Blush

by Suzanne Forster

  It was a question Lake intended to have answered.

  Lake was also duly impressed by the man's technical knowledge. And he was aware of something disturbingly familiar about Culhane, although he didn't remember ever having met him. But most intriguing was the relationship between Augusta and her new husband. It wasn't a love match. They barely spoke, they weren't sharing the same room or bed. They weren't even in the same wing.

  He hit a button on the control panel in front of him, activating the camera's zoom lens for a close-up of Culhane's face as he dressed. Dinner promised to be interesting. He'd decided to make it a celebration of Gus's marriage, and he planned to watch every move the newlyweds made and ask a few pertinent questions. Lake had assumed that the man in Gus's life was her manager, Rob Emory. Their relationship had never appeared to be a romantic one, but they did spend inordinate amounts of time together, and well, what else could anyone have thought? Instead, Gus pops up with this mystery man, who though admittedly handsome, gave a decidedly scruffy impression with his coal-black gaze, unshaven jaw, and barbed-wire hair. He looked rather like a thug in all honesty.

  A flash of movement drew Lake's attention. Culhane had moved out of range, he realized. He hit another button on the console, which brought the lens back to wide angle and then he began to pan the room to see where the man had gone.

  Interesting, Lake thought as several sweeps of the room failed to locate Culhane. It didn't look as if he'd left, because he wasn't showing up on the camera that monitored the hall- way or any of the other screens. Lake returned to the bedroom, intrigued by something he'd seen in one of the sweeps.

  There was a duffel bag lying on the bed, but a shiny object half-hidden beneath it had caught his eye. It looked like a photograph, a little worse for the wear, but with the white edges and glossy finish of a snapshot. Curious, he zoomed in, expecting to see a picture of someone in Culhane's life. Instead, he discerned the frame of a painting, along with some of the elements of a typical still life—table and cloth, fruit and bowl—Jesus!

  He rose abruptly, his legs locking up as the chair flew backward. Shock rippled up his spine, burning a path to the base of his skull. It couldn't be. It couldn't.

  He jammed the zoom control with his finger, but couldn't get close enough to see any more detail, and there wasn't enough of the picture visible to tell him if he was right in his suspicions. Still lifes were commonplace. Any amateur could paint one, but that didn't explain why Culhane was carrying around a photograph of one. Perhaps it was a painting he'd been hired to provide security for, but Lake wasn't satisfied with that explanation. It didn't ease the roaring in his ears or his chest.

  All of his questions about Culhane took on a glaring immediacy. If he'd been curious about where the hell Gus had found him and what she wanted with him, he was burning now. More important, what was Culhane's agenda? What did he want with Gus? What did he want with the Featherstone family?

  Lake glanced down at his watch and realized two things. It was time to dress, and yes, indeed, dinner was going to be very interesting.

  Chapter 14

  The drumfire of clicking fingernails startled Gus out of her simmering panic. She glanced up, stared at her pensive reflection in the vanity mirror, and had to fight the urge to slap herself into action. It was six p. m., time to make an appearance at dinner, and what was she doing? She was sitting at her dressing table in a blue silk Betty Crocker wraparound, clicking her fingernails against her teeth!

  She rose from the bench and began to toy with her dress. She'd wanted to look conservative, but something about the neckline bothered her. It didn't fall right. It gapped.

  The coup de grace, she thought as she undid the dress's fabric belt and refastened it. That was what awaited her downstairs. The deathblow to her dreams. Lake had decided a celebratory dinner was in order to introduce Gus's new husband to the family, and he'd invited several members of the Featherstone Board, including the chairman, Ward McHenry, to join them.

  They might as well put her under a microscope with Jack

  Culhane! Their every move would be observed by the people who held the fate of Gus's brainchild in their hands. As trust officer, McHenry controlled the pursestrings, but the others could—and did—influence his decisions.

  One false step, one false word, and it was all over.

