by Desiree Holt
“You ready for this, sport? You got yourself under control?”
He clenched his fists. “I’m totally together.”
She burst out laughing. “Yeah, I can see that. Okay, take some deep breaths and let’s do this, but remember, don’t let him bait you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The climbed the stairs to the porch and he rang the doorbell. In a minute, he heard the sound of shoes on what was probably the foyer, then the door opened. He’d met Marianne Foley when she’d come to the dinners with Andrew. He remembered her as being a pretty brunette, in her forties, who stepped back to allow her husband to bask in the limelight. At the moment, stress carved lines in her face and her eyes looked defeated.
“Hello, Blake.” Even her voice sounded sad. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“Hello to you, too, Marianne.”
She looked at Sam. “I see you have a lovely woman with you.”
They’d already decided to introduce her as a woman in his life, figuring that would make her less threatening.
“Yes. Samantha Quenel.” He smiled. “We’ve known each other for a long time. We were in the area and I was wondering if I could come in and say hello to Andrew.”
The pinched look on her face intensified.
“Oh, Blake, I don’t know. You haven’t been his favorite person for a while, you know.”
He nodded. “That’s one of the reasons I stopped by. I would love to be able to bury the hatchet and at least be cordial acquaintances.”
Marianne stood there, twisting her hands, the picture of indecision.
“Marianne?” The name sounded like a roar from inside the house. “Who the fuck is out there?”
She looked at Blake. “He’s…not doing well today. Maybe you—”
“God damn it.” In the next second Andrew Foley appeared behind his wife. He glared at Blake. “You! The bastard who ruined my life.”
“Andrew.” Marianne tried to nudge him back into the foyer. “They were just leaving. I was about to explain that you weren’t feeling well today.”
“Not well?” He snorted. “I haven’t been well since he stole those two damned awards from me.”
“Please go back inside, I’ll—”
“No. I want him to come in, so he can see exactly what he did to me.”
At the words what he did, Blake glanced sideways at Sam to make sure she heard.
“Bring them in right now, Marianne. I need another drink to talk to this bastard.”
He clumped away toward the back of the house.
“You’d better come in,” his wife told them. “Otherwise he’ll make my life miserable.” She shook her head. “Not that it isn’t already. Come on.”
She stood back to let them enter, then led them in the direction Foley had stomped off.
Blake could tell Sam wasn’t exactly eager to do this, but she entered the house with him. As they followed Marianne Foley, she took his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Walking through the house he noticed that while it was immaculate and obviously expensively furnished, there was a very depressing air about everything. He wondered if this had been going on since that first clash over the award.
Foley was in his den, pouring three fingers of some kind of whiskey into a cut glass tumbler. In contrast to the rest of the house, the den was a disaster. Folders and papers were stacked haphazardly everywhere, along with a variety of books. A large computer sat on a massive walnut desk and it, too, sat in the midst of chaos. And the scent of alcohol clung to the room as if it was a permanent part of the air.
Foley himself looked at the long edge of ragged. He need a haircut, at least a week’s worth of scruff covered his chin and his cheeks, and his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them. As Blake studied him, he began to think they were chasing their tails here. Unless Foley’s wife was helping him, this man was in no shape to carry out the campaign the stalker was waging. He wasn’t sure if he was even in any condition to travel.
“Sit, sit.” Foley gestured to two armchairs, while he plunked himself down behind the desk. He took a healthy slug of his drink, rubbed his chest and looked at Blake with hate in his eyes. “Come to rub your big success in my face, asshole?”
Blake forced himself to be calm. “That’s not who I am, Andrew, and I’d like to think you know it. I came to see how an old friend was doing.”
“Friend?” Foley made a rude noise. “When were we ever friends?”
Blake reminded himself not to lose his cool. “I always hoped we could be friends. I had nothing to do with the way the awards were decided. If I’d had my choice, both times it would have gone to you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Easy for you to say.” Another big swallow of liquor. “You’re not the one who had it stolen from them. Who told lies about someone to get it.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Andrew, but let me assure you I never lied to anyone about anything. I have always had the highest regard for you and your work. If I had it to do all over again, I’d remove my name from nomination so you could get the award that you deserved.”
“Ha! The only truth in that statement is that I deserved the award.” He stood, and shuffled over to the bar, where he refilled his glass from the bottle sitting there.
“Honey, I think you should make that your last one for today.” Marianne spoke from the doorway where she’d apparently been standing all this time. “You said you wanted to get some work done.”
He whirled toward her. “Work? Fuck work. My publisher wants me off his list, my agent wants to dump me. Why even bother.” He lifted his full glass in a mock toast to Blake. “I bow to the king, however he got the throne.”
Blake mentally counted to ten. “I wish I could do something to make you feel differently. In any event, I can see that our presence here is only upsetting you. I’m sorry about this. I hope in the future we might be able to mend the broken fences.”
