Charade (20 page)

"I have no intention of being soft." "I want to know I'm a woman. I want to know I'm with a man. I want to be taken. I want--" "You want to be fucked." Placing a palm over each of her knees, he pushed them apart. But instead of slipping his hand between her thighs as she expected, he lowered his head. His open mouth found her center, his tongue moved inside her. She was too stunned to cry out, even when, moments later, she climaxed. Her chest was heaving; her upper lip was beaded with perspiration; her hair clung damply to her neck and throat. Alex's skin was also slippery with sweat when he levered himself above her and bridged her body with his arms. Eyes closed, face tense, he guided himself into her. Her body seemed to swallow him. It was a snug, glove fit, and his features formed a grimace of immense pleasure as his hips began a rolling motion, forward and back. Slowly, going deeper each time, he sank into her again and again. Cat, who had thought it was over for her, was reawakened by his steady thrusts. She had never experienced lovemaking this intense, this soul-and mind-capturing. She surrendered herself to it totally. He slipped his hands beneath her hips and tilted them up, holding her tightly. He seemed to concentrate on each delving motion, each slow withdrawal. But the tempo gradually increased. His breathing became rapid and ragged. Suddenly, his arms relaxed and he crushed her beneath him. But by then Cat was already spinning within her second orgasm. When he came, it racked his whole body. Every muscle stretched taut, and the harsh, choppy sounds he made were like sobs. It took a long while for them to recover, but Cat would have lain there forever, idly threading her fingers through his mussed hair, licking salty drops of sweat from his brow. He lay on her heavily, replete, but she didn't mind absorbing his weight. He had exerted himself, and that was thrilling to her. He knew the mechanics of mutually satisfying lovemaking. He wrote about them. So it wasn't surprising that he was a skilled, passionate, and totally focused lover. He was, however, as sensual as he was demanding. He'd drawn

from her responses that were purely animalistic, without conscience. Her reactions had originated entirely and unapologetically in the senses. She'd had no control over them. Yet, it had also been a cerebral coupling. Her mind had had intimate intercourse with his. They'd been perfectly in tune with each other's needs and desires, and had seen to their fulfillment. That's why she cherished this restful aftermath, this quiet moment when their breath and sweat mingled and seemed to emanate from one body instead of two. He must have felt the closeness, too. Because perhaps the loveliest thing he did, just before his body withdrew from hers, was to place a soft kiss between her breasts where her scar had been.

She awoke first. Knowing he wasn't a morning person, she lay still and let him sleep. His hair was tousled and looked very dark against the pillowcase. Whiskers were beginning to sprout from his jaw and chin. There were a few gray ones in his sideburns, she noticed. His eyebrows were drawn into a slight frown, indicating that he was never entirely at peace. His private darkness shadowed him even in sleep. The nightstand clock told her that she'd indulged herself long enough. She kissed his bare shoulder and slipped soundlessly from the bed. Downstairs, she dressed, gathering clothes that had been discarded with shameless abandon. Speaking softly into the telephone, she called a taxi. While waiting for it to arrive, she cleaned up the remains of their dinner. On her way into the kitchen to dispose of the debris, she passed the door to the forbidden room but resolutely went by without pausing. She disposed of the trash, rinsed out their glasses, and poured herself a glass of orange juice, which she found in the refrigerator. While leaning against the countertop sipping the juice, she toyed with the idea of opening that door again and taking a peek inside. His objection had worked in the reverse, whetting her curiosity instead of satisfying it. Last night, his naked body had been hers to explore and exploit with unlimited access. They had engaged in the most intimate act between two people. Surely, now that their relationship had pro

gressed to that plateau, he would no longer object to sharing that area of his life with her. But what if he did object? Was it worth risking? No, she decided. She wouldn't trespass; she would wait for him to invite her. The taxi arrived and she left his apartment without his waking up. She retrieved her car at the TV station and drove home, where she showered and dressed and tried to outline an agenda for the day. But her mind kept drifting back to the night before. Erotic recollections crowded her mind, leaving room for little else. Her euphoria must have been apparent because Jeff remarked on it the moment she entered the office. "What happened? You win the lottery?" She laughed and gratefully accepted the cup of coffee he extended to her. "Why do you say that?" "Because your aura is visible to the naked eye this morning. You're positively glowing. I expected you to be upset over Chantal." Her smiled faltered. "I'm still terribly sad, naturally, but not as negative about life in general as I was yesterday. A friend reminded me how marvelous it is to be alive." "Would this 'friend' by any chance be the hunk novelist?" Jeff asked, winking. "He is a hunk, isn't he?" she asked, giggling. "He looked pretty good when he was here yesterday." "You saw him?" "Jeans and boots, et al." She grinned. "That's my boy." "He has that unmade-bed appearance, you know? The rumpled look women find irresistible." Dean had criticized Alex's looks. Jeff obviously approved. "You didn't mention seeing him," she said. "It was during that hullabaloo." He tugged his earlobe in embarrassment. "I admit I was star-struck and tongue-tied. I'd read his novels, and of course I knew you'd been seeing him. But I didn't think I'd ever have the pleasure of meeting him." "I wish you'd paged me and told me he was here." "You were surrounded by cops. Mr. Webster was on the warpath. Later, you seemed so upset that I hated to lay anything else on you. But I take it Mr. Pierce found you last night." He squinted as he

