by JoAnn Ross
The throbbing in his temple eased, the bloodred haze in front of his eyes cleared. His mind, far more agile than either of his loser parents—which had always made him suspect he’d been adopted—focused on the mission at hand.
In the beginning, he’d only wanted to love Lorelei. It bothered him that she didn’t have a man in her life. He’d considered it a modern day tragedy that such a warmhearted, obviously sensual woman should have to lead a wasted, celibate existence.
But now, having seen her with the private detective, having seen the way they looked at each other, as if they were soppy, whiskey-drenched bread pudding the other just wanted to gobble up, he realized that he’d have to change the plan.
He’d watched them run together, like two thoroughbreds in harness, their legs hitting the uneven sidewalks of the Quarter in unison despite the difference in their sizes. He’d watched the ease with which they talked, the subtle little touch of his hand on her elbow, her fingers on the back of his wrist, when they foolishly, recklessly thought no one was looking.
They were too comfortable in each other’s space, which could only mean one thing. They’d spent last night, locked away together in that penthouse suite of the Whitfield Palace, in bed together, sweating and groaning and tangling the sheets like some oversexed couple straight out of one of her movies. He wasn’t going to blame the man. Everyone knew that males couldn’t be responsible for their animalistic urges. If men weren’t sexual beings, the world would have come grinding to a halt eons ago and human beings would have gone the way of the dinosaurs.
But even in this world of chaos, it was important to maintain some order. Some decorum. And that, of course, became the sacred role of women in society.
It was natural for every man who saw Lorelei to want her. Normal to fantasize about how that long pale hair would feel draped over his naked thighs, about how those glossy wet lips would feel swallowing his sex, about the soft, little cries she’d make when he hurt her, which he might have to do, for her own good, to teach her the proper way for a female to behave.
He’d believed her to be a goddess, but she’d betrayed him in the worst way possible, having sex with that oversize detective. And, perhaps even the man’s brother, who’d been at the hotel with them for a time.
As a vision of a naked Lorelei twisting in the arms of both brothers at the same time—a virtual orgy of arms and legs and tongues—blazed in his tormented mind, the man made his decision.
He was going to have Lorelei. In all the ways he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. Then he was going to hurt her. And then, when he finally had the beautiful, treacherous slut begging for mercy, pleading for her worthless life, he was going to kill her.
6
WHILE THE DAY had lived up to the weather forecast, dawning bright and clear after the night rainfall, the sun was riot shining in St. Louis Cemetery Number One, where Lorelei was scheduled to shoot her first New Orleans location scene.
Fog created by the special effects machines trailed along the ground, wrapping around her ankles like tentacles. The white tombs were draped in a thick gray haze.
“Spooky,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. Although the temperatures were already in the high eighties and climbing, the ghostly atmosphere made her feel strangely chilled.
“Glad you like it,” a voice murmured from the mists. Lorelei started, then when she recognized Brian, her heart settled back down to a normal beat.
“Don’t you ever write a scene that involves sunshine? And me staying dry?”
“What would be the point of that?” he asked with a grin. He turned his attention to Michael, who was standing silently beside Lorelei. “You must be O’Malley. The bodyguard.”
“And you’re Wilder. The writer.”
“That’s me.” Brian cocked his head and gave Michael a closer, more professional perusal. “Eric mentioned the private detective business was a new enterprise for you.”
Michael wondered if his credentials were being challenged. “Relatively new. But not so different from what I was doing.”
“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting you weren’t good at your work,” he assured Michael quickly. “I was just wondering if you’d considered any other occupation after leaving the police force.”
“No.”
Brian appeared undeterred by the brusque answer. “Perhaps I could convince you to consider acting.”
“Acting?” The word exploded on a rough laugh. “Me? An actor?”
“You have a certain gritty quality that, if it could be captured on the screen would make you a perfect hero. Even bigger than Stallone or Schwarzenegger.”
Michael wondered if everyone in Hollywood was so full of bullshit and decided, thinking back on his telephone conversations with Lorelei’s director, they probably were. All except Lorelei, he amended. Somehow, it appeared she’d managed to stay incredibly well-grounded.
“Thanks anyway, but I think I’ll just stick to what I’m doing,” he said in a neutral tone.
“Well, sure. I can see where it’d be a real kick.” Brian’s gaze became teasingly seductive as it slid toward Lorelei. “Imagine guarding gorgeous women all day and night and actually getting paid for it.”
“It has its rewards,” Michael agreed dryly.
“I’ll just bet.” Brian rubbed his chin and gave the larger man another long look. “Well,” he continued, “I can tell you’re a man who likes to make up his own mind. But I’m working on a script that would be perfect for you, so if you decide you’d like to check out how you look on camera, just tell John that I told him to take a few shots.”
Michael decided that camels and bedouins would be roaming the bayou before he took the writer up on that offer. “That’d be John Nelson.”
“Yeah.” Brian gestured with a thumb toward a tall blond man who was currently deep in conversation with the prop guy manning the fog machine. “John’s one of those temperamental artistes, but nobody can capture a mood like he can.” He made another swift examination of Michael’s face. “He could make you look like you stepped off Mount Rushmore.”
