‘If he comes near you again, let me know,’ Sean quietly said. ‘I’ll sort him out, don’t worry. I know how to handle men like that. So you can stop worrying about him, leave him to me.’
She was close to tears, looking up at him, trying to smile. ‘You’re very kind.’ She was surprised to realise it was true – she had always thought of him as tough and determined; she hadn’t suspected he could be gentle, too.
‘Don’t cry. Are you really scared? You know, I don’t think you should be alone here.’
If she asked him to stay all night he would – that was what he was offering – but what if he expected to sleep with her? Her body quivered and grew hot.
She had found him attractive from the beginning, but she had thought he probably belonged to Harriet, and she wasn’t into stealing men from other women. She still didn’t know whether or not he was Harriet’s lover – Harriet had never actually admitted it, she never talked about her private life, and Annie respected her for it. Everyone was entitled to some privacy. Sean had never given any clues, either. He was another one who kept his private life to himself. Interviews with him usually went into his police career, but she never remembered reading anything about his love life. Looking the way he did he probably scared most reporters rigid and stopped them asking the usual intrusive questions.
She never talked about her love life, either – but then she hadn’t had a lover since Johnny vanished.
Sean said, ‘You shouldn’t really be alone, you know. I think I’d better stay, don’t you?’
Contrarily, she at once shook her head, her eyes opening, her body cold again now that she had conjured Johnny up, as if the mere memory of him was enough to kill every other emotion. My once and future lover, she thought, wrenched by pain and loss. Will I ever get over him? Maybe I’ve never tried hard enough? Maybe if I went to bed with Sean I might finally break the spell?
But she couldn’t, she straightened up, politely pushed Sean away. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be OK. I’ll put the alarms on and lock the house up tighter than a drum. I’ll be fine.’
His face changed, cooled. ‘Well, up to you, of course,’ he said offhandedly. ‘But it might be wiser if you weren’t alone tonight.’
She didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I’ll be OK. I’ll ring the police if I hear so much as a mouse. Goodnight, Sean, and thanks.’
His Porsche took off a moment later and she shut the front door, shivering in the cold February wind.
A small Ford was parked just down the road outside Annie’s house. The driver leaned back in the shadows, watching the lights of the black Porsche disappear.
Sean Halifax had only stayed half an hour. He had begun to think Halifax might stay all night. He was the scriptwriter on the series – but maybe he was more than that. Maybe he was … a friend … of hers? Or something closer? Had she ever confided in him, talked about the past?
The gloved hands tightened on the wheel. Halifax had been a copper, hadn’t he? Nosy bastard. If he was too nosy, he might have to die too.
He had seen her talking to Halifax in Petticoat Lane that morning, for a long time. They’d been standing very close, talking softly to each other. Intimately. He had watched them, his eyes hard.
And he very nearly got me this morning, the bastard. I only just escaped.
Sliding a hand into his pocket, the driver pulled out a Yale door key and stared at it, smiling. It had been an easy job, after all, getting her bag, getting the key out and making a quick impression of it in a tin of wax.
And he had seen her again. In the flesh, not just on TV or in a magazine photo.
He kept seeing her face as it had looked this morning. He was angry because she had cut her lovely long blonde hair, and she wore make-up now, she never had before, she had been almost a child, in that marvellous halfway house, half-woman, half-child, seductive and innocent at the same time.
His mouth was dry, his body throbbed with heat. She wasn’t like that any more, the bud had become a rose, the chrysalis had burst and the butterfly emerged, but she was still lovely and he still wanted her.
He breathed thickly. It excited him to know that she hadn’t any idea how close he was, how easily he could get to her.
He saw a light go on upstairs in the big front bedroom. She was going to bed.
Taking off her clothes, shedding that horrible male disguise, the grey suit, the shirt she wore for the TV series. He hated her in it.
He stared at the yellow square of window. The curtains were open, he could see some of the room – pale wallpaper, a gold-framed mirror in which shadows moved.
Annie, undressing, he suddenly realised, catching a glimpse of the bend of her slender body as she took off tights, the uplift of her arms as she slid a nightdress over her head.
She came to close the curtains and his breath caught. The silky white nightdress flowed down over her body but with the light behind her he could see right through it.
He moistened his lips, staring fiercely. The curtains closed, but he could still see her in his mind: slender, delicate, that smooth, creamy, soft, soft skin.
His mouth hungered to bury itself between her breasts, between her thighs, taste her, hear her whimpering. She would be terrified at first. When she saw him she would scream.
He would walk in there softly in a minute, go up the stairs and into her bedroom, and …
He closed his eyes, imagining it, as he had imagined it for eight years, with a deep, fierce pleasure.
He had grabbed her bag earlier on the off-chance that he would find her keys inside, but first he had done a quick check of the area and found a yard at the end of a narrow alley. After the snatch he’d ridden back there, taken off one of his heavy biker’s gloves and got out the wax from his pocket; made a careful impression of her keys, his motorbike idling between his legs. It was hard to move fast in biker’s gear, but he had needed to be as quick as possible because he knew the bloody Keystone Cops were after him, he could hear their heavy boots thudding through the brick arch which led from the market into the alley.
