Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “I haven’t bolted yet.”

  “You’re free to at any time.” She paused; he stayed. She took a deep breath and plunged on. “I was moved from one foster home to another. Because of repeated rejections, I developed quite an attitude. I misbehaved to get attention. In short, I was a holy terror.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “I was always different from other kids, first because I was terribly ill, then because I didn’t have a real mother and father. Thankfully, I survived it all without developing too many psychological hangups.”

  “I can believe that, too. You have the look of a fierce fighter.” She flexed her thin biceps, and he laughed. “What caused your heart problem?”

  “The chemotherapy I received to combat the Hodgkin’s. It killed the cancer, but did massive damage to my heart. It had been slowly dying for years.”

  “Without your being aware of it?”

  “Totally unaware. I lived a perfectly normal, healthy life. Meanwhile, my heart was petrifying. When there was very little workable muscle left, I began to notice a lack of energy. I blamed it on working too hard, but no amount of rest or vitamins alleviated the fatigue.

  “I went in for a routine checkup and wound up in a cardiologist’s office. To my dismay, he found that a large portion of my heart muscle had become so hard and inflexible, it might just as well have been stone. It couldn’t pump sufficient amounts of blood. It was working at less than a third capacity, which qualified me for a transplant. Or else, I was doomed.”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “Not so frightened as angry. I hadn’t been dealt the best hand when I was a kid, but I’d overcome all the hardships. I was a TV star. Millions of people loved me. Their schedules revolved around watching me. My life was terrific, then this. I wanted to grab God by the collar and say, ‘Hey, I hate to be a complainer, but enough is enough!’ I guess He got the message because He let me live.”

  “Ergo Cat’s Kids.”

  “Ergo Cat’s Kids,” she repeated in a whisper, smiling, gratified that he was intuitive enough to make the connection.

  They continued smiling at each other. Gradually the smiles relaxed, but the stare endured. Shadows were deep on the porch. So was the silence. Another car drove past, but this time it went unnoticed. A mosquito lighted on her arm. Absently she brushed it away.

  They stood face to face, looking into each other’s eyes with mounting intensity, moving imperceptibly but ever closer. Without any warning at all, he raised his hand and slipped it into the opening of her collar. The pads of his fingers moved from the base of her throat down the center of her chest. He followed their progress with his eyes.

  “I expected to see a scar.”

  His hushed baritone coaxed a purling response deep inside her. “It faded, although I still see it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Even though it’s no longer there.”

  “Hmm. Did it hurt?”

  “The scar?”

  “Any of it? All of it?”

  “Some of it was…tricky.”

  “God, you’re brave.”

  “Not in the recovery ICU, I wasn’t. Tubes, catheters, that sensation of choking. Even though I’d been told what to expect, I panicked. It was a torture chamber.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t. Not until you’ve lived through it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “The only thing that kept me going was the knowledge that I had a new heart. I could feel it beating. It felt so strong!”

  “Like now?” He pressed his hand more firmly against her breast.

  “No. It’s beating even stronger now.”

  They spoke in whispers. His fingertips continued to massage the center of her chest. Self-conscious as she was about the scar, it amazed her that she was allowing him to touch it. Yet it seemed right, somehow. His touch was curious but gentle and, whether or not he intended it to be, erotic. She was melting.

  A delicious languor stole through her, as smoothly pervasive as anesthesia. Her nerve endings hummed and tingled, their sensitivity magnified.

  He’d been watching the point of contact between his fingertips and her skin, but gradually his eyes moved back up to hers. They connected and communicated desire. Need.

  “Going to invite me in?” he asked huskily.

  “No. Going to leave mad?”

  “No. Just disappointed.”

  Then his lips claimed hers in a kiss. He wrapped her in his arms. His tongue sought hers, and when they touched, he groaned a sound that was distinctly masculine. It stirred her. She clutched the back of his head, twining her fingers in the hair that grew over his collar.

  They moved together. Their middles bumped, stayed, then nestled intimately. His hand remained inside her blouse, splayed over her heart, which was filling his palm with a rapid pounding.

  His other hand moved aggressively over her back and hips. He cupped the seat of her jeans and held her more tightly against him. The passion behind his kisses intensified.

  Cat flung her head back and gasped for breath. “Alex?”

  “Hmm?” His open mouth was on her throat, kissing it hungrily.

  “I should go in now.”

  He raised his head and blinked her into focus. “Oh, hell. Right.” In one restless motion, he withdrew his hand from her blouse, pushed a lock of hair off his forehead, and turned to leave. He took all three porch steps in one wide stride.

  Remorse shot through her like a sharp pain. “Will you call?”

  He stopped, turned. “Want me to?”

  She felt as though all ten of her toes were lined up along the edge of a high diving board. She would free-fall through the unknown until she made a landing that could be either wonderful or dreadful. She wouldn’t know until she took the plunge. Dangerous as it was, she wanted to experience the fall and find out what lay below.

  “Yes. I want you to.”

  “Then I will.”

