Once More With Feeling (28 page)

"Ah hell, Gyps." He tugged her against him
and brought his lips down hard on hers.

She was a woman confused about everything,
particularly about the men in her life. She still mourned for the
husband she'd lost, yet in Casey's arms it was almost possible to
forget Owen. Even the good times.

Something surged inside her, something hot
and liquid, forbidden to a woman who was married to someone else.
But Gypsy Dugan wasn't married to anyone and never had been. And
this man wanted her.

"I missed you." The words were the briefest
of interludes. His lips opened against hers and his tongue sought
the inner recesses of her mouth. Her arms circled his waist and she
pressed herself against him. Her breasts tingled against his chest.
Her hips slid into place against his like they had been tailored to
fit.

He broke away just long enough to jerk her
unceremoniously toward the sofa. He tumbled down and took her with
him. She landed across him and he tunneled his fingers into her
hair to bring her head down and her lips back to his.

He wrapped his arms tighter around her and
turned her so that they were lying on their sides, face-to-face.
"You're like a sickness in my blood."

"You say the sweetest things."

"I can't get enough of you. You're an
addiction. It doesn't matter how long I'm away. I still need
you."

His desire for her was the most seductive
thing imaginable. To be wanted this way, to be longed for with this
visceral intensity was dizzying. She had never felt as alone as she
had since waking up in this body. Now she wasn't alone anymore. She
was desired. She was needed. She responded as women had responded
to flattery from the beginning of time. She opened herself to him
in every way, sighing as his hand found her breast, pressing closer
as the heat of his body melted into her own.

"Gyps, you're not teasing me, are you?"

Her head arched back as his lips found the
pulse at her throat. It was racing, roaring like a freight train
one mile out of the station. She wasn't teasing. She couldn't think
that clearly. Her body was enveloped in a sensual cloud that
threatened to steal the breath from her lungs and whatever good
sense the accident had left her.

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled open
her blouse with one smooth motion, and buttons willingly abandoned
buttonholes. His obviously practiced fingers made quick work of her
bra. The weight of his palm against her breast caused an ache that
needed soothing. His fingers moved, weaving magic everywhere they
touched.

"What do you want me to do?" he said, and
the words were a growl against her earlobe.

She wanted him to make her forget
everything. She wanted to feel again and find no guilt in it. She
guided his lips back to hers, and he took it as a sign that all
signals were go. He slid his hand to her waist and freed that
button, too. Then his hand slid over her hip and under her skirt.
He paused momentarily. "You're wearing pantyhose. . ."

She was sorry, but he seemed stunned. "They
aren't plastered to my skin. They come off."

"You never wear them." He didn't give her a
chance to answer. He dug his fingers inside the waist and
tugged.

She understood why she had never worn them
before the accident. "Damned chastity belt," he muttered, tugging
again.

She had the absurd impulse to giggle. She
didn't want to laugh. She wanted to lose herself in this, lose the
sadness she'd felt at seeing Owen's photograph and the guilt that
another man was making love to her.

She tried to help him, and their hands
tangled. "Casey--" She struggled with the hose, and so did he.
Slowly, together, they inched them down. She could feel his belt
buckle against her bare midriff and the rasp of denim. She could
also feel the tight elastic of the waistband of her hose cinching
her legs together. "Casey, slow down!"

He went rigid, as if he realized for the
first time how fast he had been rushing her. "I'm sorry. I--"

Something crashed to the floor.

Both of them went rigid.

"What was that?" she whispered. She tried to
sit up, but he held her down.

"Don't move." There was no sound attached to
the words. He mouthed them, but there was no mistaking what he'd
said.

She nodded just a fraction to show him that
she'd understood.

"Gypsy, Gypsy, you're such a turn-on." He
didn't even look at her as he said it. He was removing himself from
her, an inch at a time. Quietly. Carefully. He slid to the floor
beside her, and motioned for her to stay where she was. "The things
you do to me." He sounded like a man at the border of nirvana.

