Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I had only a few appointments over the next several days. It was easy to reschedule them and take a few days off.”

  “However it came about, I’m awfully glad you’re here.”

  She was lying and Alex knew it. Furthermore, so did Spicer.

  “Actually your timing was good,” she said with forced gaiety. “We were just returning from a dinner party hosted by the Websters.”

  Spicer made a noncommittal grunt.

  “Nancy’s organizing a celebrity fund-raiser for Cat’s Kids.”

  “How nice.”

  “The crème de la crème of San Antonio society were there.”

  “Which I’m sure isn’t saying much.”

  Alex admired the self-control it must have cost her to ignore Spicer’s insulting remark. Even her smile held up. “The women there were all aflutter over meeting Alex.”

  Spicer turned to him. “You’re a cop, right?”

  “Formerly.”

  Another harrumph, rife with disdain.

  “Alex writes crime novels now. He’s become quite famous. Have you read either of his books?”

  Spicer looked at her as though the very idea was unthinkable. “No.”

  “Maybe you should,” Alex said blandly.

  “I can’t think of a single reason why I’d want to.”

  “You might learn something useful, like how to defend yourself.”

  Spicer shot to his feet, then swayed dizzily and had to grab hold of the back of his chair to keep from pitching forward. Alex suppressed another satisfied grin.

  Cat had sprung up to assist the cardiologist back into his chair. As soon as he was resettled, she planted both fists on her hips and said angrily, “All right, I’ve had it with you two. I’m trying to be Emily Post, and trying to referee, and neither role suits me. Now cut it out! You’re acting like jerks. Over nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t call this nothing,” Spicer said, pointing to the scratch on his cheek.

  “Gimme a break,” Alex muttered.

  “You almost did.” Spicer sneered. “In fact, you threatened to break my arm.”

  “Dean—”

  “Because I thought you were a burglar. Turns out you’re only a fool for creeping around in the dark and—”

  “Alex…”

  He came to his feet. “Save it, Cat. Doesn’t matter. I think I heard my taxi pull up outside.”

  “You’ve already called one?”

  “While you were getting the first-aid stuff.”

  “Oh. I thought you’d stay and visit with us.”

  “No, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your guest. It’s been an experience. Doctor.”

  Spicer glowered at him. To cover his rudeness, Cat murmured, “I’ll see you out, Alex.”

  She walked him through her house to the front door. She’d removed her high heels, so her footsteps fell silently on the hardwood floors, although they creaked pleasantly beneath his weight.

  The rooms were spacious, illuminated by strategically placed lamps instead of ceiling light fixtures. Their soft light fell on framed photographs, magazines, and bowls of fragrant potpourri. The sofas and chairs were oversized and overstuffed and piled with pillows. The ambience was unpretentious, soft, and friendly.

  She opened the front door. “You were right. The taxi’s here.” It was parked at the curb behind Spicer’s rental car.

  Turning back, she said softly, “Thanks again for escorting me to the party tonight.”

  “Thanks for asking me.”

  If she were smart, she would leave it there and say good night. But she didn’t. Laughing weakly, she said, “We had a surprise ending to the evening, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah.”

  “More exciting than a quiet cup of coffee.”

  “Less exciting than a roll in the sack.”

  She tossed her head. “Must you be so crude?”

  “Must you be so coy? You know damn good and well that we were headed for bed.”

  “I had already said no.”

  “But did you mean it?”

  She lowered her head. He touched her chin and brought it back up. “We’re grown-ups. We both know what we’re leading up to, so don’t try and bullshit me, okay? Since I looked at you through Irene and Charlie’s screen door I’ve wanted you. And you’ve known it. And you’ve wanted me, too. Everything we’ve said and done since then has been foreplay.”

  She glanced nervously toward the kitchen. That irked him. “I get the message. Good night, Cat.”

  He slipped through the door and was about halfway down the walk when he glanced back over his shoulder. She was still standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the light behind her. One hand was raised and resting on the jamb, as though it had been arrested in a motion of entreaty.

  Whether it was because she looked wistful and a little forlorn, or because he was still pissed because her former lover had shown up at an inopportune time, or because he truly was the shit he’d confessed to being, he disregarded his conscience and his better judgment and reversed his direction. He covered the same distance in a fraction of the time.

  Without a word, he cupped the back of her head and slid his fingers up through her hair. His other arm encircled her waist and pulled her against him. He kissed her with lust and anger, his mouth hard. His tongue thrust deeply and possessively.

  Then, as abruptly as he’d begun the kiss, he ended it.

  She stared up at him, her wet lips parted in astonishment. He left her looking stunned and aroused, kissable, and fuckable; and when he marched down the walk the second time, he was angrier than before. With Spicer, with her, with himself. With everything.

  Every goddamn thing.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  Dean didn’t waste any time. No sooner had she cleared the kitchen door than he plunged right into the topic she’d hoped they could avoid.

  “What?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Cat. This thing with that cop cum writer.” His interrogative stare demanded an answer.

  “There’s no thing with Alex and me.” She told him about the mix-up at the Walterses’ house. “Since that bizarre first meeting, we’ve seen each other a few times. It’s friendly. That’s all.”

