Dying to Have Her (16 page)

“Great!” Ricardo agreed. “That’s a good-looking car.”

Liam opened the door wider, and Ricardo walked on in. Liam followed him into the kitchen. Serena had taken the chair next to Joe’s. Her head was close to his. She had been whispering to him vehemently.

She started when she saw Ricardo, then stood quickly, and offered her hand. “Hi. I know you from somewhere—”

“Grainger House, a while back, Miss McCormack. I was working for Conar Markham.”

“Yes, of course. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks. Come on, Mr. Penny,” he said to Joe. “I’m going to get you home.”

“Serena—” Joe began, pointing at her.

“Joe, if you wag that finger at me again, I’m going to break it off,” Serena told him firmly.

Joe turned, winking at Liam. “She’s a tough one, isn’t she?” He looked at her again. “Good night, Serena. You know I do love you. You just wounded me. To the quick.”

Liam followed Joe and Ricardo to the front door, running his fingers through his hair, then over his cheeks. He needed to shave. He needed to sleep.

He needed to get the hell out of this house.

He was startled to see that Serena had followed him out to the living room, and he was alarmed to realize that he hadn’t heard her. His senses weren’t as sharp as they should be.

Her eyes were very wide, as teal as the Caribbean Sea. That V on her robe was falling over the contour of her breast.

“What time is it?” she asked him.

“Four-fifteen.”

“If you need to go home, I’ll be all right,” she told him. The words were supposed to be strong and sure. They fell a little short.

She lifted a hand and let it fall. “I was scared to death when I heard all the thrashing out there, but it was just Joe.”

“Yeah, just Joe. And I’m going to start wagging a finger at you in about half a second. I don’t care who it was or is—don’t come running out until you’re absolutely certain that the situation is under control.”

He crossed the room to her, pausing in front of her to press a point.

Big mistake. He forgot his point.

She smelled wonderful, like the scent of the stuff she bathed in. Clean, sweet, fresh, feminine … and sensual.

He set his hands on her shoulders, drawing her undivided attention. “Whoever pushed over that ladder was someone at
Valentine Valley.
Which
could
mean Joe. Serena, you don’t want it to be anyone you know. You don’t want to believe that behind the facades that are the day-to-day faces of your friends, a killer may lurk. Right now you can’t trust anyone.”

“But I’m supposed to trust you,” she reminded him.

He pulled his hands away. “Yeah, don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone.”

She stepped away from him. “There are still a few hours to catch some sleep,” she said.

He rubbed his chin, wincing. Dumb what he was about to say. “I need a shower and shave. May I use your guest room?”

She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter in the least. “Sure.”

He turned and walked to the door, locking it. He looked back at her. “Is the alarm code the same?”

“Yes.”

He keyed in the alarm. He stared at her from a distance. Damn that robe.

“Can I borrow a razor?”

“I still have one of yours. You, uh, have some shirts, socks, and underwear here, too, I think.”

“You didn’t burn them?”

“Too busy,” she said. “Help yourself, your things are … where they were.”

That surprised him. He walked past her into her bedroom. Nothing had changed. At that moment, he would have given anything to forget the past months and belong here again. She had a great bedroom. Designer sheets that were sensible rather than frilly, in sea patterns. The drapes were aqua, like her eyes. The carpet was rich; the furniture was antique.

The sheets were rumpled—she had been in bed.

He walked into the bathroom, found his razor in the cabinet. Back in the bedroom, he hesitated, then opened her closet door. Two shirts were still hanging to the right of her extensive wardrobe. In a small chest of drawers just inside the closet were some socks and underwear. He took both and stepped out of the closet.

She hadn’t followed him. He walked back across the living room. “Guess I’ve got everything. Go get some sleep.”

“Fine. The coffee is still on if you want some. Good night.”

She turned and started for her bedroom herself. The door closed.

He watched after her, hoping against hope that the door would open again. It didn’t. He berated himself for being a fool, then helped himself to a cup of black coffee and brought it with him into the guest room.

He left the bedroom and bathroom doors ajar.