The sofa was placed at an angle near the
center of the room. She tried to picture the room behind it. At the
far end there was a walk-in closet large enough for a sizable
wardrobe. She tried to remember if the louvered doors leading into
it had been opened or closed when she'd entered the room.

The lamp had been on.

She wanted to tell Casey, but he was already
rounding the sofa on his hands and knees. She could see his feet,
then nothing at all. She heard a scuffle, then another crash.
Finally, she heard a scream.

A woman's scream.

She pulled her hose up and her skirt down
and sat up, in spite of what Casey had said. She peered over the
sofa to see Casey locked in a furious embrace with Nan.

"Gotcha," he said, wrestling her arms behind
her.

"Nan," Gypsy said. "Doing some
research?"

"Let go of me, you big ape." Nan struggled,
but it was futile.

Casey shook his head. "Gypsy, did you invite
Miss Nanny in to watch?"

"I just didn't think of it." Gypsy
pantomimed regret. "Sometimes my manners just aren't what they
should be."

"See, Nanny, if you'd only asked, Gypsy
would have let you watch. You wouldn't have had to pick her lock or
peek through her closet doors."

"You're insane, Charles. Let me go!"

"Should I?" he asked Gypsy.

"I don't think so. You look so strong and
sexy holding her that way, I could watch all day long."

"You're both insane!"

"How did you get in, Nan?" Gypsy asked. She
moved around the sofa and stood in front of her. "Do you really
know how to pick a lock? It might be a good feature story. I could
suggest it."

Nan stared daggers at her, but she didn't
respond.

"Let's see if we can figure it out," Gypsy
said. She rested her index finger against her cheek. "I know! I'll
search her. Won't that be fun?"

"Don't you dare! I'll sue. I'll have you
fired."

Gypsy moved forward and began to pat Nan
down like a television cop. "Have me fired. Now that might be
interesting. Your side of the story would go something like this? I
broke into Gypsy's dressing room, and she had the nerve to try and
find out how I did it? Fire that woman!" Her hands stopped at the
hip pocket of Nan's skirt. She delved inside and produced a
key.

She held it up in front of Nan's face.
"Shall I try it in my lock?"

Nan pursed her lips.

"Where did you get that?" Casey demanded.
"Who gave you a key to Gypsy's dressing room?"

"Don't bother. I know who must have done
it," Gypsy said. "Julie. My four-hour-assistant. She worked with
Nan first, but officially she was my assistant. I'm sure someone
must have given her a key to transfer my new wardrobe. When I fired
her, she must have given the key to Nan, just to spite me."

Nan didn't deny it. "I forgot to return it
for her. That's all."

"And I'm sure that's why you were in here.
You just wanted to leave it for me?"

Nan tossed her head, Southern style. "That
was my intention."

"Were you planning to leave it in her
closet?" Casey asked.

"No! But when I heard her unlocking the
door, I panicked and hid. That's all. You're making a mountain out
of a molehill."

"It's too bad you got so interested in
seeing the show on the couch. We probably wouldn't even have known
you were there," Casey said.

"I was just trying to get out. That's all.
And give you some privacy."

"Nan. Nan." Gypsy shook her head. "A better
friend no woman's ever had."

"Would you please let me go now so I can
retain a little dignity?" Nan said.

Gypsy appeared to consider. "Sure." Before
Casey could move an eyelash she held up her hand. "No. Wait. We
can't let you leave without being sure you haven't left anything
important behind. We wouldn't want you to run off and forget
something. Just let me check the closet before you go."

Nan struggled and Casey held her tighter.
"Maybe you'd better let me check," he said.

"You've got your hands full." Gypsy brushed
past them. The closet door was open, but the light was off. She
flicked it on. Her eyes adjusted immediately. It took the rest of
her a moment to adjust to the sight of her entire wardrobe in heaps
on the floor. The same bloodlike substance that had adorned the
magazine on her desk was splattered over everything.

She backed out. Horror had filled her in her
office. Now it was eclipsed by rage. She took a moment to master
herself. Katherine Brookshire Vanderhoff would have been proud.

