Whitefire (38 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Whitefire
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“Love me, Banyen.”
“Always, for all eternity,” he said huskily as he crushed her lips to his.
If you enjoy Fern Michaels's unique brand of
wonderfully entertaining storytelling, you won't
want to miss her exciting new series,
The Godmothers.
Turn the page for a special preview of
 
Exclusive
 
a Kensington trade paperback,
on sale in September 2010.
Prologue
T
eresa Amelia Loudenberry, “Toots” to her dearest friends, clutched the Egyptian bedsheets as though they were a life preserver. So tight was her grasp, her knuckles were as white as the sheet she was holding in a death grip. Bluish green veins stood out like small canals against her otherwise unblemished hands. Tiny beads of perspiration formed on her pearly forehead before forming rivulets around the contours of her face and settling in a pool of auburn hair splayed across the pillow.
Toots bolted upright in her bed, startled awake by what felt like a flock of wild geese trapped inside her chest. Taking several deep breaths meant to calm her pounding heart, she ran a hand along the unfamiliar sheets, touched the heap of silken covers tossed aside, then opened her eyes as wide as she could, trying to familiarize herself with her surroundings. As she looked around her, she detected several shadowlike images skirting the edge of the bed, cloudlike puffs colored an eerie, translucent blue. Toots counted four. Four clouds clustered around her bed. She could swear that inside each cloud were faces, faces she seemed to recognize but to which she couldn't quite put names. Her heart hammered faster, and her hands trembled like the last dry leaves on a barren winter limb. Feeling light-headed and disoriented, Toots squeezed her eyes shut, trying to assure herself that she was in the grip of a crazy dream.
But her skin still felt clammy, her heart continued to beat at a faster-than-normal pace, and she knew she was forcing her eyes to remain shut. No, this definitely was not a dream.
Slowly, she opened one eye, then the other. The mist, or fog, or whatever the hell she'd seen, was gone, but she could feel a coolness lingering around the bed. Toots snapped the bedside light on and looked at the clock.
Three o'clock in the morning. Hadn't she heard somewhere this was the witching hour? Probably one of those silly ghost programs Sophie had recently become obsessed with. Whatever, Toots knew enough to know that something supernatural had awakened her from a sound sleep. A ghost, an apparition, something not of this world lingered in the room, sending a prickling sensation up her spine. Frightened and shaky, she climbed out of bed, remaining alert and uneasy as she paced the unfamiliar room.
Walking back and forth while trying to ease her nerves, Toots allowed her eyes to dart around the garishly decorated room she now called her own. When she thought of all the remodeling ahead, she almost wished she'd kept her bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel until the work was completed. Who in their right mind could live, let alone sleep, in this purple-and-hot-pink hooker haven? Toots glanced at the ceiling, expecting mirrors, black lights, the whole kit and caboodle, and was surprised once again when there was just a ceiling. She wondered what the original owners, Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, would think of their former home? No doubt they were spinning in their graves. The Realtor had explained that a former pop star had rented the house from the Ball/Arnaz estate and decided she would make the house her own while living there. Years ago, when Toots had toured Graceland, Elvis's home in Memphis, Tennessee, she had thought it tacky. Compared to this, however, Toots had to say that the King's old digs were sufficiently tasteful to be featured in
Architectural Digest.
To be sure, the exterior of the Malibu beach house was in decent enough condition. The three-story house, each level of which had floor-to-ceiling windows giving access to magnificent views and jutting out toward the Pacific Ocean, had its attractions. White stucco, brick-red tile roof, several small balconies and decks scattered about each level; one was never without the extraordinary view. Mountaintop and beachfront, the best of both worlds, the Realtor had said. It was the interior design that turned Toots inside out. Hot pink and purple. Garish blues and greens in six bedrooms made it a disaster.
Toots had almost backed out of the purchase. However, she wasn't stupid. Three point eight million for mountaintop beachfront property, in Malibu no less, was a steal. She wrote out a check for the full amount, knowing it would probably cost her that much or more to remodel the inside.
And now here she was, scared half out of her mind. At the Beverly Hills Hotel, she'd had Elizabeth Taylor's bungalow. She left that for this nightmare? Maybe she really was out of her mind.
Taking a deep breath, Toots scanned the perimeter of the bed. Nothing unusual, nothing out of place. Maybe those puffs of clouds had been a crazy dream. Maybe, but something told her it was much more.
Toots had always believed in an afterlife, knew spirits or souls didn't always make it to the other side, but this? Transparent clouds floating around her room with faces inside them? Mouths forming words, but no sound? No, this definitely wasn't her image of lost spirits and souls; this was more like something right out of
The Twilight Zone.
Having lived in Charleston, South Carolina, for more than twenty years, Toots was perfectly familiar with tales of hauntings and sightings of those long since passed. When she had first moved to Charleston, she'd actually gone on several ghost-walking tours and heard all the stories about hauntings that had supposedly taken place over the years. However, Toots had never had anything even resembling a supernatural experience.
Until now.
Upon her arrival in Los Angeles, she'd paid little attention to the tales of old theaters, movie studios, and historic homes being haunted by some of Hollywood's greatest actors and actresses. This was Hollywood, the land of dreams, not nightmares!
When Toots decided to purchase a home in order to be close to Abby and run
The Informer
, the tabloid paper she had recently acquired, she hadn't intended on sharing her space with a spirit—or spirits.
“Go back to wherever the hell you came from!” Toots shouted in the dimly lit room. She heard the false bravado in her words and hoped that Sophie, who was sleeping in the room across the hall, hadn't heard her. Thank goodness Ida and Mavis were upstairs. Toots could only imagine what her old friends would say if she thought something otherworldly had entered her room.
Hell, what was she thinking? Sophie's newfound interest in paranormal activity, Toots decided, had just earned her the master suite.
Deciding that a room change was in order first thing in the morning, Toots climbed back into bed, wondering how she was going to convince Sophie to switch rooms without alerting her of her suspicions, then decided she couldn't. This was too scary to keep to herself.
Toots almost wished she'd gone ahead with the purchase of Aaron Spelling's mansion. Wanting and actually purchasing the 56,000-square-foot mansion had been an ordeal she hadn't anticipated. The widow of the former television mogul made it very clear to the Realtor that she must be present to examine any prospective buyer. Of course, not just anyone was allowed to bid. First requirement was an income check. Then came the real fun.
 
