by Deborah Camp
“How does it feel to be famous?” He set his glass down with a thump and his eyes darkened to a charcoal intensity.
Whitney avoided further eye contact by pouring herself some more lemonade. “I’m not famous. Perky Penelope is.”
“Perky Penelope,” he said with a chuckle in his voice. “You really hit a gold mine with her, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Whitney admitted with a smile. “I had no idea she would take off like she did. Her potential is staggering. Disney Studios is even thinking about doing a motion picture with her as the star.”
“You sound like her agent, instead of her creator,” Shadow observed. “Do you think of her as a real person?”
Whitney lifted her hair to let the breeze cool the nape of her neck. “In a way, I do. When I was in elementary school, I used to admire a self-confident redhead named Penny Parsons. Penny impressed me, although I never really knew her. I just watched her from across the playground.” Whitney smiled at the hazy memory. “She was two grades ahead of me, and I was too shy to approach her and talk. Penny was a nine-year-old Bohemian. She wore outrageous clothes that looked as if she had purchased them from a second-hand store, and she wore hats!” Whitney turned wide eyes on Shadow. “Yes, hats! It was so strange to see a nine-year-old wearing old ladies’ hats. Most of them were satin with netting that covered her face, and silk flowers all around the brim.”
“She sounds like an original,” Shadow said, leaning his elbows on the table. “Was she your inspiration for Penelope?”
“Yes. I never forgot Penny. I always wondered what happened to her. I hope she’s living up to my fantasies.”
“Which are?”
Whitney grinned. “I imagine her on a safari in Africa. She’s wealthy and very eccentric. Men throw themselves at her feet, but she never gets serious with any of them because her attention span is too short. She’s a free spirit, flitting from one continent to another in search of adventure.” Realizing that Shadow Tallwalker was hanging on her every word, Whitney became self-conscious. She felt her face grow warm with embarrassment as she laughed and waved a dismissing hand. “I’m letting my imagination run away with me.”
“It’s interesting …” Shadow ran his fingers along the sides of the glass, wiping away the condensation.
“What’s interesting?”Whitney asked when he seemed lost in his thoughts.
“The way you live,” he said, glancing at her; “You live in seclusion and dream of adventure. Penelope, in a way, lives the life you dream of living, doesn’t she?”
“No,” Whitney said quickly with a firm shake of her head. “Children like to read about excitement and characters who have unusual lifestyles. Penelope is adventurous and always finds herself at the center of attention. I’ve lived like that, and now that I have a choice, I’ve chosen a sedate, quiet life.”
“Oh.” Shadow looked out to sea, his brows lowering. “I forgot about your parents. You grew up in the center arena, didn’t you?”
She nodded and looked up at her house. “That’s why I love it here. When you’re raised around Hollywood parties, the rich and famous, and the constant scrutiny of the media, it’s only natural to crave seclusion.” She turned appealing brown eyes on him. “That’s why this Malibu Intruder has me so angry. My telephone has been ringing off the hook. I don’t know how those reporters got my unlisted number.” Whitney frowned and finished her lemonade. “I’ll have to have it changed, I guess. How long do you think it will be before you catch the Intruder?”
“I wish I knew. We might solve the case tomorrow, or it might be months from now.” He made a helpless gesture before getting up from his chair. Leaning against the railing, he faced her with his back to the ocean. “You could move from here until all of this blows over. You’d probably feel safer somewhere else for now.”
“I’m not leaving,” Whitney said emphatically as she stood up. She went to the railing and looked out to sea. “This is my home; the only real home I’ve ever had.” A breeze flew in from the ocean and shook the wind chimes. Whitney listened to the tinkling music for a moment before she added, “My parents were always on the move, and I always went with them. I’m tired of moving around, never staying anywhere more than a couple of months. I won’t let this … this Intruder pervert drive me out of my home. I won’t!” Her fists pounded the redwood rail.
“Okay, okay. Take it easy. I just thought you might feel safer at a hotel or at a friend’s house.”