appraised her. "Judging by your goofy grin, my guess is that it was a ... uh, therapeutic evening." "None of your business," she replied coyly, feeling herself blush. Jeff was no fool. He smiled broadly. "Good. I hope you worked out all the kinks. You've been pushing yourself too hard. In fact--" His smile faltered and he cleared his throat. "Can I speak candidly.7 Not as your assistant, but more like a friend?" Cat nodded him into a chair. He pinched up the creases of his trousers and sat down facing her. "I hope I'm not . . . That is . . ." "Spit it out, Jeff." "Well, in the last couple of weeks, you've seemed distracted. Not that you aren't doing a terrific job," he added hastily. "You are. You haven't let whatever is bothering you interfere with work. You're as fabulous as ever. It's just ... I wondered if there's something on your mind. Something besides Alex Pierce, that is." Had her uneasiness been that transparent? Several close acquaintances had commented on it--Dean, Alex, now Jeff. She didn't want anything to cloud her sunny mood today, but she welcomed an opportunity to talk about the two pieces of mail she'd received. She wanted Jeff to second her opinion that it was the handiwork of a kook, that it was nothing to worry about. "You're very observant, Jeff. Actually I have been slightly off balance lately." She removed the two envelopes from her handbag and handed them to him. Days ago she had begun carrying them with her, perhaps with a subconscious hope that she'd have just such an opening in which to show them to someone. "Have a look," she said. "Tell me what you think. And be honest." After comparing the two identical envelopes, he read the enclosed newspaper clippings. "Damn," he whispered after he'd finished reading each of them twice. "Both died in bizarre accidents and both were heart transplantees." "An odd coincidence, isn't it?" "I'll say. But what does it mean? Do you have any idea who sent them?" "No." "I go through all the fan mail you receive. I don't remember seeing

these, although you get so many letters they could have slipped past me. Or did they come through while Melia was still working with us?" "They were sent to my home." He looked at her with consternation. "How would a ... a fan . . . get your home address?" She shrugged. "That's just one of the things that disturbs me about them." Jeff studied the envelopes and reread the articles. Cat watched his eyes moving across the lines of print. His initial reaction and comments hadn't been very encouraging. She had hoped he would tell her outright not to worry. Instead, after he'd reread them, he asked, "Have you shown these to anybody else? Mr. Webster? The police?" "No." "Maybe you should." "I don't want to be an alarmist." "No one would accuse you of that." "I don't know, Jeff." She sighed. "I don't want to send up flares and draw attention to something that's probably nothing." He forced a reassuring grin as he returned the envelopes to her. "Well, you're probably right. I'm sure they're nothing to get upset about. Boy, some people don't have much to do, right?" "Must not. They create dramas for themselves by meddling in the lives of celebrities. They live vicariously." "Exactly. But. . ."He hesitated. "If you get another one, I think you should reconsider and take the matter to the police. Screw what they think. Let them think you're a hysterical female." "Which I'm afraid is exactly what they'd think." "At the very least you should consult the guards here at the station, alert them not to let any strange characters into the building." "Which would exclude about three-quarters of the employees," she quipped. "You've got a point." He flashed a smile but turned serious again. "Be careful, Cat. There're lots of nutcases out there." "I know." She returned the envelopes to her purse and snapped it shut, effectively closing the discussion and resuming the role of boss. "I need to know the particulars on Chantal's funeral."