"Casey, can you hold Nan just a little
longer?"

"All night and then some."

"Long enough so that I can call
security?"

"I'll manage somehow."

"Then I think Nan will need some help
packing her things."

He grinned diabolically. "No problem. The
way Tito lops heads, security's had plenty of practice."

"How about that drink?"

Almost two hours later Gypsy stood at her
apartment door and considered Casey's request. "A short one."

He nodded. "No problem. I'll be in and out
in a flash."

She dimpled. "That's the problem with most
men."

He laughed, and the rumble seemed to fill
the short hallway with electricity. "I could stay as long as you
want me to."

"A quick drink and out the door."

He held up his hands. "I understand the
ground rules."

She unlocked her door and waved to Billy,
who disappeared to wherever bodyguards went when they were off
duty.

She stepped into the entranceway. "I don't
need Billy anymore. I'm going to talk to Des tomorrow and see if we
can get rid of him. For a moment when I saw that bloodstained
magazine, I thought maybe someone really was trying to get me. But
now I'm back to thinking it's all an overreaction."

"It would be hard to blame Mark's death on
Nan. She doesn't have the brains to hire a hit man."

"I gather I've made more than my share of
enemies along the way. But I don't really believe any of them are
trying to kill me."

"I've never thought so."

"That settles it. I will talk to Des."

She turned on the lights. He whistled
softly. "What have you done to the place?"

"Not nearly enough. Just got rid of some of
the trappings until the decorator comes next week. Does it look
better?"

Casey examined the room, and she could tell
he liked what he saw. She hadn't had time to do much. She'd stuffed
closets with everything she could fit into them and bought a ficus
and a dracaena that nearly grazed the ceiling. She'd missed having
a garden to tend.

"I took down the tent in the bedroom." She
stopped. She wished she hadn't brought up that particular
subject.

"Good. I was tired of playing the
sheik."

"I'm negotiating with the old lady down the
hall. She has a garden on the roof and she wants the lions."

"I'll carry them up there for you."

"You'd get a hernia." She crossed to the bar
and fixed him the drink he'd asked for hours ago. She held it out
to him. "Casey, we ought to talk."

"No need." He swallowed half of his Scotch
like a man at a desert oasis. "You're beat, and so am I. You were
great with Nan. I expected you to pull out every hair on her head,
but you were every inch a lady."

Obviously Casey saw it differently than she
did. In her opinion she had acted in a very different way than
Elisabeth would have. Elisabeth would have tried to work things out
with Nan, perhaps tried to understand her motivations and address
them. Gypsy had booted Nan out the door. Gypsy could assert herself
when the time was right. Elisabeth had never quite managed
assertiveness--at least not until the moment of her death.

"Whatever possessed Nan to do something so
stupid?" she asked.

"She was desperate. She always thought she
had a chance to eclipse you. But since the accident. . ." He
shrugged.

"What do you mean?"

"Gyps, you're different. There's no denying
it. It's like that movie that came out years ago, about the lawyer
who gets shot in the head and turns into a nice guy."

"A nice, stupid guy. I saw it. Harrison
Ford. Are you saying I've turned into a nice, stupid
anchorwoman?"

"No." He finished his Scotch and held it out
for a refill. "Please?"

She grimaced, but she fixed him another.

"You're the talk of the show. You're not the
same person."

"Well, that's true." She decided she needed
a drink, too.

"You're kinder. You're more insightful.
Never mind that you can't remember half of what you're supposed to.
You've got people on your side. They're willing to go the extra
mile to get you out of jams. Nan saw that and realized her shot at
the big time was just going to go downhill from here."

"So she started a sabotage campaign to shake
me up. What? Was she hoping I'd fall apart, turn back into the
vixen she knew and loved? I'd lose my following because she poured
blood on my clothes?"

"She was desperate. And dumb."

"And now she's gone." It hadn't taken much
to get Nan fired. A call to Des, a visit to her dressing room by
the senior executive still in the studio, a brief explanation. And
Nan was gone. Poof!