Hide and Sneak

by G. A. McKevett

  No, it was just one of those niggling notions that one was doing something a tad naughty.

  To her discredit, when she had gotten dressed, in anticipation of the auspicious appointment to come, Savannah had put on her newest, sexiest Victoria’s Secret underwear. She had also shaved her legs. Extra close.

  She wasn’t proud of it.

  She firmly believed that a happily married woman should never put on her best black lace underwear with red satin ribbon trim for a meeting with a married man who wasn’t her husband.

  If for no other reason, it seemed like a “two-bit hussy” thing to do. Something Savannah’s Hussy-First-Class sister, Marietta, would stoop to. Although Mari’s knickers would be purple leopard print, and she would be sure to adopt some unladylike pose during the course of the visit to make certain that the man in question got an eyeball full. Whether he wanted his eyeball filled or not.

  Savannah supposed she herself was a wee bit classier in her hussy-ness.

  Funny, how a gal could rationalize just about anything if she tried hard enough.

  It doesn’t matter anyway, Savannah thought as she drove her vintage red Mustang south along the Pacific Coast Highway, drawing ever nearer to Malibu and Ethan Malloy. He was never going to see her knickers. Not in a million years. Unlike her sister, she wasn’t into exhibitionism and wouldn’t be, even if she wasn’t married to the sweetest grouch on the West Coast.

  But after watching Ethan for hours on the screen, with his ripped muscles and those pale blue eyes that could smolder with passion one moment, flash with temper the next, and then soften with incredible sensitivity when least expected, Savannah wanted to look her best. All the way down to her freshly shaved legs.

  Ethan would never know that they were smooth and silky, but she would.

  That was all that mattered.

  She consoled herself with the thought that, if Dirk was going to meet Catherine Zeta-Jones, he wouldn’t have put on a pair of underwear with Swiss cheese holes in it.

  Though, being Dirk, he might have.

  All thoughts of shaved legs, sexy lingerie, and shabby briefs left Savannah’s mind the moment she saw the iconic road sign that welcomed her to MALIBU, 27 MILES OF SCENIC BEAUTY.

  No matter how many hundreds of times she had seen that sign, the thrill never faded. Malibu might be a town known for having pristine beaches, glorious sunsets, and island views. But it was no ordinary seaside village. The magnificent houses that lined the beach to her right and the opulent estates scattered among the mountains and canyons to her left housed some of the world’s richest, most famous, and occasionally infamous, personalities.

  More than once since moving to California, she had gone on the Internet and found maps that identified the “Homes of the Stars” living along those twenty-seven miles. She had always been amazed to see how many celebrities, people whose names were household words, could be so densely packed into one area.

  But the beauty of the place, along with its convenient proximity to Hollywood and the movie and television network studios, explained why each square foot of Malibu property was such a precious commodity.

  Savannah allowed herself the luxury of sightseeing as she drove down the curvy, difficult-to-navigate highway. At least today it was free from rock slides and there were no plumes of smoke or lines of ominous red flame snaking their way down the mountain slopes, endangering those beautiful mansions.

  For all its picturesque grandeur, the seaside home of the rich and famous was not without its challenges. A day without mudslides, brushfires, or an earthquake was a pleasantry, indeed.

  Since Ethan Malloy’s mansion was located in northern Malibu, Savannah began to watch for landmarks once she had passed Mugu Rock. The enormous rock with its one distinctive flat side sat on the edge of the highway. It was said the rock formation, over twenty feet tall, had once been a beautiful Indian princess who, brokenhearted over a philandering husband, had thrown herself into the sea and turned to stone.

  But after a bit of research, Savannah had discovered that the rock, so frequently featured in movies, television shows, and car commercials, had actually been formed when a road, cut for the Pacific Coast Highway, had been blasted into the mountainside in the late 1930s.

  Even knowing the true origin of the strange rock, Savannah could never pass it without thinking that the beautiful Indian princess should have spared herself and tossed her unfaithful husband into the surf instead.

