by Jenna Ryan
Now a stronger cry begged for release. He stroked her with his hands, ran his tongue lovingly around the diamond-hard tip of her nipple. The rhythm altered, growing faster, deeper, more fiery. Sam responded, digging her fingers into his buttocks and raising her needful body to meet his thrusts.
She knew what to expect, yet even knowing was robbed of breath when the first fierce shudder tore through her. The second left her gasping out loud. The rest was little more than a blur.
She remembered feeling wonderfully light and giddy, floaty—until Aidan collapsed on top of her. Even then, her mind wasn’t eager to return. So she wrapped her arms around him and held him close, absorbing the feel of his warm, hard body and the sound of his ragged breathing, knowing full well that her own heart pounded at a similar, erratic rate.
“Stubborn namesake of a witch,” she heard him mutter into her shoulder. “I should have known better.”
Sam swallowed hard around the pain that burned at the back of her throat. He didn’t mean that. He couldn’t She wouldn’t believe it. If a house had to fall on her, so be it. Until then, she would believe he could love her. Anything was possible. Anything and everything. Even the morbid Irish believed in miracles.
That left only his Scottish side to deal with—and the memory of a woman who’d wanted him dead. Perhaps a difficult memory to offset when they dogged the footsteps of a much older woman who appeared to desire another person’s death.
With a shiver for the unknown danger lurking beyond the apartment walls, Sam snuggled closer to Aidan and prayed for a miracle.
Chapter Twelve
“Wait here.”
It wasn’t a request but an order barked at her by a bent old woman wearing a maid’s uniform. She had steel wool for hair, a pointed chin with visible whiskers, a gravelly voice and an air of absolute authority. Sam waited as instructed.
The maid had led her to Stan Hollister’s study, a spacious room with a mushroom leather sofa, matching chairs, a large walnut desk and stuffed fish instead of animal heads mounted on the walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a yard dotted with orange and grapefruit trees, a gazebo, a rectangular pool and, far in the distance, a dog kennel and runs. As Sam watched, a tall, thin scarecrow of a man, possibly the handyman, with a billed cap, long blond hair and a protruding Adam’s apple shuffled past.
Sighing, she turned. Photographs of old movie stars and vintage cars adorned the space above the sofa. She’d also glimpsed a long row of garages outside, in front of which were parked no less than a dozen collector automobiles.
All of those things registered, yet none really held her interest. Curiosity had been eating her up since eight-thirty this morning. That’s when Stan Hollister’s call had come via Ai-dan’s phone—his untapped phone, she was relieved to recall.
Aidan had been dead to the world. Sam had heard the ring, untangled herself reluctantly from the bedsheets and Aidan’s slumbering body and stumbled to answer it. Stan seemed both surprised and grimly pleased to find her there.
“I need to talk to you,” he’d said by way of a greeting.
She’d stifled a yawn and propped her eyelids open. “What about Aid—uh, Mr. Brodie?”
“I think it would be best if we kept this meeting down to two. I live in Bel Air. Can you be here by ten?”
“I—well, yes, I suppose so.”
“Please be prompt,” he’d said brusquely before she could question him further. “I’m on a tight schedule these days.” He’d rattled off the address so abruptly that Sam had barely been able to locate a pad and pen in time. She’d had to scrabble through Aidan’s desk drawer, and at that she’d had to use a three-year-old check stub and a dull pencil.
But those weren’t the only items in the drawer. In the process of closing it, she’d glimpsed a wrinkled photograph partially hidden under a stack of road maps.
The older woman must have been his grandmother, the Scottish one since she’d been wearing a tartan scarf. But it was the younger woman who’d really caught her eye. Dom-ina? she’d wondered, and held the photo up to the morning light. She was very pretty, beautiful in fact. She had bright red hair, a dusting of golden freckles—and a glint in her pale green eyes that could have been rooted in either mischief or malice. Sam had suspected the latter, shivered at the prospect and shoved the picture back under the maps. God help Aidan if he’d misread those gorgeous green eyes.