“Now there’s a thought,” Michael drawled to Lorelei as they crossed the set to where the director was going over the day’s scenes outside the makeup trailer. Their shoes crunched on the crushed white shells that were used as gravel in this part of the country.
“He meant it as a compliment.”
“I suppose so. But be truthful...can you see me doing this for a living?” It was as if they were all overgrown kids.
She shrugged and brushed at the tendril of mist that curled coldly on her cheek. “It’s not that big a stretch.”
“What?” He stopped in his tracks and stared down at her.
“You made your living playing cops and robbers, for heaven’s sake, Michael. Despite the seriousness of the crimes you must have had to deal with, being a policeman is not exactly a grown-up job.”
He folded his arms. His only response was a grunt.
“And besides, I’ve watched enough television to guess that when you’re in the Box—”
“Now there’s a TV term if I ever heard one,” he muttered.
“Taken from real life,” she countered. “I know. I asked a real cop after I was signed to play a Los Angeles detective assigned to the vice squad.”
“So you did some research.” Big deal, he thought, but did not say.
She was not going to let him irritate her. Not before one of her more nerve-racking scenes. This would be the first time her fictional stalker actually touched her. And she was not looking forward to the prospect.
“The point is, when you were trying to get confessions out of the perps—” she scowled as she watched his gaze light up with wicked humor “—or suspects, or whatever you want to call them, isn’t it true that the best actor usually wins?”
“I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be able to play the role to your advantage,” he allowed.
“See?” She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “So you acted
when you were a detective. And now you’re a private detective, which is probably a secret fantasy of every little boy, right after cowboys and Superman. ”
“I always wanted to be Batman. The costume’s cooler. A bat looks a helluva lot meaner than that big red S.”
She smiled at that. “I rest my case. You’re already acting, Michael. You have been for years. You just insist on calling it work.”
She had a point, he decided reluctantly. “At least I get to call the shots.” And hopefully, when he’d concluded a case there’d be one less bad guy on the streets.
“Point taken.” It felt strange to be able to argue with Michael and not have it turn into some dangerous emotional battleground. Strange, but nice. “Are you going to stick around for the filming?”
“Sure.”
“I wasn’t certain. Since I won’t be alone, I thought you might not worry about hanging around while I’m working.”
“Taylor’s paying for twenty-four hours. That’s what he’s going to get. Besides, money aside, we still don’t know it’s not someone on the crew, Lorelei. As long as you’re in town, either Shayne or I will be right by your side.”
“Even when I go to my parents’ house for dinner?”
Just as Batman had the Riddler, Michael had always had the Longstreets. They hadn’t approved of him when he’d been dating Lorelei. And he suspected nothing had happened in the intervening years to make her parents change their minds. But he was the boss of Blue Bayou Investigations. Which mean that the buck stopped on his scarred oak desk. There was no way he was going to send Shayne to face his nemeses.
“Are we invited to dinner?” he inquired with far more casualness than he was feeling.
“Not yet. But believe me, we will be.” She smiled as she reached up and patted his grimly set cheek. “Don’t worry, Michael. Perhaps I can have Dennis, from the prop department, round up a blindfold and cigarette for you.”
With that she took off, walking through the mist toward Eric Taylor, who was deep in conversation with Wilder. The intense way the two of them were huddled together suggested they were planning an invasion, rather than merely making a movie. Michael leaned against a white marble pyramid-shaped tomb, folded his arms and watched as the cameraman, a tall blond man with obvious Scandinavian roots joined Lorelei.
“So,” John Nelson said, casting a glance Michael’s way, “that’s the man Taylor hired to watch over you.”
“That’s him.”
“He’s certainly big enough.”
“He is that,” she agreed.
“And he looks strong.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“I suppose he carries a gun?”
“Unfortunately.” She looked up at him. “Does that make you nervous, knowing an armed man is on the set?”
“On the contrary.” The cameraman’s pale blue eyes glittered. “I think it’s exciting.” He paused. “I suppose he’s quite the ladies’ man.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Lorelei didn’t like thinking about Michael with other women. “Apparently he was involved with a local newscaster, but I guess that didn’t work out.”
“So he is heterosexual?”
“Of course.” She suddenly realized the reason for his earlier question. “Oh, you didn’t think—”
“Not me,” John said quickly. A bit too quickly, Lorelei thought. “But Dennis thought there might be a chance.” They both looked over at the man who had fog pouring out of the machine like clouds of steam from a teakettle. “He seemed quite taken with your macho bodyguard.”
Lorelei would have had to have been deaf not to hear the note of aggravation—and jealousy—in the cinematographer’s voice.
“Michael’s a striking man. I can understand why anyone might be physically attracted to him.” Now that, she considered, had to be the understatement of the millennium. Her hormones hadn’t been the same since she stepped off that plane from Los Angeles. “But you and Dennis have been together for a long time, John—”
“We’re celebrating our fifth anniversary next month.”