Whitney took a calming breath and laughed softly. “I’m sorry. I—I just want to stay here. I’m sure the Malibu Intruder is through with me anyway. There are bigger fish in the ocean.”
“For your sake, I hope you’re right.”
Glancing quickly at him, Whitney saw his dark scowl, and apprehension blew through her. Did he know something she didn’t know? she wondered. Did he have reason to think the Malibu Intruder might break into her house again? Whitney started to voice the questions, then thought better of it. For some reason, she didn’t want to hear the answers. Those answers would probably only frighten her more than she was already, and she had enough to preoccupy her without being scared out of her wits. She forced her thoughts to less disturbing things. “Do you live around here?”
He chuckled, shaking his dark head. “On a police officer’s salary? No way. I have an apartment in Los Angeles.”
“I can’t place your accent,” Whitney said, giving him a measured stare. “Are you from Texas?”
He shook his head again and grinned. “Oklahoma. I was born and raised in a little place there called Bunch.”
“Bunch?” Whitney laughed with him. “Are there a bunch of people there or what?”
He chuckled at her joke, and Whitney decided that she liked his smile and the sound of his laughter. When Shadow laughed, he wrinkled his nose and looked decidedly mischievous.
“There isn’t a bunch of anything there,” he told her. “It’s not much more than a post office, just a spot in the road. My father farmed a couple of thousand acres and raised stock. My sister and brother-in-law have taken over since Mom and Dad sort of retired.”
“Sort of retired? What does that mean?” Whitney asked.
“It means that it’s hard to sit and do nothing when you’ve worked since you were a kid.” He was quiet for a minute, as if his thoughts were back in Oklahoma, then he pushed himself from the railing. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Must you?” Whitney asked, surprising herself. She looked away from him, uneasy with her own desire to keep him with her for a few more minutes. He was good company, she thought. It was nice to talk to someone about homes and families instead of movie deals and publicity tours. “I mean … won’t you have another glass of lemonade before you go?”
He glanced at the pitcher of lemonade as if he were momentarily tempted, but he shook his head. “I really have to get to the station. I’ve got mountains of paperwork waiting for me. Thanks, anyway.”
Strangely reluctant to be alone, Whitney placed a hand on his forearm. “Would you like to—?” She snatched her hand away from him as her courage deserted her. She’d been about to ask him to join her for dinner that evening, but now she wondered what had gotten into her. It was ridiculous to ask this police officer out on a date! She waved a hand and grimaced, wishing she hadn’t started to pose the question, especially since he seemed to be waiting for her to finish her request.
It was several seconds later that she sensed a change in his mood. Whitney looked up into his face and was captured by his sensuous study of her. As she watched, one corner of his mouth lifted in a bemused smile. He lifted a hand and his fingertips gently touched her chin.
“As a matter of fact, I’d like to very much,” he said in a low voice. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips against hers.
Whitney’s eyelashes fluttered down as her mouth relaxed and her lips parted slightly. He kissed her again, lightly and arrestingly. Cops do it arrestingly, Whitney thought before she came to her senses with a jolt an
d stepped back from him. She stared at him with wide eyes, confused by her own submission to his advances. He was still looking at her in that disturbing way; his eyes a dark gray, his mouth curved in an indulgent smile.
“You … you shouldn’t have done that,” Whitney said, turning from him to face the sea again.
He cleared his throat and moved away from her. “Right. Well, I’ll be in touch later. I’ve located that old boyfriend of yours and I’m going to question him today,” he said curtly.
“What?” Whitney whipped her head around. “Is Jean-Claude in California?”
“No,” Shadow said as he went down the deck steps. “He’s still in Paris. I’m calling him today to ask him a few questions.”
“Why are you pestering him?” Whitney demanded, her hands gathering into fists again. “Why don’t you just leave him alone?”
“I’m just going to ask him a couple of questions. It’s part of my job, Whitney.”
“I think you’re just doing this out of spite!”
He lifted his wide shoulders. “You’re entitled to your opinion.” With a short salute, he pivoted from her and broke into a smooth jog as he headed down the beach.