"Friday at two o'clock. And just so you'll know, Ron Truitt called from the Light earlier. He wanted a statement." "I hope you told him to take a bullet train straight to hell." "Not in those words, but that was the general message. I said you were, and would be, unavailable for comment." "Thanks. If I'd spoken with him, I doubt I would have been that diplomatic. The man's a jackal, always on the scent of fresh blood." Not wanting to dwell on the carnivorous reporter, she moved on. "Please have a flower arrangement from WWSA sent to the funeral home. I want to send something personally, but I'll make those arrangements myself." By the time Jeff withdrew, he had instructions to consult Sherry and forge ahead with their shooting schedule. Last night's doubts about the viability of Cat's Kids seemed ludicrous now. They'd lost Chantal, but there were so many other special children who needed the program. No matter what obstacles she encountered--bureaucracy, negative press, self-doubts--she must never call it quits. Cat's Kids was an entity larger and more important than she. Alex had helped her see it in a new perspective. In the overall picture, her personal setbacks were insignificant. Just before noon, Jeff returned to her office with a message memo. "Your favorite novelist just phoned." Her heart did a cartwheel as she reached for her telephone. "Which line?" "Unfortunately, he's not holding. He said to tell you that he was in a hurry and only had time to leave a message." Looking as nervous as the herald bringing bad news to the short-tempered queen, Jeff handed her the memo. "He was calling from the airport. Said they'd already announced his flight." "Flight?" Her buoyant spirits sank like lead. "He's leaving town? Where's he going? For how long?" It was all written on the memo, but Jeff imparted the message verbally. "All he said was that he'd be gone for several days and would call you when he got back." "That's it?" Jeff nodded.

She tried to keep her expression impassive, her voice stoic. It was an effort. "Thank you, Jeff." Obsequiously, he backed out of the office and closed the door. Cat neatly folded the memo, then stared at the square of lined paper as though it might offer an explanation that had thus far been withheld. It didn't. She was crushed. She had hoped they'd have dinner together tonight. It had been only a few hours since she'd left him, but she yearned to see him. That weakness made her angry with herself. He was certainly showing no signs of yearning. Here she sat, shackled by the blues, feeling like the only girl in the senior class who didn't have a date for the prom, while he was taking flight. Literally. Her dejection quickly turned to pique. What had sent him out of town in such a hurry? Business or pleasure? What had been so damned important that he'd hotfooted it out of town without even taking the time to say goodbye?

Chapter Twenty-seven

Alex wasn't particularly fond of New York City, but it fascinated him. It was a city of superlatives, epitomizing despair, dirt, and destitution, and glitz, glitter, and glamour. His reactions to it were always extreme, never lukewarm. He saw things within the same city block that could either exhilarate or disgust him. He and his agent were having dinner in a small mom and pop restaurant on the West Side. Earlier in his relationship with Arnold Villella, on about his third trip to the Big Apple, Alex had eschewed the outrageously expensive meals at The Four Seasons and Le Cirque. "If I can't pronounce it or don't know its origin, I won't eat it," he'd told his agent. Villella had called him a philistine but thereafter allowed Alex to choose where they dined. Occasionally, if they had something special to celebrate, Alex permitted Villella to treat him to a late-night hamburger at 21. But Oswald's Cafe, overseen by the robust Hungarian immigrant himself, had become one of Alex's favorite places. The roast beef sandwiches were piled high with rare, tender shavings and served with a dark, grainy mustard so hot that it brought tears to the eyes.

Tonight, he wolfed down his sandwich while Villella tinkered with a bowl of goulash. "You were hungry," the agent observed. "Didn't they feed you on the airplane?" "I guess. I don't remember." He remembered very little of the short flight from San Antonio to Dallas-Fort Worth, the brief layover, the nonstop to La Guardia, the cab ride into Manhattan, or anything else that had happened since last night. Hot, juicy, noisy, tender, raunchy, gentle, frantic, slow, terrific, mind-blowing sex played hell on his memory. He pushed aside his plate, and when the waiter came for it he ordered coffee. He was halfway through it when he realized that he and his agent hadn't exchanged a word in five minutes. Villella had remained patiently silent. When dealing with penurious publishers, he had the instincts of a barracuda. But with the authors he represented, he was nurturer, disciplinarian, father confessor --adjusting his role to fit the needs of his clients. Arnold Villella had agreed to represent Alex before he had published a single word. Most of the agents he had queried returned his first manuscript unread, their policy being that they didn't represent unpublished writers. Catch-22 of the publishing industry: You couldn't get published without an agent, and you couldn't get an agent without having been published. But Villella had telephoned him in Houston on a Friday morning during a thunderstorm. Alex had a hangover, and Villella had to repeat himself several times before Alex could hear the message above the crashing thunder outside the window and inside his skull. "I think your writing has promise. You have a raw but unique style. I'd like to represent you if you're interested." Without delay, Alex flew to New York to meet the one person on the planet who believed his writing had promise. Villella was quick and inquisitive. He was opinionated and blunt. But not unkind. When he discovered Alex's drinking problem, he had refrained from prying and said only that he had been associated with quite a few talented writers, many of whom were alcoholics. "While alcohol