  "Something's wrong with this skirt. " Anxiety wrung a sigh out of her. "What is it? The cut? The length?" She turned, catching her reflection from the side, then drew up the hem and sighed again. "I look like Lily!"

  Perhaps she'd made a mistake in not going to Culhane and confronting him herself. At least then she would have known what she was up against. But the look on his face had warned her that he had something evil in mind, something that would remind her why his mother had named him Satan. She'd actually thought she might be safer with the family around, but that was before she'd known it was going to be a command performance.

  She was also waiting to hear from Rob, but he hadn't returned her calls. God, she needed him now more than ever.

  "It's the wraparound, " she declared, peering hard at her reflection and wondering why she hadn't seen it immediately. She was dressed to bake cookies! All she needed was an apron.

  When she'd declared war against the bogeyman in her life, she'd adopted a persona, her own emotional armor, and a large part of that persona was attitude. It was time to bring the brat out of retirement, she decided. Nobody would have believed the Betty Crocker imitation anyway. Fortunately, her years on the runway circuit had made her a quick-change artist. All she needed now was the perfect kick-butt outfit.

  Moments later the transformation was complete. The closet's full-length mirror assured her that she had the look she wanted. The sleek red off-the-shoulder sheath she'd slipped into was definitely vixenesque. She'd picked out pointy red pumps to match, accessorized herself with feathery earrings that tickled her throat, and as a final bit of insouciance, she released the combs with which she'd swept her dark hair away from her face and let it fall forward, playing peekaboo with her eyes. The finishing touch was a sprinkle of Hot Peppermint perfume oil, one of the products made by American Naturals, the company she would soon be representing.

  "Salute when you look at me, soldier, " she said, a smile curving her shiny red lips. This was the Gus Featherstone the world knew and loved to hate, and it was the person she longed to be, inside and out. No one could hurt this woman.

  She was on her way out the door when a shrill ring turned her around. Gus had never moved so quickly. She was across the room and had the receiver in her hand by the second ring. "Hello? Rob? Is that you?"

  Her fiancé's voice burst through the static of what sounded like a bad connection. "Gus!" he yelled. "I'm in Baja. I put a detective on Culhane, and he tracked the two of you to a villa in Scorpion Bay. I flew down this morning. "

  "You're too late, Rob. I ditched Culhane yesterday, but he followed me here. Somehow he got past the guards and he's in the house. I need you to come back as soon as possible. "

  "He's there with you? Call the police, Gus!"

  "I can't, Rob. He's blackmailing me—us. He'll tell the family what we did. He'll tell everyone. I have to go along with him until I can figure out what he wants. "

  "Hang tight, Gus. I'm on the next plane back. "

  The phone went dead, but Gus held on to the receiver for a few moments before she hung it up. The solidness of it in her hands felt like a talisman she could draw strength from, though she was reluctant to think that it was totally the result of Rob's call. Hearing his voice and knowing he was all right had reassured her, but something else was taking shape within her, a gathering of her own forces. She'd never allowed herself to be dependent on anyone, especially emotionally. Rob wasn't here, and even if he had been, she couldn't rely on him to deal with Jack Culhane. She would have to do it herself.

  Fortunately, a plan was coming to her, and this time she wouldn't bungle it. There was more than one way to deal with
an unwanted houseguest.

  Secluded on several miles of wooded acreage in the hills of Flintridge, the Featherstone mansion was nearly as famous as the families who'd lived there, among them an original Hollywood movie mogul and an agricultural baron who made his fortune in oranges with a few packets of seeds he brought from Florida.

  The main house of twenty-four rooms was already a quarter century old when Lake Junior's great-great-grandfather acquired it from the then-governor of California for fifty thousand dollars, a steal even in those days. For a few months of the governor's term one year, when the mansion in Sacramento was under construction, "Dracula's Castle" had even served as the official summer residence.

  The Featherstones had added a wing and a spectacular two-story glass atrium, as well as redecorating several times since taking ownership, but they'd been careful to preserve the architectural integrity of the original Queen Anne Victorian design and the turn-of-the-century ambience of the interior.

