Dark Desires

by JoAnn Ross

  "I thought about killing Winters, too," Jerry mused. "But then I decided that it'd be better if I left him alive. So he can be the one to find your body. So he'll be the one to go to prison for your murder."

  "No one would believe that Blake would kill me."

  "Wouldn't they?" His eyes reminded her of a snake's: cold, flat and deadly. "The man's already been accused of trying to kill one unfaithful woman," he reminded her. "When you're found dead in his bedroom, the evidence will speak for itself."

  His planned scenario was insane. As was he. Unwilling to be his victim ever again, she suddenly sprang forward, hurling the Oscar at him, pushing him aside. Her strength momentarily threw him off balance and as she raced down the stairway, Savannah heard him curse. She didn't stop to look around.

  She managed to reach the front door, only to discover that he'd double-bolted it. Before her numbed fingers could unfasten the bolt, Jerry was on top of her. Grabbing her streaming hair, he dragged her to an abrupt halt.

  "Dammit," he said through gritted teeth, "we've acted out this scene before." His hand tightened on her hair; his furious red face was just inches from hers. "This time you're not going to get away. This time you're going to find out what happens to unfaithful women."

  His hand went to her throat, his fingers applying enough pressure for her to feel the fury behind them. Stalling for time, knowing that Blake would soon discover that Justin's car wasn't broken down and return home, Savannah decided to try again.

  "Jerry, please. What happened last time was an accident. I know you. I know that you'd never purposely hurt me."

  "Oh, no?" His dangerous grin turned Savannah's blood to ice. "You didn't know my mother, did you?" he asked. "Of course, you didn't—" he answered his own rhetorical question "—because she was already dead when you and I met."

  Savannah remembered him telling her about the tragic accident that had taken his mother's life. She'd fallen asleep while smoking, Jerry had said. At the time, he'd seemed honestly heartbroken. "She died in a fire."

  "A fitting punishment," he said, "for leaving her husband and seven-year-old son behind in Seattle and running off to California with that sailor." His mouth twisted; hatred blazed in his eyes.

  Savannah stared at him in horror; new fear clutched at her throat.

  "I paid her a visit after I came to L. A. to work in the comedy clubs. She pretended that she was glad to see me," Jerry continued. "But I knew that she was only waiting for me to leave and him to come home—so she could go to bed with him, like the adulterous slut she was. So when she turned her back, I picked up the ashtray—it was a big ceramic one from Yosemite—and hit her over the head."

  Jerry ignored Savannah's startled gasp. He was staring off into the distance, as if watching the murderous scene. "I dragged her into the bedroom, laid her on the bed, lit a cigarette and put it between her fingers. Then I used her lighter to set fire to the bedspread and drapes, and left."

  His fingers tightened around her throat, causing pain. "The police called with the tragic news later that night."

  The fury in his eyes had disappeared; in its place was a calm composure that frightened Savannah far more than his earlier anger.

  She risked a glance at the grandfather clock. Blake had been gone for more than thirty minutes; by now he should have realized that he'd been sent on a wild-goose chase. Keep talking, she told herself.

  "I'm not your mother, Jerry," she said softly, trying to hold back the fear that was tearing down her control.

  "No." He looked at her, and his eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over her face: "You're not. But you're just like her." There was a line of sweat above his lip that he did not bother to wipe away. "And now you'll have to be punished, too."

  "Jerry." She placed a hand on his arm. "Perhaps I did make a mistake," she said in a gentle voice that trembled only slightly. "Perhaps I did underestimate your talent. Maybe I didn't appreciate you enough. But I was never unfaithful."

  "You were."

  "No." She licked her lips, swallowing the metallic taste of terror. "I wasn't. That night you were waiting at my house—the night I came home from the wrap party with that actor—we were only friends, Jerry. Less than friends. We'd worked on the picture together. He meant nothing to me. Less than nothing."

  Her eyes were soft and guileless; her fingers stroked his sleeve. "How could he? How could any man compare to you?"

  Seeds of doubt appeared in Jerry's eyes. The hand that had been around her neck caught hold of her chin and held her innocent gaze to his intent one. "You didn't sleep with him?"

