You Don't Know Me

by Nancy Bush

  She absolutely hated Los Angeles.

  Her article had scraped pretty close to the bone this week. She’d fashioned it along the lines of her experiences with her ex-love, Glen Bosworth. She’d lived with Glen, made love with Glen, kept house with Glen, and, after a spate of cohabitation, he’d kicked her out, claiming he had to find himself. What he found was another woman with a bigger bank account.

  Her article had been titled: “Falling in Love with a Bank Balance.”

  Funny now, but achingly painful during the process. It had, in fact, nearly killed her emotionally, and now, four years later, she was still picking up the pieces of her self-respect. She would never, ever allow someone to use her in that way again.

  Not liking her own thoughts, Dinah headed for the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of white wine, then wandered aimlessly around Denise’s sumptuous home. Denise’s decorator had kept to earth tones, capitalizing on the colors of adobe, ivory, ochre, and black. In the corner of the living room was a stacked stone fireplace with a garnet-colored tile seat. A seagrass chair with a buttery yellow cushion sat by a mahogany side table. Atop the table was a photograph. Denise in a black-and-white picture. A curiously reflective pose for her wild twin.

  Dinah mounted the stairs. Denise’s bedroom was to the right of the north end stairway. Here, leftover “Santa-Fe style” invaded every corner in aqua and pink. Subtlety had never been Denise’s strong point, Dinah reflected wryly. The place smelled faintly of Chanel No. 5 and the closet was full of expensive clothes. Denise had worn Chanel No. 5 since high school, and her lust for expensive gowns and jewels was nearly as great as her incredible naiveté and charm.

  Dinah had chosen to sleep in the innocuous bedroom sandwiched between the main bath and the master bedroom, but now she passed by that door and strode along the gallery to the room at the south end, the room that overlooked the ocean.

  John Callahan’s room was as masculine as Denise’s was feminine. The king-sized bed was covered with a chocolate-colored comforter and mounted with creamy white pillows. The dresser and chest of drawers were dark Tuscany wood, and the closet was empty of clothes except for several suits packed in garment bags.

  There was another photograph of Denise on the nightstand. Dinah had only glanced inside this room once since she moved in, but now, barefoot, she squinched her toes into the sinfully thick ivory area rug atop the dark Brazilian hardwood floors and stared down at Denise’s photo. In this one, Denise was more herself: one brow arched, a red sweater falling seductively off one bared shoulder, one finger crooked in a come-hither gesture to the photographer. John, no doubt.

  Dinah glanced around. There were no pictures of John in the house. He was definitely a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. Either that, or Denise had tossed out all traces of him along with his memory.

  Retracing her footsteps downstairs, Dinah headed for the home office/library where the computer equipment was arranged atop a black enamel worktable and bookshelf-cum-desk. John was a producer, director, and sometimes writer. Dinah had used his equipment to write her articles these past few weeks. Apart from the temperamental wireless—which was working again, thank you, God—everything else ran smooth as glass.

  And the Corolla was running again. Six hundred dollars it had cost, most of Dinah’s available cash, but apart from an annoying little hiccup when it was idling, the car was holding off the Grim Reaper—at least until next time.

  Dinah wrinkled her nose. The paperweight on the desk was a thunder egg. A pale gray chalcedony quartz with translucent crystallike particles in its center, which made it look like a petrified blue egg. Dinah picked it up, balancing its weight in her palm. John’s? Probably. Might even be a gift from Denise.

  Shivering slightly, she set the thunder egg on a short stack of John’s forgotten notes. The egg slipped and the notes shifted. John Callahan’s bold masculine signature was scrawled across a short page. The unexpected sight of it caused the hair to raise on Dinah’s arms.

  “You horrible bastard,” she whispered softly.

  Denise had once compared the man to Thomas Daniels. If John Callahan were even half as bad, Denise had lived in sheer hell.

  It was next to impossible to get close to Callahan. Hayley had been at it for nearly two weeks and nothing. Nada. She’d phoned, and hung around, and tried in every way she knew to make contact. Callahan was just too immersed in Borrowed Time. She was going to have to wait until the damn thing wrapped, and she was terrible at waiting.