He rose and held out his hand to Sam. Marianne Foley stepped back from the doorway, an expression on her face that was a combination of sadness and bitterness. He just wasn’t sure if she was bitter about him or about what her husband was doing to himself.
“I’m sorry, Marianne. I guess coming here wasn’t such a good idea.”
“I probably should have been honest with you when I opened the door.” She shook her head. “It’s just so hard to know what will help and what will set him off.”
“Go on, run away.” Foley’s heavy voice followed them out toward the foyer.
The next thing they heard was the sound of a glass smashing against something. Marianne flinched and opened the front door.
Blake started to say something, but then decided there really was nothing to say. They were both silent as Sam backed the car out of the driveway and headed down the street. Neither of them spoke until they were back on the main road back to the hotel.
“Holy shit!” The words popped out of Sam’s mouth. “I mean it, Blake.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable as the image of what Foley had become was front and center in his brain. “I know he was upset, and he’s run his mouth about me for the past couple of years. But, I had no idea he had let it eat him up and destroy him like that.”
“You can’t take that on your shoulders,” she insisted. “How many authors in every genre of fiction and nonfiction are up for awards they don’t receive? Do any of them fall into the bottom of a bottle and badmouth the winner?”
“No.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “They don’t. Foley’s the exception to the rule, and it makes me sad.”
“One bright spot,” she pointed out. “We can eliminate him as the stalker.”
Blake barked a short laugh. “That’s the damn truth.” “I’d better call Avery and tell her she can scratch him from the list and see what else they’
re working on.”
“She won’t be any too happy.” And wasn’t that the truth.
“Something else to add to her list.” Sam maneuvered through the busy traffic. “Especially since no headway is being made on Grant Kennelly’s assault.”
He looked over at her. “Nothing?”
“Not a damn thing. That detective’s working overtime and he’s got the full resources of the sheriff’s office on it. If your mother wasn’t so anxious to help them find this maniac I think they’d be in real trouble, as many times as they’ve gone over the house looking for a stray print, a stray hair. Anything. Same thing in the yard. Both yards.”
“Whoever this guy is,” Blake said, “he’s a damn good stalker.”
She sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. It’s pretty evident he only got into this to right some wrong he perceives you’ve committed.”
“Which I have no idea what the hell it is.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “And that scene with Andrew Foley today. Good lord. I had no idea the man had fallen so completely apart.”
“I point out again that it’s not your fault.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier.” He leaned his head back. “I probably shouldn’t say this considering what we just left, but I could really use a drink.”
Sam giggled. “I think you can handle it. In fact, I’ll take you someplace really neat for one.”
“You know Philadelphia?”
“I did a bodyguard gig here for six weeks last year. I know just the spot for you.”
Chapter 12
The stalker was ready to bite nails. Nothing was working here. Here he was, in the Philadelphia hotel where Morgan had rooms for this stop on the tour, and he couldn’t find them.
The longer he thought about it, the more enraged he became. It was very obvious that they hadn’t used the rooms registered under their names. Every registered guest was verified by his program. He began checking other hotels in the same city, for phony names or even a phony company name like they’d used in D.C. He’d check the suburbs if he had to. He couldn’t let them just disappear from him. They had to be staying somewhere in the city.
He’d dig into airline passenger manifests next, just to make sure they were still booked on their original flight to Cleveland two days from now and hadn’t changed their reservations. They couldn’t use fake names for that, thanks to Homeland Security. And finally, hotel clerks be damned, when he found the right hotel, he’d find someone to bribe who could tell him what fucking room Blake Morgan and his so-called bodyguard were in.
What he needed to do was shake things up a little. Maybe it was time to send that letter. He’d wanted to do it closer to the end of the tour but damn it, if they kept flying under his radar he didn’t think he could wait. Morgan had two interviews lined up in Philadelphia.
At an Internet café, he carried his coffee to a computer at the far end of the room and set himself up. It didn’t take long to find the emails for the people he was targeting. He had the letter all written, he only had to type it into the computer.
He proofed it twice to make sure he hadn’t made any errors or typos. He couldn’t expect them to take him seriously if he came across as unprofessional. When he was satisfied, he hit Send, waited until it was gone, then changed the address and did it again. When both emails had flown into cyberspace, he scrubbed them from the computer, sat back, and sipped from his coffee.
He wasn’t sure which would appeal to him more—seeing the faces of the media people when they read the emails or seeing Blake Morgan’s when he was nailed about the contents. He only wished he could be there in person.
At last he headed back to the hotel, hoping to get some rest. Tomorrow would be a big day. He hoped.
I’m doing this for you, my lovely. Soon the whole world will know.
* * * *
Sam’s cell phone woke them in the morning. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and grabbed the phone. The screen showed Avery’s name, so she hit the Accept button.
