Face of Danger

by Roxanne St Claire

  “It’s not,” he said. “It’s just existing.”

  She gave the chaise a shove with her knee. “Well, have fun with that, pal.” Goddamn it, her voice cracked. She had to get out of there. “I’ll miss you.”

  He was over the chaise in a flash, seizing her by the shoulders before she took two steps. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t? Don’t what? Don’t cry for you, Lang. I don’t—”

  He pushed her toward the mirror, his jaw set, his grip tight, frustration rolling off him like heat waves. “I know, I know, you don’t cry. You don’t follow rules. You don’t take orders. You don’t let me control you. You don’t… care.” He bruised her mouth with a kiss.

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” She shoved him back but he didn’t budge, merely pressing her against the cold glass. “What do you think I’m trying to tell you? Last night wasn’t just sex to me. But it was for you. Just an escape from your… bad memories.” She spat the word and got jammed harder into the mirror in response.

  Her own black memories washed over her. No. No, don’t do this to me, Lang.

  “You’re not an escape.”

  “Shut up.” She tried to break free, but he trapped her with his body, his legs, his mighty arms. “I’m a pastime, a distraction, a fun fantasy fuck. Didn’t I prove that in the bathtub last night? That’s all I am. I asked for that, didn’t I?”

  “Stop it, Vivi.” He braced her with his leg. “What do you want me to say? I love you?”

  Yes. Yes, I do. The realization pressed her as hard as his body. Each breath strangled her, her throat so choked with pain she couldn’t breathe, her pulse galloping, her eyes… stinging. Oh, God in heaven, she was going to cry.

  “How hard would that be?” she demanded. “Because I—”

  He silenced her with a kiss she didn’t want but couldn’t escape. Fierce, furious, bubbling with words he couldn’t say and emotions he either didn’t want or couldn’t handle. His tongue ravaged her, sucking hers into his mouth, his torso smashed against her, his hands bracketing her against the mirror, his erection… growing harder.

  I love you. The words screamed in her brain, no whisper, no echo, no mild suggestion. They reverberated through her being, certain and real and right. I love you, Colton.

  She kissed the words into his mouth, flames of need licking up her thighs with the same vehemence of his tongue, his hands finding the most vulnerable places, his knees spreading hers apart. She wanted this. She wanted it even though she knew it was meaningless.

  I love you. She gasped too hard to speak, her breath stolen when he yanked the little skirt up over her hips.

  A wave of a dark memory threatened—a cheerleading skirt, another desperate male—but she let lust crush the mental flashes, returning his kisses, fumbling with his belt.

  He ripped at his fly, practically tearing the zipper out of the fabric, wrenching the pants open to release his swollen erection.

  He jammed her against the mirror, her backside smashed against the glass. His hands under her arms, he slid her up the mirror. She wrapped her legs around him, the skirt bunched at her waist. He held her steady and used his hard-on to push her sliver of panties to the side.

  The move made her dizzy. Crazy. Feral with need, but wild with shock. This was how he was going to say it? This?

  He rammed into her, no tenderness this time, no worry for her pain.

  But there was little pain, just burning, hot, helpless need. She took every bit of him inside her, squeezing him with her walls, clinging to him.

  Her head dropped, biting the litany of love into his shoulder.

  I love you. I love you.

  Her climax seized her, nothing slow and sweet, but lightning fast, relentless, a quake that twisted her body and shattered her. She came like a thunderclap, like nothing she’d ever known before, like it was the first time—and the last.

  He followed in three mighty strokes, his face distorted, his grip relentless, his body out of control as he drove into her. Head back, eyes closed, he growled like a beast as he managed to drag his length out of her and spurt helplessly as she watched.

  Like he couldn’t believe it himself, he looked up at her, astonishment and horror in his face as he slowly lowered her quivering body back to the floor with a surprising amount of tenderness. Somehow, he managed to find the next breath, and release her death grip on his arms.

  “Lang.” She mouthed his name, blinking against—moisture. A hot tear singed her cheek for the second time that day.

