting the first-aid stuff." "Oh. I thought you'd stay and visit with us." "No, I wouldn't want to keep you from your guest. It's been an experience. Doctor." Spicer glowered at him. To cover his rudeness, Cat murmured, "I'll see you out, Alex." She walked him through her house to the front door. She'd removed her high heels, so her footsteps fell silently on the hardwood floors, although they creaked pleasantly beneath his weight. The rooms were spacious, illuminated by strategically placed lamps instead of ceiling light fixtures. Their soft light fell on framed photographs, magazines, and bowls of fragrant potpourri. The sofas and chairs were oversized and overstuffed and piled with pillows. The ambience was unpretentious, soft, and friendly. She opened the front door. "You were right. The taxi's here." It was parked at the curb behind Spicer's rental car. Turning back, she said softly, "Thanks again for escorting me to the party tonight."

"Thanks for asking me." If she were smart, she would leave it there and say good night. But she didn't. Laughing weakly, she said, "We had a surprise ending to the evening, didn't we?" "Yeah." "More exciting than a quiet cup of coffee." "Less exciting than a roll in the sack." She tossed her head. "Must you be so crude?" "Must you be so coy? You know damn good and well that we were headed for bed." "I had already said no." "But did you mean it?" She lowered her head. He touched her chin and brought it back up. "We're grown-ups. We both know what we're leading up to, so don't try and bullshit me, okay? Since I looked at you through Irene and Charlie's screen door I've wanted you. And you've known it. And you've wanted me, too. Everything we've said and done since then has been foreplay." She glanced nervously toward the kitchen. That irked him. "I get the message. Good night, Cat." He slipped through the door and was about halfway down the walk when he glanced back over his shoulder. She was still standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the light behind her. One hand was raised and resting on the jamb, as though it had been arrested in a motion of entreaty. Whether it was because she looked wistful and a little forlorn, or because he was still pissed because her former lover had shown up at an inopportune time, or because he truly was the shit he'd confessed to being, he disregarded his conscience and his better judgment and reversed his direction. He covered the same distance in a fraction of the time. Without a word, he cupped the back of her head and slid his fingers up through her hair. His other arm encircled her waist and pulled her against him. He kissed her with lust and anger, his mouth hard. His tongue thrust deeply and possessively. Then, as abruptly as he'd begun the kiss, he ended it. She stared up at him, her wet lips parted in astonishment. He left her looking stunned and aroused, kissable, and fuckable, and when

he marched down the walk the second time, he was angrier than before. With Spicer, with her, with himself. With everything. Every goddamn thing.

"How long has this been going on?" Dean didn't waste any time. No sooner had she cleared the kitchen door than he plunged right into the topic she'd hoped they could avoid. "What?" "Don't play dumb, Cat. This thing with that cop cum writer." His interrogative stare demanded an answer. "There's no thing with Alex and me." She told him about the mix-up at the Walterses' house. "Since that bizarre first meeting, we've seen each other a few times. It's friendly. That's all." Dean snorted skeptically. Because she had lied with the same lips that still throbbed from Alex's kiss, she went on the offensive. "Look, Dean, I'm glad you came to see me, but who gave you the liberty to break into my house while I wasn't home?" "I didn't think you'd mind. I already tried to explain it to you and that Neanderthal. When you weren't here, I decided to let myself in and wait. I can't understand why you're so upset. I had a set of keys to your house in Malibu. I fail to see the difference." "The difference is that I gave you the keys to the Malibu house. 1 knew you had them." She realized that her voice was rising along with her anger, so she scaled it down. "You should have let me know you were coming. I don't like surprises. I've told you that a million times." "Then your dislike for surprises is one of the few things about you that hasn't changed since you came here." Abruptly he stood and began to move around the room without taking his eyes off her. It was as though he wanted to view her from several different perspectives. "I don't know what's caused the change. Whether it's hanging out with that hoodlum or your job here. But something's had an adverse effect. You're different." "In what way?"

"You're skittish. Nervous. Like you're about to jump out of your skin." "I don't know what you're talking about." But she did, and it bothered her that it was so visible. "The minute I saw you it was apparent to me. Whatever is wrong--" Suddenly his face went slack. "Oh, God. Are you feeling okay? Is there anything wrong with your heart? Have you shown signs of rejecting?" She held up her hands to ease his alarm. "No, Dean." She shook her head, her expression softening to reassure him. "I feel wonderful. I still marvel over how good I feel. Each day I discover something I can do that was once impossible. Even after all this time, the newness hasn't worn off." "Just don't get reckless," he said in his stern doctor's voice. "I'm relieved that you're doing well now, but if you ever have any sign of rejection, you know to call me. Immediately." "I promise." "I know you get annoyed when I harp on you, but someone has to keep reminding you that you're not like everyone else. You're a heart transplantee. "I am like everyone else. I don't want to be pampered." He was deaf to her protests. "You work too hard." "I love to work. I've thrown myself headlong into Cat's Kids." "Is that why you're wound up so tight?" She wanted to show Dean the mysterious clippings and their envelopes. She would welcome his evaluation. But, knowing Dean, he would probably insist that she notify the police. To do so would be to admit their significance. She was still trying to convince herself that the veiled warnings meant nothing. "Perhaps I seem uptight because tonight's party was more than just a social gathering. I had to impress a lot of people, and that's exhausting. At any given time I've got a lot on my mind," she told him honestly. "I love the work and the kids, but a program like this isn't without its headaches, some relating to production and others to dealing with bureaucracy. The red tape is always tangled. By day's end, I feel like a one-armed juggler with ten balls in the air."