  "No," she said truthfully.

  "And Winters? What about him?"

  "I don't even like him." It took every ounce of Savannah's acting ability to tell that lie. "Since I couldn't act any longer, Justin talked me into working with the man, Jerry. I'm scoring his picture. That's all."

  Her fingers gingerly crept up his sleeve to his shoulder. When he didn't jerk away, she placed her palm against his cheek, feeling the muscle tense beneath her fingertips. "To tell you the truth, I can't wait to finish and get away from this horrid old place."

  "I don't know why," Jerry said slowly. Savannah could tell that he wanted to believe her. "Winters is famous."

  "So are you," she insisted. "Everyone who saw your HBO special said that you were brilliant. Even Blake remarked on your talent."

  "Blake Winters said I was talented?" His grip on her loosened fractionally.

  "Yes, he did. Honestly."

  His eyes went blank for a minute, then cleared. "Maybe, since you're working with him, you could talk him into giving me a part in his next picture."

  Savannah felt exactly like Alice after she'd fallen down the rabbit hole and ended up at the Mad Hatter's tea party. One minute Jerry was confessing to the murder of his mother and threatening to kill her; the next minute he was asking her to get him a part in Blake's next picture.

  "I could ask," she agreed breathlessly. "I'm sure he'd be wild about the idea."

  "A Blake Winters picture," Jerry murmured. "Starring Jerry Larsen." The hand that was holding the pistol lowered as his other hand stroked her cheek. "It does have a certain ring to it."

  "A wonderful ring," Savannah agreed. She turned her head ever so slightly, so that her lips brushed against his fingers. "I'd be so proud of you, Jerry."

  "You're damn right you would be," he agreed. "Because I'd be a star." His fingers traced the scar that ran from her ear to the corner of her lips. "Especially since, let's face it, sweetheart, with your face messed up like it is, your acting days are over. You are, as they say in the trades, a has-been."

  Amazingly, these past days with Blake had made Savannah forget completely the physical scars this man had inflicted on her.

  "You're lucky I still find you sexy," he said as he untied the sash of the robe. "Because with those scars, you'd have a hard time getting any other man."

  She recognized the look that moved across his face as he opened the robe and viewed the seashell-pink teddy she was wearing underneath. Murder had been momentarily forgotten in favor of lust.

  "Nice," he murmured. He pushed the robe off her shoulders, onto the floor. "Very nice."

  His mouth approached hers. Savannah curled her left hand into a fist by her side and braced herself for his kiss just as the grandfather clock began to strike the hour. To keep her sanity, Savannah counted each gong: one, two, three…

  When the clock finally chimed ten, Jerry, intent on deepening the kiss, thrust his tongue between her lips. Savannah bit down. Hard. Surprised, he jerked his head back just as she hit him as hard as she could, right in the center of his face.

  Furious, he pulled away with a bloodcurdling scream. The gun fell to the hardwood floor. Jerry began scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, and when he viewed the bright red blood, mingling with the blood pouring from his nostrils, murder rose in his eyes once again.

  But Savannah didn't see it. She was running through the labyrinth of hallway
s and down the stairs, to the basement.

  It was dark. And damp. As she groped her way down the steep stairs and along the wall, Savannah hoped that she could elude Jerry long enough for Blake to return.

  "Savannah?"

  He'd followed her. Trembling, Savannah tried to hide in the shadows.

  "You'll never get away, Savannah. By the time your lover realizes that it was me who called him, you'll be dead."

  Trapped. The word reverberated hollowly in her mind. Numb with fear, Savannah crouched behind a large trunk next to the boiler when something suddenly brushed against her legs. Covering her mouth with her hand to stop her scream, she looked down at the cat, who had begun mewing for his dinner. She tried petting him, which only made him mew louder. Frustrated, she pushed him away, hoping that he'd take the hint and leave, but instead he let out an irritated yelp and refused to go.

  The sound captured Jerry's immediate attention. "You can't hide from me, Savannah," he called out. "Not after I've spent all those lonely months in prison thinking of all the ways to get even with you."