  In a recent spread called "West Coast Grandeur, " Architectural Digest had called the house a historical landmark. Their photographic plates had featured the converted ballroom, where the family art collection was now displayed, and the Grand Hall, an elegant foyer decorated with Louis Quinze antiques and Empire urns.

  Plates of the main salon captured the dulcet brilliance of golden candelabra and crystal chandeliers, the baroque pageantry of a ceiling mural by Descat, but pictures couldn't convey the room's true scope. The scene had to be apprehended all at once to experience its subtle majesty, and the effect was most impressive when contrasted by the intime atmosphere of a Featherstone dinner party.

  This evening the salon was lit once again with the brilliance of crystal icicles and candle flame, light shattering light, as the family gathered to receive their dinner guests. Lake was the congenial host and quasi-bartender, making sure everyone was well watered. Lily urged hors d'oeuvres on the small, fashionable crowd and fluttered about, seeing to their every need while the catering crew hovered in various corners of the room, not sure what its purpose was.

  Jack, having already been introduced around by Lake, had taken up a post by the fireplace, where he could observe the comings and goings. While he waited for one "coming" in particular, he tilted his highball glass of liquor this way and that, listening to the melodious clink of ice cubes as the golden ripples flashed in the firelight.

  Not that he wasn't impressed by his surroundings. He would have been the first to concede that the Featherstone mansion had its grace notes as well as it grandeur. But then so did many things, including fifty-year-old malt Scotch. The liquor drew his gaze deeply into its seductive depths, hypnotizing him like a glowing whirlpool. His jaw tightened, his mouth watered.

  He still craved the sweet oblivion that alcohol could bring, and he could still remember the time when that had been its only purpose. Somewhere in his thoughts, there'd been the awareness that if he were lucky, one day, the oblivion would be total. He wouldn't wake up, ever. At least it would have been a painless way to check out.

  Apparently his need to see justice was stronger than his need to self-destruct. Even so, every once in a while he liked to hold a glass in his hand, to inhale the potent perfume and feel the deep, aching urge... tempting himself, tempting Fate.

  Tonight the double doors to the main salon were thrown open in an expansive welcome, but the dinner guests were too busy visiting to notice the lithe, sensual figure in carmine red who appeared on the threshold. She hesitated as if to survey her domain, apparently determined to be noticed. Jack was amazed that anyone could miss the spectacle of her blazing red dress and dark hair. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

  Her head tilted, her lips slightly pursed, she looked around the room as if the party held about as much interest for her as an afternoon of grocery shopping. Her eyes flickered over the guests, faintly wary, faintly bored. As her gaze caught and connected with his, her chin came up, almost defiantly. His jaw twitched, aching deeply, as if something had just jabbed him there. If she'd had any doubt about attracting attention, she needn't have. One by one the guests were turning to look at whoever that new man by the fireplace was staring at so fixedly.

  "I see my d-darling husband's already met everyone." Gus's voice caught ever so slightly on the endearment, then breathed it out as smoothly as he might have exhaled the Scotch fumes, if he'd taken a drink. "How convenient," she added, strolling across the carpet to where he stood.

  Darling husband? She was really heaping it on with a shovel. Secretly amused, Jack reached out for her hand as she came up to him. Not only did she ignore his overture, she flashed him a look that said she would scratch his eyes out if he so much as breathed on her.

  "We have a great deal to talk about," she informed him, sotto voce. "Later."

  "I'll look forward to it." He gazed into her hot violet eyes and felt his heart jerk to a stop. Everyone in the place was watching them, but she just didn't seem to give a damn. She was an amazing piece of work, an ultrasonic alarm system, wired to go off if you blinked. Her hair had picked up highlights from the fire, or perhaps from her vampire red dress.

  Somehow he caught traces of peppermint, sharp and sweet.