  With the rock in her rearview mirror, Savannah began to watch for the next major landmark. “As soon as you pass the Malibu Tennis & Riding Club, look for a narrow, rugged road on your left,” John had told her. “There’s a sign, but it’s nearly covered by a cluster of red bougainvillea, even larger than over your door, climbing a rusty, open gate.”

  Soon, she saw it on the left side of the highway, a tangle of thorny vines and crimson blossoms. Barely visible inside the foliage, a simple sign read VALLE DE FUEGO. Just on the other side of the sign was a small, nondescript road leading up a mountain canyon.

  Having traveled that road more than once, Savannah steeled herself for the next part of the journey. “As crooked as a dog’s hind leg” was the quote that crossed her mind as she turned the Mustang off the highway and onto the rugged, pothole-pocked, and cracked pavement.

  Even in an area known for its notorious canyon roads with hairpin turns and five-hundred-foot cliffs, Valle de Fuego Road was a challenge. As beautiful as the view might have been, Savannah couldn’t imagine living in one of the luxury estates that dotted that mountain and climbing that dangerous, challenging stretch daily.

  She could feel the Mustang struggling with the rapid ascent as she urged it up the ever-steeper road. No, this was definitely not a route designed for vintage automobiles. She forced herself to keep her eyes on the road and avoid sideways glances at the magnificent ocean view, and even more tempting, the precarious cliffs, the edges of which began mere inches from the pavement on either side.

  Here and there, flimsy metal railings had been installed to prevent all-too-frequent tragedies. But noticing how bent they were and striped with various colors of paint from numerous wayward vehicles, Savannah didn’t find the barriers particularly comforting.

  Yet, as formidable as the path might have been, she couldn’t help noticing that the higher she climbed, the more opulent the estates perched on the hillsides became. Most were Spanish-style with plastered walls that ranged from glistening white, to cream, to gold, and roofs with terra-cotta tiles.

  But after a series of particularly harrowing switchbacks, Savannah glanced up to the top of the mountain and saw a home that looked more like a fairy-tale castle than a Malibu mansion.

  With stone walls, a steeply pitched roof, and even a round turret tower with a conical top, the chateau was both imposing and intriguing, evoking childhood memories of stories with kings and queens, enchanted beasts, fire-breathing dragons, and evil witches.

  “You’ll know the house when you see it,” John had told her with far more enthusiasm than was considered acceptable for a proper British gentleman like himself. “You’d have to travel to Normandy to view its like. You’ll not be surprised if the door is answered by a butler wearing a suit of armor.”

  Savannah parked the Mustang on the cobblestone driveway, got out, and walked to the oversize arched doorway made of rough-hewn timber. When she knocked, using the cast-iron knocker—the ferocious face of a snarling bear with a ring through its teeth—she could hear her summons echoing through the chambers beyond.

  She thought of John’s joke about an armor-clad butler and prepared herself for anything as the door swung open with just the right number of atmosphere-producing creaks and groans.

  When she saw the person who had come to greet her, she was quite taken aback. No butler in full livery. No housemaid in a short black dress with white frills.

  It was the master of the chateau himself.

  Savannah didn’t know which shocked her most: the fact that t
he movie star heartthrob, object of millions of women’s love and lust, was dressed as casually as any guy walking down any street, or that he was far more handsome in person than on screen. His crumpled T-shirt looked like he had slept in it, his uncombed hair was a bit longer than was the current fashion, his jeans were tattered, and his feet bare.

  He fixed her with eyes so intense that in an instant, she felt his troubled, grieving soul all the way through her own. They were blue, but unlike hers, which were dark sapphire, his were so pale as to almost appear white. Rimmed with thick dark lashes, they would have been breathtakingly striking, except that now they were swollen and red-rimmed from weeping.

  Savannah’s heart went out to him immediately. She had seen too many people who were experiencing the worst moment of their lives not to know that this was one of those unfortunate individuals standing before her.

  Ethan Malloy was in emotional hell, and no doubt, it would be her job to help him find a way out of it.

