by JoAnn Ross
“That’s not surprising.” Cait returned to the bedroom and zipped up the plain black soft-sided suitcase. “You’re the actress, try putting yourself in her shoes.
“Your husband has been killed in a flaming car wreck that also took the life of his administrative assistant, with whom it turns out he was having a very public and very torrid affair while you played the lonely lady of the manor in Connecticut. Your inlaws still think of you as that usurping, corn-fed farm girl from Iowa who stole their precious baby boy out from under their aristocratic noses, and you’re seven months pregnant.
“Don’t you think you might be a little stressed out?”
“Of course.” Blythe shook her head, thinking back on that unsatisfactory conversation with Lily. “But I still got the impression that something else is bothering her.”
“As if that all weren’t enough.” Cait shrugged. “Well, whatever it is, I guess after she arrives in town, I’ll just have to take her down to the station and bring out the bright lights and rubber hoses. That’ll probably drag the truth out of her.”
Blythe laughed. And continued to worry. About both her friends.
Cait finished packing in time for them to continue their conversation over glasses of white wine in the sunny living room.
“It’s really nice of you to take me to the airport,” Cait said again.
“It’s no problem. I can drop you by LAX and still make my dinner with Walter Stern at L’Orangerie.”
“Ah, the high octane of Hollywood deal making,” Cait said, remembering the argument she’d witnessed between Blythe and the studio head yesterday at her mother’s Brunch.
She wondered if things had been settled between them, considered asking, then reminded herself that she’d always tried to avoid anything to do with the business.
Besides, if it was important, Blythe would tell her. They’d always shared everything. “Makes me light-headed just to think of it.”
“Somebody’s got to make the movies,” Blythe pointed out. “Or you wouldn’t have been able to make out with Jimmy Jones in the back row of all those Westwood theaters.”
“Got a point there,” Cait agreed with another of those quick grins that lit up her face so that it seemed to glow from within.
Caitlin Carrigan had inherited the genes of one of the most gorgeous actresses ever to appear on the silver screen. But Blythe had always thought it was Cait’s energetic, outgoing personality that made her truly beautiful.
As they left the building, they passed an open doorway on the first floor. As if her feet had been suddenly nailed to the spot, Blythe froze in front of the door.
Realizing Blythe was no longer beside her, Cait turned. “Blythe?” All the color had drained from her friend’s face. “Are you all right?”
Embarrassed, Blythe gave herself a stiff mental shake. “Of course.” But she still couldn’t quite make herself move.
“Oh, this is the apartment I told you about,” Cait said when she finally noticed the open door. “The one that’s supposed to be haunted.”
“The one with the mirror?”
“Exactly.” Cait grinned. “I’ve been dying to see inside the place.”
When she walked right in, Blythe hesitated, then followed.
The carpet was slightly damp, as if it had been recently shampooed. The mirror in question was impossible to miss. At least four feet wide and five feet high, it was every bit as elaborate as Cait had heard.
“Oh, I absolutely adore it,” Cait said on a lustful sigh. “And it would look terrific in my bedroom. I wonder if it’s for sale?”
“Not likely,” a male voice suddenly spoke behind her.
Cait and Blythe both spun around, coming face-to-face with a short bald man. Cait’s heart, which had trebled its beat, slowed when she recognized Ken Amberson, the building’s super.
“Gracious, Ken,” she said, “you surprised me.” It was not the first time Cait had noticed the man’s seeming ability to appear from nowhere. “I was cleaning the carpet.” His gaze shifted to Blythe. “You’re Blythe Fielding.”
Accustomed to being recognized in public, Blythe flashed her vague, public smile. “Yes. I am.”
“Ken Amberson,” he introduced himself. “The super here. Saw your last film. Your performance was the only good thing about it.”
“Thank you. I guess,” Blythe murmured. Everyone, she’d discovered during a lifetime of acting, was a critic.
