by Lani Aames
The script. Had he meant everything he'd said, or had the whole conversation been a ploy to get her clothes off? At that thought, her attention strayed to the way the sheet felt on her bare skin. Vague memories of where his fingers had roamed woke a deep ache inside her. She tucked the spare pillow between her legs and rocked, suddenly overwhelmed by sensory echoes of Claude's cool touch and flickering tongue. The ache blossomed into shudders of release.
She lay panting and trembling until her breath slowed to normal. What's he done to me? Thrusting the pillow aside, she sat up and surveyed the room. Claude's cape and bow tie had disappeared. In place of the synopsis and partial, a business card and a sheet of hotel stationery lay on the desk. She put on her reading glasses and skimmed the note: "Thank you for a delightful evening. I'll get in touch with you this week to discuss details of our Varney adaptation. Meanwhile, if anything happens that requires immediate attention, call one of the numbers on my card."
Delightful evening? Yeah, she could endorse that description, but she'd have been much more delighted if she could have remembered exactly what she'd done. She hadn't imbibed enough wine to get blackout-level drunk, and Claude couldn't have found a chance to drug her drink, even if he'd have reason to do such a ridiculous thing. Immediate attention? Oh, wow, I'd love some more of that attention!
She mentally gave herself a sound shaking and headed for the shower. Next time she met Claude, she'd keep the encounter all business.
* * * * *
Home in Pasadena on Monday, Eloise focused on work—the novel she had assigned herself as her summer's project. There didn't seem any reason to compose more of the Varney script until she'd discussed it further with Claude, to whom she didn't devote a minute's thought after leaving the convention. No more than a minute each hour of the day, anyhow.
About nine on Monday evening, sitting at the computer in her home office, she answered the phone and heard an unfamiliar male voice. When he began, "Miss Eloise Kern?" she pigeonholed him as a telemarketer. Who else would speak her full name in that tentative tone?
Preoccupied with nothing worse than irritation over his calling so late, she got an unpleasant jolt when he said, "I saw you at the hotel on Saturday with Claude Darvell. Do you intend to associate with him further?" The stiffly formal phrases in a quiet, cultured voice clashed oddly with the boldness of the question.
"Why do you ask, and who the heck are you, anyway?" Her pulse hammered in her ears.
"Someone who knows who and what Darvell actually is. That man is dangerous. For your own safety, stay away from him."
"What do you mean, dangerous? Talk sense or leave me alone!" She heard a tremor in her own voice. She wasn't sure whether the fear seeping into her veins was directed at this anonymous caller or at Claude.
"If I explained, you would not believe me. But I know him well, and I am warning you against him. He is a killer."
"Look here, you—"
The man hung up.
After her breathing steadied, she got out Claude's business card and picked up the phone again.
* * * * *
Claude's surprised pleasure at hearing Eloise's voice turned to alarm when she explained the situation.
"I just got an anonymous phone call from some strange man warning me to stay away from you." The words tumbled out, high-pitched with anxiety.
"Did he say why?"
"No, just that you're dangerous. Do you know who he is?"
"I have an idea." Philip! Damn it, how did he find her?
"Are you being stalked by a crazy fan, or what?"
"Something of the sort."
"Well, what's he bothering me for?" Her tone sounded accusatory, and no wonder.
"Never mind that. The important thing is to keep you safe. I'm on my way over."
"You're what?"
"I'm leaving for your place right now. Stay inside and don't answer the door until I get there." He wished he could exert his will on her over the phone. The best he could do was to inject a decisive tone into the order.
"Claude, I don't know what you think you're doing, but aren't you overreacting?"
"No. You didn't think so when you called me, n'est-ce pas? Now, will you do as I ask?"
"Oh, all right, but when you get here, you better bring some straight answers."