He’d continued to sleep soundly while she dressed in a borrowed pair of jeans that were miles too big for her and a white cotton shirt, the tails of which she tied around her waist. Barefoot, she’d collected her still-damp clothing from the night before, kissed the nape of his neck and crept out to her car. She hadn’t been relishing the awkward morning after and couldn’t deny the faint sense of relief that washed through her that the moment would be indefinitely postponed. Maybe later she’d be equipped to handle her spinning emotions. A portion of that ability would undoubtedly depend on what Stan had to say.
In the director’s study now, she paced, arms folded, tapping her elbows with her palms in agitation. She’d worn a black wraparound dress for the occasion, short, simple and businesslike. She’d snapped on her gold Gucci watch, added a pair of black and gold earrings, swept her hair up on the sides with combs and now here she was, ready to do battle—assuming a battle was necessary, and that Hollister bothered to put in an appearance.
At the opposite end of the room a door opened and a middle-aged woman with short blond hair and layers of makeup emerged. Sam stopped pacing to exclaim, “Connie! What are you doing here?”
Connie Grant pulled on her spiky hair. She was clearly as surprised to see Sam as Sam was to see her. “‘Who’s News’ wanted an interview. Harvey was out with the flu so I volunteered to cover. I think Hollister forgot, though. Some crusty old maid demanded to know who I was, then marched off in a huff. When she came back she said her boss was on a long distance call, and she shoved me in here.” Stabbing a painted thumb over her shoulder, she added, “There’s a ladies’ room if you need it. Three cups of coffee and thirty minutes later, I needed it badly.” Adjusting her oversize green sweater, she pulled Sam toward the sofa. “So do tell. What brings you out here?”
“It’s a very long story,” Sam replied honestly, too keyed up to sit. She circled instead. “Stan Hollister called me at eight thirty this morning. I have no idea why.”
“Did you infiltrate Rockland’s reception?” Connie asked with a canny grin. At Sam’s raised brows, she sat back, legs crossed. “Ha! Thought you might have.” She waved a manicured hand. “Don’t sweat it, kid. Hollister probably has the hots for you. He sure did for every starlet he met in his youth.”
“Including Margaret Truesdale?” Sam wondered out loud.
“Probably. Just watch your step and his hands and you’ll be fine. Besides, Mama Bear’s here to make sure he doesn’t overstep the mark. You feel like sharing any secrets as long as we’re alone and cozy?”
Sam thought about it, but knew she couldn’t, not without divulging the whole sordid story. What bothered her most was Stan Hollister’s reason for asking her here today. Not Aidan, or as he knew him, Robert Brodie, just her. What was it that Stan wanted to keep between them? Did it concern Anthea’s death, or was he in cahoots with Mary?
She offered Connie a preoccupied denial and continued to circle. Now she knew how a caged tiger must feel. The study seemed to be shrinking by the minute.
Connie lit a cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. “I guess you heard about Anthea Pennant, huh?”
“I heard she was discovered dead in her home.” That information and little else had appeared in all the city newspapers, including the Break. Restless, Sam allowed her fingers to sift idly through some of the papers on Stan Hollister’s desk.
“Shot dead,” Connie specified, and stretched her arms over her head. “I’m betting it was a fluke, you know, a robbery gone bad. Happens all the time in La-la Land.”
“Cynic.” Sam would have adde
d more to the gibe if she hadn’t glanced down and caught sight of a name on Stan’s blotter. With an unintelligible gasp, she ran behind the desk and started shoving papers aside at random.
Connie hopped up, clearly appalled. “Have you gone mad?” Scurrying over, she grabbed Sam’s right wrist. “That’s private stuff. You could get sued.”
Shaking free, Sam kept pawing. “I saw a name, Connie. If he has it written down he must be working with her.”
“Name? What name? What are you talking about? Sam, stop this.” Connie rounded the desk to grasp her shoulders. “You’re going to get us both in hot water. I mean it. I’m as gung ho and game to play spy as any reporter who’s worth her salt, but plowing through personal papers in someone’s home is going a bit too far, don’t you think?”
Sam jabbed at the name on the blotter. “Helen Murdoch, Connie. He wrote it down. Here, go through this file folder. There’s got to be more than just her name.”
Too baffled to object further, Connie riffled through the file. “Who the hell is Helen Murdoch?”