  It took her awhile to recover from their kisses. Dazed, she wandered through her house, forgetting why she’d entered a room, unable to focus her thoughts on anything but the feel of Alex’s mouth on hers, his hands on her body. She undressed, showered, and drank a cup of herbal tea in an effort to relax and bring herself down from the erotic high.

  Finally believing she could sleep, she went through the house turning out lights. As she was bolting the front door, she spotted her unopened mail where she’d left it on the entry table.

  “Hell.” She wanted to go to bed, hug her pillow, and relive the time she’d spent with Alex Pierce. But if she put off opening the mail now, she’d have twice as much to open tomorrow night.

  Compromising, she scooped up the correspondence and took it to bed with her. She sorted through it quickly, tossing the advertisements to the floor and placing the bills on her nightstand.

  The last envelope in the pile gave her pause because of its stark white plainness. Her name and address formed three typed lines in the very center of it. There was no letterhead or return address, although it bore a local postmark.

  Intrigued, she opened it and found a newspaper clipping, one column wide, four paragraphs long. No note. No explanation.

  Hastily she scanned the article, then read it carefully and with mounting interest. Its dateline was Memphis, Tennessee. Jerry Ward, a sixteen-year-old boy, had drowned while trapped inside his pickup. Apparently he’d lost control of the vehicle on a rain-slick bridge and had plunged into a creek near his home. It was hours before the wreckage and his body were discovered.

  Cat checked the unremarkable envelope in which the article had been mailed to her. Regardless of the dateline, the story could have been printed in any newspaper in the country. It was filler. Most readers would glance at it, then move on to read Ann Landers or the sports page.

  But the anonymous sender knew that Cat Delaney’s interest would be aroused because she and the boy in Memphis had something in common.

 
Jerry Ward had been a heart transplantee. After combatting a heart ailment since early childhood, he’d undergone a successful transplant, only to die in a tragic accident.

  The cruel irony of that didn’t escape Cat.

  Which she suspected was the sender’s intent.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nancy Webster slipped into bed beside her husband. She placed her hand on his tummy, a habitual gesture that brought their day to an official close. He covered her hand and absently stroked the back of it.

  “What’s on your mind tonight?” she asked softly.

  He smiled. “Lots of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nothing specific.”

  In the early days of their marriage he had discussed with her every aspect of his workday. They’d discussed their hopes and dreams in whispers so as not to awaken the children sleeping in the next room.

  Over the years, other obligations had pulled at them, sometimes taking precedence over those quiet pillow talks. Nancy missed them and longed for the days when he had valued her opinion above all others. He still did, she was sure; he just didn’t ask for it as frequently as he had before his success was assured.

  “The new Neilsen ratings come out tomorrow,” he remarked.

  “Last time WWSA was far and away the leader in this market,” she reminded him. “Your primary competitor was running a distant second place. I predict you’ll have an even stronger lead this time.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  She scooted closer and laid her head on his shoulder. “What else?”

  “Oh, nothing. Everything.”

  “Cat Delaney?”

  She sensed his immediate reaction. It was subtle—a tensing of muscle, a slight withdrawal although they continued to touch—but unmistakable.

  “Why would I be thinking about Cat?” he asked testily. “Any more than I’d be thinking about Dirk Preston or Wally Seymour or Jane Jesco?” he said, naming WWSA’s other popular on-air personalities.

  “That’s what I’m asking, Bill,” she said softly. “Is there any special reason why you’d be thinking about Cat?”

  “She does an excellent job for us. But she got herself in a bit of a bind last week, with that couple rescinding their adoption.” He paused. “Thank God they didn’t place the blame on us.”

  He resettled himself. Beneath the covers, his foot made contact with hers, but he pulled it back. “Cat’s conscientious. Sometimes too much so, I think. I admire her and I like her.”

  “So do I.” Nancy propped herself on her elbow and looked down at him. “But I don’t want to share my husband with her.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked brusquely.

  “Bill, something’s wrong between us.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “I can feel it. I’ve been married to you more than thirty years. I’ve slept beside you every night of that time. I’ve seen you happy, sad, frustrated, jubilant, distraught. I know all your moods. I…I love you.”

  Her voice cracked and she hated that because the last thing she wanted to become was a whining wife who would drive her husband straight into the arms of another woman, one who was more understanding and less prone to nag and interrogate.

  He touched her hair. “I love you, too. And I swear to God I’m not having an affair with Cat Delaney.”

  “But you’re obsessed with her. You were even before you met her.”

  “I wanted her for WWSA.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “It’s more than professional interest. You’ve gone after anchorpeople before, but not with the singlemindedness that you pursued her. Are you sexually obsessed with her?”

  “No!” It came out harsh and loud. Lowering his voice, he repeated, “No, Nancy.”

  She gazed at him, searching for the truth, but his eyes revealed nothing. That implacability had helped to make him an excellent businessman. If he didn’t want to be read, no one could read him.

  Continuing the argument would be tantamount to calling him a liar and would only widen the rift. For the time being, she decided to let it rest. “All right.”

  He pulled her close and placed his arm around her. “You know I love you. You know that, Nancy.”

