by JoAnn Ross
This time she couldn’t miss the censure in his voice. Blythe decided that there was absolutely no way on God’s green earth she was going to hire this man. “I told you I was calling from another engagement.” She tugged her hand free.
“That you did.” Not trusting those spindly little shoes, he put both his hands on her waist and lifted her from the floating dock onto the deck of the sleek sloop. “You just failed to mention you were having tea with the Queen.”
His long dark fingers had claimed possession as if they had every right to be wrapped around her waist.
“Not the Queen,” she corrected with a toss of the head that had him waiting for her hair to come tumbling down. He was vaguely disappointed when it stayed in place. “Natalie Landis.”
Cait’s glamorous, larger-than-life mother. Gage knew Natalie well, liked her immensely, found her bright and sexy and amusing, and still understood exactly why Cait often felt like a changeling. “Same thing,” he said.
His voice had a lazy slow drawl that, while no Texas twang, bespoke western roots. They were standing close enough together that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him.
“You’re not exactly what I expected.”
Neither was he the man she’d been hoping for. Although she couldn’t deny Gage Remington was sexy, in a tousled, outdoor kind of way, the fact that he’d chosen to dress in those brief cotton shorts and snug polo shirt and sneakers for a business consultation only underscored her worry that he wasn’t the detective for her job.
“That’s funny.” The white silk felt smooth and soft beneath his fingertips. Gage knew, without the slightest doubt, that her fragrant skin would be smoother. And softer. “You’re pretty much what I was expecting.”
Blythe was already tired of his attitude. “Do you always insult prospective employers?” she asked in a cool ice-maiden tone that he recognized from her last film, where she’d played a female serial killer who had a nasty habit of knocking off rich old husbands.
“Only ones who have made their minds up about me before they get to know me.”
His point. He might not be the intense, type A personality she’d been hoping to meet, but Gage Remington was turning out to be more perceptive than she’d first thought.
“I haven’t made my mind up about anything,” she said.
Especially coming from an actress, that was about the most unconvincing lie Gage had ever heard. And in his line of work, he’d heard some doozies.
Not certain whether he was amused or annoyed, Gage shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
Blythe looked up into his unreadable face and wondered why Cait had neglected to mention that her former partner was sexier than any male had a right to be. She’d grown up in a town where gorgeous men—and women—were the norm. Not that Gage Remington was movie star gorgeous. Throw a stick on any beach along the Pacific Coast Highway and you’d hit a dozen men much better looking than this one. He was tall and rangy. Like a long distance runner, Blythe considered. Or better yet, a cowboy. His face was too harshly cut to be classically handsome, his steely blue eyes were too heavily hooded, and his nose appeared to have been broken on more than one occasion. His mouth wouldn’t have been so bad, she considered, if it hadn’t been set in such an ironic sneer.
But there was something about him—something deep and dark and potentially dangerous—that she unwillingly found fascinating.
She’d never met anyone remotely like him in the rarified circles in which she’d always lived and worked and played. Blythe had the feeling she never would.
Whatever else he was, Gage Remington was one of a kind.
His touch was outwardly casual, but the intent she felt radiating from him was unnervingly intimate. His vivid blue eyes—eyes that drew you in, deeper and deeper, until you had the feeling every secret you possessed was revealed—were riveted on her face, looking at Blythe so hard and so deep that she was grateful for the dark lenses that kept him from reading her suddenly tumultuous thoughts.
“You don’t have to hold on to me any longer.”
Her fragrance, every bit as dark and sultry as those drop-dead gorgeous eyes he knew were hiding behind those oversize lenses was the kind that sneaked up on a man, hitting him between the eyes—and more painfully, between the legs—when he least expected it.
Gage reminded himself that Hollywood was a town built on images and illusions and the illusion Blythe Fielding projected up on that silver screen was undoubtedly as false as the melted yellow grease theaters poured over popcorn and insisted on calling butter.
But even knowing that didn’t make the assault on his senses any less devastating. “I like holding on to you.”
She felt the tremor slide up her spine, then down. This was ridiculous. She was accustomed to setting the tone and pace of her business meetings.
Blythe had always prided herself on her control. And her restraint, which was a direct contrast to her steamy screen image. Despite whatever he might think of her, she was definitely not the type of woman to allow a complete stranger to touch her so familiarly.
She backed away. Gage released her, letting her break the light contact without comment.
“Why don’t you sit down,” he suggested, “and we can discuss how I’m going to find the facts surrounding your murdered Russian movie star.”
Blythe turned her choices over in her mind. Pride prevented her from leaving, while a very strong stubborn streak kept her from giving up on her quest to discover the truth about Alexandra Romanov’s death.
Reminding herself that Cait had recommended this man highly, and realizing that she had no idea how to go about finding a reputable detective among the myriad listings in the yellow pages, Blythe decided that she may as well go through with their meeting.
“I don’t have much information,” she warned as she sat down in the canvas chair he’d indicated with a wave of his dark hand.
“That’s why you’re hiring me.”