Throughout the twenty-minute drive to Pasadena, Claude fumed at the traffic. Too bad his limited power of shape-shifting and levitation didn't enable him to fly the sixteen miles and avoid the mess. On the other hand, if he changed into a bat like his movie counterparts, he would arrive at Eloise's without a car, which he needed to get her out of Philip's reach. On reflection, it seemed obvious that, despite Claude's efforts, Philip had noticed him with Eloise. The other vampire would then have easily discovered her name and address by hypnotizing a hotel clerk. Claude realized he'd counted too heavily on Philip's unfamiliarity with this time and place. Apparently the man had made efficient use of the month since his revival.
Once off the freeway in Pasadena, Claude had no trouble finding Eloise's townhouse from the map he'd memorized. Instead of stopping, he drove two blocks farther, parked, and walked back. He shrouded himself in a psychic veil to deflect any watcher's vision. At the door he rang the bell and heard Eloise's footsteps approaching.
The sound of her rapid, shallow breaths reached him through the wooden panel, along with the rattle of the chain being unhooked. He cursed under his breath at her lack of caution. At the last second though, she remembered to ask, "Who's there?"
He gave his name, holding the illusion of invisibility until the door opened. He slipped inside, then closed and latched it behind him. Eloise looked up at him, eyes wide and lips parted. Her aura quivered with anxiety, echoed in the racing of her pulse.
"Has he called again?" said Claude.
She shook her head. "What's the idea of scaring me half to death? And what are you doing here anyway?"
"What, not glad to see me?" Before she had time to object, he wrapped his arms around her. She leaned her head on his chest. He smoothed her unbound hair until her strong, young heart slowed to a steady beat. "It's all right, cherie. I won't let him near you."
Sighing, she pushed away from him. He let her go. "Who is this guy, and why should I be afraid of him? He claims you're a killer. What does that mean? You owe me an explanation."
He followed her from the entryway into the living room, furnished with a wing-backed couch, two matching chairs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. "It's too complicated to explain. I can tell you that he's a former friend who thinks he has a legitimate grudge against me, and he'll take it out on you if he can. But I can assure you I haven't killed anyone." He reinforced the last sentence with a psychic nudge. True enough, he hadn't murdered Philip's woman, although he could understand why Philip saw it that way.
Standing in the middle of the room with her arms folded, Eloise glared at him. "Yeah? Why me? You and I just met."
"Ah, but he doesn't know that. He must have seen us together at the convention, noticed that I spent several hours in your room—"
She blushed. "And somehow got my name from the hotel staff. Okay, I get the picture. That doesn't explain why you rushed over here."
"To take you to safety, of course. We're going to my house on Big Sur."
"What you mean we, white man?" she quoted the old Tonto joke. "You hit the freeway back to Beverly Hills. I'm not going anywhere."
He closed the distance between them in two strides, prepared to grab her if she decided to stalk out of the room. "Do you have any obligations that would make it impossible for you to leave for a few days?"
"No, I'm not teaching a class this summer, but that's beside the point. I didn't ask you to show up and whisk me away on your white horse."
"Actually, it's a dark blue Mercedes." His lips quirked in an involuntary smile at the indignation sparking from her. "This man knows where you live. I simply want to take you somewhere, temporarily, where he can't find you."
&nbs
p; "You haven't given me a good reason to dive down a rabbit hole. And even if you had, I can take care of myself."
"Not against this threat, you can't, damn it." He caught her by the upper arms, just below the short sleeves of the clinging T-shirt she wore. Oh, hell, trying to be patient with ephemerals never gets me very far, anyway. He captured her eyes and gave her a gentle psychic nudge. "You'll be safer with me. Let me protect you."
Her folded arms and clenched fists relaxed, and the resistance melted out of her. "Protect me? Okay. I'll be safer with you."
"That's right. You'll be safe in my house up the coast."
"Uh-huh." Wrapping her arms loosely around his waist, she leaned on him again. "Safe."
The heat of her flesh and the throbbing of her pulse tempted him to put off their departure long enough for a kiss or two, if not a quick nibble. The trusting way she snuggled up to his chest made his throat go dry, even though he'd implanted that trust himself. But this was no time for dalliance. For all he knew, Philip might be watching the house.