  Savannah was shaking, but she refused to answer. Although she couldn't see him in the blackness, she could hear Jerry approaching. She wanted to run. To scream. When she heard the deadly, unmistakable click of the gun's safety again, she knew that she had run out of time.

  She saw Jerry's shadow getting closer. Just when Savannah thought that perhaps she really was going to die, the room was suddenly flooded with a blinding light.

  Jerry spun around. Savannah followed his gaze to the foot of the stairs, where Blake was standing.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing, Larsen?" he asked, far too quietly.

  If Jerry was terrified by the larger man's sudden appearance, he didn't reveal it. "I'm getting even."

  "For what?"

  Jerry looked taken aback by Blake's calm question. His nose was still bleeding; he wiped the blood away with his sleeve. It took him a long time to answer. "For everything."

  Blake moved closer. "I see. So, since you didn't manage to kill Savannah the first time, you've come back to finish the job?"

  "That's right." Jerry appeared relieved that Blake seemed to understand. "She deserves to die, Winters. You, of all people, should understand that."

  Blake continued to approach. "Why me, of all people?"

  Savannah, who'd prudently remained silent, knew that Blake was at his most dangerous when he used that quiet, logical tone.

  "Because of your wife," Jerry explained, sniffling. He pressed his hand to his nose to stop the steady trickle of blood, then flinched from the pain. "She screwed around, so you had to kill her."

  "You shouldn't believe everything you read, Larsen." He was now only a few feet away. "I didn't try to kill Pamela."

  Jerry laughed. "Sure, you gotta say that," he agreed. "That's the same thing I told my lawyer and the cops. And those prison shrinks. But we both know the two-timing bitches got what they deserved."

  The seemingly casual conversation was making Savannah increasingly nervous. Although it was two against one, the gun Jerry was holding in his hand definitely tilted the odds in his favor.

  Cold sweat ran down Blake's back. It hadn't taken him long to realize that he'd been played for a damn fool. Cursing himself for falling for Larsen's act, he'd raced back to the house as fast as he could. When he'd found it ominously dark, he'd felt his heart lurch. Then he'd viewed the dark stain on the foyer floor and tasted blood in his own mouth.

  Desperate, Savannah looked around the room for a weapon. Any weapon. When her searching eyes met Blake's guarded ones, she saw him glance fleetingly at the boiler beside her before returning his impenetrable gaze to Jerry Larsen's face.

  The boiler. Of course! Why hadn't she thought of it? While Blake kept Jerry talking about the untrustworthiness of women, Savannah inched over and flipped the pressure release valve. A loud, hot gust of steam instantly captured Jerry's attention.

  Blake swung. Shaken by the sudden blow, Jerry slid bonelessly down the wall. Blake's fists pounded savagely into his already bloody face.

  "Blake! I'm all right."

  Savannah was momentarily stunned by Blake's explosive response. Blake's temper, once unleashed, was a frightening thing to behold. Her feelings for him—her love—had blinded her, making her forget that he was a man of strong emotions—emotions that she'd once found frighteningly dangerous.

  Blake was straddling Jerry, his knee painfully into the other man's chest, his long fingers wrapped around his throat.

  "You're going to kill him," Savannah said, pulling ineffectually at Blake's rigid arm. "Please, Blake, he isn't worth it. He didn't hurt me. I'm all right."

  Jerry's face had turned a dangerous shade of purple; his eyes were bulging and blood streamed from his fractured nose and split lip. The cellar reeked with the smell of his fear.

  Blake looked up at Savannah, then down in mute surprise at his victim. He was actually on the verge of killing a man. And although he'd admittedly seen more than his share of violence during his early years in the Texas oil patch, Blake would never have thought himself capable of murder.

  Until now. Until Savannah. The power of love was terrifying.

  "The bastard tried to kill you," he argued. "Twice." A core of violence lingered in his eyes. But his fingers loosened their grip.

  Savannah sank to her knees beside him. "But he didn't. Because you saved me."

  Blake frowned as he lifted a finger to the darkening bruises on Savannah's neck. "I should kill him just for this."

