Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “Whatever the hell you call it,” he said, “it’s the same color as your hair and makes you shimmer like flames.”

  “Spoken like a writer. You’re a poet and didn’t know it.”

  “But you can tell by my feet. They’re a coupla Longfellows,” he said, completing the banality. He looked down at his bare feet. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

  He took the stairs two at a time. By the time he’d reached the gallery, he’d unfastened the fly of his trousers and was stuffing in his shirttail. “There might be something in the fridge to drink. I’m not sure. Help yourself to whatever’s there.”

  “Okay, thanks. Where’s your motorcycle? I didn’t see it outside.”

  “I put it in the shop for a complete overhaul.”

  “Shoot. I’d like to ride it again.”

  “Yeah. Once you have that much power between your legs, you get addicted.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m going to miss it. The guy said it might take a few months to do the job right.”

  “How’s the novel going?”

  “It sucks.”

  “I doubt that.” Her experience with writers was that they typically held low opinions of their current projects.

  She meandered around his living room, searching for clues into the nature of the man. There were none. The only personal aspect to the room was his hasty attempt to straighten it before her arrival. Otherwise it lacked the stamp of occupancy and ownership. There were no family photos, no memorabilia, no mail or coupons or receipts. The furnishings lacked character and looked rented.

  She was vaguely disappointed.

  Stashed beneath the stairs she discovered two shipping boxes with the titles of his two novels stenciled on them. They were still sealed. Why hadn’t he dispensed copies of his books to family and friends? Maybe he had, and these were extras. Or maybe he didn’t have any family and friends.

  And maybe her imagination was running away with her.

  She glanced through the miniblinds on the French doors. There was nothing remarkable about the deck. It looked unused.

  On her way down the short hall to the kitchen, she noticed a closed door he’d failed to point out to her. Closet? Powder room? She stepped back to gauge the dimensions of the space behind the door. The area was larger than a closet or small bathroom.

  Her hand was on the doorknob before she even realized she was reaching for it. She paused to reconsider. Why hadn’t he mentioned this room? Had the omission been intentional?

  She cautiously turned the knob. The door opened soundlessly. There was nothing to see inside but darkness. She widened the crack and poked her head into the room.

  Faint light leaked through the drawn blinds. She could barely discern shapes, but she saw what looked like a table, a—

  His hand clamped down on her wrist.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Damn it, Alex!” She wrenched her hand free and whirled around to face him. “You scared the crap out of me! What’s the matter with you?”

  He pulled the door shut with a decisive click. “That room is no-man’s-land. No visitors allowed.”

  “Then why didn’t you post a No Trespassing sign? What do you do in there, print counterfeit money?”

  He took her wrist, loosely this time. “Sorry if I startled you. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that I’m very protective of my work space.”

  “To say the least,” she said crossly.

  “Please understand. What I do in there is extremely personal.” He stared at the closed door as if he could see through it. “In that room I’m at my best, and at my worst. It’s where I give birth to every goddamn word, and giving birth is painful as hell. It’s where I create. Also where I curse the creative process. It’s my ultraprivate, masochistic torture chamber.”

  He smiled wryly. “Sounds crazy to a nonwriter, I know, but having somebody invade my work space would be like having somebody rape my subconscious. It would be violated. It would never again belong exclusively to me and my thoughts.”

  The chastisement was well deserved. She shouldn’t have poked her nose into a room with a closed door. Artists and sculptors kept their current projects under wraps until they were completed. No one ever heard a composer’s music until it met with his satisfaction. She should have guessed that Alex would be at least as protective of his writing.

  “I didn’t realize,” she said remorsefully. “I’m sorry.”

  “Except for this room, you can have the run of the place. I’ll allow you access to my pantry and refrigerator, my dirty clothes hamper, even my private collection of erotica, but this room is off limits.”

  “My curiosity,” she said, shaking her head. “One of the child welfare counselors predicted that it would be my undoing. But he also thought that chocolate was poison and cautioned me never to eat it.” She glanced at him, her expression only partially repentant. “I’m afraid I didn’t heed either warning.”

  He propped one of his forearms against the wall, trapping her there. “You’re forgiven for your curiosity. Forgive me for overreacting?”

  He’d draped a tie around his neck, but he hadn’t knotted it yet. He smelled of soap—clean, damp, male skin, which to Cat was more appealing than expensive fragrance. His hair was still uncombed and looked only towel-dried. Altogether, he was one gorgeous, incredibly sexy man.

  “You have a private stash of erotica?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long have you been collecting?”

  “Since I was old enough to know it was nasty.”

  “That long? Hmm. I’d like to see it sometime.”

  He grinned lazily. “I think you have a wicked streak, Cat Delaney.”

  “That was another thing that confounded the social workers.”

  His eyes scanned her face, then moved down her throat. He was standing so close that, in order to take in the rest of her, he had to tilt down his head. The top of his head glanced her cheekbone. She felt his breath on her chest.

