A classic tale of romantic suspense from the queen of the genre, New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham, available for the first time in ebook.
Bret McAllistair’s determination to always get the big scoop has built his career as a journalist, but destroyed his marriage. So when Bret makes a move to revive his connection with his estranged wife, Colleen, she thinks he’s after a story—her big story. She’s uncovered maps leading to diamonds lost during World War II. It’s a dangerous assignment, and Bret just wants to be there to protect her. Being together again stirs up old passions, but Colleen can’t decide if she can trust him…or her own heart.
Originally published in 1994.
Double Entendre
Heather Graham
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
CHAPTER 1
He walked quickly down the street, hands in his pockets. Before the house at the curve of the cul-de-sac, he paused. There was a brisk breeze that evening; it lifted a thick thatch of sandy hair from his forehead and sent it sweeping down again. He gave no notice to the breeze or to the cloud-shadowed moon above him. He stared at the house, tense, impatient.
She wasn’t home. Her Ferrari was in the driveway, but he knew she wasn’t home. A single lamp burned in the living room, casting a muted glow out on the lush, manicured lawn; when she was home, lights blazed all over the place.
Bret paused no longer, but hurried up the mosaic walk to the front door. He fumbled in his pockets for his keys, found them and searched through the jumble until he selected a key, then tried it in the lock. He frowned as the lock refused to give. He was puzzled at first; then his resentment and temper flared. Damn her! She’d had the bloody locks changed!
He took a deep breath to still his irritation, hesitated with a grimace, then shrugged and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a file. In a matter of minutes he was stepping inside.
He took a moment to look around the room at the high cathedral ceiling, the beige furniture against the immaculate white throw rugs and the tiled floor, the glass doors that extended the length of the rear wall and led to the two-story domed screen over the tropical pool. If he opened the doors and walked at an angle across the deck, he would come to the master suite which also had sliding glass doors leading to the pool. Separating the living room and the master suite was the kitchen, as light and contemporary as the rest of the house, tiled in beige and light cocoa. It included a breakfast nook that looked out onto a small rose garden, complete with a dazzling little marble fountain.
His perusal was quick; his eyes didn’t stray to the fireplace or to the conversation pit before it. He barely glanced at the endless bookshelves or the video and stereo systems.
Her desk was in the sitting room, part of the master suite. He hurried to it by way of the kitchen and arched hallway.
Fifteen minutes later he was still frustrated at his efforts. He’d read her calendar; he’d gone through every note, every letter, every memo, every notation or idea written in her elegant handwriting. But everything he found was ordinary. A meeting with a congressman. An appointment with a nuclear scientist. Another with a beekeeper for a story on the American honey industry. Messages from The World, the magazine for which they both worked.
Notes, messages, appointments, but nothing, nothing, on Rutger Miller. Of course, he reflected, he hadn’t found anything personal, either. No dates were written down, no intimate dinners, no jaunts to the theater.
He paused for a minute, then walked slowly into the bedroom. The drapes were pulled back, and through the glass doors he could see the moon reflecting on the pool, shimmering through the leaves of the palms that were planted at the far side of the water. He could see the deck chairs, the glass-topped table between them, the wet bar built of coral.
Ah, California living! A beautiful night and a beautiful place.
It was a beautiful place, he reflected, and then his eyes were drawn back to the bedroom—in particular, to the bed. It was queen-size, covered in blood red with soft white throw pillows to offset the deep color. The drapes were white with a palm design in red; the plush carpet was in shades of red, white and gold. And if he walked through the dressing room to the bath, he knew he would find red, white and black tiles, gold-toned fixtures and a huge sunken marble tub, with more glass that looked out to the enclosed garden.
But he didn’t walk through to the bath. He gave himself an impatient shake for gazing at the bed too long, walked briskly to it, took a seat and stared at her answering machine. He turned it on and listened to the recording of her soft, husky voice saying that she wasn’t available for the phone, but “thank you so much for calling,” etc., etc.