  “I made you cry.” He didn’t sound proud, just shook his head.

  “No, no you didn’t. He did. He did.”

  He inched back. “Who did?”

  “Doctor Ken Taylor.”

  “Who?”

  She lifted her finger to touch the tear, salt already trickling into her mouth. “The boy who raped me when I was sixteen.”

  Breath whooshed out of him. “What?” He barely mouthed the word. “You were—oh, my God, Vivi. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He gripped her shoulders, then let go suddenly as if he might break her. “I got carried away. I got crazy. I wanted you to… just one more time… I…”

  He released her completely, backing away.

  “No,” she said, fighting for calm in her wild swirl of emotions. “This isn’t about you. You didn’t—”

  “I did. Just then, I—”

  “No,” she insisted. “If I wanted you to stop, you would have. I know that.”

  “I would have. I would never hurt you. I would never…” He blew out another disgusted breath. “Not physically, and not intentionally.”

  “I know.” She flattened her sweaty palms on the mirror behind her for stability and looked into his eyes. “And that is only one of the reasons why I love you,” she said simply.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he whispered. “I… I can’t.” Pain wrecked his face. “I want to, Vivi, but I… can’t.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said softly, the agony she expected lifting from her heart. “Because I can. Now, I can love and be loved. And that, Colton, is the real gift you gave me. After all these years, I finally want to love and be loved. By you. And you deserve love. You really do.”

  “I…” He reached his hand as though he wanted to touch her, but he was already too far away. Already one foot out the door. Already escaping pain he might never feel. “I want to but…”

  He swiped two hands through his hair, his eyes wet with tears.

  “If you want to…” she said. “Then you can.”

  “I can’t.” He zipped his pants, took a step away. “I want to, but I can’t.”

  And then he walked out, leaving his clothes still in a pile on the chaise and Vivi still propped against the mirror.

  She closed her eyes and didn’t move until she heard him leave and close the door with a resounding click. She let her body glide down the glass and sigh onto the floor.

  Reaching to the chaise, she took his golf shirt and brought it to her face.

  Then she finally, finally, cried.

  CHAPTER 23

  Vivi stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. Until the icy spray washed away any remnant of salty tears.

  No more crying, now.

  When she turned off the faucet, she grabbed a towel, dried her face, and took a slow, head-clearing inhale. She had a job to do, a business to run, an adopted family that gave her all the love and support she’d ever need.

  And she was going to take care of Souvanna. Escort her back to Laos, if that was what she wanted. Give her money. Show her love. Maybe she’d adopt her.

  Buoyed by the idea, she headed downstairs, not surprised to find all evidence of Lang packed and gone. Even the kitchen was empty, the whole house unnaturally quiet now that the FBI agents had left.

  The free world knew Cara Ferrari was in the hospital, so the chance of a Red Carpet Killer attacking was slim to none. Especially since Joellen had been moved up to Suspect Number One.

  Only Stell
a remained, lying flat out on the tile floor, her expression utterly forlorn.

  “I feel your pain, Stell,” Vivi said as she stepped over the little dog to head into the kitchen. She paused, crouching down to scratch Stella’s head. “Golf Guy has left the building.”

  Stella heaved a sigh and turned away.

  Something was different. The sliding door to the patio was open—that’s what it was. The shades, usually drawn so that most sunlight was absent, were pushed back and the sliders were fully open.

  “Mercedes?” Vivi called, stepping out.

  She stood stick straight in the sunshine, staring ahead. “It’s warm for March,” Mercedes said, without turning.

  “Yes, it is.” Vivi took a few tentative steps forward, not wanting to break the spell but unable to stay back. “Are you all right?”

  Mercedes nodded, then lifted her face toward the sun and closed her eyes. “I wanted to try.”

  “That’s good,” Vivi said encouragingly. “That’s a good step, Mercedes.”

  She finally looked at Vivi, her eyes as bloodshot from crying as Vivi’s must have been a few hours ago. “They’re looking for Jo, aren’t they?”