With a murmur of regret, Claude pushed Eloise to arm's length and gazed into her eyes again. "Go pack whatever you'll need. And you may as well bring your Varney materials. We can work on the thing while we're down the rabbit hole."
The last remark penetrated her daze enough to evoke a vague smile. He paced the room, ears pricked for any sound of a third person lurking outside, until she reappeared with an overnight bag, briefcase, and purse. He noticed that part of the fog he'd imposed on her brain had evaporated.
"Claude, where are we going again, and why?"
Staring into her eyes, he said with all the firmness he could muster, "We're going to my other home, about three hundred miles up the coast, where you'll be safe. Take my word for it and don't worry."
Her eyelids drooped. "Okay, not worried."
"Wait a second." He moved to the window and peered out between the curtains. No sign of Philip. Not that there would be, if the stalker had psychically cloaked himself. Hesitating for that reason would accomplish nothing.
Claude put an arm around Eloise to hold her as close as possible while they walked out the door. He rebuilt his shield of illusion, extending it to cover her, too. As long as she stayed in physical contact with him and didn't do anything to attract attention, both of them should remain "invisible."
"What are you doing?" she murmured, locking the door on the way out.
"Nothing you need to worry about. Just walk with me quietly."
They made the two-block trip to the car without incident. Claude only hoped Philip wasn't lurking unseen along the way. After stowing Eloise's things in the back seat, Claude belted her into the passenger seat up front and gave her another order to relax. "You probably need rest. Why don't you take a nap?"
Immediately, her head slumped, and her eyes closed. Good, I haven't lost the touch. It was a wonder his own anxiety hadn't kept hers alive. His barely leashed fear for her baffled him. Why did he suddenly care so much about an ephemeral's welfare? Mentally shaking off the question, he started the car and headed westward to the coast.
Chapter Six
Her neck felt stiff, her eyes gritty. Bewildered to find herself in a moving car, Eloise looked around with a momentary heart-stutter of panic. When she saw Claude in the driver's seat, the fear subsided. He wasn't scary, just overbearing and infuriating. She rubbed her face. "Where are we?"
He glanced over at her. "On Highway One, north of L.A., on our way to Big Sur."
"But why—" A second later, the evening's events came back to her. "Oh, yeah, you talked me into skipping town with you. How on earth did you do that?"
He shrugged. "No doubt you recognized the irresistible logic of my argument."
"The one where you claimed some guy is stalking both of us, but you wouldn't tell me why? That argument?"
He just flashed her a smile.
"And you still won't tell me? Oh, I give up!" She stretched her legs, bemused to notice that she'd left home in the middle of the night in shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. "I hope you realize I can't make a three-hundred-mile trip without stopping."
"Of course. I trust you won't run away, though."
"Where to? You think I'd try to hitchhike back to Pasadena? No, I'll stick with you, even if you did kidnap me."
He laughed. "The highwayman came riding, riding, up to the old inn door."
Recognizing the poem, she retorted, "Don't expect me to make with the sappy devotion like Bess, the landlord's daughter."
At the next roadside convenience stop, he pulled in to fuel the car. After using the facilities, Eloise bought a bottle of water and a handful of snacks. It crossed her mind that it would serve him right if she did disappear, but caution prevailed.
Back on the road, he said, "You don't happen to have a dashing highwayman who'll ride to your rescue, by the way? I mean, a fiancé or the equivalent who'll challenge me to pistols at dawn because of our temporary elopement?"
She blushed at that word. If she had to elope with anyone, Claude would rank high on the list. "No, not since graduate school." She'd broken up with her last fiancé-equivalent when he'd taken his domineering behavior one step too far. She'd recognized his true character when he'd announced to her that they were going to get married and move to New Jersey, where he'd accepted a job, instead of consulting her first. Claude, at least, was only kidnapping her as far as central California. By the scenic route, no less. Of course, she would have been able to enjoy the oceanfront scenery better if it hadn't been the middle of the night.
