Riptide (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  Whitney issued a short gasp, and Shadow found his feet and stood over the damaged portrait that now rested against the carpet. Unpleasant thoughts rose in his mind as he leaned over and lifted the portrait by the hanging wire, careful not to put his fingerprints on the frame. Glass shards fell from it and the frame broke in two.

  “Oh, no!” Whitney was beside him in a flash. “Is the canvas damaged?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” He turned it around for her to examine, and she dropped to her haunches and ran her hands gently across the canvas.

  “It’s okay,” she said with relief. “But the frame is ruined, and the glass will have to be replaced, of course …” Her voice trailed off and she lifted questioning eyes to his. “It was upside down, Shadow. Someone was in here.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Shadow cautioned, even though he was jumping to his own. “Maybe your maid—”

  “Selma has been cleaning this house for years. She doesn’t hang pictures upside down. She dusts them but she never removes them.”

  Her logic slammed into him, making him realize it was useless to insult her intelligence.

  “You’re right, Whitney. This was deliberate. Do you know any practical jokers?”

  “A few, but none of them have been in my house during the past few hours. That picture wasn’t upside down yesterday. I would have noticed it. In fact, I would have probably noticed it earlier today.”

  Fear darkened her eyes, reminding Shadow of how she looked standing waist deep in the water.

  “Shadow, he was in here while we were out there!” She pointed to the glass wall and the beach beyond. “I left the door unlocked.”

  “Well, that was a stupid thing to do, considering that—”

  “I always leave it unlocked when I go for my jog because—”

  “Well, don’t leave it unlocked from now on,” he ordered, not letting her finish her excuse. “Lock all your doors and windows, even if you’re just going outside for a minute or two.”

  She looked down at the portrait again and her fingers trembled as she touched her twelve-year-old face. “He was in here. He did this. He’s warning me …”

  “Stop it, Whitney!” Shadow lifted the damaged portrait and set it against the wall. “Don’t talk yourself into hysterics. Let’s pick up this glass.” He dropped to his hands and knees and began plucking the slivers of glass from the plush carpet. “Get the vacuum.” When she didn’t move, he gave her a sharp look. “The vacuum, Whitney. Go get it!”

  The curt command galvanized her and she rose with a jumpy movement and stumbled across the room. Shadow turned back to his task, carefully pulling the larger pieces of glass from the carpet and placing them in the palm of his other hand.

  She was right, of course. Someone had been in here while they’d been out on the beach, and that someone was most likely the Malibu Intruder. But, this didn’t fit his MO. Shadow frowned at the razor-sharp bits of glass in his hand. The Intruder had never done this—yet. Had the Intruder singled out a victim? Were his pranks becoming more focused? Did this mean that Whitney was the victim? Or was someone else adding to Whitney’s misery? Maybe it was that Jean-Claude guy. He could have flown here since yesterday. From the sound of his voice, he was the type to fly off the handle and do something stupid like this.

  Shadow stood up and dumped the glass into a basket near the fireplace as Whitney lugged the vacuum into the living room and plugged it in. Shadow stood back, watching as she pushed and pulled the machine over the carpet. Glass tinkled as it was sucked into the vacuum. He could tell by Whitney’s frowning concentration that her mind wasn’t on the task. She was thinking about the Intruder.

  When she switched off the roaring machine, Shadow cleared his throat, determined to change her way of thinking.

  “It could have been anybody, Whitney. A thrill-seeking teenager or a fun-loving acquaintance or—”

  “The Malibu Intruder,” she cut in with a stubborn set to her jawline. “I know he was in here, Shadow. Call it instinct, but—”

  “Now you sound like Ashley Summer.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of the robe and realized how ridiculous he must look in the undersized garment.

  Anger flamed in her eyes and she planted small fists at her waist. “Did it ever occur to you that you might be wrong, Detective Tallwalker? Ashley Summer could be one of the victims! You don’t know for certain that she isn’t. You’re going by instincts!” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “But, of course, you’re never wrong, are you? That badge you carry makes you infallible.”