  “Mr. Malloy,” she said, “I’m Savannah Reid, a friend of John Gibson and Ryan Stone. I believe they’ve spoken to you about me.”

  “They have, with great respect and affection,” he said with a slight drawl that she recognized as Southern, but not Georgian like hers. “You come highly recommended, Ms. Reid.”

  “Savannah, please,” she told him as she offered him her hand.

  He was an enormous fellow, and when his hand closed around hers, enveloping it in a firm shake, she was struck by the size and strength of the man. If anything, he appeared even larger and more like a “superhero” in person than he did on screen.

  At that moment, Savannah was dismayed to discover, so late in life, that she had developed multiple personalities. In the recesses of her somewhat muddled brain, she could hear a giddy little girl screaming, “Oh! Oh! Oh! I don’t believe it. I’m actually touching Ethan Malloy! I’m doing it! I’m never washing this hand again. Not even after cleaning the litter box!”

  Meanwhile, a far calmer and far more collected voice—that of a former cop—detailed the evidence at hand.

  His palm was dry, not sweaty. His skin neither clammy nor feverish. His handshake firm but not bruising.

  Nor was he shaky. She could detect no sign whatsoever that he was nervous about meeting her. The only emotions she sensed emanating from Ethan Malloy were fear and great sorrow.

  “Please, come in,” he said pulling the door wide open and ushering her inside. “I’m afraid my manners aren’t the best right now,” he admitted. “I don’t know how much you’ve been told about my situation, but I have a few things occupying my mind.”

  “Actually, I know very little about your problem,” she said. “Only that it’s ‘personal, confidential, and highly sensitive.’ Those were the words John used when we talked this morning.”

  She walked into the foyer of the great house and allowed herself a moment to take in the splendor of it all: the beamed ceiling that was at least thirty feet high, ancient but still brightly colored tapestries hanging from the walls, a highly polished suit of armor holding an enormous battle-ax in one hand.

  But it was a large bronze statue in the very center of the foyer that caught and held her attention. Without a doubt, the image was one of the more frightening works of art she had ever seen.

  A dragon with the eyes of a serpent, cunning and wise in a diabolical manner, watched her enter the room. Its silent snarl revealed fangs, as sharp and deadly as its claws, and the scales that covered its reptilian form resembled chain mail. Though Savannah couldn’t imagine any battle fierce enough that this ghastly creature would require protection.

  “Don’t mind Nidhogg,” Ethan said with a dry chuckle. “He’s harmless as a puppy dog.”

  “Nidhogg?” Savannah asked.

  Ethan shrugged and shook his head. “That’s the sort of thing you get when you give a decorator full rein. He’s Norse. A rather unpleasant fellow who’s constantly gnawing on the roots of the Tree of Life, trying to bring about the end of the world. And as if that isn’t bad enough, he eats the corpses of people who’ve committed murder, adultery, or the worst of the worst—those who’ve broken an oath.”

  “Oh yes, those darned oath breakers. They plum beat all,” Savannah said with a slightly sarcastic tone.

  “In Norse mythology they do,” he assured her. “You can get away with tickling kittens until they cry or tugging on a puppy dog’s ears, but break an oath and—”

  “You not only die, but your corpse gets eaten by this hideous fellow.”

  “That’s right, and don’t you forget it.”

  They shared a moment of companionable levity, but the smile on his handsome face quickly faded, replaced by the grim expression he had worn when first greeting her in the doorway.

  “Would you like to talk in the library?” he asked her. “It isn’t the fanciest room in the house, but it’s quiet and a bit cozier than some of the bigger ones. I like it better.”

  “Wherever you’re most comfortable, Mr. Malloy, is fine with me,” she replied.

  He nodded. “This way then.”

  She followed his lead down a hallway with dark wainscoting and cream plastered walls. To their left, a row of mullioned windows looked out upon the driveway where she had parked.

  As they neared the end of the walkway, approaching a small, arched doorway, a movement outside caught her eye. She turned and saw a silver Jaguar pull beside her Mustang and stop. A fellow, perhaps in his late forties, with a slight build and thinning blond hair stepped out of the vehicle and walked to the mansion’s front door.

