by Deborah Camp
Books By Deborah Camp:
The Dangerous Hearts Series
Fallen Angel
Fire Lily
Master of Moonspell
Right Behind the Rain
Riptide
The Daring Hearts Series
Black-eyed Susan
Blazing Embers
Cheyenne’s Shadow
My Wild Rose
Primrose
The Love and Adventure Series
After Dark
For Love or Money
In a Pirate’s Arms
Just Another Pretty Face
Vein of Gold
The Love and Laughter Series
A Newsworthy Affair
Hook, Line, and Sinker
Love Letters
The Butler Did It
Wrangler’s Lady
The Love Everlasting Series
A Dream to Share
Midnight Eyes
Strange Bedfellows
They Said it Wouldn’t Last
Winter Flame
The Passionate Hearts Series
Destiny’s Daughter
Oklahoma Man
Taming the Wild Man
The Second Mr. Sullivan
Weathering the Storm
The Tender Hearts Series
Devil’s Bargain
Sweet Passion’s Song
This Tender Truce
To Have, To Hold
Tomorrow’s Bride
The Wild Hearts Series
A Tough Man’s Woman
Lady Legend
Lonewolf’s Woman
Too Tough ToTame
Tough Talk, Tender Kisses
RIPTIDE
by
Deborah Camp
Copyright © Deborah Camp, 1984
All Rights Reserved
First published by The New American Library, Inc.
Cover photo by Mike Baird
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
To John and Naomi Shaw,
who taught me that hard work
does pay off if you take pride in it
Chapter One
“Oh, it’s so good to be home again!” Whitney Campbell stood in the foyer of her Malibu beach house, her brown eyes taking in the familiar surroundings. She descended the three steps into her sunken living room which was decorated in shell pink and apricot with splashes of slate blue. “I know I’ve only been away a week, but it feels as if it’s been a month,” she added, tossing her purse onto a nearby chair.
“Click your heels three times and repeat after me: there’s no place like home,” Oliver Hampton said behind her as he deposited her luggage on the entrance floor.
Whitney smiled at her agent’s reference to her favorite film The Wizard of Oz.
“I’ll get the rest of your suitcases,” Hampton said. “You packed enough for a month’s trip. You have four bags, and I have only one.”
Whitney whirled to face her agent and family friend. “I’ll help you bring in the rest of the things.”
“No, that’s, okay. I’ll get them.” Hampton smiled good-naturedly before he went back outside to the car.
Whitney laughed and turned back to the view of the ocean. She could barely remember a time when Oliver Hampton hadn’t been a part of her life. Her father, a screenplay writer, had hired him when Whitney was six, and when Whitney began her career as a commercial artist, it had seemed only natural to hire Hampton as her own agent, especially since he had become a trusted family friend. Hampton lugged in the rest of her bags, and Whitney smiled at him over her shoulder.
“Aren’t you glad to be back?” she asked as he put the rest of her luggage in the foyer.
“I’m barely able to control my enthusiasm,” he said with calculated lackluster.
Whitney crossed the spacious living room to the glass wall that provided an unobstructed view of the ocean. She felt drained, as she always did when returning from New York. The hustle and bustle of the Big Apple sapped her energy and made her all the more grateful for this Malibu niche where the pace was slow and sedate.
She smoothed her long brown hair back from her face, her fingers automatically checking the side part. Her cinnamon-colored eyes soaked in the majestic glory of the Pacific while she relaxed one muscle at a time.
How did New York artists concentrate in that glittering, kinetic city? Whitney wondered as she watched huge breakers roll toward the shore. She gave a little shrug. Perhaps the nervous energy of New York rubbed off on its artists, making them work faster and harder. But she was the type who needed peace and quiet to work; it would be so nice to get back into her comfortable rut here.
“Shall I unpack for you?” Hampton asked.
Whitney turned to face him. “No, smart aleck. I’ll do it later. Why don’t you stay for tea? How does that sound?”
“Very British,” Hampton said in his proper English accent. “Very British, indeed. I’ll take these three suitcases upstairs for you, and you can carry that small overnight bag. Come along.”
Whitney smiled to herself as she mounted the redwood staircase to her second floor bedroom, with Hampton right behind her. Dear Hampton. What would she do without him fussing over her and being the uncle she never had; especially now that her parents were gone? Hampton had filled several needs in her life. Besides being a top-notch agent, he was her confidant and staunchest supporter—he had believed in her before she had even believed in herself.
She had already started into her bedroom when the destruction before her registered. A startled gasp pushed past her lips as the small case slipped from her fingers unnoticed and toppled to the floor. She felt Hampton press against her to see what had produced her strangled sound of dismay.
“Oh, no!” Whitney shut her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again the scene had not changed or disappeared.
The violet satin comforter on her four poster bed was slashed to ribbons, along with the matching pillowcases. Feeling like a sleepwalker, Whitney approached the bed. The sheets and mattress cover beneath the comforter were also ripped to pieces and a square of white paper rested in the middle of the destruction. Whitney picked it up to read the scrawled words.
