Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “I waded through the Dumpster myself and found this sack. In it were four stale french fries, an unopened packet of ketchup, and fourteen bottles of pills.”

  Realizing that she was trapped, Melia defiantly tossed back her hair. “You’d really pissed me off that morning. You’d been on my case about writing a telephone number down wrong.”

  “That’s your excuse for this?” Cat said, flicking the sack and making it crackle.

  “You weren’t going to croak. You got those prescriptions refilled in plenty of time.”

  “That’s not the point. It was a mean, malicious thing to do.”

  “You had it coming,” Melia shouted. “You’re always bawling me out in front of that little faggot, making me feel stupid. I’m not stupid!”

  Cat stood up. “No, I don’t believe for a moment that you’re stupid, Melia. I think you’re extremely clever. Just not clever enough to keep from getting caught.”

  She squared her shoulders. “Please clear out your desk immediately.”

  “You’re firing me?” she gasped, incredulous.

  “I’ll arrange for accounting to pay you what you’ve earned, plus the standard severance pay, which I think under these circumstances is more than fair.”

  Melia’s eyes narrowed malevolently, but Cat stood her ground. Finally, Melia turned and headed for the door. On her way out, she said, “You’re going to regret this.” By noon she’d removed her personal items from her desk and left the building.

  Cat asked the news director if she could borrow a secretary until she could hire someone to replace Melia. She was relieved to have Melia out of her life, but the entire episode, beginning with the O’Connor incident the day before, had left her feeling drained. She was in a truculent mood, certainly not up to having a guest waiting for her when she arrived home at dusk.

  She certainly was not up to facing Alex Pierce.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked through the driver’s window of her car. “How’d you know where I live?”

  He sat astride a motorcycle parked at the curb. “A simple, ‘Hello, how are you?’ would do.”

  Cat wheeled into the driveway. As she alighted, he met her and tried to take her heavy briefcase. “I can manage, thanks,” she said crossly.

  She climbed the front steps of her house and collected her mail, which was mostly throw-away ads. “Why do I get all this crap? Dozens of trees have sacrificed their lives to line my trash can.”

  Her foul mood seemed to amuse him. “Tough day at the office?”

  “A bitch.”

  “Yeah. I saw your name in the newspaper.”

  “Not the most flattering write-up I’ve ever had.”

  “Tough break about that kid.”

  “Real tough.”

  She had to juggle her mail, handbag, briefcase, and keys in order to get the front door open. A third hand would have come in handy, but she stubbornly refused to ask for his assistance. She dumped the mail onto the foyer table, set her briefcase and handbag on the floor, then turned to face him, barring his entrance.

  He was gazing beyond her shoulder into the house. “Nice place.”

  “Nice try.”

  “Nice comeback.” Leaning forward, he added in a whisper, “Two can play that game. And I’m good at games.”

  “I’ll bet you are.” She planted a hand on her hip as though to fortify her blockade. “What are you doing here, Mr. Pierce?”

  “Now that you’ve read my book, why don’t you call me Alex?”

  “How did you know—” Cat broke off, realizing she’d stepped right into his trap. “Okay, you caught me. I read them.”

  “Them? You read both?”

  “I was curious, okay? But I’d still like to know how you found me and why you went to the trouble.”

  “Hungry?”

  “What?”

  “Want to go out for a burger?”

  “With you?”

  He held up his hands, palms out. “I washed my hands. Even under the fingernails. With Lava.”

  In spite of her determination to resist his roguish charm, she ducked her head and laughed. He relaxed his stance and settled his shoulder against the door jamb. “We sort of got off on the wrong foot the other day, didn’t we?”

  “Not ‘sort of.’ We did.”

  “I’m not at my best in the morning. Especially after a marathon night.”

  “Of writing?” The question popped out before she could contain it. She wasn’t certain she wanted to know what activity he’d taken to marathon proportions.

  He must have read her thoughts because he smiled knowingly. “Research, actually. Which isn’t nearly as much fun as writing.”

  “How come?”

  “Because it’s fact, not fiction.”

  “You prefer make-believe to reality?”

  “From what I’ve experienced of reality, yeah, I think I do.” After a short pause, he said, “Anyway, I can’t be held responsible for anything I say or do before my first cup of coffee. It was early—”

  “It was eleven o’clock.”

  “And you had a burr up your ass.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but changed her mind. “I was being rather prissy and judgmental, wasn’t I?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m sorry. You rubbed me the wrong way, and I overreacted.”

  He accepted her apology with a shrug. “I seem to have a knack for pissing people off.” His words were tinged with bitterness. “Anyway, what do you say? Do we give each other a second chance?”

  She hadn’t had a social life since moving to San Antonio. No one at WWSA interested her, but even if there had been an eligible, attractive man, she wouldn’t have encouraged him. She was dead set against dating co-workers. If the romance soured, everything began to stink.

  But did she want to see Alex Pierce socially?