  He still had hold of her right wrist. He flattened it against the wall a little above her head, the underside facing outward. He kissed that delicate, translucent patch of skin where her pulse was racing. He stroked it with his tongue.

  Then his lips grazed hers. “What time does that party get under way?”

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “Damn.” Ducking his head, he nuzzled her neck where it merged with her shoulder.

  “But I’d planned for us to be fashionably late.”

  “How come? Figured I wouldn’t be ready in time?”

  “No. Just in case…Uh…” It was difficult to think while he was nibbling her earlobe. “You know, just in case we got…tied up.”

  “You want to get tied up?”

  Her stomach rose and fell. There was a catch in her throat. “I meant tied up in traffic or something.”

  “Oh. Traffic. Right.”

  He began to pull away, but Cat grabbed his necktie. “We’re not missing anything,” she whispered. “They’ll have an extended cocktail hour.”

  “And neither of us drinks.” He placed his hand beneath her breast and pushed it up, bending his head down to the fullness that swelled above the neckline of her dress. He gently sucked her skin against his teeth.

  Cat moaned in pleasure and arched against him.

  He raised his head and kissed her mouth, his tongue wily and provocative. When the kiss finally ended, he kept his lips resting against hers. His breath rushed in and out. “So…?”

  “What?”

  “Wanna fuck?”

  The unexpected vulgarity doused her desire like a bucket of cold water in the face. She shoved him away.

  He raised his hands at his sides in a gesture of innocence and surrender. “You accused the heroes in my novels of never asking permission. Thought I’d give it a try, that’s all.”

  “You could have phrased it a li
ttle more politely!”

  “Okay.” Looking contrite, he folded his hands beneath his chin. “Wanna fuck, please, ma’am?”

  “Cute.”

  She tried to move past him, but he caught her around the waist and placed her between him and the wall again. There was no doubt as to whether he was teasing when he kissed her this time. More possessive than seductive, he continued to kiss her until her anger evaporated and she was kissing him back with equal ardor.

  When he finally released her, Cat’s lips throbbed hotly. Her entire body was flushed and tingling.

  “I want you,” he said. “But not when I have to worry about messing up your hair or makeup.” He ran his thumb roughly over her lower lip. “Not when I’m in a hurry and under a deadline. Not when we’re expected at a party that might earn you some cash for your kids. Because I doubt that once with you will be enough. Got that?”

  Left breathless and aroused by his speech, she could only nod in response.

  “I was having some fun with you by being crude, but the invitation stands. As stated.” His eyes went measurably darker. “It’s only a matter of you choosing the time and place. Understood?”

  Again she nodded.

  He held her stare for a ten count, then turned away. “Give me a few more minutes.”

  “Cat, you’re here!” Nancy Webster embraced her. “Everyone’s dying to meet you.”

  A uniformed maid had shown Cat and Alex into the living room of the Websters’ impressive home. Tonight it was brimming with the city’s affluent and influential. The noise level was indicative of Nancy Webster’s ability to make her guests feel at ease.

  “I apologize for being late,” Cat said. “We—”

  “It was my fault,” Alex interrupted. “Something came up.”

  That earned him a dirty look from Cat, but Nancy was so eager to meet him that both the wisecrack and Cat’s silent rebuke escaped her notice.

  Nancy clasped hands with him. “Mr. Pierce, welcome.”

  “Alex, please.”

  “I was so excited when Bill told me that Cat was bringing you tonight. I’m honored and delighted to have you in our home.”

  “I’m very pleased to be here.”

  “Come meet my husband. What would you like to drink?”

  Nancy was a flawless hostess. With seemingly no effort she soon had a Perrier and lime in Alex’s hand, and he and Bill on a first-name basis.

  “I read your first novel and thought it very good for a first effort,” Bill said.

  It was one of those qualified compliments to which there was no appropriate response. Alex wondered if Webster realized that, and decided immediately that he did. The man was trying to discredit him without it being obvious.

  He mustered some graciousness. “Thank you for the compliment and the royalty.”

  “Are you working on another book?”

  “I’m hard at it, yes.”

  “Is the story set in San Antonio?”

  “Parts of it.”

  Cat looped her arm through Alex’s. “Save your questions, Bill. You won’t squeeze anything out of him. He’s very cloak-and-dagger when it comes to his work.”

  Webster looked at him curiously. “Why’s that?”

  “Talking about the story before it’s written spoils the surprises. Not for the reader, but for me.”

  “You’re writing the book, but you don’t know what’s going to happen next?”

  “Not always, no.”

  Webster frowned, looking doubtful. “I’m afraid I’m too goaloriented to work like that.”

  Who gives a fuck? was Alex’s thought.

  Cat broke the awkward silence. “I hate to brag, but Alex has asked me to help with his research.”

  “Really?” Webster said.

  “He was finding the bedroom scenes difficult to write, so I told him some stories from my sordid Hollywood past and gave him permission to…” She gestured as though trying to grasp the right word.