“Sorry I missed you. I’ll be back,” she read aloud before the slip of paper fluttered from her numb fingers. She jumped slightly when Hampton placed his steady hands on her shoulders.
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” Hampton said. “I’ll call the police.”
“I’m so angry I could … could smash this vase!” Ashley Summer said, picking up an antique Oriental vase and holding it aloft.
“Please, don’t,” Hampton said, gently removing the vase from Ashley’s hand. “We would much rather have you go home and smash your own vases.” Hampton replaced the vase on the coffee table, ignoring Ashley’s withering glare.
“Hampton,” Whitney admonished softly, barely able to keep the smile from her lips as she turned back to Ashley. “Would you like some coffee, Ashley?”
“That would be nice,” Ashley said, her eyes still focused on Hampton.
“Do you think it’s wise to place a china cup in this woman’s hands?” Hampton asked.
“Hampton, please?” Whitney implored, laughter threading through her voice.
A hint of a smile teased the corners of his mouth before he motioned for Whitney to remain seated. “You visit with your neighbor,
and I’ll make the coffee.”
“Thanks. You know where everything is, don’t you?”
“I should by now,” Hampton said over his shoulder as he left them.
“I would never allow my agent to speak to my guests like that!” Ashley fumed. “He hasn’t moved in with you, has he?”
“No. He just spent last night here because …” Whitney drew her brows together as the memory of yesterday crowded into her mind. “Well, I was upset after the police left, and Hampton insisted on staying to make sure I was okay.” She looked up at Ashley. “Sit down and calm yourself, Ashley.”
“How can I be calm?” Ashley asked, sinking into the chair. “My house is broken into by the Malibu Intruder, and that… that obnoxious police officer all but calls me a liar!”
Whitney nodded. The Malibu Intruder was the name coined by the local newspapers for the perverted person who had been breaking and entering Malibu residents’ homes and wreaking havoc for no apparent reason. It made Whitney shiver just to think that the infamous Intruder had been in her house while she’d been away. What had he touched? Had he been in every room? Why was he picking on her?
Realizing that Ashley was waiting for further reaction from her, Whitney cleared her throat and fixed a concerned expression on her face. “What did this officer say to you—exactly?”
Ashley ran a hand up her neck and tucked a few blond strands into her upswept hairdo. “I told him I’d been visited by the Malibu Intruder—just as you have—and he told me I was wrong. He said the break-in didn’t fit the Intruder’s style since my sheets weren’t ripped up nor any of my clothes. Were your clothes ripped, too?”
“No. Just the bed.” Whitney leaned back in the chair and folded her arms in front of her, warding off the memory of yesterday.
“Have you talked to that police officer?”
“No. He sent a photographer and fingerprinting team here yesterday. He’s supposed to come by today and talk to me personally. I believe his name is—”
“Tallwalker,” Ashley provided. “Detective Tallwalker. His first name is Anthony, but I noticed that all the other policemen called him Shadow. The other officers were very nice, but he was extremely rude. He acted as if I’d made up the whole thing! He even asked if I was sure I hadn’t left the back door ajar!”
“Are you sure you didn’t?” Whitney asked softly.
“Of course I’m sure! I always lock the back door. When I read the paper this morning about your break-in, I was naturally upset since I live right next door to you. I went through my house, making sure everything was locked up tight, and that’s when I saw that the back door was open. I know the Intruder was in my house!”
“How do you know?”
Ashley’s green eyes became hard and glassy. “I just know. I have excellent instincts about such things.”
“Oh, I see.” Whitney smiled as Hampton entered the room with a coffee tray. “Ah, good! I could use a cup of coffee. Set it right here on this table, Hampton, and I’ll pour.”
“I’ve notified my press agent and I’m expecting reporters at my home this afternoon,” Ashley said. “I’m going to tell them how the police are ignoring my dilemma.”
“Do you think that’s a wise move, Ashley?” Whitney asked as she poured her agitated visitor a cup of coffee. “Maybe you should talk to the police first and—”
“I’ve talked to the police!” Ashley reached for the cup, shaking her head when Whitney started to add cream to the coffee. “They’re treating me like I’m a nobody and I’m not!”
“Of course you’re not,” Whitney said, trying to calm her flighty neighbor. “You’re a very good actress.”
“I’m more than that. I’m a star!” Ashley tipped up her chin, giving her best haughty pose.
“Why do you think the Intruder didn’t rip up your bed or clothes as he has done with all the other victims?” Hampton asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he was startled or …” Ashley set her cup in its saucer with a clatter and her eyes became as big as half-dollars. “Or maybe I came home while he was still there … and he heard me and … and he ran away! Yes, that’s it!”
The doorbell rang and Whitney stiffened in response. “That must be the police,” she said, setting her coffee cup down on the tray. She rose from the chair and straightened the collar of her blue Oxford shirt.