  The cell phone warbled. Hayley snatched it up, grimacing as she glanced at the time. It had to be the deli. She was late for the third time this week. No doubt she was about to get her walking papers.

  “Hey, girl. You a ‘Miss Scott’?”

  The tone was condescending and disinterested.

  “Speaking,” she answered crisply.

  “You wanted ta see me, right?”

  Hayley blinked. Her attention sharpened. “Is this Mrs. Carver?”

  “Nobody else.”

  Her heart beat hard and heavy. “Could we get together? I’ve got something I’d like to propose to you.”

  “You’re wastin’ your time. I ain’t no babysitter. And this ain’t no method acting class.”

  “Tonja told you what I wanted?”

  “Look, sweetcakes. Ya wanta get into the life, I still don’t wan’cha. But I especially don’t want no snot-nose actress who don’t know shit.”

  “Five o’clock. Stanbury’s Deli. I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “What’s that? Like corned beef on rye?” She snorted. “You gotta be kiddin’.”

  “I work there. You can have whatever’s on the menu and fifty bucks besides.” Hayley did a quick mental calculation. Jason was going to scream. And her job was on the line already, but hey . . . this was her chance.

  A pause. “I know I’m gonna regret this. Shit.” She clicked off.

  “Mrs. Carver” was a hooker from Hollywood Boulevard—Julia Roberts’s Pretty Woman in living color. There would be no whitewashing the character; Mrs. Carver was the real down and dirty article. And she was going to show Hayley the ropes.

  Hayley drew a deep, slow breath. Shelve your sensibilities at home and get ready for a wild ride. Next stop: a quick fuck with a nameless john.

  “God,” Hayley muttered, her hands like ice as she pressed her palms to her face.

  The cell rang again. In a trance, Hayley clicked on.

  “You want a job, you get down here. Now!” Jason bellowed.

  “Don’t have a hemorrhage,” she answered, pulling on her courage as if it were a coat. “I’ll be right there, sugar . . .”

  Dr. Stone’s office resembled something scripted from a movie. It possessed the requisite desk, cushy chairs, and yes, unbelievably, a small couch, more like a love seat, really, settled crosswise in one corner. The couch and chairs were white leather; the desk either pine or oak stained to a dark brown that was nearly black.

  Feeling perverse, Denise slouched against the love seat, her ankles crossed in front of her, her short, straight blue, minidress hiked up to reveal an ample expanse of tan thigh.

  She had no intention of trying to seduce the doctor. Good Lord, no. But the man seemed so damned fixated on S-E-X that Denise was pretty fed up with his whole routine. He acted as if she were an uncontrollable nymphomaniac and seemed to believe that if they talked S-E-X nonstop—in serious, dulcet tones, of course—that she would learn some incredible truism of life and would CHANGE HER WAYS, HALLELUJAH, LORD!

  She had problems, heaven knew, but even screwed up as she was, Denise was completely aware that sex was not her only problem. Maybe it wasn’t even the real problem. She suspected, though her mind shied away from any real attempt to delve into the issue, that her sex drive was just average and that she used sex as a shield for some deeper, murkier reason.

  Well. She’d be damned if she’d reveal that little kernel of insight to Sigmund here. God knew what he’d come up with as a cure. She’d rather he thou
ght she was trying to seduce him.

  “You’ve had more delusions,” Stone said, as if it were understood between them already. Maybe it was.

  “That’s right.” Denise was torn between the desire to truly confide in someone or hang on to the last vestige of her self-respect.

  “Want to talk about them?”

  He looked so professional, even in the casual tan slacks and open-throated snowy white shirt, turned back at the cuffs. He listened with that learned casualness that Denise had come to distrust. She’d been through a slew of psychiatrists, psychologists, and various and sundry other mental health experts. Stone was better than most, but hey, nobody could have such black hair and not color it. She knew. And though his dark eyes simmered with compassion, Denise suspected it was all a sham, Stone’s paternal persona, guaranteed to breach defensive walls, loosen tear ducts, help sinners howl out confessions, open pocketbooks . . .