“I hadn’t realized we’d agreed on that.” Having been caught off balance, Blythe was determined to regain control of this situation.
“You want the best, don’t you?”
She lifted her chin. “Of course.”
A flash of tanned thigh as she crossed those long legs caught his attention, making Gage think that perhaps there might just be some perks to this case, after all.
“Well, I’m the best.”
“Some people might call that arrogance, Mr. Remington.”
“Probably would,” he agreed lazily. “But it wouldn’t change things. Like it or not, Ms. Fielding, I’m your man. If I decide to take your case.”
“If you decide?”
He saw her stiffen. Her voice went up in a dangerous way that had Gage suspecting that this ice princess’s hot screen image might not be so far off the mark. Having a temper himself, he could recognize the signs in others. He also found the heat in her tone undeniably arousing.
“One of the advantages of working for myself, instead of the cops, is only having to take on jobs that interest me,” he explained. “I’ll admit to being mildly intrigued with the brief story you told me on the phone.” He sat down across from her, stretched his long dark legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “So, since we’re both busy people, we might as well get down to business.
“And let’s start,” he instructed in an uncompromising tone Blythe was not accustomed to hearing from anyone, “by taking off those damn glasses. I like to see who I’m doing business with.”
Normally, she would have refused such a gruff, no-nonsense order. But angry at the way this former cop had her feeling so defensive, she ripped them off with a haughty gesture.
Blythe met Gage’s steady, unblinking stare with a challenging look of her own.
And then it happened.
As impossible as it would later seem, when she had time to analyze the unnerving moment, Blythe heard the click of something that strangely, impossibly, seemed like recognition.
A
heartbeat later, her mind was wiped as clean as new glass.
6
FROM THE OUTSIDE, the rambling white building set on the cliffs overlooking the vast blue Pacific Ocean could have been a resort hotel catering to the rich and famous. The lush lawns were a dark emerald green, bright flowers tumbled over the edges of the many brick planters, palm trees swayed gently in the soft sea breeze.
Guests strolled across those lawns, played tennis on the red clay courts and sat beneath the shade of flowering trees, reading, doing needlework, or just gazing out at the million-dollar view.
It was a sylvan scene that suggested wealth and privilege and comfort.
Only a closer study would reveal the wrought iron grill work barring all the windows, the electronic gates set in the high white walls and the guards stationed discreetly amidst the guests, who, in a less expensive facility would have been referred to as patients.
Sloan felt his heart clench as he flashed his visitor’s pass to the guard at the gate. He hated coming here. He hated the smells of disinfectant and illness and despair that no amount of money could wash away. He hated the empty look in the eyes of the people who lived behind these white walls. And he hated the hopeless, helpless way the Safe Harbor Sanitarium made him feel.
Every time he drove through the gate, he told himself that this was the last time. That he just couldn’t take it anymore. That she wouldn’t even know if he never came again.
But Sloan could no more stop coming than he could stop breathing.
He parked his car in the assigned lot and handed his keys over to the attendant. Ever since a patient had stolen a set of Chrysler New Yorker car keys from a visiting grandfather and taken the police on a high speed, death-defying chase down the PCH, security had been tightened even more than usual.
The shift was changing. One of the doctors just coming off duty waved a cheery greeting. Sloan and the leggy blond psychiatrist whom he’d discovered harbored a secret passion for silk stockings, lace garter belts, and Victorian erotica had shared a brief, tempestuous fling a few years ago. As with most of the women Sloan had been involved with, they’d stayed friends.
“Hello, Sloan.” Her full lips smiled; her eyes were filled with a sympathy he was not accustomed to seeing from the women he’d slept with. Then again, Sloan reminded himself grimly, Dr. Helen Taylor was the only woman who knew his painful secret.
“Hi, Helen.” He tried to return her smile, but could only manage a crooked grimace. “How is she?”
“Better.” This time the sympathy bordered on pity, making him remember why he’d broken off their relationship. “We adjusted her medication after that little episode the other day. She’s been a great deal less agitated.”
He straightened his shoulders. An iron fist curled round his gut. “Which means you’ve got her zoned out.”
The doctor did not deny his accusation. “It’s better than the alternative.” Dr. Taylor lifted a palm to his cheek. “If you ever need to talk, or anything else...” Her voice drifted off, but not before Sloan heard the feminine invi-tation in her tone.
This time his smile was a bit more successful. But it still didn’t reach his bleak, haunted eyes.
“Thanks. But I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
She sighed. “Of course, you’re right. But I do so worry about you.”
“Who, me?” he asked with feigned surprise.
“You need someone in your life, Sloan. It’s not healthy for you to be alone like this.”
“Why, Doc, don’t you read the tabloids? I’ve got so many women in my hedonistic, bachelor’s bed that every time a new one climbs in beneath the sheets, another one pops out on the other side.”
She smiled, as she was supposed to. “Even if you were the libertine those horrid papers make you out to be, which you’re not, we both know that having a lover is not necessarily the same as having someone to love.”
“As it happens, I think I might have found someone.”