  Dean snorted skeptically.

  Because she had lied with the same lips that still throbbed from Alex’s kiss, she went on the offensive. “Look, Dean, I’m glad you came to see me, but who gave you the liberty to break into my house while I wasn’t home?”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind. I already tried to explain it to you and that Neanderthal. When you weren’t here, I decided to let myself in and wait. I can’t understand why you’re so upset. I had a set of keys to your house in Malibu. I fail to see the difference.”

  “The difference is that I gave you the keys to the Malibu house. I knew you had them.” She realized that her voice was rising along with her anger, so she scaled it down. “You should have let me know you were coming. I don’t like surprises. I’ve told you that a million times.”

  “Then your dislike for surprises is one of the few things about you that hasn’t changed since you came here.”

  Abruptly he stood and began to move around the room without taking his eyes off her. It was as though he wanted to view her from several different perspectives.

  “I don’t know what’s caused the change. Whether it’s hanging out with that hoodlum or your job here. But something’s had an adverse effect. You’re different.”

  “In what way?”

  “You’re skittish. Nervous. Like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she did, and it bothered her that it was so visible.

  “The minute I saw you it was apparent to me. Whatever is wrong—” Suddenly his face went slack. “Oh, God. Are you feeling okay? Is there anything wrong with your heart? Have you shown signs of rejecting?”

  She held up her hands t
o ease his alarm. “No, Dean.” She shook her head, her expression softening to reassure him. “I feel wonderful. I still marvel over how good I feel. Each day I discover something I can do that was once impossible. Even after all this time, the newness hasn’t worn off.”

  “Just don’t get reckless,” he said in his stern doctor’s voice. “I’m relieved that you’re doing well now, but if you ever have any sign of rejection, you know to call me. Immediately.”

  “I promise.”

  “I know you get annoyed when I harp on you, but someone has to keep reminding you that you’re not like everyone else. You’re a heart transplantee.

  “I am like everyone else. I don’t want to be pampered.”

  He was deaf to her protests. “You work too hard.”

  “I love to work. I’ve thrown myself headlong into Cat’s Kids.”

  “Is that why you’re wound up so tight?”

  She wanted to show Dean the mysterious clippings and their envelopes. She would welcome his evaluation. But, knowing Dean, he would probably insist that she notify the police. To do so would be to admit their significance. She was still trying to convince herself that the veiled warnings meant nothing.

  “Perhaps I seem uptight because tonight’s party was more than just a social gathering. I had to impress a lot of people, and that’s exhausting. At any given time I’ve got a lot on my mind,” she told him honestly.

  “I love the work and the kids, but a program like this isn’t without its headaches, some relating to production and others to dealing with bureaucracy. The red tape is always tangled. By day’s end, I feel like a one-armed juggler with ten balls in the air.”

  “You can give it up.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Even with all its difficulties, I love it. It’s worth every ounce of effort when we place a child with parents who’re going to turn his or her life around, make a dream out of a nightmare. No, Dean, I’m not going to give it up.”

  “So work’s terrific. It must be something else.” He probed her eyes. “Is it Pierce who has you on edge?”

  “Back to that?”

  “How involved are you?”

  She could not answer him honestly, for the truth was that she was involved with Alex to the point of wanting their relationship to intensify, to move to the next level.

  “He’s interesting and intelligent,” she said. “Articulate but uncommunicative, if that makes sense. Extremely complex. The better acquainted we become, the less I feel I know him. He intrigues me.”

  “Cat,” he groaned, “listen to yourself. He’s a tough-talking, good-looking macho man who intrigues you. Don’t you get it?”

  “He’s the bad boy no woman can resist,” she said softly, having thought of that herself before now.

  “If you acknowledge that, why are you pursuing it?” He shook his head in bafflement. “What could you possibly see in him? He’s a thug. You can tell it at a glance. Have you noticed that scar in his eyebrow? God only knows—”

  “A punk hit him with a beer bottle.”

  “Oh, so you have noticed.” He bore down on her, firing questions like bullets. “Does he have any other scars? Have you seen them all? Have you slept with him?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “Which means you have.”

  “Which means that whether I have or have not, it’s no concern of yours. I no longer owe you an accounting of whom I see, socially or otherwise.” To spare his bruised ego another blow, she downscaled her anger. “I don’t want to fight, Dean. Please understand.”

  “I understand perfectly. You think you want the passion and fire you claimed was lacking in our relationship. You want a tough guy in tight blue jeans who makes your knees go weak.”

  “Yes,” she admitted with a spark of defiance. “The wardrobe is negotiable, but I’d like my knees to go weak.”

  “Jesus, Cat. That’s so…juvenile.”

  “I know you think I’m foolish and idealistic.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m a pragmatist. I have no faith in ideals. Life is a series of realities, usually ugly ones.”

  “No one knows that better than I, Dean,” she reminded him. “That’s why I’m holding out for something really terrific. In the most important relationship of my life, I refuse to settle for second best. The friendship and camaraderie are essential, but, if and when I fall in love, I want the whole fizzy package. I want romance. I want to tingle.”