During the brief discourse, Cait wandered over to the wall and ran her fingers over the pewter scrolling. “Are you sure the owner of the building isn’t interested in selling?”
“Wouldn’t matter.” Amberson shrugged. “Damn thing won’t come off the wall,” he elaborated at Cait’s questioning look.
“That’s impossible.” Cait took hold of the frame and tugged. The mirror held fast to the wall. “Surely there’s some way.”
“Lots of folks have tried,” he assured her. “None have succeeded.”
“Well, they obviously didn’t try the right thing,” Cait argued. The longer she looked at the mirror, the more she wanted it for her own. “At the very least, you could tear down the wall.”
“Maybe,” he agreed with another shrug. “But it kind of belongs here.” He turned to Blythe, giving her a long, probing look that made her want to squirm. “Wouldn’t you say?”
The funny thing was, as spooky as the superintendent made her feel, Blythe found herself agreeing with him. There was something very right about the mirror’s location. “It certainly is a focal point for the room.”
“Well, I’m still going to check into it,” Cait decided. “There’s no harm in asking.”
After saying goodbye to the superintendent, Blythe walked away, feeling strangely as if she were escaping something dark and dangerous.
This time it was Cait who paused in the open doorway, glancing back one last time at the mirror.
It was then she saw it.
Although she told herself that she had to be hallucinating, she couldn’t drag her gaze away from the image of a woman, dressed in a long pale gown.
Their eyes met. The woman was looking at her as if she could see all the way to her soul. Then she smiled, a strange, sweet smile.
“Blythe.”
Curious at the sudden stress in Cait’s tone, Blythe turned around. “What is it?”
Before Cait could respond, the figure faded away, like a dream.
Cait shook her head. “Nothing. Never mind,” she insisted at Blythe’s quick, questioning look.
Telling herself that the reflected image had been nothing more than a product of her overly active imagination, stimulated by Ken Amberson’s spooky presence, Cait shook her head once again to clear it, and followed Blythe out to the Jaguar parked at the curb.
They’d just left, en route to the airport, when the white limo carrying Natasha back from tea at the Regency glided into the vacated space at the curb.
7
THE DEPARTURE GATE for the American Airlines flight to Boston, from where she planned to connect with a commuter flight to Bangor, Maine, was crowded with people when Cait arrived. As she stood in line, she remained deep in thought about this latest assignment.
Blythe was right about it being dangerous, she admitted as the line inched its way forward to the check-in counter. But to earn a promotion to the Sex Crimes Unit, she’d be willing to parade naked in front of the devil himself.
Well, perhaps she wouldn’t exactly go that far.
But as she handed her ticket to the young man behind the counter, responding absently to his cheery greeting and assuring him that a window seat would be fine, she considered that there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do to win the long-coveted slot. Cait sat in a molded plastic chair by the window to await boarding. Nearby a young boy was running back and forth in front of the glass wall, arms outstretched, pretending to be one of the jets that was taking off and landing just outside. Cait barely noticed. She was thinking about what little she’d been told ab
out Charity Prescott.
She certainly didn’t know much, although a phone call to Gage, who’d worked briefly in Venice before moving to LAPD, and a few more to acquaintances in the seaside town’s police department had filled her in on some sketchy details.
Before becoming a cop, Charity had worked as a lawyer for Legal Aid, one source had told her. But apparently the system moved too slowly for the idealistic attorney, so she’d decided she could help people more by becoming a cop and putting the bad guys behind bars.
She quickly worked her way up from patrol to detective without, it seemed, making a single enemy. Everyone Cait had spoken with had described the woman as dedicated, hardworking, courageous and caring, while at the same time pragmatic enough to do the job without burning out.
It had been her idea to go undercover, posing as a beach bunny—the rapist’s usual target—to draw him out of hiding. And it had worked.