This room was done in wicker. Cute, welcoming. The bathroom sported a big tub and a separate shower enclosed on three sides by glass.

He shaved first, then cast off his clothing and stepped into the shower. He ran the water cold at first. Icy. Then he ran it hot.

A second later, he heard a tapping. “Liam … sorry, I forgot. There are hand towels in here but no bath towels. I’ll just throw one in the door for you.”

Standing in the steaming spray, he looked down at his body in dismay. Here he was trying to be sane and responsible, and the sound of her voice was like an instant call to duty.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said hoarsely.

He realized through the mist that she had entered quickly to throw in the towel, but then she hesitated. An irrational anger seized him.

He threw open the door. Steam rushed out like a silver-gray cloud; water sprayed everywhere. She had obviously gone back to bed—the robe was gone and she was only in that wisp of silk that gave away far more than it concealed.

“Look, sorry,” she murmured, as if she were about to flee.

But he stepped out of the shower stall and grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry, too,” he told her.

She was there, in his arms. Arms that instantly dampened the silk and made it adhere to her flesh. She felt fire, she smelled like something wonderfully wild, sweet, and exotic, and he was certain that she hadn’t seen but she could now
feel
the extent of his arousal. His palms, wet, traced her cheek. He held her jaw and found her lips, telling himself that if she protested in the least, he’d be back in icy water. Her lips parted to his with the slightest little moue. He remembered the way she kissed, open-mouthed, tongue dueling, sliding, teasing, tasting of sweet mint. Before he knew what he was doing, he had her off her feet. The spread on the wicker bed, he noted, was a white knit. He eased her down on it, tongue tracing the pattern of the wet silk over her body. His hand cupped a breast, he laved it through the silk with his tongue, rounding the taut peak of her nipple. She arched against him, gasping something incoherent, her fingers in his hair, on his shoulders. His fingers ran down the wet silk, finding the hem of the gown, stripping it upward so that he touched bare flesh. His trembling fingers raked the length of her and gloried in it, peeling the silk higher and higher, as far as her hip. Her pelvic bone created a dip and a shadow; he pressed his lips to the hollow there, spreading his liquid caress to the point of her navel, back to her hip, stroking her inner thigh, then pressing it wide. He could drink in the scent of her, the taste of her. He seemed wrapped in an essence, his own heart pulsing like thunder, creating a throbbing and pounding that seemed to fill him. He stroked between her thighs, lowered his head, and reveled in sensation. She arched and writhed against him like a wild thing, an angel gone mad. Her fingers tore into his hair, her nails scraped his shoulders, and she cried out, ecstatic, embarrassed, consumed, and reaching a volatile peak in a matter of seconds. He rose above her, seeking her eyes. They opened, a dazed aqua pool; her lashes shuttered. He caught her lips again, bringing her into the fervent desperation now riding him. A second later, he sank into her, encased in the sheath of her sex and moved with an urgent beat that seemed ready to snap him in two. Her arms were around him, fingers touched, brushed, stroked. So easy … she was lithe, agile, erotic in her own movements to meet his, writhing, reaching. The scent of her, taste of her, drove him to a frenzy. He knew her, God yes, he knew her, the way she could close around him, move instinctively to bring him to an explosive and shattering climax. His body locked in muscled tension, he thrust deeply into her again and felt the sexual tension in him burst like a fireworks display. He shuddered into her again, and again, and again, and still it seemed that the force of his climax swept from him. It was several long moments before he lifted his weight from hers, falling to the bed at her side.

He meant to take her into his arms. From there … where? He wasn’t certain.

She didn’t give him time. She sprang up, trying to adjust the remnants of silk back around herself as she headed for the door.

“Serena!” he said, half rising.

“Good night!” she said firmly.

“Wait!” he was up, naked, striding after her. “Wait, dammit, I’m sorry—!”

She spun around in the living room. “I know you’re sorry, I know you’ve got a life, and I’m sorry, too, and we’ll just forget it. You don’t have to worry about your hole-digging blonde; she need never know this happened. Good night—get some sleep, I know I need some.”

