If She Only Knew (28 page)
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Or paranoid. Not much difference.
“Why didn't you tell Tom or Mother or someone that you weren't feeling well?” he asked, touching her lightly on the knee. “That's why I hired the nurse in the first place, you know.” Alex braked at a red light and sent her a look that silently accused her of being a fool.
“I didn't think it was anything.”
“But you were sick when you went to bed?”
“It wasn't that bad and then . . .” She hesitated. Could she trust him?
“Then what?”
Go on. He's your husband.
“This sounds so nuts,” she said, but decided if she couldn't trust the man she was married to, she couldn't trust anyone. “I think someone was in my room tonight.”
“This sounds so nuts,” she said, but decided if she couldn't trust the man she was married to, she couldn't trust anyone. “I think someone was in my room tonight.”
“Who? One of the servants?”
“No, Alex, there was a man leaning over the bed and he said, â
Die, bitch!
' ”
Die, bitch!
' ”
“What?” His head whipped in her direction and the car eased over the center line. A sharp honk blasted from the next lane. Alex got control of the car again. “Christ, Marla, what do you mean there was an intruder in the house?”
“Just that.” She told him the entire story and he gripped the wheel as if he wanted to tear it from the dash. “. . . I was so damned scared that I checked every unlocked room. I think I really freaked Cissy out, but once I was sure that everything was all right, that the kids were safe, I calmed down a little. I drank some water and went back to bed. The next thing I knew I was vomiting my guts out.” She slid down in her seat, pressing her back against the passenger window and felt a chill as cold as death.
“Jesus, Marla, who did you think was in the room with you?” Alex sucked hard on his cigarette, the tip glowed bright in the darkness.
“I don't know . . . I'm not sure anyone was there . . . but it seemed real at the time.”
The light turned green. Someone honked behind them.
“Shit.” Alex stamped on the accelerator and the Jaguar shot forward.
“It was scary as hell.”
“I bet.” He gunned the engine. “Damn.” His face had turned chalk white, his lips flattened over his teeth. “I'll have Lars check the house top to bottom.”
“No!” she said sharply and shook her head. “I mean . . . it seems ridiculous now and even if there was someone there, he'd be long gone.”
“We have a security system and a gate. How'd the intruder get in?”
“Good question,” Marla said and would have yawned but her muscles wouldn't stretch. She was so tired and it was difficult to talk. “Maybe he wasn't even there. Maybe I dreamed him up.”
“Did you call the police?” Alex's voice was grim, his knuckles showing white.
“No.” She shook her head. “It could have been a dream. You know, like the one at the hospital . . .”
“If you're frightened, we could have the police come out and investigate,” he said. “You wanted to talk to Paterno anyway . . . but . . . shit, I don't know. Maybe we're all just tired and we can sort it out in the morning.” He cranked on the steering wheel. “I could hire a security guard.”
“I don't think that's necessary.”
“Well, there is another option.” His voice had softened.
“What?”
“You could sleep with me.”
No!
She looked at him sharply, but he kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Her heart pounded and adrenalin surged through her blood at the thought of sharing a bed with him. She couldn't imagine kissing him, or even just lying close to him, spooned on his king-size bed, his arm around her. Her stomach clenched and she glanced through the window to the fog that was rolling in, seeping around the lampposts and buildings. Though the thought of being in his bed with him was repellent, she couldn't help but ask. “Why don't we sleep together?”
She looked at him sharply, but he kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Her heart pounded and adrenalin surged through her blood at the thought of sharing a bed with him. She couldn't imagine kissing him, or even just lying close to him, spooned on his king-size bed, his arm around her. Her stomach clenched and she glanced through the window to the fog that was rolling in, seeping around the lampposts and buildings. Though the thought of being in his bed with him was repellent, she couldn't help but ask. “Why don't we sleep together?”
He snorted and stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “That was your choice. A couple of years back.” He glanced at her as if deciding whether to confide in her, then after waging a mental battle, lifted one shoulder. “The truth of the matter is that you . . . well you've been interested in other men.”
“Men,” she repeated aghast. Nick's rugged image and the memory of wanting to kiss him sizzled through her mind. It was true she was far from immune to Nick's innate sexuality or his damned irreverent charm. She even fantasized about feeling his work-roughened hands on all parts of her body, but she never for a minute considered the fact that she'd been involved with someone other than her husband, other than in a fantasy. Oh, God, what kind of woman was she? Clearing her throat, she picked at a button on her coat, then inched up her chin and pinned her husband with her gaze. “Men? Plural?”
“Yes.”
“You're trying to tell me that I've taken lovers,” she whispered, disbelieving. No way. But then her feelings toward Nick were impossible to deny and she knew somewhere in that most innately feminine part of her that she was a sensual creature. A passionate woman. Yet someone who slept alone. Or so it appeared.
“Okay, I won't tell you anything of the kind.”
“But . . .” she prodded.
“You asked, Marla,” he said angrily.
She felt a flush flame up her neck. “Who?”
“It doesn't matter.” He took a corner a little too sharply. The tires chirped.
“Like hell it doesn't,” she said angrily, her frayed nerves finally giving way.
“Let's not go into it now. It was quite a while ago.” Alex fiddled with the radio, found a soft-rock station.
Marla snapped the damned thing off. “Then what about . . . what about James?” she asked, needing to know the truth. “Is he . . . is he . . .”
“Mine. James is mine.” He slid her a glance and offered a tight smile. She felt more confused than ever.
“But, howâ?”
“See what happens when you have too many gin and tonics?” His smile crept slowly from one side of his jaw to the other as if he somehow felt victorious. His laugh was just as vile, and she told herself she was imagining things. Overwrought. Drained.