"I didn't know you had a house up the coast," she said.
"I try not to let it get around. My official bio mentions the penthouse in Los Angeles, the townhouse in London, and the chalet on Lake Geneva. Since this other place doesn't get publicized, I'm hoping the man who called you won't know it exists."
"You really are rich, aren't you?" She blushed deeper, wondering why his presence made her blurt out such things. "I mean, I can't help asking why you bother to work. You must love acting."
"Yes, and I find the human contact—stimulating."
Eloise shivered. How did that one word spark such vivid memories of the sensations he'd incited in her Saturday night? She stared out her window, glad he couldn't possibly see her flushed cheeks in the dark. "It's just hard for me to imagine having four houses. I'm having enough trouble hanging onto one."
"What do you mean?"
She told him about her problem with the condo conversion. "I really want to buy the townhouse. I planned to all along, but I didn't think it would happen so fast. If I can't swing the mortgage, I'll have to look for a new place, and you know L.A. real estate prices. I shudder to think how hard it'll be to find another decent rental I can afford."
"The down payment is the snag, then?"
"Yes, it's taking a while to save up, with my mother's nursing home fees and all." At his questioning glance, she said, "Alzheimer's. My dad died years ago, and I'm an only child, so it's all on me."
"Can you not borrow the balance of the down payment?"
The rich really did live in a different world. "It'll be enough trouble getting approved for the mortgage. Do you have any idea how loan officers react to the word 'writer' on the 'occupation' line? They see it as equivalent to 'unemployed'. Sure, I have my teaching income, but that's part time. If I took a full-time faculty post, I wouldn't be able to keep producing two novels a year."
"I see your quandary," he said. "But I sense the townhouse means more to you than an investment."
How did he know? "My father was a career officer in the Navy. We never owned a house until he retired to San Diego. Then he died of a heart attack before he had time to enjoy it. And when Mom went into full-time care, we had to sell the place. So a home of my own has been my dream for a long time."
"Then the Varney project has special importance for you."
"Yes, and now I've bored you with all my problems," she said, embarrassed at having complained about her financial bind to a
man she hardly knew. "So it's your turn to spill secrets."
"What secrets? You've read the publicity bio."
"Which doesn't mention a lot besides the three houses, your Anglo-French background, and the fact that acting runs in your family."
"That's all there is to tell, essentially. I've led a fairly dull life, for which I'm thankful. You know the curse about interesting times."
The official biography didn't even reveal where his money came from. "Inherited wealth" didn't say much. The list of his movies stretched back over twenty years, raising the question of his age at the start of his career. He looked just barely old enough to make the dates plausible, and the bio was frustratingly short of specifics for the early period. As for the continental side of his lineage, except for the occasional French phrase that spiced his conversation, he spoke with a thoroughly British accent. The bio said he'd been born in France but had spent most of his life in England.
Obviously, questioning him wouldn't pry loose any information. Eloise decided to rest and enjoy what she could see of the view.
After five hours, including two more rest stops, the car wound along the stretch of road high above the Big Sur coastline. Though she still couldn't see much in the dark, she heard the waves through Claude's open window when he slowed down and turned off the highway down a narrow lane that led toward the shore. A private drive, she realized when he pulled to a stop in front of what looked like a two-story house. Getting out, she saw it from a different angle that revealed a third, lower floor, split-level style, in back. Gnarled cypress trees shaped by ocean winds huddled next to the house. Motion sensors switched on floodlights to illuminate the carport and front door. She caught an impression of redwood siding and sloping roofs before Claude escorted her inside.
"Enter freely and of your own will," he said as he waved her into the foyer.
"Thanks, Count," she said, acknowledging the quote from Dracula. "I hope you don't have dungeons and a crypt. Not to mention a harem of lady vampires."
His hand rested lightly on her back, making her shiver with pleasure out of proportion to the casualness of the contact. "Why would I need a harem with you under my roof?" He steered her toward a staircase but then broke off the touch.