“Morning. What’s up?”
Blake had rolled over so he was spooning her, stroking her arm lightly with his fingers and giving her early morning thrills. She was rapidly getting used to sleeping wrapped up in the warmth of his body, looking forward to his tender caresses as well as the sex that was off the charts. Walking away from this was looking less and less likely, but there were things she had to get straight first.
“You’d better be extra alert, Sam,” her boss told her. “And I mean vigilant, like our name.”
“Why?” She sat up abruptly, holding up the covers in front of her. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”
“You know how we thought Blake’s number one fan had skipped D.C.?”
“Uh-huh.” She slid a glance at Blake.
“Apparently he was there, just not in a proactive mode. Probably just to spy on the two of you. It seems he somehow discovered which rooms were registered to you and got in there.”
Sam frowned. “How the hell did he do that? They weren’t even in our names.”
“We’re looking into that. Anyway, it seems he went into your rooms, discovered you weren’t there. When the maid went in to clean this morning she got quite a shock.”
“What happened?” Sam tried to keep her voice as even as possible. Beside her she could feel Blake tense up.
“He tore up everything he could with a knife, slashed the place up pretty good. Then he left sheets of paper with his usual message on it all over the place, just like at Blake’s parents’ home.” She sighed. “Anyway, I’m glad we got you out of there when we did and made the changes in the hotel at Philly.”
“If he somehow has the information of our original rooms here in Philly,” Sam said, “let’s hope he doesn’t decide to do a slice and dice there.”
“I think he’ll be more careful this time,” Avery told her. “He’ll be expecting some sleight of hand. Be smart, Sam, and be careful. Watch yourselves. I think this guy is really off the rails.”
“No kidding.”
“What was all that with Avery?” Blake asked when she hung up.
“Shower first, coffee, and then out for breakfast. When we’re clean and fed I’ll lay it all out for you. Okay?”
She could tell he wasn’t happy but he’d apparently decided to pick his battles. Still, his edginess that seemed to grow each day hadn’t been helped by the visit to Andrew Foley. Which was why, when he went to take his shower, instead of using the other bathroom as she’d been doing, she followed him.
Was this a bad idea? Was she giving him the sense things were moving faster than she’d intended? Maybe, but there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it. With each day her feelings for him grew stronger, along with the intense chemistry that sizzled their nerve endings whenever they made love.
Yes, Sam, made love. You might as well call it what it is, even if it terrifies you. Because you know every sign from Blake is that he’s all in.
It had to be the situation, she told herself over and over. Living with danger at every turn tore down walls and amped up feelings. She’d seen it happen with other agents. She just hadn’t expected it to happen to her, not when she’d tried to lay down the ground rules in the beginning.
Yeah. Right. Look how well that turned out.
Steam had fogged the glass door but she could see a hazy image of his naked body. She still had no idea what was going to happen with them when this was all over, but she’d made up her mind to enjoy it while she could. Besides, right now he needed something to take the edge off his nerves so he could face the day’s schedule.
When she slid the door open he looked at her, startled.
“What—”
“Shh.” She touched the tip of a finger to his lips. “I know you’re about to jump out of your skin and I have just the prescription for you.”
“You don�
�t have to do this.”
“I know. But I want to.” And the thing was, she really did.
She poured the bodywash into her palm and worked it into a good lather before she began stroking it over the hard wall of his chest. She could practically feel his body vibrating beneath her touch, but she took her time, massaging the tight chest muscles. When she scraped her fingernails lightly over his hard nipples he sucked in a breath and reached for her.
“Uh-uh. This one’s for you.”
She shook her head and stood on tiptoe to place a light kiss on his wet lips. Then she went back to her task, sliding the slippery bubbles over his skin, down each arm, over his hips. More soap, more lather. When she began to trail her hands over his abdomen he sucked in a breath.
“Watch it.” His voice was strained. “That could be a problem.”
She grinned. “Not for me.”
Before she reached his groin, she eased around him and lathered up his back, rubbing his shoulders then slipping her hands down to his hips again and then to the tight muscles of his butt. When she squeezed the muscular cheeks he groaned, so she did it again. Tempted, she slid one soapy hand into the cleft, just teasing, then easing it back when he again inhaled a sharp breath.
Pressing her body against his, she slipped her hands around to his front, threaded her fingers through the crisp hair on his groin until she reached the hard, swollen thickness of his cock.
“Oh, God!” he groaned, and moved his hips back and forth.
“Put your hands out and brace yourself on the wall,” she told him.
“As long as you don’t stop.”
She stood on tiptoe and nipped his earlobe. “Not a chance.”
She slid her fingers up and down on his shaft, feeling the hard steel beneath the soft skin. She pressed her body against his as hard as she could, wanting to feel every muscle, every quiver, soaking up the heat of him.
