“You really shouldn’t be so upset that they’re asking about her.” Ariel moved closer. “They’re curious about the new woman in your life. I know I am.”
Carter said nothing.
She pressed her lips together. “I’ll go brief the blogger from Celeb Weekly. Before you join us, try to find some of that Southern charm you’re so famous for?”
As she left the suite, Carter dragged a hand through his hair. Ariel was right. This was all part of the job. He worried his contractual obligations had forced him to return too soon or, worse, his heart wasn’t in this anymore. He wanted to be back at the beach house in Rarity Cove, just Quinn and him.
Admittedly, he was tired. He hadn’t slept well last night, partly due to dread about today and partly because he’d had a repeated dream, something no doubt fueled by his return to his home. In it, he had been in his bathroom, kneeling over Bianca’s body and trying to help her as she lay bleeding and gasping for breath. Each time he’d had the dream, a feeling of his own impending doom had startled him awake.
A knock sounded on the closed door to the suite. Then it opened. Upon seeing the African-American male who stepped inside, recognition settled over Carter. Although he had spoken with Detective Warren on the phone several times, he had seen him only once, when he had been questioned about the attack while hospitalized.
“Mr. St. Clair, I’m—”
“Hello, Detective Warren.” Carter stepped forward and shook his hand.
“They told me at the front desk where to find you.” He indicated the gold badge at his waist. “This gets me into a lot of places, including past the studio’s security out front.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“At The Four Seasons? Twitter, believe it or not. You’re trending—your return to LA is a big deal. I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop this by, if you still want it. Save myself a drive up the canyon.”
Carter’s stomach fluttered as the detective withdrew an envelope from the pocket of his suit coat and handed it to him. “The death investigation’s closed. We knew it was a suicide, but we still had to follow protocol.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you’re going to learn much from it—we didn’t—but as you know, it was addressed to you. It’s yours.”
They spoke for another few minutes, the detective inquiring about his health. He also asked Carter to take a selfie with him. Carter complied, and the detective bid him good-bye and left.
The envelope felt heavy in Carter’s hand. He knew Ariel was expecting him, but he felt compelled to read whatever Kelsey Dobbins had needed to say to him. He opened the envelope and slid out several sheets of ruled notebook paper, folded in half. His name was written in pencil on the outside. With a tight breath, Carter unfolded the letter and began to read.
Detective Warren had been right. The letter was cryptic, even nonsensical in places, a long, rambling profession of Dobbins’s love for him, as well as her insistence they were meant to be together—things she had said in her previous letters. Toward the end, however, Carter’s throat dried.
You were so pale in my arms, but so beautiful.
They told me I hurt you, that I hurt you both, but I can’t believe that.
They don’t understand.
I would die for you.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The week had gone as expected. Quinn had been with Carter each morning for therapy, then hadn’t seen him again until the studio limousine dropped him off, typically in the early evening. She had filled her time with the projects she had offered to handle and spent the remaining hours at the guest cottage.
Yesterday, she had also selected an evening gown from the ones Carter’s stylist—an ultra-thin blonde named Mandy—had brought over for her to try on after learning her measurements. It was for the event she would attend with Carter tomorrow night. She worried the designer gown had cost a small fortune, but Mandy would tell her only that Carter was taking care of it.
Quinn was now at the property’s main residence, awaiting the pool-service technician, who was scheduled to replace a broken pump. As she waited, she wandered through the main floor, taking in the artwork and numerous framed photos. While many were of the St. Clair family, there were also ones of Carter with other well-known actors and even a past president of the United States.
She paused at the sofa table, noting the blinking light on the phone console. When they had first arrived in LA, there had been more than twenty voice-mail messages, many dating months back. Carter had asked her to check them in case any were important. Most weren’t, since the majority of people who needed access to him had his cell phone number. Instead, they had been the types of messages regular people received—robocalls from telemarketers, dental-appointment reminders, nonprofits seeking end-of-year donations. Quinn listened to the latest message, which had been left since she had been here the day before. It, too, was nothing out of the ordinary.
With a tense sigh, she crossed her arms against her chest. As beautiful as the house was, being here alone was a bit disconcerting. She had gone back upstairs only with the real estate agents vying to list the property.
There was still no buzz from the front gate signaling that someone was requesting entrance. She checked her wristwatch, hoping the pool technician would arrive soon.
* * *
Saturday night had begun with a limousine ride to the Berman Auditorium in Beverly Hills, then Quinn watching as Carter posed for photo ops on the red carpet in the lobby. He had appeared poised and relaxed, turning toward the various cameras pointed at him as photographers called his name.
Quinn now sat at a linen-covered table between Elliott Kaplan and the chair Carter had vacated. The table was one of dozens inside the elegant ballroom overflowing with the Hollywood elite. Anywhere she looked, she recognized faces that previously she had seen only in magazines or on-screen.
Elliott leaned closer, his arm around the back of her chair. “You do look lovely tonight, my dear.”