  "He isn't worth it," she repeated softly.

  "No. He isn't." Blake took a deep, head-clearing breath and stood, yanking the cowering, sobbing man to his feet. "Come on, Larsen, you've got a date with the police."

  The sheriff arrived within minutes, his expression and his demeanor far more grim and professional than it had been earlier, when he'd asked Savannah for her autograph.

  After Jerry Larsen had been taken off to jail, Blake pulled a still-unsteady Savannah into his arms. She'd put his robe on again and although she was dwarfed by the heavy folds of black terry cloth, he realized that she wasn't as fragile as he'd thought that first night.

  "You're shaking," he murmured against her hair.

  She clung to him—clung tightly. "So are you."

  Blake didn't argue. He'd thought, during the seemingly endless interview with the sheriff, that he'd overcome his rage. His fear. But now, holding Savannah in his arms, it all came crashing back down on him.

  "When I saw that blood…" An enormous lump rose in his throat. Blake brought his mouth down on hers, hard. He needed the sweet, familiar taste of her to convince himself that she really was safe.

  "I thought you were…" Blake couldn't make himself say the word. "I thought I was too late," he managed instead, in a voice roughened with emotion. "I thought I'd lost you."

  Love swept through Savannah—overwhelmingly. She tilted her head back and gave him a wobbly smile. "I'm not that easy to get rid of." Her eyes filled with the tears she'd held back for too long.

  Blake kept his touch gentle as he brushed the glistening moisture from her cheeks with his bruised and swelling knuckles. "I need you, Savannah. And that scares the hell out of me."

  "I know." Her hands trembled from emotions too complex to catalog as she lifted them to his face. "Would it make you feel any better if I told you that I need you, too? And that it scares the hell out of me?"

  "There's more."

  Savannah waited.

  "I love you."

  "I know that, too." It almost frightened her—the sheer wonder of it. "And you've no idea how glad I am to hear you finally say it. Since I've been in love with you forever."

  Feeling better, he lifted an eyebrow. "Forever?"

  "Well, it seems like forever."

  His arms tightened around her and he lowered his forehead to hers. "I know the feeling," he murmured. "Very well." They stood there for a long, luxurious time, drawing strength and comfort from e
ach other.

  The storm continued to rage. Outside, the wind wailed and lightning arced across the night sky. Caught up in the magic of the moment, neither Savannah nor Blake noticed.

  "Savannah?"

  "Mmm?"

  Damn. It was not at all the way he'd planned it. He had intended to put a bottle of very good champagne on ice. There should be music and flowers. He'd even spent the major part of the drive north from San Francisco mentally penning a pretty proposal. But the clever, persuasive words had fled his mind.

  Blake remembered how Savannah had accused him of being a creature of the dark. During those first few days she'd spent at his house, he'd reluctantly come to accept the fact that her unflattering description was more accurate than she could have realized.

  At least, it had been, until she'd managed to infiltrate his life like a dazzling ray of bright summer sunshine, banishing the darkness forever.

  Abandoning words for action, Blake tucked his arm firmly behind Savannah's knees, scooped her up and began carrying her up the curving stairs.

  "Blake, what are you doing?"

  "What does it look like?" He shifted her in his arms. "I'm taking you upstairs to my bed. And then, when I have you exactly where I want you, I'm going to persuade you to marry me."

  Surprise, pleasure, love—all rushed into her eyes. "You sound awfully sure of yourself," she murmured as he marched purposefully down the hallway.

  "You've got it all wrong, sweetheart," he said as he entered the bedroom.

  From the sight of the incredibly sexy nightgown spread out on his bed like an ebony lace invitation, Blake realized that Savannah had been planning an identical scenario for tonight. Encouraged, he laid her tenderly, almost reverently, on the mattress.

  "I'm not that sure of myself at all," he admitted as he began undressing her with hands that weren't nearly as steady as he would have liked. "But I am sure of you."

  In the stuttering white light of the storm, Savannah saw Blake's love—and even more wonderful, his trust—written in bold strokes across his rugged face.

  The breath she had been unaware of holding came out in a throaty laugh. "It's about time."