“See?” She smiled reassuringly. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Especially since your detective’s not gay in the first place,” John said robustly, as if needing to reassure himself. He looked at Michael again, taking in the unwavering dark blue gaze directed their way. Then it was his turn to smile. “Looks as if you’re the one who needs to worry, dear heart.” That said, he joined the others to offer his professional take on the pivotal scene, and Lorelei turned toward the makeup trailer.
Her nerves were jangling as she sat in her chair in the trailer, having the waterproof foundation applied to her face with a damp sponge. She couldn’t seem to help it. Perhaps it was the atmosphere generated by the tombstones and fog that was making her nervous.
“You realize,” Michael, who was watching the transformation, said quietly, “you’d be nuts not to feel uneasy about this.”
Frowning, she cast a quick warning glance up at the plump grandmotherly-looking woman.
“Don’t worry about me,” the woman said, smudging the dark kohl lining Lorelei’s eyes with her thumb. “I never listen to conversations. Think of this chair as the confessional. It’s totally private.
“Although,” she added, as she drew a perfect scarlet line along the top of Lorelei’s lips, “the detective’s right. It’d only be natural for you to be scared to death, thinking about that sick son of a bitch out there watching you. Waiting.”
Lorelei took the tissue square she was handed and blotted obediently. “Does everyone know about the stalker?” So much for maintaining some slim sense of privacy.
“Oh, sure.” The liner was topped with two more coats of crimson color, then a slash of shiny gloss that would make Lorelei’s lips appear perpetually wet “But that’s a good thing. Because this way we can all be watching out for anyone who doesn’t belong on the set.” She turned toward Michael. “Isn’t that true?”
“I’m willing to take all the help I can get. And an extra, observant pair of eyes is always helpful.” Lorelei noticed he failed to mention his belief that her stalker might be someone who belonged on the movie set.
“There, you see?” The woman smiled reassuringly as she brushed additional color along the crystalsharp line of Lorelei’s cheekbone. “We’re all family, Lorelei, hon. You don’t have to worry. We take care of our own.” She hugged her with a genuine warmth that Lorelei had never experienced from her own mother. “You’ll be just fine. And you look perfect. Doesn’t she?” the makeup artist asked Michael.
“She’s gorgeous,” he agreed, his dark gaze backing his words. She looked, he thought, almost otherworldly.
“You are, you know,” he said as they left the trailer together. “Absolutely gorgeous.” He reached out, as if to skim a fingertip down her cheek, then pulled back, concerned he’d mar the carefully applied makeup. “You’re also one of the gutsiest women I’ve ever met.”
Lorelei found that remark more complimentary than his statement about her looks. “Why? Because I refuse to crumble when some sicko starts stalking me?”
“Some women would.”
“Not me.” She folded her arms and shook her head. “It wouldn’t do any good and I refuse to give the creep the upper hand.” She looked out over the cemetery, the white marble tombs making it appear to be a city of the dead, tamped down her fear and concentrated on her anger. “Besides, other women don’t have the O’Malley brothers protecting them.”
Although the topic was serious, his mood lightened. “Lucky you.”
Her smile spread slowly. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
LORELEI WAS NOT SURPRISED when, ten minutes before filming, Brian handed her a sheaf of revisions.
“I don’t understand,” she said as she skimmed through the new pages. “I thought my character was being stalked by some guy she created in her mystery novel.”
“She is,” Brian agreed. “But when I saw Dennis worki
ng with the fog machine, inspiration struck and I decided it’d be cool to weave in a reincarnation subplot.”
“About a lover from two hundred years in the past,” she muttered as she continued to read. “So, now that we know she’s making love to the guy at night in her dreams, are we supposed to believe that they’ve done some kind of mind meld that has her writing his biography during the day?”
Brian grinned. “Works for me.”
“I do wish you could stick to the script for at least a day.” She shot him a mock glare. “It’s the computer age that’s to blame. I’ll bet you wouldn’t be so eager to change things if you had to keep retyping the entire script.”
He flashed another winning grin. “I replaced my old Selectric with a computer the day I sold my first script.”
She shook her head in very real frustration. “I’m having trouble keeping my character’s motivation intact with all these constant changes.”
“Motivation’s for those prima donna method actors. All you have to do is look intense and worried,” the writer assured her. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, taking care not to smear her makeup, then left her to memorize the new pages, which, thankfully, contained very little dialogue.
Although she hadn’t trained as a method actor, Lorelei always felt the need to understand the characters she played.
“All right,” she said to herself, reviewing what she knew so far. “Mary Beth Wyndom has always considered herself an intelligent, highly logical person. Although she might create fiction for a living, her mystery plots are unrelentingly logical. A crime is committed. The intrepid heroine detective, following an orderly series of clues, inevitably closes her case by hard work, deductive reasoning, and dogged determination.”
That’s the character she’d been playing up until now. A character who seemed to have made the decision to allow other writers to dwell on the fanciful—on vampires and ghosts and things that went bump in the night.
“She’s never accepted the idea of voodoo, or wishes.” Indeed, from what Lorelei had inferred from the scenes of the woman at home, her parents, professors of law at Tulane University, had not encouraged her to believe in the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or Santa Claus.