The salute honoring Norman Weintraub was in intermission, and Carter had gone backstage in preparation for the presentation he would be giving next—an introduction to a film clip of Paper Hearts, a romantic comedy he starred in and Weintraub directed.
Quinn thanked Elliott for the compliment. The dark blue evening gown she wore was simple yet sophisticated, and her hair was swept into an updo as the stylist had suggested. Around them, the room buzzed with conversation as waiters went about removing the fine china and silver from the tables, the dinner portion of the night over.
“So how is he, really?” Elliott inquired in a low tone since they shared the table with others. “I’m asking because you know better than anyone.”
Quinn wondered whether he meant because she was Carter’s physical therapist or his current lover. She looked up to the stage, which remained empty.
“He’s doing well,” she assured him. “He was in excellent physical condition previously, which has helped his progress.” Elliott was Carter’s friend, so she didn’t think she was breaking a confidence. “It was mostly a matter of getting him in the right head space to want to get better.”
“Well, if you’re responsible for that, you have my eternal gratitude. I visited him in South Carolina, you know. He wasn’t in great shape, mentally or physically.” Elliott appeared pensive as he took a long sip from his vodka tonic, his second that night. “It’s good to have him back and with a project on deck. Maybe you could convince him to buy a home in Malibu or Pacific Palisades. A place on the water might stop him from pining for that little Southern beach town.”
The comment reminded her that the house in Rarity Cove was only a rental. As he resumed his career, Carter would be returning permanently to LA. Quinn had made a decision. She knew she would have to speak with him soon, her heart heavy. But as she had watched him pose for the photographers, as she had waited while his fellow actors and others had come over to greet him with such warm regard, she knew
he belonged here.
Music started and the chandelier lights lowered, signaling the night’s events were about to resume. Along with the others at their table, Quinn and Elliott turned their attention to the stage. Carter walked onto it, handsome in a classic black tuxedo. He tried to speak, but the applause continued as the entire ballroom came to their feet. A lump formed in Quinn’s throat. She could see Carter had been caught off guard by this show of affection and, for a moment, it appeared as though his eyes had grown wet. But as the audience finally seated themselves, he pulled himself together. Clearing his throat, he gave a sincere thank-you for the welcome, spoke eloquently about Weintraub and introduced the clip.
* * *
Morning light outside the bedroom window awakened Carter. The space in bed beside him was unoccupied, however, and he rolled over to squint at the clock on the nightstand. It was relatively early for a Sunday. It was also the first day he didn’t have somewhere he had to be since they had arrived in LA.
“Quinn?” He received no response.
For a moment, he laid his head back on the pillow and reflected on last night. After all that had happened, it had been difficult to walk onto that stage, to attempt to step back into his life before.
Although he knew Quinn had been reluctant to attend, she had been a grounding presence. The gown she had worn now lay carefully arranged over an upholstered chair in the corner. Carter had been more than happy to help her undress when they had returned here. He savored the memory—Quinn at the full-length mirror, watching as he stood behind her, unzipping the gown and slowly lowering it from her shoulders. He had taken down the glorious mass of her hair, as well, removing the pins and then sliding his fingers through its silk before she had turned to him and lifted her mouth to his.
Rising from bed, he pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt to go in search of her. He felt disappointment upon finding her in the kitchen, scrambling eggs in a skillet at the stove.
“I wanted to take you out for breakfast, remember?”
“I thought this would be better. No one hounding you for autographs and selfies.” She pushed the lever on the toaster, lowering two slices of bread. Quinn wore yoga pants and a long-sleeved athletic top, her wavy hair pulled back into a ponytail. Carter wondered how long she had been up. He figured she had already done her yoga practice on the patio. He had seen her out there before, going through the sun salutations that often started her mornings.
“Sit down.” She pressed a mug of coffee into his hands. Carter sat at the table in front of the window that provided a view of the clematis-hung trellis that separated the guest house from the main property. A moment later, Quinn placed a plate of fluffy eggs and whole-grain toast in front of him.
“You’re not eating?” he asked, reaching for the pepper.
“I’m not that hungry. I’m just having toast.”
Carrying her plate and a mug of tea, she sat across from him. As Carter ate, they talked about last night’s event. She also updated him on her progress in getting the house listed on the market.
“It’s a high-end property, obviously. The Realtors have all told me the same thing—it’ll take a while to sell, especially considering things.” Her hands fidgeted on the table. “The flooring in the bedroom will have to be sanded and restained, and the tile in the bathroom regrouted before it can be shown, which we already knew. I’m trying to get an estimate from a flooring contractor one of the agents recommended. He specializes in high-end homes.”
Carter again felt guilt for her handling such a grim task. He had also noticed she hadn’t touched the toast or her tea. She seemed distracted, absently twisting a silver ring on her finger. He laid his fork on his plate. “You okay?”
She frowned, picking at the woven tablemat. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about. When you leave for New York later this week…I’m thinking of going back to Rarity Cove.”