Whitney glared after him and seethed inwardly. When he was just a dot along the shore, she whirled and carried the refreshment tray back into the house. Her hands shook as she placed the pitcher in the refrigerator and put the two glasses in the dishwasher. Why was Shadow Tallwalker determined to involve Jean-Claude in this? she wondered with helpless rage. Shadow had to be the most stubborn man she’d ever met! If he was L.A.’s finest, she’d hate to be confronted with the worst!
Shadow Tallwalker was determined to drag Jean-Claude Noir back into her life, Whitney thought with a moan. Jean-Claude would be livid—being questioned by a police officer about the Malibu Intruder incidents would make anyone livid!
Of course, she wouldn’t be in this mess if she hadn’t mentioned Jean-Claude to Shadow. She had answered his questions truthfully, but now she wished she hadn’t been so candid. But she had thought of Jean-Claude the moment she had seen that ripped bed. Whitney had been expecting him to contact her for weeks; ever since Madame Simone had phoned her from Paris to tell her that she had canceled Jean-Claude’s showing at her gallery “because of what he did to you, cherie, and because he is such a cad!” Although Whitney had tried to discourage Madame Simone’s drastic actions, the Parisian would not be swayed.
Whitney knew Jean-Claude would blame her and think that she had persuaded Madame Simone to cancel the Noir showing, and Whitney had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. When she’d seen her slashed comforter, she had thought for a brief instant that Jean-Claude had returned and that had been his way of getting even.
Now, however, she was certain Jean-Claude had nothing to do with the break-in. No matter how angry he might be, he wouldn’t fly all the way from France just to wreak havoc in her bedroom. In many ways he was immature, but he wasn’t that immature.
Feeling hot and tired, Whitney began stripping off her clothes as she made her way to the downstairs bathroom. The broken window there brought back the horror of having had someone enter her home and violate her personal life. She pulled the curtains closed. The glazier was supposed to fix the window this afternoon. Then all the reminders would vanish.
Now if only Shadow Tallwalker would vanish, Whitney thought with a twist of malice.
She stepped under the shower spray and turned in slow circles as her anger waned. Closing her eyes, she relaxed and let the pulsating water massage her. Unbidden, the memory of Shadow’s kiss wove through her, and Whitney stood still and reveled in that moment of fixation.
There was something magnetic about that man, she mused. How else could she explain her eruption of passion from the mere touch of his lips on hers?
The memories flushed her skin and Whitney turned off the hot water and tingled under the impact of the ice cold spray before she shut off the water completely. She stepped from the stall and toweled herself dry as she gave into her subconscious need to dissect her reaction to Shadow Tallwalker.
How could she crave his touch one minute, and hate him the next? It almost seemed as if he were playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game with her. First he yelled at her, then he kissed her, and then he told her he was going against her wishes by harassing Jean-Claude!
Whitney wrapped the towel around herself and stomped upstairs to her bedroom. She resolutely ignored the damaged bedclothes as she selected a pair of shorts and a blouse from her closet. After dressing, she started to her office but was detoured by the ringing of the doorbell. Peering through the peephole, she was relieved to see Selma Nelson standing outside.
“Am I glad to see you,” Whitney said as she opened the door to her part-time maid. “The first thing I want you to do is straighten my bedroom, Selma. I’m sick of sleeping in one of the guest rooms in my own home!”
Selma’s squinty eyes widened. “My, my! Aren’t we bossy today?”
Whitney sighed and closed the door behind the middle-aged woman. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lousy morning.”
Selma pulled off her green scarf and patted her short red hair into place. “What do you want me to do with the ripped-up sheets and stuff?”
“Throw them out. I’m going into town today for replacements.”
“Okay. I’ll get started right away.” Selma tipped her head to one side and studied Whitney carefully. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried about you. I think you should stay somewhere else until that nut is put in jail.”
“I’m staying here, Selma.” Whitney crossed her arms and squared her shoulders with determination. “No one is going to make me leave my own home.”
