Fade to Black (23 page)

Funny how dreams, when they came true at all, could be warped versions of what you imagined.

But she doesn’t want to think about that now.

Nor does she want to remember the aftermath of the stalker’s attack, and the surgery that had ensured that one of her fondest dreams would never come true in
any
form.

But it’s too late.

She’s already journeying back to the day of the explosion …

She had been lying glumly in her bed, unaware of what was going on in the rest of the house. She had no idea that her assistant was even there, let alone going through cards and gifts from well-wishers.

Her security people had later said they had instructed everything that arrived to be placed in her detached office out behind the pool, to be inspected by police first. But somehow there’d been a mix-up, and the flowers and a few other items had gotten through, into the house, where—

Elizabeth jumps to her feet, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle her own startled cry.

She just heard a faint sound outside.

It’s probably just the wind …

Except that there is no wind.

She stands, frozen, in the middle of the living room, frantically wondering what to do.

Then she hears it again …

A footstep.

Followed by the doorbell.

Would a stalker come right up and ring the bell?

Would Manny’s mother come right up and ring the bell?

There’s no window in the front door, no way to look out and see who is standing there.

Then she hears someone rapping, and a voice calls, “Elizabeth? Are you in there?”

Harper Smith.

She lets out a sigh and moves automatically to the door, fumbling with the dead bolts, then throwing it open.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she tells him, noticing how attractive he is in his snug black jeans and a white T-shirt that reveals his muscular, tanned arms.

“I just tried to call you, and there was no answer. I got worried—”

“I just got home,” she tells him.

She sees that he’s looking past her, at the fabric spread out on the floor, and the half-finished cup of herbal tea on the coffee table, and the television, where Roseanne is telling an
Entertainment Tonight
reporter about the new series she’s producing.

Harper only nods. He doesn’t believe her—she can see it in his expression. But to his credit, he says nothing more than “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” she says again. “Really.”

“So, did you ever get to the post office?”

Her guard goes up. Why is he asking about that? Just casual interest, or something more? Could he possibly have sent her that card?

No.

No.

No!

“Yeah, I got there,” she says cautiously, refusing to suspect him of anything other than making conversation.

She doesn’t tell him that she hadn’t gotten to the post office until just that morning, after leaving Manny.

Or that her box had been blessedly empty except for a telephone bill.

“That’s good,” he says, again looking past her into the living room. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Just busy sewing.”

“What are you making?”

“Costumes,” she says briefly.

“Isn’t it a little early for Halloween?”

“They’re … for a friend. For a play.” She isn’t about to complicate the explanation with any more detail than that.

“So you hang around with theatrical types?”

“Once in a while,” she says, managing to keep the irony out of her voice.

I used to live in Hollywood. I used to be an actress
.

“Pretty muggy out tonight, isn’t it?” he asks, shifting gears, leaning against the step railing.

She nods, noticing the faint glisten of sweat on his forehead. Her own hair is sticking to her scalp in the heat.

“Too bad we didn’t get that big rainstorm yesterday,” he comments.

“I know. It passed right over.”

“We could use rain.”

“We could.”

She’s wondering how long he’s going to hang around, discussing the weather, when he surprises her with a question.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any more of that iced tea, would you? I’m awfully thirsty from the heat....”

Startled, she looks into Harper’s eyes and sees that he’s smiling. Hopeful.

There is more iced tea. A whole pitcherful, freshly made. With lemon.

But she can’t offer it to him. Can’t invite him in. Can’t start taking risks …

Then again, it would be heaven to sit at the kitchen table with him, to get to look into those sexy green eyes for just a little while longer.

How much harm could that do?

“Actually,” she says impulsively, opening the door wide, “there is more iced tea. Why don’t you come in and have some with me?”

“H
ey, aren’t you the guy who was on TV the other night?”

Brawley Johnson turns to see a gorgeous brunette standing behind his bar stool.

She’s wearing a white vinyl miniskirt and matching boots, a little too heavily into the retro seventies look for his taste. And when she smiles at him, he sees that her tongue is pierced. She probably has a tattoo too, he thinks, trying not to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

Still, her breasts are poking provocatively from the V neckline of her red blouse, and her thighs above her boots are taut and shapely.

“You used to go out with Mallory Eden, right?” she’s saying, leaning toward him so that her breasts are practically tumbling out of her shirt.

“Yeah, I did.” Brawley pastes on an expression of sorrow, the same one he’d worn for the interview about his dead girlfriend.

“I’m so sorry about your loss,” the woman says, slipping onto the next stool, which is empty.

It’s still early, not even six o’clock yet. But it’s his night off, and he can’t stand sitting around at home, endlessly thinking about
her
.

“You must really miss her,” the stranger says to him, laying a perfectly manicured hand over his.

But her nails are polished in that trendy shade of black, and he frowns slightly at the sight. So many women in this town don’t know what the hell they’re doing when it comes to style.

No one has Mallory Eden’s class.

“You have no idea how much I miss her,” he tells the woman, fighting not to pull his hand away.

“Are you an actor too?”

“Nan. I drive a limo.”

“Oh.”