Toots simply could not believe what she was doing. Never in a zillion years had she stooped so low just to become eligible to view a piece of real estate. So what if it had belonged to former television mogul Aaron Spelling? A house was a house as far as she was concerned, or in this case a mansion was a mansion was a palace. Anything could be had for the right price, Toots believed, but this?
She looked at the three other prospective buyers seated in the Realtor's office. Two women and one man. Toots was positive the man was gay. He wore a silk leopard-print shirt with tight black slacks. Gold rings encircled all the fingers on both hands. Toots guessed that his ears had at least eight piercings. Gold hoop earrings sized according to position, from small to large, hung from his ears. More gold bangles around his wrists and an ankle bracelet wrapped around a pale, skinny ankle. His face was all but hidden behind a giant pair of sunglasses. Toots wondered who he was but decided she really didn't give a good shit.
Then she scanned the woman to her right. Though she was not 100 percent sure, she thought it might've been Joan Collins, minus the mountain of makeup. She sneaked another peek when the woman wasn't looking. Yes, it was her all right, and Toots saw recent scarring by her ears. Plastic surgery, no doubt, possibly the reason she wore no makeup. She'd mention this to Abby; maybe she could use this information for some tidbit of gossip in
The Informer
.
The woman seated to her left was staring straight ahead. She hadn't moved a muscle since arriving. Toots had the sudden urge to poke her in the side just to see if she would get a reaction but decided against it simply because it wouldn't seem very ladylike. Just the visual was enough to make her smile.
The real estate agent, a slim brunette who looked as though she could be anywhere between thirty and fifty, finally opened the door to her office. “Ms. Loudenberry, Mrs. Spelling and Madison will see you now.”
Toots stood, smoothed her black pencil skirt. “Madison?”
“Mrs. Spelling's dog.”
“I see,” Toots said as she trailed behind the Realtor, even though she didn't see at all. What the hell did a dog have to do with selling one's home?
The real estate agent stopped and turned to Toots. “Mrs. Spelling prides herself on Madison's reaction to people. I might as well explain this to you now before you meet Mrs. Spelling. If her dog doesn't approve of you, then you won't be allowed to view her property.”
Toots had the sudden urge to run, forget the whole thing, but she was so intrigued now that she couldn't force herself to walk away. A dog, huh? She gazed down at her black pencil skirt, black open-toed sandals, and cream-colored blouse, hoping Madison would approve. She laughed at the thought.
“If you will follow me,” the real estate agent insisted.
Whatever happened to secretaries? Toots wondered.
She followed the woman down a long hallway, where she was greeted by a closed door. A low growl emanated from behind the door. “Please stand aside,” the woman said. Toots did as instructed, expecting Madison to attack her any moment.
The woman opened the door to a plush modern office. Seated on a long white sofa to the left of the desk was the one and only Candy Spelling, widow of Aaron Spelling. Toots was instantly reminded of a guppy—plumped lips and bulging eyes. Toots wondered if the overly made-up widow had a thyroid problem. The mound of fur in her lap must be the infamous Madison.
The widow didn't bother to stand or offer a word of greeting. When Candy gave a hand command, Madison leaped from the widow's lap and stopped when he or she, Toots hadn't got that far as of yet, reached her feet. Toots was about to reach down and pet the dog when a “Stop!” came from the blonde on the sofa. “She can't be bribed!”
“Don't touch Madison,” offered the real estate lady. “This is a quick process. If you'll just give her a few minutes.”
So the cute little pooch was a female, a true honest-to-goodness bitch in every sense of the word. Toots knew how persnickety some females could be. Human females anyway.
The dog, a cute little bundle of white-and-tan fur, circled Toots three times, stopped at the position where she'd started, barked three times, squatted, then proceeded to leave a puddle of urine directly in front of Toots's shiny black sandals.
“You've just been given permission to enter the Spelling mansion,” said the Realtor.
 
Among the amenities of the mansion were a bowling alley, a wine cellar, a beauty salon, and a humidity-controlled silver storage room. There was a rooftop rose garden, a library, tennis courts, and a theater. Anything one wanted, one could find at the Spelling mansion.
When Toots saw the conveyer belt in the main master bedroom, she'd immediately withdrawn her offer. The change of mind had cost her fifty thousand bucks, and for that she'd been pissed, but she refused to live in a house with a conveyer belt. It reminded her of that old
I Love Lucy
episode in which Lucy and Ethel worked in a chocolate factory, wrapping candy as it traveled down a conveyer belt. The enterprise turned out disastrously as the conveyer belt kept moving faster and faster, and the pair kept stuffing chocolates in their mouths, hats, and blouses in order to keep up. Toots visualized her bags and shoes flying through the air, then herself getting stabbed in the eye by a sharp stiletto as it flew off the conveyer belt, and decided that her eyeball was worth the fifty grand she'd lost.
Leaving the light on, she wiggled beneath the pile of covers, squeezing her eyes shut. Sensing that whatever had awakened her was no longer sharing the room with her, she relaxed, drifting into a state of half sleep, where dreams shifted so quickly that recalling them would be almost impossible.
Tomorrow was another day.

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