She’d gone on to work as an advisor for a television series, surprising everyone when she’d married Steven Stone, the weekly program’s star. No one who knew Stone’s well-deserved reputation as a womanizer was surprised when six months later, Charity divorced the actor.
Surprising everyone again, she’d moved to Castle Mountain, a small town located on a remote island off the coast of Maine. An office pool had been established in the Venice PD as to how soon she’d be back. Most of her fellow officers figured she’d last out in those icy boondocks a month. Two years later, she was still there. Gage had told Cait he’d heard Charity had married again.
Cait, who thrived on the excitement that was part and parcel of working on a big city police force could not imagine moving to the boondocks where police calls undoubtedly consisted of barking dog complaints and Saturday night teenage vandalism.
As she rose in response to the boarding call and handed her pass to the uniformed clerk at the gate, she wondered exactly what she was going to find when she arrived in Castle Mountain.
Was Charity Prescott a typical burnout case? The thought worried her as she walked briskly down the jetway. Was she going to turn out to be one of those cops who just sat around the office all day, drinking coffee and swapping stories about the old days while her sidearm rusted away in a desk drawer?
Had she ceased to care?
No, Cait decided. During their brief telephone conversation this afternoon, Charity Prescott Valderian—it turned out that she had remarried—had sounded honestly interested in helping capture the man she’d risked her life to apprehend. She’d also sounded furious that he’d been allowed to escape.
Cait boarded the plane. Checking her seat assignment for the first time, she saw that she was in seat 4-A. When she glanced around and located her seat, her first thought was that the man at the counter had made a mistake. When she saw who was to be sitting next to her, her second thought was that she was going to kill Sloan Wyndham.
His smile was slow and lacking a single ounce of contrition.
This was so damn typical, Cait thought angrily. It was exactly the kind of exaggerated gesture one of her parents would have made. The same brash, larger-than-life Hollywood grandstanding she’d spent her entire life trying to get away from.
Furious, she spun around and thrust her boarding pass at the flight attendant who was welcoming people aboard.
“There’s been a mistake.”
One perfectly plucked brow arched. “Oh, dear.” Full red lips that matched her scarf turned down in a moue. “Is someone in your seat?”
“That’s the problem,” Cait said. “It’s not my seat.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive.”
Sighing at Cait’s no-nonsense tone, the flight attendant tapped away at a small onboard computer. “I’m sorry, Ms. Carrigan,” she said. “But 4-A is correct.”
The woman glanced down the aisle at the wide leather seat that remained unoccupied. And would for the entire flight, if Cait had anything to say about it. “Would you prefer an aisle? Perhaps the gentleman in 4-B would be willing to change—”
“What I would prefer is my proper seat.”
“But 4-A is your proper seat.”
“Fine.” Cait forced a smile. “Then I’d like to change. To Coach.”
“I’m sorry. But this is a full flight. There aren’t any open seats in coach.”
“What about my old one?”
More tapping. “It’s been filled by a standby passenger.”
Cait’s eyes whipped back to Sloan. The man had the cockiest, most infuriating grin. “Surely someone will be willing to change. If you ask.”
“I’m sorry.” The attendant shook her head, causing her short blond curls to bounce energetically. “But we’re already two minutes late taking off and the captain is getting impatient.”
She glanced behind her at the half open door of the cockpit. Inside, Cait could see the crew running through their preflight check. “If you could please just take your seat, perhaps after we’re in the air—”
“Never mind.” The entire scenario was becoming more trouble than it was worth. If she continued to complain, Sloan might get the outlandish idea that she was actually intimidated by the idea of sitting beside him on the long cross-country flight.
Cait stomped back to the seat. Before she could put her carry-on bag in the overhead compartment, Sloan was on his feet, taking it from her hand and lifting it up with ease.
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“It was if we want to take off,” he responded easily. “Or would you rather keep it beneath the seat in front of you?”
“I’d rather put it away in coach.” Her foot began to tap. “Where it—and I—belong.”