  He regarded her mounting anger for a few moments before turning aside and focusing his eyes on the shimmering sand outside. “I was wrong out there,” he said, motioning his head toward the glass wall. “I shouldn’t have bullied you into the deep water. I knew you were frightened, but I thought I could help you over your fright. I’m sorry, Whitney. I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and I let you down.” He pivoted from the view, feeling her eyes on him, and picked up his tea. The liquid was tepid but it still reminded him of Grandmother Rosa and Oklahoma. The Italian side of him reared and he wanted to tell her that he was taking this case very personally because of her—so personally that he was looking for excuses to question her and be with her—but the Choctaw side of him kept the words from spilling out.

  Her sigh was heavy with regret. She sank onto the couch and finished her tea while her eyes examined him above the rim. She set the cup on the low table before her and leaned back against the cushions, looking tired and frail.

  “I’ll forgive you for being a bully if you’ll forgive me for momentarily becoming a stereotypically hysterical female.” She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “I deplore hysterical women … or men, for that matter.”

  Shadow moved across the room and sat beside her. “You don’t mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all. We’ve both had quite a day, so far.” She glanced at the wall clock. “And it’s not quite three yet.”

  “Three?” Shadow blinked at the clock. “I didn’t know it was that late. No wonder I’m starving.”

  “Are you?” Whitney asked, moving her eyes to him. “Hmmm. So am I,” she added, patting her stomach. “I’ll see what I can whip up for us.”

  “No, no. Don’t go to any trouble.” He paused, hoping she’d brush off his protest.

  “No trouble. I’m going to fix something for myself. You might as well stay and share it with me.”

  He smiled, but an inner voice chided him. What was he doing? Sitting here in her bathrobe, hoping she’d prepare lunch for him, when he should be minding his own business. She started to rise from the couch and he wrapped one hand around her forearm as he surrendered to his common sense.

  “No, really. I’ve got to be going. Thanks, anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He was sure until he looked into her cinnamon eyes and felt the warmth of her flesh under his fingers. He remembered how she looked under that satin robe and an ache surged through him. Suddenly, all he was sure of was that he wanted to kiss her and satisfy his hunger. He knew that she sensed his uncertainty, and she made it easy for him by parting her lips and not moving a muscle. He wasn’t even sure if she was breathing.

  Hesitating another moment or two before giving way completely to that throbbing ache, he dipped his head and his mouth covered hers. She arched up, driving her lips against his, and the hungering ache consumed him. The tip of her tongue bumped against his teeth, and Shadow opened his mouth wider to receive her gift. Her breasts pressed against his chest as he gathered her closer, one arm circling her waist and the other roaming over her back. She was a warm, vibrant person and she held nothing back from him. Shadow’s tongue danced with hers until she moaned into his mouth.

  She pulled her head back and looked deep into his eyes. “Shadow?”

  “Yes?” His lips grazed the tip of her nose.

  “Are you married or—or anything?”

  The way she
had phrased the question amused him and he chuckled softly. “Or anything? That takes in a lot of territory.”

  “You know what I mean,” she replied.

  “Yes, I know. I’m not married and I’m not—anything.” He smiled, his gaze moving from her light brown eyes to her darker hair.

  Her hair was still damp and his fingers tangled in it as he pulled Whitney’s head back so that his mouth could move from hers and taste the creamy length of her neck. His mind flashed images of what was beneath her robe and his hands moved down to the belted waist and to the knot he’d tied there.

  He felt her stiffen and he knew the sign. She was having second thoughts. Shadow lifted his mouth from the curve of her throat and encountered the hesitation in her eyes. Her gaze moved from his, dropping lower as a smile pushed across her lips.

  “What are you doing in my bathrobe?” she asked, effectively changing the subject. “It’s a little tight, isn’t it?”

  “Shall I take it off?” he asked, still harboring a measure of hope.

  She moved from the circle of his arm. “No, that’s okay. Are you sure you won’t stay for lunch?” she asked, pushing her fingers through her tangled hair.