“Mary Lamont”
“Get out,” she scoffed. “Lamont’s in the loony bin.”
“Oakhaven,” Sam corrected. “And she isn’t there now. She escaped.”
“Really?”
Sam recognized the avid tone. Looking up, she leveled her friend with a glare. “Off the record, Connie. I’m sworn to secrecy. Anyway, there’s more to it than even your inventive mind could imagine. Keep quiet and I’ll talk Sally into letting me share my exclusive with ‘Who’s News.’”
Connie, thankfully the best of friends, shook a warning finger. “Swear it?”
Sam held up her right hand; her left kept shuffling papers. “I swear…Damn!” Her head shot up. “Footsteps!”
Connie had already dropped her file. Red-tipped fingers hooked Sam’s arm and yanked. “Sit.” She thrust her into the leather chair, perched on the arm and emitted an indignant snort. “Sounds like you’ll have your hands full with that one, honey. I’d tell Sally to put on—ah, here he is.” She catapulted from the arm, hand extended, eyes casting a pained glance at her cigarette, which smoldered in an ashtray across the room. “What a pleasure to see you again, Stan.” She bussed him, kissing the air on either side of his ruddy cheeks, and giving Sam the opportunity to slip over and pick up the cigarette. She took one distasteful puff, exhaled quickly and crushed it out.
“Good morning, Mr. Hollister.”
“Stan,” he said automatically. The frown on his lips grew more pronounced. “Nellie!” he bellowed. When the old maid clumped in, he demanded harshly, “Why did you put my guests in here?”
Uncowed, she planted blue-veined hands on her hips and scowled back. “I put ‘em where you told me to.”
“Where I told you not to,” he said through his teeth. “This is my private study. You should have showed them to the salon.”
Nellie’s lips curled in contempt. “Mr. Lush is in the salon. I thought you wouldn’t want anyone to see him and that’s why you told me to bring them in here.”
“I didn’t tell…Oh, what’s the use. Go and ask Mr. Wells to amuse himself for a while. If you don’t mind,” he spoke to Sam, “I’ll give Ms. Grant her interview—”
“Forgotten interview,” Connie corrected cheerfully.
“Yes.” His smile was thin. “Then you and I will have our talk. Nellie, show Ms. Giancarlo to the drawing room.”
Nellie jerked her head sideways. “This way,” she ordered, her hands still on her hips. Sam followed without a word and no reaction to Connie’s conspiratorial wink.
“Make it snappy,” Nellie barked as they walked along the broad corridor. Snatching a feather duster from her apron, she passed it over a few of the larger plaster busts. “Grecian white. Old fool. More work for me, that’s what it is.” She made an irritable arm gesture. “Listen to that unholy racket, will you? Mr. Lush tinkling the ivories. Only gets one note in five right. The drawing room’s here.” She shoved open a pair of double doors. “Stay put while I stop that hoo-ha in the other room. You want tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Humph. Thought you looked the tea type. I got muffins, too. Baked ‘em fresh last night.”
Sam spied a telephone on a stand near the window. She waited until the grumbling maid had departed and hastened over to it.
“Pick it up,” she said softly. “Pick it—Aidan? Is that you?”
“I was in the shower.” He sounded vexed and maybe just a little relieved. “Where are you?”
“At Stan Hollister’s. Didn’t you get my note?”
“Yeah, I got it. You little idiot, why didn’t you wake me? He could be working with Mary.”
“I think he is—and I’m not an idiot.”
“You are if you went out there alone.”
“Do you sweet-talk all your lovers like this?”
“Only when they go off half-cocked. Where is he?”
“With Connie Grant from ‘Who’s News.’ Don’t worry, I’m safe enough for the moment. Thurman Wells is around somewhere and so’s his cranky old maid. Can you get over here right away?”
Suspicion thundered in. “I thought you said you were safe.”
“I am, but I doubt if I’ll be able to get back into his study.”
“What…” He forced patience. “Go on.”
“He wrote the name Helen Murdoch on his desk blotter. There was a ton of papers on top, but he showed up before I could go through them. I thought you could sneak in and look while I kept him busy.”