He had barely escaped capture. It had been a risk, but it would be worth it once he got inside her house. He pulled the key out of his pocket and held it in his palm. So long as he was right in guessing which number she would use for her burglar alarm, he could go in there any time he liked, and he would. Tonight.
The house seemed very empty. Annie was too tired to eat much; she had a boiled egg and a slice of toast, and went to bed with next week’s scripts. At least she wouldn’t have to go to work next day, she could sleep late.
She put the light out at nine and was half asleep when the phone rang. She stared at it as if it was a snake which might bite her if she put out her hand to it, but it might be a call from the hospital with bad news. She finally snatched it up.
‘Yes?’
‘Annie? How was your mother?’
She recognised the voice at once and sighed. ‘Hello, Harriet. Not very good, I’m afraid. When she fell, she broke her hip.’
Harriet sounded shocked. ‘Oh, no! That’s serious, at her age, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so. She’s in a lot of pain, they’ve sedated her and she isn’t making much sense.’
‘Do you want some time off? Sean says he’ll rewrite to leave you out of the next episode altogether, no problem.’
Was he there with her? wondered Annie, feeling that curious prickling in the chest again. Were they sleeping together?
‘No, I’d rather work,’ she said. ‘I’ll be able to see her on my way home every day, and if there’s an emergency the hospital can always reach me at the studio. Most of next week is being shot on the set, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, no location work for you at all. OK, you’re probably wise. Work will keep your mind off your worries. Well, that’s a relief – Sean and I were just trying to figure out a way of rejigging next week’s scripts. You’re off tomorrow, aren’t you? Back on Tuesday.’
‘Yes.’ So he was with Harriet? Annie frowned,
her eyes dark. What had he said to Harriet about her? Had he repeated everything Annie had told him?
About Roger and the Valentine’s cards … the threats … Annie shivered, resenting the possibility. She would never have told him if she had thought he might tell anyone else.
He must have driven straight to Harriet after leaving her. Were they lovers? Maybe he often spent the night there – for all she knew, he and Harriet could be living together. They were both highly discreet and far too clever to get caught out by dropping any clues.
Thank God I didn’t let him stay here for the night. Her imagination was in a fever; what if he had stayed, had made a pass … what if she had been at such a low ebb that she let him share her bed? She felt sick. Betrayed.
She had wanted him for a minute, wanted him to hold her, to come to bed with her, make love to her, comfort her with the pleasure she had only ever felt with Johnny and sometimes dreamt about but had never taken with anybody else. She had suddenly needed it, wanted Sean, thought of sleeping in the bed with him, his arms around her all night, keeping her safe.
It was a tiny comfort that she hadn’t.
Harriet said cheerfully, ‘Well, have a good rest tomorrow. Don’t spend all day at the hospital, try to get some fresh air and exercise.’
‘I had enough of that today!’ Annie muttered, and Harriet laughed; she was in a very good mood. Looking forward to getting to bed with Sean, no doubt.
‘Freezing, wasn’t it?’ Harriet said. ‘Never mind, back in the studio on Tuesday. Oh, and don’t forget – Friday you haven’t got any scenes, so publicity has fixed you a couple of interviews. A woman from The Sun and some guy from a real-life crime magazine. There will be a photo session, too, of course. Now, you get some sleep. Goodnight.’
Annie put the phone down and lay back against her pillows. She looked at the clock. Nearly ten. Had Harriet rung her from home? Or from Sean’s place?
She switched off the light, turned over and thumped the pillows. She must get some sleep.
He let himself into the house an hour later. Before he moved an inch he studied the glowing panel of the burglar alarm. Yes, he knew this type. Taking a deep breath, he tapped in Annie’s birthday. If he was wrong, all hell would break loose in a second.
He was poised, ready to run, if it did.
It didn’t. The alarm print-out changed to STATUS DAY. It was off. He breathed again.
After closing the door silently he stood listening. No sound from above, every light out. Sitting down on the bottom stair, he slid socks over his trainers; it was a difficult job for his gloved fingers but he was in no hurry. The socks made his movements almost noiseless as he crept up the stairs later.
He stood on the landing, trying to work out in the dark which room could be hers. Only one door was closed. He crept from one open door to the next, checking each; they were all empty.
Hers must be the closed door. For a second sweat broke out on his brow as it suddenly occurred to him that the door could be locked or bolted. He put out a gloved hand to the door-handle. When it turned and the door clicked open he caught back an instinctive sigh of relief.
Then he froze, listening, in case she had heard the little sound. For half a minute he stood in the doorway, listening intently to the unbroken rhythm of her breathing.
The room was too dark for him to see her. He crept forward to the bed; by the time he stood beside it his eyes were accustomed to the darkness. They focused on her hungrily.
Her bedclothes had fallen back a little. He first saw the white curve of her naked shoulder and her face.
Her body curled up in the foetal position, facing him, her blonde hair ruffled, partly hiding her face. She looked like a child, a little girl. One hand was flung out, palm upwards. Such a small hand, a child’s hand.
Christ, she’s lovely, he thought, mouth parted, breathing thickly. And she looked so innocent.