And then he listened to the messages. Nothing much. One of the copy editors from the magazine calling to ask her a question, a girlfriend suggesting lunch—and one long breath before the phone was hung up.
With a sigh he turned the machine on again and tried to think of where else she might keep information. Secret information.
He started suddenly. There was a click as the front door was unlocked, and then he heard the sound of her laughter, a sound that somehow wrapped around his heart and caused his body to go tight with tension. He gave himself an impatient shake and crept silently back through the sitting room to the hallway. From there he could see her, watch her silently and secretively.
She was dressed in white and red that night: a white halter dress with a wide red belt, red shoes and bag and even long red earrings. Her blue-black hair swung in soft waves over the white dress, creating an arresting and stirring contrast. As she turned on the overhead light, the living room seemed to sizzle to life, just as she did. He could see her eyes as she tossed her purse onto the sofa. Her eyes were deep green flecked with sparks of gold. Her features were delicate and heart shaped, and she appeared both very feminine and very determined, very competent. Her confidence showed in her walk, the lift of her slim shoulders, the soft swing of her hips, the easy, floating length of her long-limbed strides.
Now she turned cordially to the man who followed her—like a puppy, Bret thought a bit scornfully. Don’t fawn after her, buddy, he wanted to warn the man. It won’t get you anywhere. She’ll lead you to the gates of heaven, then laugh while you fall into the pits of hell.
Bret leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms comfortably over his chest. The glare from the living room now hid him safely in shadow, and his cynical knowledge of her told him that he might well enjoy the scene that was coming. His sardonic smile faded slightly for a minute as he wondered if he might be misjudging the situation, if this man with the fawning, adoring expression just might have come to mean something to her.
Well, it didn’t matter, Bret told himself irritably. If things started going in a direction he didn’t like, he would quickly see that it changed. Unreasonable? Yes, of course, he knew that logically. But right now reason didn’t seem to matter very much, Bret realized grimly.
He moved a little farther back into the shadows. She was speaking softly, sweetly, to the slim young man with her.
“Jerry, thanks so much, it was a lovely evening.” She touched Jerry’s cheeks, and he caught her palm and kissed it.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself. The play was good,” he told her.
She kept smiling and retrieved her hand, then walked toward her kitchen. Bret flattened himself against the wall.
Her smile had faded a bit as she retrieved her hand�
��graciously, of course. “Jerry, what can I get you? Coffee? Or a drink? I think I’ve got just about everything.”
“Yes, you have, Colleen,” Jerry muttered, and though Colleen turned around with a light frown furrowing her brow, Bret knew exactly to what Jerry had been referring. Flush against the wall, Bret felt his temper soar. Unreasonably, of course, and he was irritated, even more so as he felt his muscles constrict uncontrollably.
“What was that, Jerry?” Colleen asked.
“Nothing, nothing,” Jerry muttered. “I’d, uh, love a cup of coffee.”
Colleen smiled vaguely and moved into the kitchen, filling the drip coffee maker, pulling down a set of mugs.
Jerry watched her from the living room with a silly, love-smitten grin on his face. She smiled at him again. “Let me just open the place up and we can sit on the patio.”
She was coming through to open the drapes, Bret realized. He hurried past the sitting room and into the bedroom before her, slipping into the bathroom while she hummed her way in behind him. He heard her sliding the glass doors open, then heard her as she moved back into the living room, sliding those doors open, too.
Good, Bret thought dryly. Silently he left the bathroom behind. Now he could observe her quietly from the comfort of the bed.
Moments later he saw her carry a tray onto the patio, set it on the glass-topped table and sit in one of the deck chairs. Jerry sat beside her, mumbling a thank you for the coffee as if he’d been offered a cup of diamonds. Of course, all in all, Bret had to admit Jerry didn’t look a bad sort. He appeared to be about thirty, the executive sort, neat and well-groomed, cordial and social. Bret even assumed the guy was good-looking in a health club sort of way.