  “There’s a man at Carolyn’s. Let’s call him Mr. Hawaiian Tropic. He’s not exactly the modest type,” she said dryly. “In fact, he’s a downright exhibitionist.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “He’s very proud of his genitalia. Likes to show it off at any available opportunity. I’ve gotten more than a few glimpses myself.”

  “And?”

  “One day I was in the pool, on one of those blow-up rafts, and he dived into the water and jumped on me. He was naked and I told him to get off me, but he didn’t. So then he—we—sort of fought, and then . . .”

  Stone waited impassively.

  What the hell was it about recounting sexual experiences that was so deadly embarrassing? She had this sense that the good doctor got off on these private testimonials, his own perverse way of vicariously getting his jollies. And he thinks I’m the sicko.

  “Then he stuck it to me,” Denise said matter-of-factly.

  “Did you give your consent?”

  “Sort of.”

  He waited. Clearly, Dr. Stone believed that if he waited long enough, she would crack wide open, throw herself on the floor, and howl out a confession.

  Well, maybe she would.

  “In the dream, I didn’t feel like it at first, okay? I don’t think I did later, either, really. I slapped him and he hit me, but things kind of went on and I just gave up.”

  His gray eyes examined her clinically. “A lot of rape victims give up when there’s no recourse.”

  “Yeah, well it wasn’t like that.” Denise looked around the room.

  “What was it like?”

  “I don’t really know,” she snapped back. “It wasn’t horrible, okay? I didn’t hate it. It freaked me out, but then I kind of accepted it.”

  “Sometimes guilt makes the victim feel like it was her fault, like she asked for it somehow.”

  “I know all this,” Denise said with forced patience. “But it wasn’t even real. It was a dream.” She almost added “wet” dream but decided Stone wouldn’t see the humor.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Maybe I want to be raped.” Denise slid him a look from beneath her lashes, judging his reaction. Nothing. “I’d seen this guy showing off his equipment and I made up this whole scenario. It was great. I even got a thrill out of it. In fact I recommend it to anyone who’s sexually frustrated. Works wonders.”

  “You think your dream suggests that you would welcome being taken forcefully?”

  Jeezus, this guy was worse than her third grade math teacher. “That’s what I just said, isn’t it? I’m hardly going to endear myself to the women’s libbers now, am I?” She sat up straighter, crossed her legs, and tugged ineffectively at her hemline.

  “Have you had sexual relations with this man?”

  “Not yet,” she said pointedly. Yep, the guy was fixated on sex. Maybe all shrinks were.

  But he was damned good-looking. When she asked him out she’d laughed airily, as if it were all a huge joke. The patient-seducing the psychiatrist? It was such a cliché, even she didn’t believe it.

  But a part of her had been serious.

  And Dr. Hayden Stone knew it.

  Now she examined the strong, masculine column of his neck. His skin was deeply tanned, as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. That, and combined with his body type, prompted her to ask, “Do you golf? I bet you spend every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon on the links.”

  He smiled enigmatically. Another psychiatric trick. Oh, yes, she knew them all.

  “What are your feelings for him?” he asked.

  “For Mr. Hawaiian Tropic?” Denise laughed. “Well, I’d say he’s loathsome, but interesting in a twisted sort of way, if you know what I mean. I don’t think I could really call him my kind of guy, though.”

  “Denise, are you acting?”

  “What?”

  “Are you putting on an act for me?”

  Her opinion of him took a sharp nosedive. The nerve of this guy! “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You’re the one who wanted to know what my feelings were.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “I’m goddamn furious. I don’t know why I even come here. You can’t help me. The only thing you think about is your dick and where you’ll stick it next.”

  “Now I know you’re acting,” he said softly.

  “I’m outta here.” Snatching up her clutch bag, Denise headed for the door. Tension was a coiled spring inside her. Therapy. Bullshit. It was all a goddamn trap.

  The walls of the corridor waved and swayed. Denise hurried blindly for the door, gulping in hot, humid, sweaty Houston air as soon as she hit the street.