  He was articulate and seemed intelligent. At the Walterses’ place she’d seen his irascibility, but now she was catching glimpses of a sense of humor that wasn’t slapstick but witty. She could enjoy the challenge of such verbal sparring.

  He was significantly better groomed than he’d been the last time she saw him, but he still bore a greater resemblance to the antagonists in his books than to the protagonists. There was an element of danger about him. His charm obscured a dark side that was both intriguing and frightening.

  He was very good-looking. He’d certainly displayed no self-consciousness over meeting a stranger, a woman, wearing nothing but a pair of half-buttoned-up blue jeans. He’d probably known how good he’d looked in them, just as he’d known how unsettling his dishabille had been for her.

  Cat weighed the pros and cons and decided that he was definitely the kind of man she would best avoid.

  But she said, “Do you mind waiting while I change?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The restaurant wasn’t a place she would have chosen, nor would she ever have gone into it alone. The parking lot was filled with pickup trucks. Inside, billiard balls clacked in the background; two-stepping music blared from the jukebox. It was a joint that boasted the best burgers and the coldest beer in Texas.

  The double-fisted burger was indeed thick and juicy. After taking a few prim nibbles, she said to heck with manners and gorged on each oozing bite.

  She dipped a french fry into a glob of ketchup before popping it into her mouth. “You’re not off the hook yet for the insulting crack you made about redheads the other day.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  She gave him a dirty look. “Of course you do. You said the redheads in your books are always easy.”

  “It was a cheap shot,” he conceded, but failed miserably at looking contrite.

  “Unfortunately it was also true,” Cat said. “In your books, the redheads are easy. So are the blondes, the brunettes, and every woman in between. On every other page a female character is…”

  “Putting out.”

  “Yes. The heroes never ask permission
. And the women never say no.”

  “There’s a large dose of fantasy in every work of fiction.”

  “In this case, sexist fantasy.”

  “It worked for Ian Fleming. Did James Bond ever ask ‘May I?’ Was he ever turned down?”

  He wadded up the paper in which his cheeseburger had been wrapped, wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, and rested his forearms on the small round table as though getting down to serious conversation.

  “Aside from the blatant sexism, and disregarding that all the female characters get naked and lie down on command, what did you think of the books?”

  She resented having to tell him how good they were, but she felt compelled to be truthful. Since her opinion seemed important to him, her conscience wouldn’t let her equivocate.

  “They’re good, Alex. Tough. Gritty. Brutally realistic. I had to scan some of the most violent scenes. But they’re damn good. And, hard as it is for me to say so, it was in character every time a woman got naked and lay down.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But—”

  “Uh-oh, the but. You should have been a literary critic. They throw flowers, then kick you in the nuts.”

  She laughed. “I wasn’t going to say anything critical. Truly, I think your writing is brilliant.”

  “Then what’s the but?”

  She hesitated. “It’s sad.”

  “Sad?”

  “Your writing has a…a…” She groped for the right word. “A hopelessness about it. Its orientation is fatalistic.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “I guess that comes from seeing a lot of violence firsthand.”

  “When you were a cop?” He looked surprised that she knew. “It’s in your bio on the dust jacket.”

  “Right.” He sipped his drink. “Too often crime does pay, you know. The bad guys win. These days they seem to be winning more often than not. So if my writing seems fatalistic, I suppose that’s why.”

  “It hit home with me because that’s how I felt…” Again she hesitated. This was only their first date. How much did she want to tell him?

  “How you felt when?”

  She cast her eyes down and fiddled with the red plastic basket that held the remains of her meal. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this. It was publicized, but I don’t make an issue of it because some people act really weird when they find out. It’s no big deal, really, but…”

  She raised her head and looked him in the eye, wanting to gauge his initial reaction. “I had a heart transplant.”

  He blinked once, twice. That was the extent of it. Of course, it was impossible to guess what was going on behind his steady, gray gaze.

  After a moment, his eyes dropped to her chest. She saw him swallow. Then he lifted his eyes back to hers. “How long ago?”

  “Almost four years.”

  “And you’re okay?”

  She laughed to ease her tension. “Of course I’m okay. What’d you think, that I’m going to keel over and stiff you with the check?”

  How an individual would react to an organ transplantee was unpredictable. Some were repulsed. They shivered and shook and didn’t want to talk about it. Others were filled with awe. They reached out and touched her as though she were vested with spiritual powers; they approached her as they would healing waters or a statue of the Virgin Mary that had been known to cry tears of blood. What magic they expected from her, she couldn’t imagine. Still others were rabidly curious, bombarding her with personal and often embarrassing questions.

  “Are you restricted in any way?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said somberly. “I can’t write more than twenty checks a month without a service charge from my bank.”

  He gave her a retiring look. “You know what I mean.”

  Yes, she knew what he meant, but this was the part she hated: qualifying herself. “I have to take a double handful of pills three times every day. I’m supposed to exercise and eat healthy foods just like everybody else. Low fat, low cholesterol.”