  He regarded her for a moment, wondering if he should try one more time. “Whitney … do you have any idea how—”

  “It won’t take long for me to fix something,” she interrupted him, dashing his feeble hopes. “You must be hungry.” She looked at him, making eye contact at last, and her gaze told him he was beating a dead horse.

  Frustration slammed into his stomach and Shadow propelled himself from the couch. He untied the belt at his waist and jerked his arms from the clinging sleeves. A clammy sweat broke out on his skin as his ache began to diminish.

  “No, I’ve got to go,” he said, his voice sounding cold even to his ears. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “On a weekend?”

  “Crime doesn’t take days off,” he said, wincing when he heard his Elliot Ness imitation. He’d better get out of here before he made a complete fool of himself.

  “What about the frame? Will you have it dusted for fingerprints?”

  Shadow looked from Whitney to the frame, then back to Whitney. She had him completely befuddled, he thought. She was doing a better job at his job than he was! “Yes, I’ll send out a fingerprinting team. Don’t touch it, or the glass in the basket near the fireplace.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged and looked up at him, her hair spilling across her satin-cased shoulders.

  Shadow pulled his thoughts from her upturned face and forced himself to concentrate on business. He tossed the bathrobe over the back of the couch. “And don’t talk to the press about this. Despite what you think about Ashley Summer, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t follow her example by telling reporters every little thing you know about this case.”

  He knew he’d stayed too long when her face hardened and her eyes blazed with an amber fire.

  “And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop treating me as if I were Ashley’s twin sister! I’m not a publicity seeker, and I have no intention of talking to the press about anything!” She stood up stiffly. “I’ll see you to the door.”

  “I know my way,” Shadow bit out as he pivoted from her and strode across the room to the foyer. “Lock this behind me,” he said over his shoulder as he wrenched open the front door.

  “With pleasure!” she shot back.

  Shadow closed the door with more force than was necessary and the bolt shot into place behind him. He looked over his shoulder, imagining the fury on the other side of the door, then started jogging toward his car which was parked a mile away.

  Whitney whirled from the door and marched back into the living room. Rage built within her as her gaze fell upon the two tea cups. She grabbed one, cocked her arm, drew a bead on the fireplace and—pulled herself up short. Whitney looked at the cup, held menacingly near her ear, and laughed as she replaced it in its saucer. Maybe she was beginning to act like Ashley!

  Lord! It had been a long time since she’d been angry enough to throw something. Not since Jean-Claude … and even then she hadn’t been as angry as she was right now. She’d been hurting then, but it was different this time. Much of her rage stemmed from the frustration of not having enough nerve to encourage Shadow Tallwalker’s ardor.

  Whitney dropped to the couch as the reason for her anger made itself known. Unerringly, her gaze moved to her side where Shadow had been sitting only minutes before. He had wanted to make love to her. A delicious shiver raced over her, not unlike the shivers she had experienced minutes ago in Shadow’s embrace. For a few moments, she had wanted him to make love to her, but her innate conservative nature had won out. The last time she had gone against her nature had been devastating, she reminded herself.

  Her stomach growled and Whitney reached for the phone. She called her friendly, neighborhood pizza parlor and ordered a small Canadian bacon for delivery, then sat back and waited.

  “You’ve got a lot to think about,” she whispered to herself. And all of those thoughts centered on a certain police officer. Did she really want to get involved with a cop? she wondered. Could the creator of Perky Penelope find love and security with a detective?

  She had been caught up in two riptides today, figuratively speaking. When she had been in the sea, she had imagined herself being seized by a riptide. She had given into her fear, letting it transform a wave into something more dangerous. And a few minutes ago, she had been caught up in Shadow’s riptide. She had felt herself losing control, submerging under his charm. It was a wonder she had found the strength to surface again and resist his magnetic pull.

  With a grave nod of her head, Whitney decided that this situation called for drastic action. She picked up the phone again and called Hampton.