She couldn’t be, not any more. That wide-eyed childish innocence must be gone after years in show business, there were too many temptations in that world – but you would never know it from her face.
Anger stirred in him. What he’d been through because of her! His life ruined, everything taken away from him, including his future … all because of her.
He reached out and carefully lifted the bedclothes further back so that he could see more of her; angry eyes wandered up and down the soft, fallen body, breathing in and out with such innocent abandon; the nightdress had risen, leaving her legs bare to the thigh. Lace lay over her breasts, showing him soft white flesh, hard, pink nipples. His body tightened with desire.
Eight years he had waited. Eight years of waiting for this moment, living with the dream of getting her alone, where nobody could see or hear them and he could finally live his darkest fantasies.
He could do that now. He could fall on her there and then, while she was asleep, not even knowing he was there, so that she would wake up from her dreams to find him on her, in her, her body at his mercy.
His erection was hard and hot; he was breathing raggedly.
Yes. Why wait any longer? Why not end it now? But he hadn’t planned it that way, and he hesitated. He didn’t like changing his plans, he had taught himself to wait, to plan, to be patient. Impulses were dangerous. If you gave in to them, you usually ended up paying for it. He’d learnt to plan; then when the moment was ripe you had the intense satisfaction of doing what you had promised yourself you would.
No, he would go on with the game as he had planned it. He would have her soon.
He bent to put what he held on her pillow, and stayed still, breathing in – he could smell her, the warm smell of a woman’s body in sleep, in bed, as instantly evocative as the smell of new bread, and mingled with that her own personal fragrance, a light, flowery perfume from her skin, and the shampoo she must have used.
He bent closer, dying to put his tongue out and taste her. He could see the pores of her skin, a dusting of golden hairs on it as if she had a bodily halo. Bending even closer as if he was going to kiss her, he felt her warm breath on his cheek.
He was sweating, breathing much too fast, tempting himself beyond endurance, the torture sweet. One more inch and he would be touching her.
And then her lashes flickered. Was she waking up? He stiffened. She would see him, start screaming, and then he’d have to …
His fingers tightened on the rose he held and he started as one of the thorns on the long stem ran into him.
Damn! A drop of red blood oozed out, on his finger, and before he could stop it, fell, on to the pillow, right beside her head.
He stared at it rigidly; he hated the sight of blood, hated it and was fascinated by it.
There had been so much blood last time; it had taken him forever to wash it off himself, he had had to get rid of his clothes, burn them in the. garden hurriedly before anyone saw them. For months afterwards he had kept smelling it on his hands, on his clothes …
Next time, there would be no blood.
Annie was dreaming.
She was back in the forest house with Johnny, lying together in front of the fire; he was taking off her clothes, his hands stroking, sliding over her warm skin. Filled with languorous pleasure, she watched him, heard his breathing, hurrying, quickening, heard the flames licking up the chimney, saw a spark of red as a log cracked open, and then Johnny’s body was arching over her, strong, naked, dappled with firelight.
She wanted him so much. She reached up to put both arms around him and pull him down to her, and suddenly she saw his face, and it wasn’t Johnny, it was Roger Keats.
She cried out in horror and he laughed down at her, his red mouth open, coming down to clamp itself over hers, his tongue flickering out, as it had that night after Hamlet, when he deliberately kissed her in front of the whole audience, his tongue sliding in and out of her mouth like a snake.
She felt his hands, his naked body on her, heard his panting enjoyment and screamed, bucking and fighting to get rid of him. He dug his
nails into her bare shoulder.
Her eyes flew open. For a second she didn’t know where she was; then she took in her familiar room, full of grey light; it was morning. Weak with relief, she realised she had been having a nightmare.
But the pain had been real. She sat up, clutching her shoulder, and saw a long-stemmed red rose caught in the lacy neckline of her nightdress.
Where on earth had that come from?
Gingerly, avoiding contact with the spiny thorns in the stem, she freed it and dropped it on the floor. Had she brought it up to bed with her last night? She was still half asleep and couldn’t remember.
She was always being given flowers, of course; people sent them all the time, fans of the show, men who wanted to date her – the house was usually full of expensive, extravagant displays, hothouse blooms without scent, so unreal they could be artificial.
She didn’t like flowers in her bedroom, though, they sometimes made her sneeze in the closed atmosphere. Maybe her cleaner, Tracy, had forgotten that?
But why hadn’t she noticed it last night when she got into bed? Her mind was blank for a few seconds, then she remembered her mother’s accident. Of course! She had been upset last night, her mind occupied with other things. Still, it was hard to believe that she wouldn’t have noticed a rose on her bed. Not that it was important.
She must ring the hospital and find out how her mother was this morning, check what time she could go in there to visit Trudie.
What time was it? She looked on her bedside table and froze. There was a Valentine’s card propped in front of the clock.
For a second she thought she was imagining it, she had been on tenterhooks, dreading its arrival for days, maybe she had started seeing things!
All her colour went. She shut her eyes. You’re going crazy! she thought. He was really getting to her. She was starting to see Valentine’s cards everywhere.
In the Still of the Night Page 11