She was furious. Heat waves were radiating from her and her remarkable eyes were shooting emerald sparks. Sloan couldn’t recall ever meeting a more passionate woman.
“Lord, you fire up quick.” He wondered idly if she’d prove as hot in bed and figured she would. The trick would be not setting the sheets on fire.
“Only when provoked.”
Seeing the attendant headed her way and realizing she was about to be reminded of the captain’s impatience, Cait pushed past him, settled into the wide tan seat with a furious flounce and fastened her seat belt.
“Guess I should be grateful they don’t let you carry your police pistol on board.” Unperturbed, Sloan sat back down beside her. “Excuse me, but—”
“Not in a million years.” She was looking out the window, pretending vast interest in the ground crew loading luggage onto a DC-10 at the adjoining gate.
“What?”
His hand was on her leg. Her head spun back toward him as she knocked it aside. “I will not excuse you for manipulating me like this for a million—a billion—years.”
“As discouraging a threat as that is, I was merely trying to point out that you’re sitting on half of my seat belt.”
“Oh.” Refusing to reveal her embarrassment, she cleared her throat and lifted her hips. “I’m sorry.”
“No problem.” He tugged it free and fastened it with a decisive snap. The motion drew her gaze to his hands. For a brief, weakening moment Cait found herself wondering exactly how those dark hands would feel against her naked skin, searching out forbidden secrets.
No! This had to stop. She couldn’t allow herself to continually fantasize about this man who was so horribly wrong for her.
She had a job to do. People were depending on her. So many people she couldn’t begin to count them all. But mostly, she had to keep a clear head so that some innocent woman would not end up being raped. And killed.
Sloan watched the emotions flood into her eyes. Reluctant desire, irritation, resolve. When he’d called Blythe last night, making up some cockamamy excuse about double-checking the time of their lunch meeting—which had made him feel ridiculously as if he were in high school—in order to slip in a seemingly innocuous question about Cait, she’d told him about the trip to Maine.
He’d immediately called the airport, dec
iding fate was working in his favor when he’d discovered there were two seats available in first class. He immediately booked one for himself and changed Cait’s economy class seat to the second.
Truthfully, he hadn’t exactly expected her to welcome him with open arms. But after those shared kisses, he wasn’t prepared for her to treat him like Jack the Ripper, either.
She’d turned away again. Although she’d pulled her hair into a twist at the top of her head, a few errant strands had escaped to trail down the back of her neck.
Unable to resist, he twined one of those long fiery strands of hair around a finger.
He felt her tense and dropped his hand before she could light into him. She shot him a look. “Are you trying to annoy me, Mr. Wyndham?”
“As a matter of fact, it seems I don’t have to try.” Sloan liked the contrast between those cool round tones and the heat in her eyes. A man who admittedly bored easily, his interest could only be held by a complex woman. “It seems to come naturally.” His grin was slow and knowing and infuriated Cait anew. “Gum?”
“No, thank you.” She refused the red pack with the haughty disregard of a duchess. Sloan almost applauded the performance then decided not to push his luck.
“Are you sure? Sometimes it helps—”
“I said I don’t want any damn gum.” The duchess was gone and in her place was a short-tempered female who could test the mettle of any man.
Sloan grinned again, reminding himself that he’d always enjoyed a challenge. “Suit yourself.” He unwrapped a piece, popped it into his mouth and began to chew, the cocky, masculine grin never fading from his face.
When she felt her own lips starting to tug in a reluctant, answering smile, Cait turned away again, watching the terminal grow smaller as the jet taxied down the runway.
Neither spoke during takeoff. Nor for several minutes afterward. Once they were airborne, the flight attendant served drinks—white wine for Cait, Scotch for Sloan. When the blonde’s dazzling, Miss America smile seemed to flash a little brighter at Sloan, Cait experienced a disturbing little pang of jealousy, the same as she’d felt at the sight of her mother’s slender hand resting on his arm.
