Dark Desires

by JoAnn Ross

  Although Savannah tried to tell herself that a man who'd rescue a stranded cat in a thunderstorm couldn't be all that bad, she still couldn't quite relax in Blake Winters's presence.

  Thirty minutes later, Savannah was staring at her empty plate in disbelief. "I can't believe I ate all that."

  The biscuits had been delicious, flaky and buttery. The homemade huckleberry jam had been everything Blake had promised; it tasted like ambrosia. As for the muffins… Betty Crocker, eat your heart out.

  "You could stand to gain a few pounds," Blake said as he refilled their coffee cups. "You're too thin."

  "A woman can never be too rich or too thin," Savannah answered automatically. The Duchess of Windsor's famous words were one of Savannah's earliest memories of her mother, who had quoted them continually.

  "Men prefer curves," he argued. "Something to hold on to in bed."

  Like his wife? Savannah wondered. Pamela Winters certainly wasn't lacking in the curve department. Savannah sipped her coffee, pretending indifference. The same way she pretended that she hadn't noticed the stimulating contrast between the feminine lines of Blake's black wicker armchair and the man's innate masculinity.

  "You realize, of course," she said archly, "that is an incredibly chauvinistic statement."

  "Perhaps. It's also true."

  "Well, since we're never going to bed together, I don't see that my weight is any of your business."

  He shrugged again in that frustratingly masculine gesture of nonchalance that Savannah was beginning to hate. "Never say never," he advised. Before Savannah could insist that she had no intention of having an affair with him, Blake proved yet again that he was a master of manipulation.

  "How would you like to see the final cut of Unholy Matrimony?"

  Knowing his penchant for secrecy, Savannah was surprised by the unexpected offer. "It depends. Do I have to sign a pledge of secrecy in blood?"

  Something resembling a smile flickered across Blake's lips. "That depends on whether or not I can trust you."

  Despite his casual tone, something in his eyes told Savannah that they were suddenly talking about a great deal more than her willingness to keep his script a secret.

  "I suppose you'll have to be the judge of that." Although her voice was steady, her nerves were not as he gave her another of those long, probing looks.

  "Out, damned spot!" Cujo croaked. Neither Blake nor Savannah appeared to take notice.

  After what seemed an eternity, Blake appeared to have made up his mind. "It runs nearly three hours," he warned her.

  Savannah wondered if the studio executives knew that, and decided they didn't. And although watching such a lengthy film would use up valuable time that she should be using to score her scenes—she still couldn't believe she'd actually agreed to audition!—Savannah couldn't resist the opportunity to be the first person to see the story in its entirety.

  "I'm not doing anything important at the moment," she said.

  With the air of a man accustomed to getting his way, Blake appeared to have expected no other answer. "Fine. I've already set up the projector. We'll talk about the scoring later."

  When she stood, Cujo left the back of her chair with a loud flutter of wings, and settled on her shoulder. She froze.

  "Amazing," Blake murmured. With the merest flick of his wrist, he coaxed the bird from Savannah's shoulder to his arm. "Sorry, old boy," he said as he transferred the mynah bird into his cage. "But it's time for work. You can visit with Ms. Starr later."

  "Come up and see me sometime," the bird answered obligingly.

  Savannah followed Blake down the Byzantine hallway to his private screening room. The room, decorated for the comfort of its owner, reminded her of an English gentlemen's club: lots of dark wood and oversize furniture. Turning down his offer of more coffee, she settled into a bark-brown leather chair, prepared to watch the film with him. But the titles had no sooner flashed on the screen when Blake turned to leave the room.

  "Aren't you going to watch?" she asked.

  "I've seen it. Besides, you'll have a more honest reaction if you can watch it without worrying about me watching your every reaction. I'D be down on the beach when you're done. I left a slicker and boots for you in the foyer."

