You Don't Know Me

by Nancy Bush

  All she had to do now was help Hayley a bit. Give a little push. But wouldn’t you know it; now Tonja wasn’t willing to stick her neck out.

  But Tonja wasn’t aware of Hayley’s connection to John Callahan.

  “Okay, okay,” Tonja muttered, uncomfortable under Hayley’s hard stare. “I got you the script, didn’t I? I can ask him if he’s watched the video, but that’s it. I can’t force him.”

  “Fine. If he doesn’t like what he sees, he won’t test me.”

  “I’ll try,” Tonja grumbled, succumbing to Hayley’s will.

  Hayley dropped her off, feeling better than she had in weeks. Finally, everything was going according to plan. She knew—well, believed—that if Callahan would just take a look, he’d see she was the right person for the role of Isabella, girl-next-door turned willing prostitute.

  Back at Stanbury’s, she worked like a dog for Jason who pretended he didn’t notice. By the time she headed back to her apartment, secure in the knowledge that she would be able to at least pay her rent, she was so tired, all she could think about was her leaky shower and collapsing on the living room couch.

  Unlocking the stubborn front door, she suddenly felt eyes following her. Fighting a gasp she whipped around and there, in the shadows at the far end of the balcony, a man’s shadow and steady footsteps.

  Hayley pressed back in the doorway, heart slamming. The sound echoed, pounding at her skull. Fear shot through her, needle-sharp.

  He came straight toward her.

  “Hayley?” Connor Jackley asked, stopping short.

  Her legs turned to water and she crumpled in an ignominious heap.

  A hand touched her shoulder. She felt the heat of his nearness. “What happened?” he demanded, all cop.

  She wanted to laugh. “You scared the shit out of me, you sneaky louse!” she accused sharply, finding her voice.

  “You okay?” Then, looking around suspiciously, he asked, “Did someone hurt you?”

  Memories tugged. Another man, Thomas, chasing after her, laughing at her fears. “Give it a rest,” she muttered, refusing his hand as she staggered to her feet.

  He stared at her in the gathering gloom, the shadows of his face entrancingly attractive. Her gaze flitted to his mouth and she had to turn away.

  “I am not talking to you anymore,” she warned as she finished unlocking her door.

  “I’ve been to see Dr. Stone,” he answered. “Denise’s last psychiatrist. He thinks it’s lucky Denise left Lambert Wallace because he’s a miserable excuse for a human being.”

  “Trust Denise to choose well,” Hayley muttered.

  “Dr. Stone didn’t know about either you or Dinah.”

  He followed her inside, seeming to fill the space inside her tiny living room. It made her nervous, having him so close.

  Hayley wrapped her arms around herself, hating herself for feeling so vulnerable. “So she’s not confiding in her shrink. Big deal. Did you enlighten him?”

  “You’re sure she’s back with her ex-husband?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “You’ve really got it bad,” she accused angrily. “You want to talk to Denise? Then go do it. I don’t need to hear this.”

  “I’d like to talk about it with you.”

  “I’m not interested. Go chase after Denise. Maybe you’ll get lucky. I hear she’s an easy screw,” Hayley tossed out bitterly. “Just—go away!”

  With annoyance and fear, she watched as Connor Jackley completely ignored her demands and stood, waiting expectantly, in the center of the living room.

  Unable to deal with him, she sputtered sarcastically, “Don’t mind me, I need an aspirin,” then she walked out of the room.

  Lights twinkled on the inky surface of the pool like diamonds. Denise watched them idly as she sipped a diet cola. No pills, thank you very much. She was having one of her clear times and it felt great to feel everything, see everything, understand everything.

  She was packed and ready to go; she didn’t know where. But this cycle of self-destruction had to end.

  You’d be proud of me, Stone. Star pupil. I learned good, didn’t I? Make that well . . . I learned well.

  Of course it had taken hitting the ultimate bottom first.

  Lina had left. Denise vaguely remembered Lina begging her to leave, too. A thin stream of blood had been running from Lina’s left nostril and her lips were quivering with anguish. Half of her words had been in Spanish, but Denise, even in her drug-altered state, had caught the gist of it: “Get out before he kills us both!”