“I’m glad.” Her pleasure was not at all feigned, making him think, not for the first time in the past five years, how lucky he was to have this woman in his corner.
She went up on her toes and gave him a quick, friendly kiss. “Good luck.”
Sloan didn’t know if she was referring to Cait or today’s visit. As he made his way across the rolling green lawn, he decided he could probably use a little luck in both cases.
He found her sitting all alone, on a concrete bench in the meditation garden. She was dressed in the white cotton caftan he’d brought her the last time he was here, the evening he’d almost gotten his head blown off climbing Blythe’s fence. Full and loose, designed for comfort, the dress was adorned with white lace at the neckline, hems and sleeves.
He’d bought it while shooting on location in Cancun, hoping she’d enjoy it, even knowing that most of the time simple emotions like joy and pleasure and sorrow were beyond her.
Her blond hair, which he could still remember being a rich, gleaming honey, was streaked with gray. It hung lank over her thin shoulders, reminding him that he should arrange to have it trimmed and shaped.
She was hugging a stuffed teddy bear that had been repaired too many times to count to her breast and was rocking gently, back and forth, her amber eyes focused on some distant scene from some long ago past that was constantly replaying in her frail, damaged mind.
The pain proved suffocating. Sloan hitched in a deep breath, and sat down beside her.
She turned, those once lovely eyes looking at him without the faintest shred of recognition.
Sloan took both her pale, slender hands in his.
Part of him felt seven years old again. Another part of him felt older than time.
Although it took a herculean effort, he willed a smile onto his face and into his eyes.
“Hiya, Mom.”
* * *
ON THE RARE OCCASION Cait had ventured into L.A. police headquarters in the past, the desk sergeant had barely acknowledged her presence.
Today, however, things were decidedly different. Today, the grizzled, balding veteran greeted her effusively. And as he led her through the hallways lined with photos of past police chiefs, back into the current chief’s inner sanctum, Cait had the impression that he was looking at her with a strange mixture of envy and sympathy.
Although she’d arrived precisely on time, as the sergeant ushered her into the conference room, she discovered not only her own superiors, but representatives from several other L.A. county police jurisdictions already seated around the large walnut table.
A quick glance revealed captains from Santa Monica, Venice, Redondo Beach, Manhattan Beach and Newport Beach as well as two deputies clad in the regulation khaki uniform of the L.A. Sheriff’s department. In addition, she recognized the police commissioner, the mayor, and two grim-faced men whose blue suits, starched white shirts and black wing tips revealed them to be FBI agents.
“Good afternoon, Officer Carrigan,” Captain Rodman, her own division superior greeted her.
Cait nodded, squelching the impulse to salute. “Sir.” Her brisk, professional tone did not reveal either her sudden nervousness or her curiosity.
“Please. Have a seat.” He gestured toward the single remaining vacant chair which just happened to be situated next to the commissioner. “Would you care for some coffee?”
The idea of a man of such superior rank offering her something to drink piqued Cait’s curiosity even more.
“No, thank you, sir,” she said, moving toward the chair he’d indicated. “I’m fine.”
Every eye in the room watched as she sat down. Cait’s spine remained as stiff as the starch in her uniform blouse. She could have been standing at attention.
Captain Rodman proceeded to introduce the others. Most of the names and some of the faces were familiar to her. All greeted her with professional politeness, although it crossed her mind that they seemed to be judging her. Worse yet, from the frown on some of the grimly set faces, she had
the uneasy feeling that more than one of the assembled men were finding her lacking in some essential way.
“I imagine you’re wondering why we’ve asked you here today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It seems we have a problem.” He folded his hands atop the table and gave her a long, level look. “And it occurred to me that you might be just the individual to assist us.”
“I see,” Cait said, not seeing anything at all.
At least, she considered with a cooling rush of relief, she hadn’t been ordered here for a reprimand. When she’d first seen the mayor and commissioner, she’d worried that perhaps Sloan had filed a citizen’s complaint against her, after all.
He paused to leaf through a manila folder. “You’ve been on the force four years?” he asked.
Although she realized since he was reading her file, the captain knew exactly how long she’d been a cop, Cait dutifully answered. “That’s right. Four years, sir. And five months.”
“Yes.” He nodded and ran the side of his finger along his top lip, an unconscious gesture left over from when he’d sported a mustache. “I see you profess a desire to work in the Sex Crimes Unit.”
Cait nodded yet again. “Yes, sir. Although I enjoy all aspects of police work, I feel I could be an asset in that area.” She did not mention that having had a close friend who’d been raped in college, Cait felt she could bring a much needed empathy to the emotionally demanding work.
It was his turn to nod again. “Several of your superior officers appear to feel the same way. And your psychological testing scores are very encouraging.”
“Thank you, sir.” Cait was growing more curious and more impatient by the minute. Across the table, she saw the mayor begin to fidget. Obviously she was not the only one wishing Captain Rodman would just skip to the chase.
“The Vice detectives who have been working with you in the Hollywood division also say you’re their best decoy. Your arrest and conviction rate is at the top of the squad.”