Thinking things like that made his stomach knot all over again, so Bret leaned on one elbow and tried to listen to their conversation. Jerry was commenting on the beauty of the house, the way it all opened to the water and the moon. Bret listened with a curious expectancy to her answer—resenting it more than he should when she replied with an airy, “Yes, the design is nice.”
Nice! Bret thought bitterly. Yeah, it’s nice all right.
Then Jerry started talking about the play; Colleen complimented his choice of restaurant for dinner. Bret drummed his fingers against the blood-red bedspread, thoroughly bored with the discussion of chicken divan. He yawned, felt that he was growing hot and sat up to strip off his gray pullover. By the look of things, he might as well settle down.
They started talking about dessert.
Bret kicked off his shoes and lay back on the bed, his fingers laced behind his head.
Mousse. Dessert had been chocolate mousse.
Bret became suddenly attentive again. The muscles across his chest and stomach banded together like steel. Jerry was suddenly leaning very close to her, stroking her cheek and telling her how beautiful and fascinating she was, how he’d been longing to touch her all night.
Then Jerry’s arms were around her and he was kissing her.
Bret tensed inside and out, gripping the blood-red bed cover, ready to leap like an enraged tiger to the patio. She wouldn’t dare, she had better not dare—oh, the nerve of the little witch! She had better not kiss him back!
But right when Bret’s tolerance had come to the snapping point, he saw that Colleen was firmly pushing Jerry away.
“Jerry!” she reproached him softly. “Jerry, you promised! You know how I feel about things…at the moment.”
“But, Colleen…” Jerry began with a frustrated groan.
“Jerry, I like you. You’re a very nice guy. But what I need from you right now, if you’re willing to give it, is friendship.”
She smiled sweetly. Oh, so sweetly! Bret knew all about that sweet smile.
Jerry sighed and stood. “I guess I should go,” he said. But he didn’t move. He looked like a man who wanted an invitation to stay.
He didn’t get one. Colleen stood, too. Having kicked off her red-heeled sandals, she seemed smaller, more delightfully like a willowy sylph. It was an illusion, of course. She was five-foot-six in her bare feet. Not a giant, but no pixie.
She turned away from her date for a moment, and Bret felt his heart seem to catch in his throat. Something about her expression was so bleak, so pained. Maybe she does miss me, he thought, just a little, little bit.
Who was he fooling? he taunted himself. She hated him—and maybe, at times, he had even given her ample reason. If she had only understood that he had shouted because he had been afraid of losing her…
If he had only understood it himself at the time.
Ifs were useless things in this world, he reminded himself. And the past was far behind him. Maybe, like sparks and tinder, they had just been fated to come together explosively.
And he was a fool to imagine that he saw anguish on her beautiful features. He had wanted it to be there. She was looking up at old Jerry again, smiling a little uneasily.
“Jerry,” she murmured apologetically, slipping her arms about his waist and staring at him sweetly. “It was a lovely evening. Thank you,” she told him and, standing on her toes, kissed him quickly, then released him to walk him to the door.
Bret heard the front door close, then heard her slide the bolt. He told himself that it was time to move, to confront her or to leave.
He hesitated, lying back on the bed again, lacing his fingers behind his head and closing his eyes tightly to think. He should have a few minutes. If she behaved as usual she would go out to the pool and dangle her feet in the water. She’d make tea or take a glass of wine out with her. She’d unwind before coming to bed.
He had no right to be angry, Bret told himself. None at all. So why…?
He started, almost making a noise as something flew in his face. He grasped at it, pulling it from his eyes. He inhaled and the scent of her perfume filled his senses.
He was holding her dress.