  Savannah wondered if his arrival would put an end to her interview with Malloy, even before it had begun. She expected the newcomer to knock on the door and Ethan to answer it, as he had for her.

  But, although she was pretty sure the master of the house had noticed his new visitor, he continued toward the small door at the end of the hall.

  “This way, Ms. Reid,” he told her as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

  As he stood aside for her to pass into the room, he said, “May I offer you some tea or coffee or something to eat?”

  Savannah took a couple of extra seconds to answer, because she was occupied, mentally filing away the fact that Ethan Malloy found it necessary to lock his library door. Had it been a bathroom, or even a bedroom, she wouldn’t have found a keyed lock out of the ordinary. But she couldn’t recall when, if ever, she had seen someone lock the door to their library.

  “I’d love a cup of coffee, if it isn’t too much trouble,” she replied, while reminding herself that she didn’t know many people who actually owned a library. Bathrooms with books and magazines tossed into a basket near the toilet didn’t really count.

  “No trouble at all,” Ethan replied, as he walked over to an intricately inlaid antique desk and picked up a phone. “Amy, could we please have coffee for two in the library? Yes, thank you.”

  Savannah saw him give her a quick sideways look, glancing up and down her figure. She wasn’t sure how to interpret his brief perusal. Usually, when someone noticed her ample shape, their reaction registered either lust or disapproval, depending upon their own preferences and prejudices.

  She was pleased to see neither expression on the actor’s face, only a look of what she might call “casual acceptance.”

  “Uh, Amy, do we have any of those cinnamon rolls left over from breakfast?”

  Cinnamon rolls? The words floated deliciously through Savannah’s brain. Really? God bless that man.

  “Great,” he was telling the angel named Amy, the potential bearer of not only coffee but, apparently, cinnamon rolls as well. “Then bring some of those, too, if you please.”

  Savannah decided, then and there, that no matter what she might hear about this new case in the next half hour, Ethan Malloy would be her favorite actor for life.

  No doubt about it, she told herself. Move over, Sir Anthony Hopkins.

  Chapter 4

  When Ethan Malloy had
finished ordering refreshments, he waved an arm toward a seating area near the windows. “Please, sit yourself down and linger a spell,” he told her with a smile, as he infused his words with a liberal Southern accent to match her own.

  Savannah half expected the sarcastic expression that was usually worn by those mocking her Dixie-rich speech. But instead, his eyes were kind and playful when he said, “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. I’ve always had a soft spot for a Southern accent.”

  “You did a fine one yourself onstage, when you played Jim Bowie last year in The Alamo.”

  He chuckled. “That wasn’t much of a Southern accent. More of a Texas drawl, which comes easy for me. I was born and raised in Amarillo.”

  A good ol’ Texas boy, she thought. That explains the good manners.

  “You saw the play in Los Angeles?” he said.

  “In Santa Barbara. I enjoyed it very much.”

  “Do you get to the theater often?”

  “I make the effort if I’m a fan of the actors. You made me cry there at the end.”

  He ducked his head in a modest way that she found endearing. A bit too endearing. So, she quickly added, “It was one of the few plays I was actually able to get my husband to go to. He’ll only attend productions that could be classified as ‘manly.’”

  “He sounds like my old man. Let’s just say that Dad wasn’t exactly thrilled with my choice of occupation.”

  “Wanted you to grow up and ride bulls, throw calves, and break broncos?”

  “He would have been overjoyed with that. But he would’ve settled for me staying home and running the ranch.”

  “But he must be proud of you now, with all your success.”

  Ethan laughed, but there was no humor in it. “He liked the Porsche Cayenne SUV I gave him for Christmas. Other than that, he’s still not impressed.”

  Savannah thought of Tammy, of the success she had made of her life by doing the work she loved best, and of the fear and apprehension she was feeling at having her disapproving parents visit.

  So often it seemed parents weren’t fair.