  “And you think this Alex character can deliver?”

  “It’s premature to speculate. Besides, he isn’t the issue.”

  “Like hell. If I weren’t here, would he be making you tingle right now?”

  For several moments Cat refused to answer. Finally, when it was apparent that he wasn’t going to back down, she said, “I honestly don’t know. Maybe.” Then, remembering Alex’s departing kiss, she added more quietly, “Probably.”

  He yanked his coat off the back of the chair. “Maybe you should call him to come back.”

  “Dean, don’t go like this,” she said, reaching for him as he moved to the door. “Don’t leave angry. Don’t punish me for not being madly in love with you. You’re still my best friend. I need you in a very special way. I don’t want anything to interfere with our friendship.…Dean!”

  He never slowed down, just went out the front door and let it slam shut behind him. The tires of his rental car squealed as he sped away.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  George Murphy was feeling particularly ornery as he strode up the buckled, cracked sidewalk toward the ramshackle rental house. As he stepped onto the sagging porch, the rotting planks threatened to crack. The blue paint on the front door was faded and chipped. When he hauled it open, the hinges squeaked.

  The living room stank of old cooking grease and marijuana. Murphy kicked aside a stuffed bunny and cursed when he tripped over a toy truck. In a parody of Ward Cleaver, he sang out, “Honey, I’m home.”

  She emerged from the single bedroom, her face puffy from sleep. Although it was the middle of the day, she was wearing a light cotton nightgown. She ran her tongue over dry, caked lips. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here!”

  She clasped her hands at her waist. “When did they let you out?”

  “Hour or so ago. They had no evidence, so they couldn’t hold me.”

  It had been a pissant possession charge, trumped up by a couple of cops who didn’t like his looks and wanted to hassle him. No big deal. But jail time interfered with the things he liked to do. He was thirsty for a beer and horny as hell.

  He gave her a calculating look. She seemed unusually nervous. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Aren’t you glad to have me back home?”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously, then cut to the bedroom door. “Son of a bitch. If there’s a man in there, I’ll kill you.”

  “There’s no…”

  He shoved her aside and barged into the airless bedroom. Lying asleep on his side, amid the dingy sheets, was a child. The little boy had drawn his knees to his chest. His right thumb was in his mouth.

  Murphy felt foolish now for revealing his jealousy to her. To save face, he also checked the bathroom, but of course it was empty. As he stepped out of the bathroom, he pointed down at the sleeping boy. “They brought him back?”

  She nodded. “This morning. I’d been up crying for two nights. Couldn’t work. Couldn’t do anything except think about Michael. I was so glad to see him. I thought they’d taken him for good this time.” On the brink of tears, she swallowed hard.

  “The caseworker said that if…if there was any more trouble, they’d take him away permanently. This is our last chance.” Tears filled her eyes as she looked at him imploringly. “Please don’t do anything that might—”

  “Get me a beer.” She hesitated and glanced worriedly at the boy. Murphy cuffed her on the side of the head. “I said get me a beer,” he repeated
, overenunciating each word. “Are you deaf or stupid or what?”

  She darted from the room, returning momentarily with a can of Coors. “This is the last one. I’ll go get you some more as soon as Michael wakes up. While I’m at the store, I’ll buy something for supper, too. What would you like?”

  He grunted with satisfaction. This agreeable attitude was more to his liking. Sometimes the bitch got out of line and had to be reminded that he was the man of the household. “I don’t want any more of that shit you fixed last week.”

  “Pollo guisado. It’s a Mexican stew.”

  “Couldn’t even figure out what the fuck was in it.”

  “Tonight I’ll fix you some fried potatoes.”

  He belched beer and jail breath. Now, her eagerness to please was getting on his nerves. Women should be born mute, he thought.

  “And I’ll cook hamburger steaks. With onions. Just the way you like them.”

  No longer listening, Murphy crumpled his empty beer can and tossed it aside, then began rummaging through the junk on top of the dresser. “Wha’d you do with it?”

  “Don’t, please. You can’t. Not here. If the caseworker should come by…”

  On the dresser was a clear, plastic, compartmentalized box containing dozens of beads in various sizes, shapes, and colors. With a vicious sweep of his arm, he knocked it to the floor. Uttering a soft cry of helplessness, she watched as the spilled beads scattered across the cracked linoleum.

  He caught her arms and shook her roughly. “Forget the fucking beads. Where’s my stuff?”

  Indecision played across her face, but the spark of rebellion in her eyes quickly flickered out. “Bottom drawer.”

  “Get it.”

  When she bent down, the nightgown pulled taut across her hips. He fondled her buttocks, squeezing the flesh with his hard, strong fingers. “After a few days in jail, even your fat ass looks good to me.”

  She straightened up, but he kept his hands in place and began gathering up her nightgown. “Don’t. Please,” she whimpered to his reflection in the mirror. “Michael could wake up.”

  “Shut up and cut me a few lines.” He saw that she was about to protest, so he pinched her hard on the back of her thigh. “Now.”