She was standing just feet away, between the foot of the bed and the doors to the patio. All the lights except one in the living room had been turned off, and she was staring pensively at the moon’s reflection on the pool as she absently stripped. Her shoes were still on the patio; her dress was in his hands, and as he watched, her slip fell to the floor like a white cloud. She was clad only in the palest mauve lace bikini. Her back was to him, but that bare back caused a heated eruption in his system that could have rivaled that of Mount Vesuvius. All his muscles tightened, his stomach knotting, his desire bordering on agony.
Still, just at the sight of her. And after all this time. He’d thought he’d cleansed himself, purged himself, of the longing.
Bret took a deep breath, tossing the fragrant dress aside. It whispered to the floor. He clenched his teeth and laced his fingers behind his head again. It was too late for action of any kind now; he’d have to brazen the situation out. And come to think of it, he did still have a few rights.
She wasn’t going to see it that way.
But boldness and confidence were often the key to success. He’d have to count on that now.
She stared at the pool several seconds longer, running her fingers through the midnight length of her hair and sending it cascading down her back again. Then, with a little sigh, she turned. For a second she was caught in the moonlight, just like the water in the pool. Her breasts were caught in that glow, full, high, rounded, bouncing slightly above her ribs, contrasting with the narrowness of her waist. The mauve bikini clung like temptation incarnate about the fascinating flare of her hips.
His breath caught in his throat, and he knotted his fingers so tightly that the bones threatened to break. But still she didn’t see him. She was blinking against the darkness of the room after the glow of the moon and the silver light reflected by the water.
He had to speak. As it was, he would probably frighten her half to death. And even if she did deserve to be scared—really scared somewhere along the line so she’d use some caution and wisdom—he didn’t want it to be tonight.
She was gropin
g blindly for the covers, her eyes still not adjusted to the change in light. And then, of course, she certainly wasn’t expecting to find a man lying in her bed.
Bret pulled the covers back for her. She gasped, stunned. And then she drew her breath in sharply, readying herself for a long, very high and panicked scream.
Bret didn’t think the neighbors would hear; the house was too secluded. But he didn’t want to take any chances. He reached out, grasping her wrist and speaking quickly with annoyance.
“Shut up, Colleen, it’s just me.”
She gasped again, shocked. And then she was furious. “Just you? Just you?” She tried, with the strength of a regiment, or so it felt, to break his hold. “What are you doing here? Get out of my bed, get out of my house. How dare you—Let go of me!”
Bret grinned, maintaining his hold on her while he rolled to catch the switch for the bedside lamp. She screamed out something that would have made a seaman blush as light flooded the room, and he laughed dryly, slowly allowing his eyes to wander insolently over her.
“Bret McAllistair, so help me God, I’ll call the police, I’ll have you arrested, locked away for life, if you don’t let go of me!”
She was screaming, trying to break his hold and grab for the spread to cover herself all at the same time.
He laughed again with less bitterness. Colleen hadn’t changed. Not one bit. Her heart might be thudding away a mile a minute, but she was still threatening him. Boldness and bravado and raw courage were not qualities that she lacked. He sobered. Wisdom was a quality that she often did seem to miss. She was clawing at his wrists with her long nails, and she should have known better than to get so physical with him. After all, she knew him and knew his temper. It wasn’t wise to push him—especially not after the scene he had just witnessed.
“Bret! Damn it, I mean it.”
“Shut up and calm down and I will let you go!” he commanded irritably, and then he started to laugh again because she did look more dangerous than he did. With her hair wild now and trailing across her heaving breasts, her eyes like green flames and her brows furrowed in fury, she resembled a primeval warrior queen. “Hey! I mean it. Calm down,” Bret ordered. He released her wrist and rolled quickly before she could deliver the blow she intended. Still laughing he leaped to his feet and sauntered across the room, showing her his back and closing his eyes tightly for a second in a bid to find strength. He paused, swallowing sharply, hoping to bury the unbidden pain that had attacked his heart like a vicious hammer blow. He had loved her once.
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