  Sooooo . . . she was taking Lina’s advice. Especially because since the maid’s departure, Lambert had been in a bad, bad mood. Denise had the bruises to prove it.

  For the life of her she couldn’t understand what had taken her so long to come to this conclusion. Why had she put up with this abuse and degradation?

  Because you deserve it, sicko.

  “No, I don’t.”

  She’d called Leo this afternoon and the schmuck had finally taken her call. Said he’d just returned from Rome. So sorry it took so long to get back to her.

  “They’re casting for Blackbird,” he told her. “I’ve talked to Susan Markson. You’ve got a lock on it, Denise. For God’s sake, where have you been all these weeks?”

  “Does John know that I’m being considered?”

  “Hell, yes, sweetheart! He talked to Susan about you himself. Whatever you’ve been doing, keep doing it. He loves you!”

  His words filled her with anguish. This was Dinah’s doing. John loved Dinah, not Denise. John and Dinah. John and Dinah.

  Her emotions lifted the fog that had enveloped her for so long. Action. That’s what she needed.

  Lights! Camera! Action!

  Screw Lambert Wallace and his cruelty. It was past time to leave.

  She wanted that part.

  With that thought firmly in mind, she shook off her current lethargy and got to her feet. She should see Stoner. Now, in her current state of mind. No need to tell him about the last few weeks. It was all a blur anyway. She would check into the Beverly Hills Hotel and then she would call him again. Everything copacetic.

  With new resolve, Denise climbed, light-footed, up the stairs. Gathering her suitcases, she glanced around, shuddering at the dark, sticky memories this place had given her. Hurriedly, she returned to the foyer. She’d loved this house at first, but now she hated every board, nail, and slab of stucco.

  Time to call a cab. She would have the driver drop her off at a different hotel, then switch several times before she landed at the Beverly Hills. She was taking no chances. Always before, she’d run from one man to another, but this time she was just running away. Lambert Wallace was something she’d never encountered before.

  Except for dear old Stepdaddy.

  Denise shuddered again. Not the time to think about that.

  Damn . . . no cell phone, she thought for the umpteenth time. Going “off the grid” didn’t work out so well for you, did it?

  She’d just picked up the receiver for the landline when she felt the familiar vibration of a car’s engine in the adjacent garage. She froze, receiver in midair.

  He was back.

  Dropping the phone, she glanced around frantically, searching for a place to hide her suitcases. Nowhere! Nowhere! With a squeak of pure fear, she ran to the hallway closet and jammed the first bag inside. It tangled with long coats and she fought back hysterical screaming while she struggled to smash the second one inside and close the door.

  Footsteps. Unhurried. Coming her way.

  Gritting her teeth to control their chattering, she gently closed the door, grimacing against the soft click of the latch, then she tiptoed through the dining room and into the kitchen, away from Lambert’s approaching steps.

  She was seated at the bar, flipping through a magazine, willing her fingers to stop shaking, when he appeared in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen. He’d followed her all the way around.

  D
enise drew on immense acting skills and merely gave him a cursory “Hello.” After all, what else was there to say? Through the corners of her eyes, she glanced his way.

  He held one of her suitcases.

  The shaking in her hands intensified. He deliberately set the suitcase on the floor, unlatched it and dumped the contents into a heap. “You want to go? Go!” he said in that deadly voice she’d come to fear. “Nobody’s keeping you here. You don’t have to sneak.”

  Denise kept flipping through the magazine, thinking hard. Panic whipped through her veins.

  “Did you hear me?” He moved closer, directly behind her. One hand brushed her hair away from her ear, exposing it. Her whole body trembled. “What are you afraid of?”

  “You,” she admitted. Her ear felt cold, vulnerable.

  He leaned over and stuck his tongue inside, wiggling it around. Grimacing, Denise tried not to move. “Just like Lina,” he whispered, the sound reverberating inside her head. “Leaving, just like Lina.”

