Dark Desires

by JoAnn Ross

  He'd left the room to walk along the kelp-strewn beach, lambasting himself for his lack of finesse. He'd wanted her, and he wasn't about to apologize for that. But the bruises—they were another story altogether. He'd never hurt a woman. Not even Pamela, although there had admittedly been times, when she'd been taunting him relentlessly, that he'd been tempted.

  "About last night." He continued to look out over the steely, white-capped waves. "I'm sorry."

  He could have said nothing worse. "You don't owe me an apology, Blake."

  Damn. Blake watched the pain flood into her eyes and wondered what he'd done wrong now. "Whatever you think of me, I didn't mean to hurt you, Savannah."

  Savannah didn't answer. Instead, she jammed her hands even deeper into her slicker pockets and tried to remain calm.

  "You were upset after telling me about Larsen," Blake said. "I took advantage of that. I also was rougher than I should have been. Than I wanted to be. And for that I'm sorry."

  Savannah conveniently forgot that she hadn't felt exactly jubilant about what had happened between them herself. Instead, her injured pride caused her to retreat into herself. Unable to meet his gaze, she looked out over the sea.

  The waves were crashing against the rugged granite cliff. Dark green seaweed swirled in the frothy surf and was scattered over the rocky shoreline. Savannah had always loved living at the beach; she'd loved the tranquillity of the never-ending tide, the golden expanse of gleaming, sunlit sand. But this was different. There was nothing tranquil about Blake's ocean. It stormed angrily against the rocks, presenting challenge. And danger.

  "I wasn't so upset about Jerry that I didn't know what I was doing," she said finally. Was that calm voice really hers?

  "I still can't remember when I've taken a woman with less care," Blake said grimly. "My God, Savannah, I practically ripped your clothes off."

  "Actually, if I remember correctly, I ripped your shirt off," Savannah reminded him. "It was your apology that hurt me, Blake. After all, we're both adults, and last night's lovemaking—sex—" she corrected briskly "—was mutual. It was also no big deal." She held her breath, waiting irrationally for a bolt of lightning to come out of the leaden sky and strike her down for telling such an outrageous lie.

  Blake hadn't known what to expect. Anger? Tears? Recriminations? He'd been prepared to handle any of those. But never in a million years had he expected Savannah's cool rejection of what they'd shared. Forgetting that ten minutes ago all he'd wanted was to get off the hook, he now found her uncaring attitude more than a little irritating.

  "That's funny," he ground out. "I had the impression that what we shared last night was more than just a casual roll in the hay." The stiff sea breeze blew several errant strands of dark hair against her cheek; his fingers practically itched with the need to reach out and touch her, to brush it away.

  His scorn stung. And although his tone was as sharp as a slap, Savannah refused to flinch. Tossing her hair out of her face, she glared up at him. "It was. Whatever else you think of me, Blake, I've never gone in for casual sex. I was merely trying to explain that I understand how you feel. It's been a long time for both of us and last night, partly because of your film and partly because of the rain, we were both feeling a little down. It was probably inevitable that we'd end up in bed together."

  Personally, Blake had awakened with the uneasy feeling that it was a great deal more complicated than Savannah was making it out to be. But since he wasn't at all eager to muddy already-dangerous waters, he decided not to argue. "I suppose that makes sense."

  "Of course it does."

  Savannah wondered whether Blake was really that dense or merely the most adept liar she'd ever met. Because although neither one of them wanted to admit it, they both knew that something serious had happened last night. Something irrevocable. Something she'd have to think about. As soon as she returned home to Malibu.

  "Believe me, Blake," she continued earnestly, "I am not so desperate for a man—even a man who's a dynamite lover—that I'd wake up expecting a proposal."

  He should have felt relief. Instead, he felt inexplicably frustrated. Shaking off the errant thought, he asked, "Am I, really?"

  "What?"

  "A dynamite lover."

  It was the one tiling Savannah knew she'd never get away with lying about. Because her body had told him the truth in more ways than one. Her reminiscent smile was genuine. "The best."

  That, at least, was something, Blake decided. Her next statement jolted him back to reality.

  "And now that we understand one another, I think it's time for me to go back to Malibu."

  "Are you saying you've changed your mind about scoring my film?"

  "Of course not."

  "You don't trust me." Worse, Blake considered grimly. After the rough way he'd treated her, she was probably afraid of him. And no wonder, considering her brutal experience with Larsen.

  "It doesn't have anything to do with trust," she insisted, not quite truthfully. Savannah didn't think it prudent to add that she couldn't trust herself to stay under the same roof with Blake without becoming emotionally and physically involved. "It's just that I can work better in my own home."

  No. Dammit, she wasn't going anywhere. She was staying here. With him, where she belonged. Realizing that if he said his thoughts out loud, he'd sound exactly like the murderously possessive Jerry Larsen, Blake bit back a furious retort and forced a shrug.

  "Whatever you want. Since my film is in dire need of a score, I wouldn't think of depriving you of your muse."