“I’ll get the door,” Hampton offered, already halfway to the front foyer.
“I dread this,” Whitney said, almost to herself.
“I don’t blame you. Wait until you meet Tallwalker. Don’t let him push you around, Whitney. Do you want me to stay and—”
“No. Thanks anyway, Ashley.” Whitney held out her hand, hoping Ashley would take the hint. “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll talk to you later.”
Ashley seized Whitney’s hand and pulled her across the living room toward the foyer. Whitney stepped around the partition that separated the two rooms, and Ashley stood by her side.
“It’s him,” Ashley whispered in her ear. “Tallwalker.”
The man standing outside reached inside his wheat-colored jacket and withdrew a black leather wallet. He flipped it open, holding it out for Hampton to see.
“Detective Tallwalker. I’m here to speak with Miss Whitney Campbell about her break-in yesterday.”
Hampton leaned forward, squinting at the shiny badge, then he stood straight again. “Very impressive. I’m Miss Campbell’s agent, but I don’t have a badge to prove it. You’ll just have to take my word.”
The detective’s face was in a shadow, making it difficult to see his features, but Whitney could sense his frowning reaction to Hampton’s jesting.
“Is Miss Campbell here?” the detective asked, obviously not amused by Hampton.
“Yes, please come in.” Hampton stepped back and his blue eyes sparkled with inner mirth as he caught Whitney’s grin. “Whitney, Detective Tallwalker wishes to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Hampton.”
The police officer stepped from the shadows into the foyer, and Whitney tipped back her head. He certainly lived up to his name, Whitney thought. He must be several inches over six feet.
“Hello, again,” Ashley said, her voice tinged with bitterness. “Are you here to call Whitney a liar, too?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Summer,” the policeman answered. “I’m here to question Miss Campbell. I’d like to do that in private, if you don’t mind.”
“I was just leaving,” Ashley informed him. “We’re expecting reporters within the hour. The press is very interested in these break-ins, even if you’re not!” Ashley swept past him and out the door, her burnt orange caftan flowing behind her. “I’ll talk to you later, Whitney,”
“And I’m off, too,” Hampton said, placing a quick kiss on Whitney’s cheek. “I’ll phone you later. If you need me, you know where to find me.” His eyes mirrored his concern.
“I’ll be fine. Thanks for staying with me.”
“That’s what friends are for,” he replied with a smile, before closing the front door behind him.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee, Detective Tallwalker?” Whitney asked, indicating the living room.
“Yes, thank you.”
Whitney led the way, taking her chair again while the detective chose to sit on the couch across from her. As Whitney poured the coffee, she chanced a glance or two at him. He had removed a small notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket and was thumbing through it to find the first clean page. He had long, tanned fingers and clean, short nails. Veins pushed up under the skin on the back of his hands, creating an interesting latticework.
“Do you take cream or sugar?”
“Just black, please.”
Whitney smiled. Somehow she had known he would take his coffee straight. She handed him the cup and was slightly startled when his gaze met hers. His eyes, silvery gray, were made all the more noticeable set against his swarthy complexion and inky lashes. He had the type of gaze that didn’t gl
ance, but penetrated. She noted his straight, black hair, high cheekbones, and prominent nose. Tallwalker.
“Are you Indian?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.
“Half-Choctaw,” he answered before tasting the coffee.
“And the other half?”
“Italian. Why?” He set the cup and saucer on the low table before him.
Whitney lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Just curious.” She felt her cheeks warm and wondered why she was questioning this man when he was supposed to be the one with the questions.
“Okay, let’s get down to it.” He sat back, unbuttoned his jacket, and rested one ankle on the other knee. “The report says you discovered the break-in after you returned from a business trip.”
“Yes, I went to New York to sign a book contract. I was gone a week and returned yesterday.”
“And the house was all locked up before you left?”
“Yes. A window in the downstairs bathroom was broken. I guess that’s how he got in.”
“He?” Silver eyes pinned her. “Why do you think it was a man?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t imagine a woman doing such a thing.” Whitney shifted in the chair, feeling uneasy under this man’s unwavering gaze.
“Chances are, you’re right.” One corner of his wide mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Makes me ashamed of my sex sometimes.” He took another sip of the coffee. “Did your—what’s his name? Hampson?”
“Hampton,” Whitney offered. “Oliver Hampton, but everyone calls him Hampton.”
“Did Hampton go with you to New York?”
“He was with me.”
“And no one else has been in this house since you’ve been in New York?”
“No one, other than my cleaning lady. Selma comes in twice a week. She was here Wednesday and nothing was disturbed then.”
“So this all happened sometime between Wednesday and Friday,” Tallwalker said, writing it down in his notebook.
“Yes, that’s right.”
His silvery gaze lifted to the upstairs. “Have you touched anything up there?”
“No. I slept in one of the extra bedrooms last night. The officers told me not to touch anything until after you’d talked to me.”