  He had a point, Savannah decided. A point that was driven home even harder as she sat alone in the dark and watched Blake's lengthy black comedy unfold on the screen. The rumors about his film being a thinly disguised story of his own marriage were obviously true.

  It was bad enough that the voluptuous blond actress playing the deadly female vampire could have been Pamela Winters's double. Even more damning was the fact that the woman had all Pamela's gestures down pat—even the way she had of licking her lips whenever she was about to take advantage of her husband. That same seductive look had been captured by the photographer who shot Pamela's Playboy layout.

  Savannah had seen that gorgeous face smiling out from the cover of the magazine at the newsstand just last week. Stories of Pamela Winters's body being the product of several sessions with a Brazilian plastic surgeon had circulated around Hollywood for years. When she'd viewed that famous figure, seductively posed and scantily clad in a gold lame bikini the size of a Band-Aid strip, Savannah had decided that if the rumors of surgical body-sculpting were even remotely true, Blake's former wife had definitely gotten her money's worth.

  As the story continued to unfold, Savannah found herself both transfixed and appalled by Blake's savagely critical view of marriage. Some of the scenes were so scathingly misogynistic, she couldn't help wondering if it was only his ex-wife Blake hated—or if his distaste for women was all-encompassing. Even as she told herself that she wasn't the least bit interested in the man, Savannah found the idea that Blake would put her in the same category with Pamela strangely depressing.

  Unable to remain passive while Savannah watched the final cut of Unholy Matrimony, Blake strode along the beach, furious to find himself anxious for her approval. He'd already fallen for one woman's seductive schemes; he wasn't about to repeat the experience. What he should do, Blake decided, was simply tell her that she wasn't right for the job and send her packing. Savannah Starr wasn't the only musician in Hollywood. Unfortunately, he reminded himself grimly, she was the only one he wanted.

  By the time the final credits rolled onto the screen, it had begun to sprinkle again. She located the hooded slicker and was surprised to find that it fit perfectly. So did the boots. More proof that he had been expecting her.

  Excited about the prospect of scoring his film, Savannah was not as annoyed as she once might have been by Blake's arrogant assumption that she wouldn't be able to turn down an opportunity to audition for him.

  The beach was a far cry from the sun-warmed silver sand at her Malibu home. Instead of delicate pink and ivory seashells, rocks lined the stretch of sand between the surf and the jagged cliffs. Jellyfish, the size of marbles, shimmered on the wet sand between the rocks; tiny crabs edged sideways back to the sea. Along with the jellyfish and crabs, the ebbing tide had left behind an amazing amount of kelp. It covered everything, like a thick, green net left behind by a careless fisherman.

  She found him in a moderately sheltered cove about a quarter mile from the house. He was sitting on a rock beside a tide pool.

  "Look at this," he said, forgoing a more conventional greeting. He'd seen her coming; in the shiny yellow slicker and matching boots, she'd stood out in the gray mist like the warmth of a sunbeam. Just the sight of her had made him want to smile. Irritated by the way she caused his emotions to careen out of control, he'd resisted the urge.

  Savannah looked.

  "It's oil," he told her unnecessarily. "Damn, I get angry about the way we're treating this planet."

  Personally, Savannah had come to the conclusion that Blake Winters got angry about almost everything; but she decided, for the sake of peace and future employment, to keep her thoughts to herself.

  "Is that why you made that environmental sho
rt the Sierra Club showed to Congress last week?"

  He shot her a dangerous look. "How did you know about that? I insisted that my name not be associated with the project in any way."

  "I'm a member of Malibu's Save Our Beaches committee. We rented the film to use as a fund-raiser a few months ago. I thought at the time the camera work seemed familiar. The minute I saw the woods scene in Unholy Matrimony, I recognized the location." She looked at him curiously. "The work is brilliant. I can't understand why you'd want to remain anonymous."

  "I've never approved of Hollywood types using their fame to promote a cause," he said. "But that doesn't mean that I don't have some very strong views. Making the film anonymously ensured that the message, not me, would be the story."