  “Hampton? This is an SOS,” she said when he answered his telephone. “I’ve ordered a small pizza and it should be here within twenty minutes. You bring a six-pack and clean out your ears.”

  “Oh, dear,” Hampton sighed into the telephone. “Is it another man?”

  “Yes. Another one. I’m a glutton for punishment, and I need your advice.”

  “As a matter of fact, I need to talk to you anyway. We need to schedule another quick trip to New York for you.”

  “Not again!” Whitney moaned.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” He paused for several moments. “Did you say a small pizza?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “Canadian bacon.”

  “I think we’ll need reinforcements,” Hampton said. “I’ll pick up a Sara Lee coffee cake as well.”

  “Good thinking.” Whitney replaced the receiver. Her gaze touched upon the frame resting against the wall and she closed her eyes to it.

  She had other things to think about besides Shadow, she realized with a weary sigh. Things that weren’t nearly as pleasant.

  Chapter Four

  The 747 dipped a silver wing into the sun, and Whitney looked away quickly when a spear of light pierced her eyes. Pressure built in her head, making her ears pop, and Whitney fastened her seat belt as she sensed the gradual loss in altitude.

  She would be home soon, she thought, closing her eyes on a sigh. She sent up a silent prayer that there would be no surprises awaiting her at her Malibu house. She wasn’t sure how many more unexpected events she could stand.

  In the hours she had had to herself in New York, she had become aware of her crumbling courage. Although she tried to keep a tight rein on her mounting uneasiness, Whitney finally admitted to herself that she was no longer just angry at the Malibu Intruder’s pranks; she was frightened.

  Fear wasn’t a stranger to her, Whitney told herself, thinking of her near-drowning, but it had never been a constant companion, either. However, even in New York she found she could not escape her new, unwanted comrade. More than once, she had studied strange faces on the street and imagined that she was being followed by someone. Each time she returned to her hotel
suite she couldn’t keep herself from peeking into every closet and every corner, positive that someone other than the hotel staff had been there while she’d been out.

  The publisher and his assistant had gently pumped her for information on her Malibu Intruder incidents, having read about them in the newspapers, but Whitney had firmly told them she was in New York on business and not to discuss her personal problems.

  The only good thing that had come from the New York trip was the promise she had wrestled from the publisher that she wouldn’t be needed again until after she’d finished the book.

  She wanted—needed—to settle into her old routine. Being away from her work, even for three days, was disruptive. The book illustrations would never get done if she wasn’t given uninterrupted time in which to do them.

  As the plane flew closer to Los Angeles, Whitney thought of Hampton, who would be waiting for her at the airport. Her discussion with him the day before she had left for New York had been enlightening. To her surprise, Hampton had encouraged her to follow her feelings where Shadow was concerned. In fact, Hampton had been hard pressed to find any faults with Shadow—with the exception of his name.

  After consuming the pizza and beer, Whitney had told Hampton about the upside down painting while they had dived into the Sara Lee coffee cake. Their dessert had been interrupted by the arrival of the fingerprinting team, which cast an uneasy atmosphere. When the team finally left, Hampton had insisted on staying overnight, and Whitney hadn’t put up much resistance. With Hampton in the guest room, Whitney had slept soundly.

  The 747 touched ground and braked to a smooth landing. Whitney was the first one off the plane, thankful for her first-class seating. She walked through the tunnel and into the waiting area, her eyes searching for Hampton’s salt-and-pepper head. She adjusted the shoulder strap of her carryon and stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of a couple of men in front of her. Where was Hamp—?

  Whitney rocked back on the soles of her shoes when she saw Shadow Tallwalker. He looked tall and lean in his jeans and lightweight, tangerine-colored sweater. The sweater’s sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and his arms were crossed against his chest, his booted feet planted slightly apart. Something in the way he stood, with his brows lowered over his silvery eyes, made the hairs on the back of Whitney’s neck stand up. She ran a hand over the nape of her neck, her fingers touching the wispy tendrils of hair that had escaped her French braid.