  As they walked back up the beach together, Savannah knew that she should be glad about his easy acceptance. For a moment, she'd thought she'd seen a flash of all-too-familiar anger in his dark eyes. But obviously, she'd been wrong. Because Blake didn't seem to care where she worked. So long as she came through with a score that would enhance his movie.

  She should be relieved, Savannah told herself. So why did she feel so depressed?

  Although she had left Blake miles away in Mendocino, Savannah couldn't expunge him from her mind. She thought about him constantly, from the moment she woke up until she went to bed. And even as she tried to tell herself that such thoughts were only normal— after all, she was spending ten to twelve hours a day working on the score of his incredibly personal film-she couldn't quite make herself believe that her interest in the man was purely professional.

  Her emotions were in turmoil, but instead of shutting them off, she used them, focusing her tumultuous feelings on her work. Passion, anger, fear, pride, torment. The vibrant physical feelings flowed hotly in her blood, escaping through her fingertips, racing over the synthesizer keyboard, pouring into her music as she composed a swelling score to fit with Blake's equally intense scenes.

  The first morning after her return to Malibu, a florist's delivery woman arrived on Savannah's doorstep with a single white rose. Although there was no card, Savannah knew that the rose was from Blake. Perhaps he was thinking about her, too. The idea of him pacing the beach, unable to get her out of his mind, was unappealing.

  A second rose arrived that afternoon. A third in the evening. Even as she responded to Blake's renewed seduction attempts, she couldn't quite forget the look on his face when he apologized so brusquely for making love to her. Besides, if he'd really wanted her to stay, he would have asked. Wouldn't he?

  It was night. Savannah was standing in the center of the room, her nude body glistening in the pale silver moonlight. A man approached. Beneath a raven-black widow's peak his dark eyes blazed with hunger. Some last vestige of self-protection told Savannah that she should run away—now, while she had the chance. But she remained rooted to the spot, entranced by the pull of those fathomless eyes.

  He didn't speak. Instead, he simply held out his arms in invitation. Her knees trembling with each step, Savannah walked toward him, unable to resist his silent appeal. He wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her in his voluminous black cape. As she tilted her head back, exp
osing the long white column of her throat, Savannah was trembling with passion and anticipation.

  Just as his teeth grazed her proffered flesh, the telephone rang. And rang. And rang. Fighting to struggle free from the erotic dream, Savannah groped blindly for the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  No one answered.

  "Hello?"

  When the voice on the other end remained stubbornly mute, Savannah was forced to wonder if she was still dreaming. She dragged her free hand across her face, struggling to wake up.

  "Who is this?" she demanded, imagining that she could hear the caller breathing. "Blake? Is that you?"

  She couldn't help wondering if he was checking to see if she was at home. The same way Jerry Larsen had done during those months they'd been dating. The very idea made her slam the receiver back down onto its cradle.

  Although she'd left her dream at a particularly frustrating stage, further sleep proved impossible. Savannah went around the house, checking locks and turning on all the lights. Then she sat alone in the predawn darkness, her arms wrapped around herself, willing the sun to rise.

  The roses continued for another two days. As did the middle-of-the-night phone calls. Having vowed never to be a victim again, Savannah called Blake's home to insist that he stop harassing her.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," the male operator informed her, "but that line has been out of order for the past three days."

  "Are you certain the phone hasn't been working at least part of the time?" she asked hopefully. As frightening as the idea of Blake making those calls was, the idea that it might not be him was even more terrifying. There was a brief silence during which time Savannah could hear the unmistakable tapping of a computer keyboard. "No," he assured her. "The line's completely dead. We've been having a lot of storms," he added.

  "Oh. Well, thanks for your help."

  "No problem, ma'am. Have a nice day." Frustrated, Savannah hung up and tried to return to work. But creativity was impossible. Because all she could think about was some unseen person outside her home, silently stalking her, waiting for just the right moment to make his move.

  Blake was going crazy. In a way, he was almost grateful that the phone was out of order. Because he wouldn't know what to say to Savannah if he did get hold of her. The first day after her departure, he'd fully expected her to return. By the second day, he'd decided that fate had stepped in and downed the telephone lines to keep him from making a fool of himself. After all, he assured himself, sooner or later, she'd be back.

  By the third day, he'd come to the conclusion that if Savannah did show up, he'd be tempted to wring her gorgeous neck for driving him insane this way.

  After three days of cursing Savannah, cursing himself, Blake paced along the widow's walk, glaring out over the sea. From this vantage point he could see the fishing boats steaming along the horizon, trailing their nets behind them, and the buoys bobbing on the swelling waves, marking their path. He watched the gulls as they dove into the water, emerging seconds later with flashes of silver in their beaks. He could see for miles. But not far enough—because he couldn't see Savannah.

  Even as he blamed Savannah for his insane behavior, Blake couldn't help wondering if this strange, unsettling feeling he was experiencing was loneliness. It couldn't be. After all, he'd lived alone for years. He'd been alone—both emotionally and physically—most of his life. And since the one time he had made the mistake of allowing a woman to infringe on his solitude, he'd gotten burned, Blake reminded himself that he'd vowed, Never again. He preferred a life without strings. Without commitment.