  She found her car by rote. Carolyn’s car. A shiny black Mercedes trimmed in gold. The damn thing could be trimmed in fur for all she cared. It was a worthless trinket paid for by sleazy perversions and false altruism.

  Inside, the leather seats were slick with heat. Denise’s skin stuck like glue, squeaked when she moved. She had to get out of here and back to Los Angeles. Back to John. Back home.

  She should have brought her cell phone. The one she was always losing and could never find. That’s why she’d left it in Malibu. Didn’t want anyone tracing her, didn’t want to lose the damn thing one more time.

  “Shit,” she muttered, slamming the Mercedes into gear. Maybe she should drive there. Would Carolyn put out an A.P.B. on her for grand theft auto? Hell, she probably wouldn’t even notice the car was missing.

  Stanbury’s Deli could have been attractive and chic if the owner gave a rat’s ass about its operation. But Jason, the manager, had full control, apparently, because Hayley had never seen the mysterious owner ever materialize. And Jason was both a bastard and a jailer, and when Hayley skidded across the semi-clean black-and-white tile floor and behind the counter, Jason sent her his coldest, meanest glare.

  “Oh, hurt me some more,” Hayley muttered. “I had car trouble.”

  “You don’t own a car. Why don’t you just say you got run over by a truck?”

  “Okay, I got run over by a truck.”

  “You really are a pain in the ass.” He snapped a towel at her, stinging her hip. “And you’re going to be out of a job soon, because I’m going to fire you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, Hayley. I am.”

  She had to bite her tongue to keep from sending back a snarly retort. Jason thought he was teaching her a lesson. Well, okay, she could let him believe he was doing something good. Besides, pain that he was, he didn’t hit on her or do anything else disgustingly male beyond snapping a towel at her, so she felt relatively safe here. She didn’t want to lose this job if she didn’t have to.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, mustering up her best sincerity.

  He laughed without humor. “Clean up this shit-dirty floor and I’ll let you stay.”

  Hayley got out the mop and swabbed away dust, dirt, tossed cigarettes, and leftover food gunk stuck to the tiles. Thirty minutes later the place looked reasonably tidy and she was filling salt and pepper shakers w
hen her “date” strutted in.

  At least, she suspected it was Mrs. Carver. The woman wore a dark blue silk blouse and white leather skirt. The skirt was short enough, and Mrs. Carver was tall enough, so that it would meet some folks at eye level. Hooker shoes completed the outfit: white alligator with at least six inches of heel and covered with rhinestones. Her hair was her own, Hayley guessed, but it had been dyed so badly it looked like yellow cotton candy. The best thing about the woman was her skin. Lined a bit, yes, but satiny nevertheless. She had to be in her thirties but the skin might fool someone who didn’t know.

  Of course the whole effect was ruined by the caked-on eye shadow and black mascara and liner that emphasized a pair of slightly protruding, rather pretty, green eyes.

  “Mrs. Carver?” Hayley asked.

  “You got me.” She sized Hayley up with practiced ease. “You sorta look like that actress.”

  “Denise Scott. I know.”

  “You tryin’ to capitalize on that, honey? Let me tell ya. It don’t never work. I should know. People tell me I look like Reese Witherspoon.”

  This was said straight, but for just a second Hayley almost laughed. Reese Witherspoon? Give me a break! Mrs. Carver bore a slight resemblance to Barbara Walters on a very, very bad day. Not that she couldn’t be pretty; the raw material was there. But Hayley suspected there wasn’t much of a chance for Mrs. Carver to be anything more than what she was today.

  Which gave her a bad feeling. A premonition that made her feel slightly sick. Was this it for her, too? A downhill slide from Stanbury’s Deli into the depths of prostitution, drugs, and God knew what else?

  The past filtered in: a black shadow dogging her heels. Hayley couldn’t prevent a sharp glance backward before she pulled on her composure once more.

  “What would you like?” She gestured to the menu as Mrs. Carver slipped herself into a narrow, bloodred booth.

  Shooting a sly glance Hayley’s way, she asked, “What costs the most?”