  “Elaborate?” Nancy said helpfully.

  “No. To tone them down.”

  Everyone within earshot laughed.

  “As much as we’d like to monopolize them, Bill, we can’t,” Nancy said. “Our other guests would never forgive us. Cat? Alex?” She moved between them and linked her arms with theirs. “First, I want to introduce you to our new mayor and her husband.”

  She guided them around the room; introductions were made. Alex was pleased by the number of people who claimed to be fans. Cat had an even greater number of admirers. Everyone had something good to say about Cat’s Kids. She never took full credit but shared it with her crew.

  “From Bill Webster on down, everyone at WWSA is committed to the success of the project,” she said.

  One of the guests mentioned a story that had appeared in the Sunday edition of the San Antonio Light. It was about the little girl who’d recently been adopted and then had undergone a kidney transplant.

  “Yes, Chantal’s story is inspiring,” Cat remarked to the woman who’d called attention to it. Then she looked at Webster and, in an undertone, said, “Wonder how Truitt likes the taste of crow?”

  For several days the entertainment reporter had pursued the O’Connor story, but to no avail. After the station’s public relations department issued a statement, there were no further comments from WWSA. At the advice of their attorney, the O’Connors refused to be interviewed. Then, after counseling made them see how skillfully their adopted little girl had concealed her emotional corruption, the distressed couple had decided to keep her after all.

  Both the state agency and Cat’s Kids had narrowly escaped disaster. Cat hoped this most recent newspaper story would dispel any lingering doubts as to the validity of the program.

  She said, “What’s happened in Chantal’s life is nothing short of a miracle. Unfortunately, there are many other children with special problems who deserve their own miracles.

  “They’re drifting through the foster care system. Be assured that many foster parents are loving, caring people. But these special children desperately need permanent homes.”

  Dinner was a seven-course affair that lasted more than two hours. Alex would have been bored stiff if not for Cat, who, at the urging of the other guests, related stories about some of the children featured on Cat’s Kids.

  Her audience was spellbound by her moving accounts. Some evoked laughter, others tears. Cat’s animated delivery was as stirring as the nature of the stories she told. Her voice conveyed her passionate dedication to the program she’d undertaken.

  By the time the white chocolate mousse was served, she had everyone at the table fired up and chatting excitedly about a celebrity fund-raiser.

  As Alex held her chair for her when dinner was over, he leaned down and whispered, “It’s in the bag.”

  After the other guests had left, the Websters prevailed upon him and Cat to stay for a last cup of coffee to toast the evening’s success. “Let’s go into Bill’s study where we can get comfortable,” Nancy suggested, leading the way.

  A maid carried in a silver service, but Nancy poured. “Would you care for a brandy, Alex?”

  “Just coffee, please.”

  “I noticed that you skipped wine at dinner,” Bill observed as he reached for the cup of brandy-laced coffee that Nancy had poured for him. “Are you a teetotaler?”

  “Yes.”

  Feeling no obligation to explain his abstinence to Webster, Alex left it at that. However, his failure to expound created another chasm of silence. Again, Cat bridged it.

  “Is this a family picture album?” She reached for the large leather-bound book on the coffee table. She settled herself on the floor, tucking her legs beneath her. “Mind if I look through it?”

  “Of course not,” Nancy replied. “We could bore you for hours with pictures of the children.”

  “How many do you have?” Alex asked.

  “Six.”

  “Six!” He raised his cup of coffee in a silent salute. “No one w
ould ever guess by looking at their mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “She keeps herself in perfect shape,” Webster said, smiling proudly.

  “Are your children still at home?”

  While Nancy gave Alex a rundown of where their various offspring were and what they were doing, Cat continued to turn the pages of the album. Every now and then Alex glanced over her shoulder at the photographs. From what he could tell, the Webster children were much like their parents. They had all-American good looks and seemed to be overachievers, as they were frequently photographed holding a trophy or ribbon.

  “So actually,” Nancy summarized, “only the youngest still lives with us, although he’s rarely at home. He’s editor of his high school newspaper and that—”

  “My God!”

  Cat’s startled exclamation cut Nancy off.

  In an instant, all eyes were focused on her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Did you know you were a dead ringer for their daughter Carla?”

  Fully aware of Alex’s heavy stare, Cat concentrated on driving and kept her eyes on the road. “There was some resemblance,” she acknowledged.

  “That’s a prince of an understatement.”

  “She had brown eyes, not blue.”

  “But she had curly red hair, and the shape of her face was the same.” Tilting his head, he analyzed her profile. “Her bone structure wasn’t as pronounced. Not as angular. But the likeness was remarkable.”

  Her eyes riveted on the road, she kept a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

  “You know I’m right,” he persisted. “When you saw her picture, you looked ready to faint. Your cheeks turned red.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “That’s what I do. I observe people and write down what I observe.”

  “Well, I don’t like being observed!”

  “That’s too bad, because you’re a fascinating observation. So’s Webster.”

  “Bill? Why?”