  So, why the hell was he feeling so rotten? As much as he hated to admit it, Blake knew that the reason that he was acting like a maniac was because he missed Savannah.

  "Double, double toil and trouble," Cujo croaked.

  "You can say that again, pal," Blake muttered.

  Giving up, as he'd known all along he would, Blake went inside to his bedroom and tossed a few essentials into a duffel bag.

  As he drove down the winding coast highway toward the San Francisco airport, Blake considered blackly that there was a very thin line between want and need. And although it was an unwelcome thought, he wondered if he'd already crossed it.

  7

  Although she had never considered herself the least bit psychic, the moment the bell chimed, Savannah knew precisely who was on the other side of her door. One look through the peephole confirmed her intuition. She took her time unfastening the locks.

  "You have one hell of a nerve," she flared after she flung open the door.

  Blake took one look at her and realized he hadn't imagined her beauty, after all. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't let himself fall for her feminine charms, yet he was being drawn in deeper every time he saw her.

  "Anyone ever tell you that you are gorgeous when angry?"

  "I'd think a brilliant screenwriter such as yourself could come up with a better opening line than that one."

  "I probably could," he agreed easily. "But it wouldn't be as accurate." Without waiting for an invitation, he moved past her into her house. "What's got you so hot under the collar, anyway?"

  Frustrated, she slammed the door behind him. Blake watched without comment as she refastened each heavy lock, one by one. When the task was completed, she turned on him, her hands curled into fists at her hips, her eyes shooting furious sparks. Blake had a sudden urge to kiss her.

  "As if you didn't know." She practically spat the words at him. "I was ready to take out a restraining order on you."

  "On me? Why?"

  As an actress, Savannah knew that there were two emotions difficult to fake: grief and astonishment. And at this moment, the latter was etched into every line of Blake's face.

  "Because of the roses," she said with a bit less assurance. "Although I have to admit that I found them rather appealing in the beginning, after a while the novelty pales. As for the phone calls—"

  "Wait a minute." Blake held up a hand. "What roses are you talking about?"

  "You know very well what roses. The white ones. The ones you sent."

  Damn. He should have sent flowers, Blake realized. After the night they'd shared, it would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. But, unaccustomed to courting a woman, he hadn't.

  "I didn't send you any roses, Savannah."

  She folded her arms across her chest. "I suppose you're also going to deny making those phone calls."

  "I thought about calling you. But I couldn't. The lines were out. Because of the storm," he tacked on, confirming what the operator had already told her.

  The bright scarlet in Savannah's cheeks drained away. "If you're not telling the truth, so help me, I'll…"

  She dragged an unsteady hand through her hair. "I don't know what I'll do," she managed in a fractured voice. "But I promise you, Blake, it won't be pretty."

  She wasn't angry any longer. Instead, she seemed to be frightened. Correction, Blake thought as he took her trembling hand between both of his and found it to be ice cold. She was terrified.

  "I wouldn't lie to you, Savannah. Not about this."

  Her eyes searched his face, looking for answers. "If it wasn't you…" Her voice drifted off. The alternative was too horrible to consider.

  "I think I'd better call the police," she said, after she'd told Blake what had been happening ever since she'd returned home.

  He nodded, unnerved to discover that his own blood was running disturbingly cold. "I think that's a very good idea. Where's your kitchen?"

  She was surprised by the sudden change in subject. "It's through those swinging doors. Why?"

  "I thought I'd make you some tea. Unless you'd prefer something stronger."

  "Nothing alcoholic, thank you." Savannah wanted her wits about her when she talked with Mike McAllister, the detective who had handled her case last year. "But tea sounds great."

  When Blake returned to the living room, fragile china teacup in hand, he found Savannah standing by the glass wall,
staring out over the vast expanse of Pacific Ocean. The Southern California sunlight had tinted the foaming whitecaps a brilliant gold that was vastly different from the steely, storm-tossed waves Blake was used to viewing from his windows. It was almost impossible to believe they were part of the same ocean.

  It was also difficult to believe that evil things such as brutal murder attempts could happen in such a bright, sunlit paradise. But they did. Savannah had the scars to prove it.

  "That was a short phone call," he said.

  Her face, as she turned toward him, was as white as a wraith's. "Mike McAllister, the detective who originally handled my case, is on vacation. Which I suppose explains why I wasn't notified immediately." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "He was released last week. While I was in Mendocino with you."

  Blake didn't need to ask who she was talking about. "Larsen."

  Savannah tried to push the answer past the lump in her throat and failed. Instead, all she could do was nod.

  "That settles it," he said. "You're coming back to Mendocino with me."

  As much as Savannah wanted to run away from Jerry Larsen, to hide somewhere safe where he could never find her, never hurt her, some faint voice in the far reaches of her mind reminded her that a danger of another kind waited for her at Blake's home.

  "I can't."

  She was strong. That she'd survived such terror was proof of both her strength and her ability to take care of herself. But her soft brown eyes looked so haunted that Blake knew he'd do whatever it took to protect her from further pain.

  "Of course, you can. I have everything you need to work. And you'll be safe. I'll protect you."