  "That makes sense," she decided. "But I hope you realize that you're not going to be able to avoid comparisons between Unholy Matrimony and your own life," she said carefully.

  After having witnessed how autobiographical his film was, Savannah felt as if she were walking on eggshells. But she also realized that she'd been given valuable insight into this frustratingly closed, intensely private man.

  To Savannah's amazement, Blake threw back his head and laughed. Stunned by his unexpected behavior, she found herself drawn to the rich, deep sound.

  "Pamela's already filed a lawsuit," he told her when he'd stopped laughing.

  "But that will only bring the picture more publicity."

  "I know. But my former wife's IQ was always a smaller number than her cup size."

  "That's not a very flattering thing to say," the feminist in Savannah felt obliged to point out.

  "It's not nearly as bad as the stuff she told the press about me."

  Including letting everyone believe her husband had tried to kill her. "You may have a point," Savannah said quietly. "May I ask a question?"

  "I suppose that depends on the question."

  "Do you dislike all women? Or only actresses?"

  His stony jaw clenched. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't you? If Unholy Matrimony is any example of your feelings—"

  "Now you're acting as paranoid as my ex-wife," he said tightly. "I've already stated on record, to Pamela's attorneys, that my film is not autobiographical."

  Having seen the film in question, Savannah wasn't deterred that easily. If they were to work together, she intended to make certain that she wasn't going to be lumped into the same unpleasant category as Blake's egocentric, self-indulgent former spouse.

  "Please don't dodge the issue," she insisted quietly. "This is important to me."

  Something in the level way she met his gaze moved Blake. He tried to remind himself that women were masters of guile. And even if he wanted to believe that Savannah was an anomaly—an honest woman—all he had to do was take a cold, hard look at his own scars to remind himself exactly how calculating the female of the species could be. She was, after all—like Pa—an actress. And a damn good one.

  "I don't discuss my personal life. The only two things you need to know are that I honestly admire your talent, and that rumors of my trying to kill my former wife are not true." He smiled. It was a grim, challenging smile that held no humor. "So, you can relax. Your life won't be in danger while you're working with me."

  Despite the chill in the air, warmth suffused her cheeks. Savannah was so embarrassed that she didn't protest his use of the word while instead of if in discussing the possibility of their working together. "I wasn't—"

  "Of course you were," Blake countered without rancor. "Everyone who read those damn accusations was bound to wonder if they were true. Even I have to admit that the story has a rather tawdry fascination about it—maverick Hollywood screenwriter weds beautiful, ambitious, well-endowed starlet, only to discover that she's got the morals of an alley cat."

  "If that weren't bad enough, when he discovers the fatal truth that she only married him for what he could do for her career, his male ego—which has been hanging by a thread due to her infidelities—is shattered. The knowledge eats away at him, day after day, like poison, until he finally seeks revenge by cutting her brake lines." He shrugged. "It happens all the time."

  The rain was slanting harder now, but it was the latent bitterness in Blake's voice that chilled Savannah to the bone.

  "In the movies," she murmured.

  His sharp eyes didn't miss her slight shiver. "In the movies," he agreed. The conversation was getting too personal. What was it about this woman that made him want to spill his guts? He'd always been an extremely private person. life was better than way. Safer.

  "It's getting cold," he said, changing the subject. "Let's go back to the house and you can tell me what you think about the film."

  As they walked back up the beach together, Savannah decided that she wasn't the only one who'd been severely scarred by a disastrous choice in lovers. The only difference between her and Blake was that her scars were more visible.

  5

  Although Blake had assured Savannah in his letter that he had all the equipment she needed to score the scenes, she wasn't expecting the fully outfitted studio he'd set up. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was starkly utilitarian.

  The synthesizer—that electronic marvel that had all but murdered a once-thriving Los Angeles studio-music scene—was state-of-the-art. As was the computer that would allow her to match the music to picture-to-picture cuts with a computerized time code.