“Dammit, Serena,” he said again. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

“Great. You didn’t mean to!” she said angrily. “Well, actually, I didn’t mean to, either. Or maybe I did. It was wrong. I’m sorry. Good night!”

“Serena, wait—”

“Wait? Why? You just walked away. Allow me the return courtesy and allow me to just walk away this time.”

He still followed her across the room. But she slipped inside her door.

It closed with a heavy slam.

He stood outside it, hands clenched at his sides, jaw locked, his teeth biting his lower lip.

He stalked back into her living room. The lights were dim, but on. The drapes to the patio were wide open, as they had been. So he was standing there, naked, blowing in the breeze, as if he were on a giant TV screen.

If there was anyone watching …

He was suddenly certain that there
was
someone out there.

Trees were rustling, a shrub wafted in the breeze.

He hurried back into the guest room, slipping into his pants only. He returned to the living room, keyed in the alarm, and opened the patio doors. He stepped out into the yard.

He was as certain then, as certain as he had been that there had been someone, that now the someone was gone.

Still, he walked across the yard. It was enclosed by a privacy fence, but it was at least an acre of lawn and shrub and ivy. He passed an oak and saw that the bark had been skimmed. There were branches down by a small fig tree farther back.

He eyed the length of the wall in self-disgust.

He had lost his quarry.

He swore, then headed back into the house, carefully keying in the alarm entry once again.
What the hell was going on here?

He finished dressing, poured himself coffee, and sat down in front of her door. He dozed now and then.

When he heard the rustle of her first movements in the morning, he rose again, swearing as he tried to stretch out the cricks in his neck and back.

He made fresh coffee. Then he left her a note saying that he was waiting in the front yard, and he’d be there, whenever she was ready.

He stepped out on the front porch. There, right on the doorstep, lay a rose.

A single bloodred rose.

They had definitely been visited in the night.

J
OE
P
ENNY GOT UP
ridiculously early and went to the studio. He sat in his office, reading the new scripts the writers had given him for the next week’s filming. He nodded now and then, or pursed his lips with displeasure, and even spoke aloud at times. “No, no, no. That won’t work. They’ll have to go back on this … that’s good, um, that will work, yes, I think …”

The interoffice phone buzzed. He looked at his watch; it was still very early. He hesitated, then picked up the line. “What is it?”

“Joe. It’s Bill Hutchens here. Down in the studio. Can I talk to you?”

“Be right down.”

Hutchens was standing by the set where the ladder had fallen. The ladder was gone.

“Did you get anything?” Joe asked him.

“We lifted some prints, and we asked both Emilio Garcia and Dayton Riley down to the station for theirs. Olsen wanted the ladder dusted,” he explained with a shrug. “That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about. Whose prints should be on the ladder? I mean, who touches the equipment, other than the lighting technicians?”

Joe grimaced. “Lots of people. Set design, cameramen, production assistants—actors, if they’re walking around the ladder.”

“That’s what I thought. We’ll pursue the process, though. Any little thing might mean something.”

“Just what do you think it all means?” Joe asked.

“To be honest, I thought you all had an accident on your hands. Tragic, but no menace intended. Now … well, again, ladders have fallen before. Is Liam in yet?”

Joe shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

“When you do see him, tell him that his rose was a rose was a rose.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’ll know. Just tell him for me.”

“Sure. Can I do anything else for you?”

Hutchens shook his head. “No, not for the moment. I wanted to know about the ladder. Call me if anything comes to you, anything at all.”

Joe nodded and watched him walk away. A second later, he jumped when Andy clapped him on the shoulder. “Bad morning already?” Andy asked.

At that moment, Joe wished he had his partner’s youth and looks. He felt a hundred years old that morning. Andy liked to say that he was getting old and stressed and whine about the pressures of acting and producing. If Joe looked like Andy, he’d say the hell with producing and spend his days acting—and leaving the set at night without the headaches of producing! No, that wasn’t true. He liked power. Liked it a lot.

“The morning is all right. Last night sucked.”

“What happened last night?”

“I went to Eddie Wok’s party.”