  Vivi swallowed. “Do you know where she is, Mercedes?”

  Closing her mouth to a tight line, she turned back to the sun. “She’s a good girl.”

  Really. “Then we need to find that out. The FBI needs to talk to her and find out—”If she could possibly be the Red Carpet Killer. “Things,” she finished lamely.

  “She didn’t do it.” Mercedes crossed her arms. “She did one really bad thing and you already know what that was.”

  “Not so bad, in my opinion.”

  Mercedes almost smiled. “You understand, then.”

  “I was raped,” Vivi said simply, kind of amazed at how liberating the statement was. She might not be ready to tell her family, but if it helped Mercedes, then she wanted to share. “I know how it feels.”

  “Will you protect her, then?” Mercedes asked. “The way you protected Cara? And me?”

  “I don’t know how well I protected Cara, but I still don’t see any reason to drag you into this. And if the FBI wants to investigate the death of a farm worker—”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She turned and walked back into the kitchen, and Vivi followed, curious when Mercedes picked up a file folder and held it out to Vivi.

  Vivi took the folder, frowning as she opened it.

  She scanned the words, her chest tightening at the picture of the dead movie star Adrienne Dwight. The first victim of the Red Carpet Killer. Under that, a clear plastic envelope, papers stashed inside. Receipts, lists, notes, computer printouts.

  She untied the string on the back and opened the envelope, pulling out a piece of paper with swirling writing at the top, Middle Eastern symbols. Curious, Vivi examined it more closely, her gaze dropping to the bottom of the page.

  Bhanjee Hair: Human, Artificial, Wigs Natural and Dyed. Indian wigs. “She bought the wigs?”

  Mercedes glanced at the page. “Actually, I ordered those for Cara to have here.”

  But Joellen used them. Setting the paper down, she pulled out the next. MapQuest directions printed off the Internet, two locations in the Hollywood Hills, a yellow highlighter used to color in the roads. Mulholland Drive was circled and one location marked with an X. The road where Adrienne Dwight’s life had ended.

  Next was a simple parchment invitation. Dinner at the home of Angus Gaites. She recognized the famous director’s name, but another one on the page jumped out at her.

  To honor Isobel DeSoto’s Oscar Winning Performance.

  The other victim of the Red Carpet Killer. Isobel died after attending a party given by a director in her honor.

  A dance of chills worked its way up Vivi’s spine, landing at the base of her brain, where her investigator’s cells had just woken up to go to work.

  “Where did you get these?” she asked.

  “I found them in Joellen’s room.”

  She looked up and met Mercedes’s painful gaze. “You realize what this means?”

  “I don’t believe it. She’s not capable of… that.”

  But maybe she was. “Mercedes, do you have any idea where she is?”

  Her lip quivered. “No, I really don’t. But…” She blinked away moisture in her eyes.—“She instructed me to let the dog out that night when you were shot.”

  “She called and told you that?”

  “She texted.”

  “But Marissa’s been using Joellen’s phone.”

  A light of hope sparked in the other woman’s eyes. “Maybe Marissa was the person who did this.”

  Vivi looked at the papers again, flipping through them. “Where were these? In a desk or what?” It was all so… neat. Too neat. Too incriminating.

  “Under her bed.”

  “Was anything else there? Any other evidence?”

  “No, but you’re welcome to look.”

  The cell phone Vivi had stashed in her back pocket vibrated. As she pulled it out, she cursed herself for hoping it was Lang. But the name that lit the screen dashed that hope and replaced it with genuine curiosity.

  “Cara?” she asked tentatively.

  “Vivi, I need you.” The actress’s distinct voice sounded strained and stretched. “You have to meet me at the airport, now.”

  “You left the hospital?”

  “Let’s just say I got out. I had to, and you’ll understand when I see you. But you have to meet me at the lot near the private-plane tarmac, right now. Where are you?”

  “At your house. But, Cara, are you driving?” She had two bullet wounds, for crying out loud. Neither serious, but surely she shouldn’t be up and about yet.