  She nodded. But, for her peace of mind, she wanted it demonstrated physically. Taking his hand, she placed it against her breast. He responded. They kissed, caressed. When he entered her, she wrapped her legs around him possessively.

  Afterward, she snuggled against him, listening to his deep, rhythmic breathing. Although they were touching skin to skin, although their coupling had been sexy and passionate, it had lacked the spiritual intimacy they’d shared for years. Something was interfering.

  Cat Delaney didn’t seem the type to become entangled with a married man, but she was, after all, an actress. Her open friendliness could be an act. Nancy was never complacent when it came to other women. Bill was handsome, charming, and wealthy—quarry for legions of women whose morality would not deter them from breaking up a marriage.

  As good as their relationship had been, it could happen. She and Bill had met and married during college, but many marriages broke up after thirty or more years. She couldn’t depend on sentiment to hold them together. Nor did she rely on their six children to bind Bill to her forever.

  Nancy depended only on the love that had endured for more than three decades—and on herself. Fighting gravity every step of the way, she kept in top physical form. At fifty-four, her skin was taut and virtually unlined. A honey-colored hair rinse concealed what little gray she had. She worked out in a gym three days a week and played golf and tennis socially, all of which helped to combat middle-age sag. When she looked in a mirror, she immodestly considered herself in better shape than most women half her age.

  She’d never had career goals of her own. Instead, she had devoted her energies to the pursuance of Bill’s. He had started as a studio camera operator while still in his teens and had worked his way up to the sales department, then moved into management, bouncing from station to station, city to city, state to state.

  The first fifteen years of their marriage, they’d had so many addresses that Nancy lost count. She hadn’t minded the moves. With each job Bill had elevated his position in the industry, and she knew how vitally important that was to him.

  While serving as general manager at a station in Michigan, he had engineered its sale to a media conglomerate and earned himself a whopping bonus. The new owners had asked him to stay, but he opted to use his bonus as a down payment on his own station. WWSA had become like another child to him and Nancy. He had nurtured it. She had nurtured him.

  She planned to remain in her role of confidante, wife, friend, and lover until her last breath. She loved William Webster and would go to any lengths to keep him.

  Resting her cheek against her pillow, she watched him sleep. With this man she had experienced levels of love she hadn’t known existed. Her love for him was complex and multifaceted, marked by cataclysmic episodes in their lives. Their wedding day. Each step of his career. Each success and setback. The birth of each child. The death of one.

  Nancy’s breath caught in her throat.

  Was it possible that Bill was stating the unmitigated truth? What if his obsession with Cat Delaney wasn’t sexual? Could it have something to do with Carla?

  That possibility filled Nancy with dread.

  “Good morning, Ms. Delaney.”

  Cat stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Melia King behind the reception desk outside the news director’s office.

  “Excuse me a moment.” Melia answered the chiming, hands-free telephone. “Good morning. WWSA news. How may I direct your call?” She beeped one of the reporters, then gave Cat her most ingratiating smile. “I work here now.”

  Cat reversed her direction. Forsaking the elevator in favor of the stairs, she reached the personnel office in record time and approached the secretary. Without preamble she asked if Melia King was still
on the payroll.

  “She’s the newsroom receptionist now.”

  “How is that possible?” Cat asked. “I fired her two weeks ago.”

  “She was rehired.”

  “When? Why?”

  “I’m really not at liberty to discuss another employee’s business with you, Ms. Delaney. I was told to reinstate her,” she said. “That’s all I know.”

  Cat glanced at the closed door to the personnel manager’s office. “I’d like to see her. Please announce me.”

  “She’s not here, Ms. Delaney. But I’ll leave a message with her.”

  “No, thank you. This can’t wait.” She turned to leave, then looked back at the anxious secretary. “I promise to keep you out of this.”

  She left the personnel office, marched to the end of the hall, and barged into the CEO’s executive suite. “Is he in?”

  Webster’s assistant looked both affronted and afraid, as though this virago with flaming hair and flashing eyes had demanded her money or her life. “Yes, but he—”

  “Thanks.”

  Bill was on the telephone when she flung open the door. He glanced up querulously, but when he saw that his unannounced guest was Cat, he smiled and motioned her in.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll get back to you on that next week. Surely. Thank you, yes. Goodbye.” He hung up and stood politely, a broad smile in place. “I’m glad you came up, Cat. I was hoping we’d have a chance to chat today.”

  “I’m not here for a chat.”

  Her harsh tone surprised him. His smile faded. “I can see that. Sit down.”

  “I’d rather stand. Are you aware that Melia King is back on the payroll?”

  “Ah, that’s what this is about.”

  “The personnel manager reinstated her after I fired her. Why she would do that, I can’t fathom, but I want and expect you to intervene and uphold my decision.”

  “I can’t do that, Cat.”

  “You’re the CEO. Of course you can.”

  “I can’t because I authorized Ms. King’s reinstatement.”

  She took a seat then, but not consciously. Shock had weakened her knees, and she plopped down onto the chair. After gazing at him incredulously for several seconds, she laid both palms flat on his desk and leaned toward him. “Why, Bill?”