  A large-screen television with a patented fiat picture-tube for improved visual quality stood in the corner of the room; a dual-track VCR sat on a nearby shelf.

  "Well," Savannah said as she stared around the amazingly outfitted studio in wonder, "no one can accuse you of not being prepared."

  "You can't achieve perfection without the proper tools."

  Savannah decided that it would save them both time if she was honest. "If you're looking for perfection, you definitely have the wrong person."

  He gave her another of those long, judicious looks. "I don't think so."

  "But—"

  "Don't worry. I don't expect absolute perfection." Before she could respond, he said, "Ordinary perfection will be quite sufficient."

  For a moment Savannah believed him to be serious. Then he smiled, in an abruptly charming way.

  A ripple of anxiety made Savannah realize that Blake Winters's smiles were even more dangerous than his scowls. Reminding herself that the man represented a pitfall she had every intention of avoiding, Savannah refused to turn to putty just because Blake had decided that she'd make a good bedmate.

  "Then we have nothing to worry about," she said. Her gaze was level and challenged the invitation in his. "From the marvelous scenes you've given me to work with, ordinary perfection should be no problem at all."

  Having long ago decided that one learned more from faces than words, Blake watched the range of emotions cross Savannah's face: reluctant desire, anxiety, determination.

  "I suppose we should get down to work, then. There's a video of the scenes I'd like you to score in the VCR. Would you mind if I stayed and watched you work?"

  Savannah was surprised by the question. She would have bet her Oscar that Blake wasn't a man accustomed to seeking permission for anything from anyone.

  "It's your studio."

  She sat down at the synthesizer, turned on the computer and the VCR. Then she switched on the television and watched the first scene of the two she was to score come onto the screen.

  As Blake watched Savannah work, he decided that he'd never seen such concentration. Of course she hadn't minded him staying in the studio; as far as she was concerned, she was all alone in the room.

  Lost in her work the way she was, it crossed his mind that the house could be on fire and she wouldn't notice. Instead, every atom of her attention was directed toward the television screen and synthesizer.

  She was working on the scene where the protagonist discovered his wife to be a vampire. Although Blake would never claim musical tal
ent, he suspected that most musicians would have chosen a thunderous, dramatic sound, lots of brass and drums. And they would have been wrong.

  Blake listened, intrigued by Savannah's intuitive sense. It was as if she'd tapped into his mind—as well as his heart—allowing her to know exactly what he'd been thinking.

  The music she'd chosen was the cool, lonely melody of an alto sax. A sound that reminded Blake exactly how coldly furious he'd been, how betrayed he'd felt, when he discovered that Pamela had only married him for what he could do for her.

  A perfectionist himself, Blake wasn't surprised to find that Savannah shared that character trait. Even when he thought she'd hit exactly the right note, she continued to rework certain phrases, rearrange a bridge here and there, change a segment from major to minor key.

  By the time she was satisfied with the scene, it was late. When she finally returned to the real world, Savannah was surprised to see that the sky outside the arched window was growing dark. It was always like this when she worked; time ceased to exist.

  "I'd better be going."

  "You've only scored one scene. You still have another one to do."

  "I'll stay at the inn down the road and come back in the morning."

  "It's been raining off and on all day," Blake reminded her. "That road will be like quicksand. Besides, we haven't worked out the terms of our contract."

  "Contracts are for agents," Savannah countered. But as she looked out the window again and watched the fog settle around the house, the idea of navigating that treacherous road again in the dark was decidedly unappealing. "But I guess you're right about the road. I suppose I don't have any choice but to spend one more night."

  "I knew you were an intelligent woman," he said. "As well as an extremely talented one. What you did with that scene was absolutely brilliant."

  His compliment shouldn't make her feel so good. It shouldn't warm her all over. But, heaven help her, it did. "Thank you."

  "In a way, it was spooky. Like you were somehow inside my head."