  “I’m fine. Just meet me at the airport.”

  Vivi looked down at the papers in her hands. “Have you heard from Joellen?”

  “Not a word. Bridget covered for me at the hospital, but they’ll find her soon, so we have to hurry. I have to get out of here before the press or… anyone else figures it out. Meet me at the airport, now. I need a decoy.”

  “I’m out of my disguise, Cara.”

  She puffed out a frustrated sigh, the sound of Cara not getting her way. “Get a wig in my closet, wear my clothes, and meet me. Vivi, I need your help and you are still working for me, right? I’m still paying you an astronomical sum of money, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re still responsible for my safety.”

  No argument. “I’ll be there.”

  “Okay—and, Vivi, please, please bring Stella. I can’t go another minute without her.”

  “Will do.” When she hung up, she gathered the incriminating evidence. “I’m keeping this,” she told Mercedes. “I have to show Cara. Maybe she can convince Joellen to come to her. So we can help her,” she added.

  Mercedes just closed her eyes.

  “She wants me in costume,” Vivi said. “Can you help me?”

  Mercedes followed her back upstairs, getting clothes while Vivi put on a wig and a fast pass of makeup. When they finished, Mercedes gave her that same look she had when Vivi had first walked in.

  “You really do look like her,” she said.

  “But you don’t,” Vivi replied. “Or, more accurately, Cara doesn’t look like you. Joellen has your coloring.”

  Mercedes’s cheeks deepened. “Cara isn’t my biological daughter.”

  “Oh, really? She was adopted?”

  “I never really adopted her. Her father… my husband… just brought her home as a baby, and announced she was his. I raised her as mine, but we don’t share blood.”

  Vivi searched the woman’s face. “You’ve been through a lot in your lifetime.”

  She lifted a brow. “And I have a lot more to go through,” she said. “But you must know something about those papers we found.”

  “What is it?”

  “Joellen isn’t capable of that.”

  But Vivi thought differently.
“That’s what we need to find out,” she said, gathering her stuff and heading back downstairs.

  In the kitchen, she paused to scoop up the dog, who growled low when Vivi slipped her hands under her warm belly. “Come on, pooch. We’re going to see your favorite person. Your other favorite person.”

  “Oh, and Vivi.” Mercedes was on her heels in the utility room.

  Vivi turned. “Yes?”

  “I just want you to know that…” She took a shuddering breath.—“I think that FBI agent loves you very much.”

  The statement, so not what she was expecting, made Vivi inch back. “Yeah? Well, he hasn’t figured that out yet.”

  “But you have.”

  Vivi smiled. “I have,” she agreed.

  “I bet that feels good for you.” Mercedes’s rare smile was empathetic. One only another survivor would understand.

  “Like stepping into the sunshine,” Vivi said, extending her free arm to give Mercedes a quick hug. “Go wait for news. On the patio.”

  Despite the exchange, Vivi climbed into an SUV in the garage more aware of the low throbbing pain in the back of her head.

  The ache she felt when something was really, really wrong.

  • • •

  Colt paced through the tiny Nantucket air terminal after getting his ticket, threw his bag on a chair, and fell into the one next to it, his gaze drawn to the distant row of private planes out the eastern-facing window. Plenty of props and a few jets, but way at the end, one sleek Gulfstream G650, big enough for a private strip show in the back.

  She’d been raped.

  Anger, hatred, all vile and black and real, roiled through him. And he didn’t even know who to hit with all this hate. Some boy rapist who wrecked a beautiful, sweet, innocent girl, or himself, who took her against the wall because he couldn’t say what he didn’t understand.

  And she loved him. Deep down, he already knew that. And what had he done with that love? Abused it. Thrown it away. Ran like the chickenshit dickhead moron pig he was.

  Really, there weren’t enough bad words to describe him.

  He forced himself to look away from the tail of that plane, refusing to remember how much better getting to Nantucket had been than leaving. And what had he said to her after she’d made a brilliant and brave move to keep him quiet that day?