  "I'm so glad you made it back, darling, " she said. "I was distraught when the plane took off without you. I just—" She fluttered her hands as if searching for the right word. "Well, I just screamed. "

  "Screamed? And I had to miss that?"

  She caught a drop of condensation that was about to roll off the bottom of his glass. "I see you have a drink already. " She brought her fingers to her lips and sucked up the water. "Would you get me one, darling?"

  He shook his head.

  She tilted hers. "You won't? Why not?"

  "Because I'm your husband, not the butler."

  Something odd happened to her eyes then. Their flaring anger revealed a hint of desperation. She raked him up and down with a toss of her head, taking in his ill-fitting dark blazer, the one he'd found in the guest room closet. "The butler's better dressed," she said, her voice dropping to a sibilant hiss. "Where'd you get the jacket? Steal it off a lounge singer?"

  He ran his thumb along the rim of the highball glass, wanting very much to take a drink. "I'm not a GQ model, Gus. Just a guy with simple tastes."

  "Just a guy who can't finish what he starts."

  He could give her credit for one thing. She brought out the beast in him the way no other woman could. He'd never had exhibitionistic tendencies that he was aware of, or the desire to publically humiliate women, but she inspired both. He wanted to do exactly what he'd been too evolved to do in the desert. He wanted to bend her over his knee and paddle her ass until she wailed. Yeah, he wanted to hear her wail, and he wanted to do it right here in front of this bunch of society windbags.

  Fortunately he was a man with remarkable control. Fortunately for her. "You got yours, " he reminded her.

  She mouthed a rejoinder that sounded like "Next time, give at the office, " tucked her hand close to her breasts, where no one could see it, and flipped him off.

  With that she went off in search of fresh prey.

  She crossed the long, shimmering room as if she were strolling down a catwalk for an audience of adoring eyes. The sway of her hips was enough to give Jack sea legs. It was easy to forget that she suffered from a stammer, was terrified of snakes, and yet had shot the hell out of one to save his life. It was easy to forget she was anything but a provocative little bitch. His gut tightened with as much pleasure as anger. Jesus, what the hell was happening to him? He craved her almost as much as he craved a drink. And he'd never thought he could want anything that bad. He could taste her like she was Scotch rolling around in his mouth, hot, sweet... poison.

  The glass in his hand was beginning to feel uncomfortably heavy. He set it on the marble mantel of the fireplace, then opened the buttons of his suit jacket and slipped his hands in his pockets.

  Gus seemed to be headed for a bar set up by the caterers near the terrace d
oors, but she only got as far as the grand piano, where a hired pianist was playing softly. Lake stopped her to introduce her to a couple that Jack vaguely remembered as repertory theater directors. The Featherstones were bona fide patrons of the arts, after all. The pianist had already played everything from Chopin to Schubert. Now, unfortunately, he was working on what sounded like one of Bach's organ fugues in a minor key. Jack's education had been very thorough. He was familiar with it all. He just preferred Van Halen.

  He was also wired in to the tension in the room—a human strain gauge—and very aware that he, himself, had pushed the needle over the top when he entered the room. Lake Featherstone in particular had been watching him with more than brotherly interest. In more ways than one, Jack thought. He'd discovered a tiny aperture near the ceiling of his room when he'd swept the area for surveillance devices. Next time Lake tuned in "The Jack Culhane Show, " he would think he'd been submerged. Jack had sprayed the opening with a can of pressurized water.

  The needle had just jumped again, Jack realized. A new guest had arrived since Gus, and the man was causing almost as much of a stir as she had. Tall and patrician, yet just raw-boned enough to be rugged, his Teutonic looks alone could inspire fear, Jack imagined, particularly in women.

  There was something casually cruel about the glint in Webb Calderon's marbled gray eyes, a quality that was reflected in his powerful jawline, and even in the naturally wavy, dark blond hair that was combed straight back from his forehead. The weight of it made several sun-whitened locks droop forward, which would have turned another man, even one with his disturbing features, into a choirboy. Not Calderon.