  He raised his crooked eyebrow and nodded toward the damage she’d done to the burger and fries.

  “But I passed on the coldest beer in Texas,” she said self-righteously.

  “Alcohol’s a no-no?”

  “Booze messes with my medication. What about you? It hasn’t escaped my notice that you drank a soda while every other testosterone-pumping person in the joint is guzzling suds.”

  The question made him fidgety, but Cat propped her cheek on the heel of her hand and continued staring at him until he relented. “Booze messes with my mind. We slugged it out a few years ago. I went down for the count, but managed to wobble to my feet.”

  “You’re still wobbling?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t trust myself to get back into the ring.”

  He seemed to be waiting for her response, to see if knowing about his former drinking problem would color her opinion of him. She wanted to ask if it had started after he’d left police work or if it had been the reason behind his leaving. The dust jacket bio hadn’t been that detailed.

  She decided not to pry. It really was none of her business, although she was reasonably sure that alcohol had played a part in developing the dark, secret side of his personality she had detected.

  “ ‘Get back into the ring,’ ” she repeated, changing the tone of the conversation. “I think I like talking to an author. The dialogue is riddled with metaphors and analogies. Not to mention the similes, segues, and such.”

  He groaned. “Don’t start that again.”

  As he dropped enough cash on the table to cover their bill and a generous tip, Cat offered to pay her half. “No,” he said, standing and signaling her to her feet. “I invited you. Besides, I need the tax deduction.”

  “This wasn’t a business dinner.”

  “Yes, it was. I just haven’t approached you with the business aspects yet.”

  Once they were outside, he ushered her to his motorcycle and helped her on with the helmet. She swung her leg over the seat, he jumped the starter, and the bike roared to life.

  As they sped from the parking lot, Cat gripped the sides of his waist. He drove fast but carefully. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but recall that Dean always referred to motorcycles as “donor-cycles.”

  That was her only thought of Dean, and it was as fleeting as the cycle’s progress through traffic.

  When they reached her house, she experienced a pang of regret that the trip had been so short. He must have sensed her reluctance to get off the bike. “What?” he asked curiously as he removed his helmet and pushed his hand through his hair.

  “Nothing,” she replied, returning the helmet to him.

  “Something.”

  “I want to thank you for not making a big deal out of it.” He looked at her quizzically. “My transplant. You didn’t blanch at the thought of my riding on the motorcycle with you. You drove just as fast as you did before you knew that I was a transplantee.”

  “Shouldn’t I have?”

  “Most people defer to me because of it. They think I’m fragile. They don’t take chances with me for fear I might break. All that careful consideration gets tiresome. I appreciate that you didn’t treat me with kid gloves. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Their eyes locked; she knew something important was happening. Her attraction to him was too strong to be ignored. And it hadn’t just begun tonight.

  She had felt an inner tug the instant he’d pushed open the screen door of the Walters home and their eyes met for the first time. It had been tempting then to gaze her fill, but she’d resisted. Not now. Now she let her eyes explore his face.

  There’d been looks like this in scenes she’d played on Passages. They communicated that this was a life-changing event, a “wake up and pay attention, this is important” moment. From this time forward nothing would ever be the same. To the delight of home viewers, she’d emoted that impetus, but she’d never experienced it herself. Not like this
.

  Alex was the first to break the stare by taking her elbow and turning her toward the house. “I have a favor to ask,” he said as they went up the front walk.

  “Is this the business part of the evening?”

  “Yes. Would you consider helping me with some of the research for my next book?”

  “How could I help?”

  When they reached the front door, he turned to face her. “By putting out on the first date.”

  “What?”

  “Will you go to bed with me tonight?”

  “No!”

  “There. We’ve completed our business. I asked you to help with my research. You said no, of course, but it was a legitimate and heartfelt request for assistance.”

  She tried to maintain the frown that her laughter was nudging aside. “Do you think the IRS will consider that a legitimate business transaction?”

  “They rarely ask me to be that specific.” A car drove past, calling his attention to it. “This is a great street. Not at all like where I pictured you’d live.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “Something more glitzy.”

  “I have glitzy in Malibu. This is just what I was looking for when I moved here. A tree-lined street in a quiet neighborhood. A thirty-year-old house with hardwood floors and a deep front porch. Something roomy and homey.”

  “A home your mother would feel comfortable in.”

  “Yes. Probably.”

  He immediately picked up on her wistfulness. “I stuck my foot in it, didn’t I? Bad scene?”

  “No scene. Both my parents died when I was eight.”

  “Jesus. What happened?”

  She avoided answering by pretending not to understand his meaning. “I was absorbed into the system.”

  “Foster care?”

  “Hmm. I never was adopted because I’d been sick.”

  “All kids get sick.”

  “Not this sick. I had Hodgkin’s disease. It was detected early, and I was completely cured, but people felt it was risky to adopt a skinny redheaded kid with a history of health problems.” She glanced up at him. “It’s gets really ugly from here. Are you sure you want to hear this?”