Surprise made his stomach drop. “Why?”
She shook her head, her eyes not meeting his. “I really don’t have any reason to be in New York. There’ve been jobs around here to keep me busy, but there…”
He couldn’t help it. He felt thrown by her decision, as well as hurt. “I don’t understand why you want to leave.”
She gave a halfhearted shrug. “You’re so much better, Carter. You really don’t need a PT anymore. You can self-manage exercises for your shoulder at this point. I know your strength in it isn’t back one hundred percent yet, but you should be okay to drive—”
“I’m not talking about therapy.” His throat ached at her detached rationalization. “What about us?”
Her lips parted as she looked at him, unable to hide the insecurity in her eyes. She stood from the table and took several steps away, her back to him, rearranging items on the counter. “We’ve been kidding ourselves. I don’t fit into your life. Not here and not in New York. It worked when it was just us in Rarity Cove, but now…”
Brows furrowed, Carter rose and traced her steps, turning her to face him, his hands gentle on her upper arms. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“I don’t know where this is coming from, then. Quinn, we’re supposed to be together.” He felt a tightness in his chest. “After these last few weeks, how can you even question that?”
Her features pained, she spoke in a suffocated whisper. “I can’t just be here to have sex with you.”
Was that all she thought this was? He continued holding on to her.
“Is that what you think of me? That I just want someone in my bed?” He stared at her, his heart seeming to stall inside him. “Quinn, I’m in love with you.”
She closed her eyes as if trying to put her emotions in order. “Don’t say that—”
“Screw that. I will say it.” He cradled her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. “I love you, Quinn.”
She wrangled free, breathing shallowly. “This won’t work. I’m not some actress or supermodel. I…I’m not even Shelley.”
He nearly flinched.
But despite the arrow she had shot into him, hurt as well as longing lay naked in her eyes. Then she turned away again. She was deliberately trying to injure him, trying to create some unfixable fissure between them so he would just let her go. She began to walk away, but Carter’s words stopped her.
“What are you so afraid of? Of getting hurt again? That my head will be turned by the first actress I share a screen with?” Emotion roughened his voice. “Because even thinking about leaving me is killing you. You can’t hide that.”
Her shoulders rigid, she remained motionless. Carter strode to where she stood, blocking her exit, his face hot, his voice hard. “Or is it that you’re afraid of being with someone who actually wants to be good to you? Who doesn’t get off on hurting and humiliating you?”
Appearing stricken, she bowed her head. He cursed himself, instantly regretting how viciously he’d spoken. Anger and frustration had gotten the best of him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he said unsteadily.
He thought she might walk out, but instead she leaned into him and pressed her face against his chest. The fear he was going to lose her sent a tremor through him. Last week had been a jarring return to reality for them both. He simply held her, a heaviness inside him. They remained like that until his cell phone sprang to life on the counter nearby, causing Quinn to step back and wipe her eyes.
He planned to let the call go to voice mail, but he could see the name of a local hospital on the screen. He picked it up, a moment later receiving another gut punch. Closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he listened, he said, “Just keep him there. I’ll be there, or I’ll send someone.”
As he disconnected, Quinn’s gaze was questioning.
“Elliott was brought into the ER last night by ambulance,” he said hoarsely. “Cocaine overdose.”
“God.” Quinn paled. “Is he going to be okay?”
“They think so.” In disbelief,
he passed a hand over his eyes. “The treating physician said they didn’t bring in the police. When Elliott finally came down enough to communicate, he gave Kathy, his ex-wife, as his emergency contact. But when they reached her, she refused to come to the hospital. She gave them my cell number.”
Quinn wrapped her arms around herself. “You need to go to him, Carter.”
He looked at her, feeling torn. “I’m not letting you leave. Promise me you’ll be here when I get back.”
She appeared as wounded as he. Still, she gave a small nod.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Elliott sat hunched in the passenger seat, Carter behind the wheel. Since his mechanic had gotten the vehicles running again, he’d decided to test Quinn’s theory that he was okay to drive and had taken the Range Rover to the hospital. Glancing at Elliott, he was surprised they had let him leave. He appeared pale and shaky.
“How long has this been going on?” Carter couldn’t tamp down his irritation. “You were hitting the booze hard last night, too. Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Elliott sighed tiredly, elbow propped against the window, his fingers rubbing his forehead. As they traveled along the palm-tree-lined coastal highway, Carter had a déjà vu of escorting him to rehab once before. The ER physician had told him Elliott had become agitated and combative—not unusual for someone who had done too much blow times ten. The hospital had had no choice but to restrain him.
“Your heart rate and blood pressure were through the roof. You could’ve died—”
“I don’t need a lecture. My head’s killing me,” Elliott mumbled. “I don’t remember anything after I left you last night.”
“Were you high when you came to see me in South Carolina?”
Low Tide: Rarity Cove Book Two Page 24