  In a swift movement he grabbed her by the hair. Denise cried out, flailing to free herself. He slapped her and dragged her outside to the pool, throwing her onto the surrounding tiles, dunking her head underwater and holding it.

  Three times and she gave up. Unconsciousness, freedom, beckoned with open arms. She reached for it gladly and slipped in a limp heap into the waiting pool.

  Hours later. Maybe minutes. Maybe eons. She awoke to the familiar feel of rough sex. Good old Lambert. Probably thought she was dead and was in for a little necrophilia.

  Hazily, she realized they were in his bedroom. Eyes closed, she tried to will herself away, but for once she couldn’t. She hated him and his grunting and sweat. She was far too lucid to put up with this. And too angry. It felt good to be angry. Rage ran through her like a life-giving balm, liquid fire awakening her from the soles of her feet, spreading upward, and revitalizing long submissive flesh, tingling furiously.

  Like Rip Van Winkle, she’d been asleep for years and she was just now coming to.

  And she hated. Hated like she’d never felt it possible to hate.

  But she lay there, quiet and empty, while this animal rutted above her.

  One of her arms was flung off the bed, an expression of total abandon. With each of his thrusts, her fingertips brushed the side of the nightstand. Slowly, slowly, she lifted her hand up the side of the polished wood, her palm drawing into a fist. How hard could she hit him? Where? How? To make him stop forever.

  Her hand reached the top of the nightstand and encountered something rocklike and rough and familiar. John’s thunder egg. Her palm closed around it, the pad of her thumb digging into one of its center crystals.

  With a power born of pure fury, she raised it up, arm shaking wildly, then smashed it as hard as she could against Lambert Wallace’s temple.

  He collapsed in midstroke and Denise hit him again. And again. And again. And again . . .

  She didn’t quit until they were both drenched in his blood. The thunder egg rolled from her now-lax fingers and she lay back, gasping and quaking.

  It’s over, she thought, drifting away to a better world.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was dark as pitch when Dinah had Uber drop her off in front of Dr. Hayden Stone’s offices. The Corolla was lost to her, courtesy of its advancing years and John Callahan’s disinterest in it. The poor thing was probably still cold as a cod in His Highness’s driveway. But she couldn’t think about that now.

  Luckily, the good doctor seemed to keep odd hours because a receptionist was still on duty as Dinah made her way inside. The offices were understated, understaffed, and underwhelming in a way Dinah found disarming. She smiled at the pretty (but not drop-dead gorgeous like they usually were) receptionist and opened her mouth to inquire about Dr. Stone when something on the woman’s face stopped her short.

  Excitement. Disbelief. Adulation.

  “Hello!” the girl greeted her. “I’m so glad you finally connected! He’s been anxious to talk to you for weeks.”

  Dinah smiled faintly. She’d seen two other doctors and no one had yet made the connection between her and Denise. Not so here. This receptionist thought she was her famous sister. Ergo, he must be the Dr. Stone she was searching for.

  “Is he in?” Dinah asked diffidently.

  “He’s just finishing up. Would you mind waiting?” She seemed embarrassed to even ask.

  “Not at all. Is there a restroom where I could . . . ?”

  “Oh, right down the hall. Second door on the left.” She indicated a closed door. “Go right on through.”

  Dinah headed for the bathroom. Looking in the mirror above the sink, she examined her reflection. Yes, she was a dead ringer for her sister, but only if you were looking for it. Denise never wore her hair in a ponytail—unless it was artfully coiffed by some hairdresser who was a celebrity in his or her own right—and she never wore jeans.

  Nope. She was plain Dinah Scott. Except to Denise’s doctor, who was expecting to see his famous client.

  And to John Callahan, who’d made love to her.

  Vigorously, she scrubbed her hands. Lady Macbeth? “Oh, screw it!”

  Back in the reception room she thumbed through a copy of People and tried to ignore the sideways stares from the star-struck receptionist. Either the girl was new, or Denise was Dr. Stone’s only famous face. Dinah’s finger stopped on a page in the magazine and she did a quick double take. It was a picture of her coming out of a coffee shop, though it was tagged as Denise. Damn paparazzi. She’d seen the guy and had ignored him. Weird world her twin lived in.