He waits for her to get up, make some excuse, and leave. Sometimes they do.

But she doesn’t.

“Is that how you met Mallory?” she asks him. “Driving a limo?”

“Nope.” He resents the way she’s called her by her first name, Mallory, as though they were acquaintances. So many people do that—act as though they know her, just because she was a big movie star.

But nobody really knew Mallory.

Nobody but him.

“How did you meet her, then?”

“We’re from the same hometown.”

He doesn’t go into the details.

How he had spotted Cindy one steamy summer’s day back in Custer Creek, Nebraska, when she was a mere high school girl and he was a grown man. How he had fallen in love with her the moment he’d set eyes on her, giggling in the backseat of her friend’s battered station wagon when they pulled up at the service station where he worked.

Her brown hair was pulled into a bouncy, high ponytail and she was wearing a pair of cutoff dungarees with a white halter top that left her stomach, arms, and back bare, revealing too much sun-kissed skin for him to ignore.

He had caught her eye and she had winked at him.

And the next day she came back alone, on her beat-up bicycle, riding three miles from her grandma’s house just to flirt with him, not caring mat he was twenty-three or that his father was in jail over in Boone County.

“So you knew her before she was rich and famous?” the woman in the miniskirt is asking him, lighting a cigarette.

“Yeah. We moved out here to L.A. together. We were planning to get married and have a bunch of kids.”

“But then she killed herself. That’s so sad.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t tell her about what had happened in between the time they moved to L.A. and her suicide. He doesn’t mention that Cindy—that
Mallory
—left him long before she killed herself. That he had tried everything to win her back, to make her love him the way he still loved her.

Will always love her.

He just buys her a drink, and he lets her comfort him—first at the bar, and then, later, in his king-sized water bed back at his apartment, where she does incredible things to his body with those black-manicured hands and that pierced tongue while he closes his eyes and pretends that she’s his young, sweet Cindy O’Neal and that she’s hopelessly in love with him again.

“S
o what’s your favorite food?” Harper asks after a brief silence, and Elizabeth smiles.

He smiles back, pleased to see that his innocuous question seems to have jump-started the conversation.

They’ve been sitting at her kitchen table for over an hour, talking about their various likes and dislikes when it comes to music—he’s crazy about classic rock; she likes alternative. He’s into jazz; she likes show tunes.

The lull in the conversation had occurred only when he asked her what her favorite movie is, and she told him that she doesn’t have one.

Then she clammed up, started fiddling with her glass, lifting it and setting it down over and over again so that it has left a wet, ringlike pattern on the tabletop.

“My favorite food?” she repeats, resting her chin in her hand and seeming to ponder his question. “Hmmm. I like just about everything.”

“Even squid?”

“I love squid.”

“Not me. My least favorite food is squid. Tastes like rubber bands. Yech.”

She grins, a rare sight, and asks, “What about your favorite?”

“That’s easy. A big juicy steak, so rare it’s cold and bloody, with mushrooms and onions sautéed in butter on the side.”

She makes a face. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that red meat isn’t healthy? Especially ‘cold and bloody.’”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all about it. Rare red meat is practically a death sentence. Not to mention butter. But I happen to like to live a little now and then. How about you? Are you a vegetarian or something?”

“Nah. But steak is far from my favorite food.”

“Which is …?”

“I can’t pick just one. I guess it would have to be a tie between lasagna and pizza.”

“Yeah? You like Italian food?”

She nods.

“Have you ever been to Momma Mangia’s?” he asks, naming a cozy little family-owned restaurant over on Center Street. He’s been there just once, alone. The food was delicious, but he’d had to fend off a waitress who asked too many nosy questions about his past.

Still, he would go back.

With Elizabeth, this time.

They can sit at one of the cozy booths way back in the corner, and he can watch the candlelight flickering on her beautiful face, and maybe put some money into the tabletop jukebox and play an old love song or two.

“I’ve never been there,” she tells him, and again there’s that veiled expression.

“Maybe we’ll go,” he says, watching her carefully. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

“I can’t,” she says quickly.

“Why not?”

“I … I can’t remember.” She rubs her temple, knitting her brows, as if trying to recall a previous engagement. “But there’s something I have to do …”

“You’re making that up,” he says, unable to keep his voice from hardening. “You said you wanted to see me. Now you’re obviously giving me excuses.”

“I—”

“And earlier,” he cuts her off, “you didn’t answer the phone when I called. Were you afraid it was me? Were you trying to avoid talking to me?”

“I was out.”

“Whatever.” He shrugs, folds his arms on the table, leans toward her.

She watches him, silent.

“I don’t play games, Elizabeth,” he says finally. “You said you would go out with me. I told you I’d call. This is the last time I’m going to ask. Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow night?”

For a long time she simply watches him from beneath her long, dark lashes, her head tilted downward, her leg jiggling nervously under the table.

He waits for her reply, and when it comes, he’s surprised.

“All right,” she tells him in a muted tone. “I’ll go to dinner with you.”

It’s all he can do not to jump up in victory, to shout, “Yesss!”

All he says is “I’ll pick you up at eight. We’ll go to Momma Mangia’s.”