A gnawing ache settled deep in the pit of her stomach. Could she sleep with this man? Her husband? Kiss him? Make love to him? Something inside her recoiled, but she ignored the feeling. They were married, had children . . . “Maybe, when I get my memory back, if we both think it would be a good idea, we could . . . try . . .”
“What? Sleeping together?” he asked, his lips twisting sardonically, the angles and planes of his face hard-looking in the coming headlights. “I don't think so, Marla. I'm really not into mercy-fucking.”
She froze. Her stomach curdled like sour milk. “Is that what you'd call it?”
“Don't try to pretend that you're in love with me. I see it in your eyes. You don't even remember me. And when you do, well, then you'll know. So . . .” He braked for a corner and cranked hard on the wheel. “So let's just not push it. Not yet.” He patted her knee again. “Unless you really want to bang my brains out.”
She drew away.
“Didn't think so.”
Good. She couldn't imagine tumbling into bed with him and kissing him, or . . . she couldn't think about it. “Neither one of us is ready to move into the same bedroom again.” His fingers were tight over the steering wheel. “We'll take that one step at a time. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.”
She didn't argue. Couldn't. She felt no spark of desire for this man who was her husband. Why, she didn't understand. Handsome and fit, at forty-two, Alexander Cahill was a successful lawyer-turned-businessman and yet there was something about him that didn't ring true, a coldness she felt beneath his charming exteriorâa crudeness that wasn't covered by his spit-and-polish, Ivy-league, white-collar shine.
Or maybe it's all in your head. One way or another, Marla, you've got to find out. And Alex isn't going to help you. No one is.
Street signs flashed by as Alex drove up the hill. Stanyan, Parnassus, Willard . . . names that seemed familiar yet weren't. Streets she'd have to know. Even though Lars was always at her disposal, she wasn't about to use him for what she was planning. She needed independence. Freedom. Self-assurance.
Her breath fogged against the window as she turned to look at the shops lining the streets. Coffeehouses, small grocery stores, flower vendors, apartment buildings, climbing ever upward on the hill to the top. To the house.
With a press of a button on a remote control, the gates to the estate opened and Alex drove through. Marla stared up at the house rising high on the hill, steep gables pitched over dormers, paned windows glowing from the interior lights, chimney stacks rising proudly above it all.
Home,
she thought but really didn't buy it.
Home,
she thought but really didn't buy it.
It still didn't feel right.
Nick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his pickup as he mentally kicked himself from one side of San Francisco Bay to the other. He stared out the windshield at the gloomy night and couldn't shake the feeling that he was being manipulated. But by whom?
Marla? His back teeth ground together as he thought of seeing her retching on the floor, nearly suffocating. She'd seemed so small and vulnerable and not for the first time he wondered why she'd gotten sick. A virus? Bad food? Or had someone poisoned herâslipped her a drug that caused her to heave?
Impossible.
But she'd thought she'd sensed an intruder.
Why would anyone want her dead?
And how had they gotten in?
Or out? The house was a damned fortress.
Maybe they hadn't left.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled pocketing his keys and climbing out of his truck. He'd parked a few streets from the hotel and hoped a walk through the icy mist and rain would help clear his head.
For the first time in years he'd wanted to protect Marla, to wrap his arms around her and fend off any attack.
Like some goddamned medieval knight in . . . well, slightly tarnished armor. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, he crossed the street and ducked into the hotel. He was on the second floor in minutes and as he opened the door, his phone began to ring.
He snatched the receiver before the door shut behind him. “Nick Cahill.”
“Glad I caught ya. I was afraid I'd have to leave another message.” Walt Haaga's voice was rough and gravelly as ever.
“What's up?” Nick flopped onto the bed and kicked off his shoes.
“What isn't?” Walt said, coughing. “I've got more info. Let's start with Pam Delacroix.”
“Start anywhere you please.”
“Pamela, now she's an interesting lady. Lived off her ex, but dabbled at real estate, writing and the law. Seems that her primary interest was child custody cases. She was writing a book about itâparental rights, surrogate mothers, adoption issues. And that kid of hersâJulieâshe dropped out of school a few weeks after starting. Just up and quit and moved in with a boyfriend in Santa Rosa. Has a job at a coffee shop serving up espressos. So her mother wasn't going down to see her.”
“Then why Santa Cruz?”
“Maybe everyone just assumed Santa Cruz because of the kid. For all anyone knows Ms. Delacroix and your sister-in-law could have been pulling a Thelma and Louise and just taking off down the coast. They could've been planning to go to L.A. or Mexico.”
“Another dead end,” Nick grumbled.
“Or one less to consider.”
“Why were they together?”
“Good question,” Walt said. “But it probably wasn't to play tennis. As far as I can tell Pam Delacroix never belonged to Marla's club. I doubt if she owned a racquet much less a membership in an athletic club. She was more of a bookworm than an athlete.”
“Is that so?”
“I talked with her ex and a few friends. The only connection she seems to have with your family is that she attended the Holy Trinity of God church in Sausalito.”
“Where Cherise's husband is the minister,” Nick said, his eyes narrowing.
“Yep.”
Nick filed the information away, but it didn't quite fit. “I don't think Marla's a big churchgoer.”
“Nah, she's not a member. But my guess is that she met Pam through Cherise's husband. He was on the staff at Cahill House for a while. Counseled girls in trouble and got himself in a pot of hot water.”
“Did he?” Nick asked, a bad feeling beginning to gnaw at his gut.
“Seems he couldn't keep his hands off one of the unwed mothers.”
“Shit.”
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