  Five minutes later, an extremely thin, opulently dressed woman whose fingers were weighted down with rings and upon whose neck a thick pearl choker looked like a dog collar, marched toward the reception desk.

  The receptionist looked up, gave the woman a big smile, then turned to Dinah. “He’ll see you now.”

  The woman turned to give Dinah a furious glare.

  Dinah ignored her. “His office is . . . ?”

  “Straight down the hall.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I have an appointment,” the woman said icily. Her glare at Dinah changed to annoyed confusion. Clearly, she thought she recognized her but wasn’t certain, and in Hollywood it was always best to play it cool. Dinah had learned that much and more since becoming a part-time resident.

  “He won’t be long,” the receptionist assured the woman as Dinah headed for the inner sanctum.

  Dr. Stone’s office was at the end of the hall, remarkably unadorned except for a small brass nameplate attached to the door. The man was definitely not into making a statement, which surprised Dinah a little since Denise was so high-profile. What kind of a relationship did the two of them have?

  Peeking inside the office, she was surprised by her first glimpse of Dr. Stone. He wore a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up the forearms and a pair of tan chinos. His hair was light brown; his eyes dark, either brown or hazel. He had the lean build of a golfer and an air of quietude that Dinah was certain shrinks practiced in medical school.

  But he wasn’t anything like the slick, eye-on-the-meter professional she’d expected. He was . . . well, appealing.

  The look on his face was expectant, almost eager, but as soon as he saw her it changed to surprise. “Dinah?” he asked.

  She was poleaxed. So Denise had come clean with the doc. Thank God she didn’t have to keep up pretenses for him. “Denise’s twin,” she agreed, reaching a hand across the desk.

  He couldn’t seem to connect. He stood like the proverbial statue. Stone turned to stone. Dinah felt a perverse stab of amusement. It probably wasn’t every day that Dr. Stone got thrown for a loop, and he was definitely thrown now.

  “She never mentioned you,” he said.

  “Then how did you know?”

  “Someone else told me.”

  “Who?”

  His eyes searched her face with an intensity that made her feel slightly uncomfor
table. Dinah shifted her weight.

  “Have a seat,” he invited.

  “Thanks.” She sat on the edge of the cushion. “Who?” she asked again.

  “Connor Jackley.”

  Dinah stared at him blankly. “Who?” she repeated.

  “Connor Jackley. He’s a private investigator.”

  A private investigator . . . Dinah suddenly felt ice cold inside. She had trouble collecting her thoughts.

  “He wanted to talk to me about Denise,” Dr. Stone went on, “but I didn’t have a lot to say. He told me about you and your other sister, Hayley. Apparently, he’s been in contact with her.”

  “What?” Dinah asked weakly.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he suddenly asked. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

  “Hayley told him about us?” she repeated.

  “He was just here, as a matter of fact. I’ve been trying to reach Denise for a while. I thought you were her, of course, so I didn’t call the house.”

  “The house?” Dinah felt like a parrot.

  “The Malibu house. Denise and John Callahan’s residence. Mr. Jackley said she’s staying there. She’s terrible with cell phones,” he added as an aside.

  “Oh, I know . . . but that was me, at the house. Until recently.” At his blank look, she said, “I had to leave.”

  “Denise isn’t with Mr. Callahan?” He looked disturbed.

  “No. At least I don’t think so.” Lord, I hope not. But no, John was too enraged and disgusted to allow Denise—any Denise—back into his life. “I can see why this private investigator might have got the idea she was,” she said. “But I was the one living there.”

  “She was never there?”

  Dinah shook her head. Private investigator? Good God, what was that all about? “She left me there, stranded, playing a part, which got too tricky to keep up with. So I left, but Denise has been missing awhile.” After a beat, she asked, worried, “You’re her doctor. Don’t you know where she is?”

  “I was her doctor.”

  “Was?”