“It was just a suggestion.” Selma tucked her bulging carryall under her arm and started toward the staircase. “I sure wouldn’t want to stay here all alone with that maniac on the loose. Oh, I know the police have been saying that the Malibu Intruder hasn’t hurt anybody, but there’s always a first time.”
Whitney squeezed her arms tighter about herself as Selma’s doomsday message rolled over her. Maybe she should leave, she thought. She could stay with Hampton until—
“No!” Whitney whispered fiercely. She’d battled firestorms, mud slides and hurricanes here, and she could fight the Malibu Intruder, too! She’d promised herself not to let this thing disrupt her life, and she was going to keep that promise.
Chapter Three
Whitney straightened the lavender satin and mocha lace bedspread, then stepped back to examine the serene picture. She smiled, thinking that things were really back to normal now. The glazier had repaired the bathroom window yesterday, and the damaged bedclothes had been thrown away. All reminders of the Malibu Intruder had vanished; except for the ghostly memories that haunted her now and then, and that eerie feeling that someone was watching her.
Turning to the dresser mirror, Whitney lifted her brown hair and stuffed it beneath her sun-visor hat. She smoothed moisturizer across her forehead and cheekbones, checking carefully for wrinkles and breathing a sigh of relief when she found none. It was a new habit of hers—this search for wrinkles—and Whitney gently chided herself every time she did it. She told herself it was silly to expect wrinkles now that she was thirty, but she couldn’t keep herself from doing so. Perhaps it had something to do with living in an area filled with ageless beauties. Smooth skin and svelte figures were religions among the Malibu women.
Of course, Whitney thought, she had something extra going for her—genes. With each passing year, Whitney knew she resembled her mother more and more. Joan Shepperd had been one of Broadway’s great beauties, and Whitney had inherited her mother’s slender figure, lustrous hair, creamy complexion, and oval-shaped face.
Whitney left her bedroom and went downstairs. The sun was already heating the sand as she stepped out onto the deck and breathed in the salty smell of the sea. She was later than usual for her jog, not having dropped off to sleep until the early hours of the morning and awaking at ni
ne instead of her customary seven. Last night she had listened closely to every sound. She had made numerous trips downstairs to check her new latches and bolts, and she had resisted an urge to phone Hampton and ask him to come over and stay with her.
Ironically, it was Shadow Tallwalker who finally put her to sleep. Whitney laughed softly to herself as she leaned one leg against the railing to do her pre-jog stretching, her thoughts returning to her early morning perusal of Shadow Tallwalker. She had admitted to herself hours ago that there was something about him that she found irresistible, and she had tried to pinpoint it, but exhaustion had won out before she found an answer. Looking out at the powerful ocean, Whitney wondered if Shadow’s aura of power might be his greatest asset; that, coupled with those knowing eyes of his. Surely, anyone who had ever seen those eyes could not forget them.
Without a doubt, the man was cocky and self-assured; dangerous weapons when added to an artillery of sinewy strength, dark good looks, and a keen intelligence.
Was there a woman in his life? Whitney wondered as she lifted her other leg to the rail to stretch. Was he married? Or was he simply “involved” with one woman? For some reason, Whitney felt sure he was unattached at the moment.
And did he hold the wealthy in disdain or was that her imagination? Jean-Claude had both sought and scorned the wealthy. Having been a silver-spooner all her life, Whitney had grown accustomed to people who wished for wealth and condemned those who had obtained it. Did Shadow fit into those ranks?
More than once he had suggested that Whitney was used to getting her way and ordering people around. Well, he was jumping to conclusions there, Whitney thought with a little shake of her head. Until recently, she had rarely gotten her way about anything.
An only child, she had begged her parents to allow her to remain in one school, but they had ignored her pleas. By the time she was ten, Whitney had been a student in sixteen different schools, never staying anywhere longer than six months. When they were “home”—the Winding Way mansion—it was never for longer than two weeks at a time. Her mother had called her “our little gypsy girl” and her father had boasted that “Whitney is a show business trouper just like her old man.”