Aidan sighed, and her mind drew a vivid picture of him, naked and dripping wet, raking his fingers through his long hair and shooting a dagger at the receiver. As hot and cramped as that made her feel, the image also made her grin. She must still be high from their lovemaking.
“Well?” she repeated when he didn’t answer.
“All right Give me forty minutes. Where is it?”
“Bel Air.” She gave him the address. “The French doors were open when I was in there but not the front gate. You’ll have to…” The rattle of a door handle brought her head around and had her inserting a hasty, “Yes, thanks, Sally. No, I’m sure I’ll be finished by lunchtime. Yes, I will, goodbye.” She replaced the receiver and turned to smile at a glowering Nellie. “My editor doesn’t like delays,” she explained simply.
Nellie made an undignified sound. “Neither do movie directors. I should know. I’ve been slave to one for more ‘n forty-five years. Sugar? Milk? Lemon?”
“Milk, please, and one sugar. You’ve worked for Mr. Hol-lister all that time?”
“Yup.”
“Have you met anyone other than Thurman Wells?”
Nellie regarded her as if she needed a brain transplant “I guess I’ve met ‘em all over the years. Liked Tyrone and Grace. Pretty thing, she was. Married a prince, you know.”
“Yes, it made the news.” Sam accepted the teacup and saucer, glanced at the surprisingly appetizing muffins and smiled again. “They look delicious. Tell me, did you ever meet Margaret Truesdale or Mary Lamont?”
“Yes and yes. Liked Margaret, hated Mary. Bran or oatmeal?”
“Oatmeal.” Sam paused. “Why did you like Margaret?”
Nellie shrugged. “Just did, is all. She treated everyone the same. Her maid Jenny and me were friends. Jenny used to figure she had the nicest boss in L.A. Maybe she did, though Bob Hope’s a real gentleman if you ever have occasion to meet him. Margaret never caterwauled constantly about this, that and the other. Lots of ‘em did that, you know.”
“Did Mary do that?”
“Mary was a snippy so-and-so, as I told her that more ‘n once, straight to her snooty face. Aw, hell, he’s at it again. Sit and eat Mr. H. won’t be long.”
“Wait a minute,” Sam called to the woman’s departing back. “Do you know someone named Helen Murdoch?”
Nellie didn’t break stride. “Never heard of her,” she said over her shoulder. Yanking open the door, she shot Sam a stony look. �
��If you know what’s good for you, missy, you’ve never heard of her, either.”
AIDAN WAS IRKED and crotchety, and he knew he’d have to deal with both feelings if he intended to get out of here in one piece. The gate had been a nightmare of barbed wire, spikes and a pressure alarm he’d noticed at the last second. His jeans and olive drab army jacket had matching tears in them; his hair had snagged on a spike and he’d caught his hand on the sharp edge of a wrought-iron spike. This had better be worth the effort.
Someone was singing down the hall as he let himself into the only ground-floor room that boasted a set of French doors.
“Sing a song of sixpence,” a man’s voice caroled happily. “Thurman wants more rye…”
“Lush ass,” a growly voice responded. Aidan had to duck behind the floor-length curtain as a woman in an apron and cap thrust open the door, grabbed a bottle of liquor from a rosewood trolley and stomped out. “Keep your pants on,” she shouted. “I’m coming. Only got two legs, you know.”
Amusement at the grouchy attitude of a person who could only be Stan Hollister’s maid brought a grin to Aidan’s lips and wiped away his less charitable thoughts. Blotter, he reminded himself when he was sure she’d gone.
The name had been scrawled in the lower right-hand corner, recently, too, by the look of the ink. He started going through the paperwork, methodically as he’d been trained by his investigative mentor, but faster than he would have liked.
It didn’t take long to ascertain that the desktop held nothing of interest. Neither did the mail baskets. Maybe the teak filing cabinet would prove more lucrative.
Sliding open the top drawer, he flipped through the files one by one. Adams, Hallmark, Alcott, Sessoni, Bruhner, Yalta…No order to the names. This was going to take longer than he’d anticipated.
Because he seemed to have lost complete control of it, his mind wandered to Sam. He’d expected to find her beside him when he’d woken up this morning. It had disturbed and annoyed him that she’d been gone.
