Riptide (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  She left the room and bounded down the stairs, her anger mounting with each step. Shadow had been about to tell her that he loved her and the moron who was ringing her doorbell right now had ruined it! She opened the front door, her eyes ablaze with fury.

  “Hello! I’ve brought something—” Ashley Summer clamped her lips together and blinked. “You look as if you could kill me! What did I do?”

  Whitney wrestled her anger under control and stepped back. “You didn’t do anything. Come on in.”

  Ashley entered the foyer hesitantly. “I must have interrupted something. You looked—” Her voice trailed off when she spotted Shadow. “Hello, Shadow. I hear the Malibu Intruder outran you last night. You’ll have to take up jogging again, I guess.” Ashley’s green eyes shifted to Whitney. “Won’t he, Whitney?”

  “Would you like some coffee, Ashley?” Whitney asked sweetly, refusing to take the bait. “We were just about to have some.”

  “We were?” Shadow asked.

  “Yes, we were.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Ashley said, tucking her hand in the crook of Shadow’s arm and pulling him from the foyer toward the living room. “We’ll just relax in the living room while you make the coffee, Whitney.”

  Shadow looked back at Whitney as Ashley forcibly maneuvered him down into the sunken living room. His eyes begged Whitney to intervene, but Whitney only offered a brief, unsympathetic grin. She turned on her heel and went into the kitchen, leaving Shadow to fend for himself.

  In the kitchen, she measured coffee grounds into the basket, poured water into the coffee maker, switched it on, and sat at the kitchen table to wait for the coffee to brew. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the kitchen table and wondered how Shadow was holding up under Ashley Summer’s interrogation. Word had it that Ashley would never be up for an Academy Award, but that no one could hold a candle to her when it came to getting what she wanted, especially when she had a bee in her bonnet. The actress seemed obsessed with the Malibu Intruder, and Whitney admitted that Shadow had pegged Ashley correctly. She was using the Intruder incidents as a means of obtaining publicity. In fact, although Whitney hated to acknowledge it, Ashley had probably faked her own Intruder break-in just to get a slice of the publicity pie.

  The woman had lousy timing, Whitney fumed. If it hadn’t been for Ashley, Whitney would have heard the words she had yearned to hear from Shadow.

  The kitchen door swung open a little and Shadow thrust his head around it.

  “Is the coffee ready yet?” he asked hopefully.

  “Almost. Go on back and keep my guest entertained and I’ll bring in the coffee tray in a minute.” When he didn’t move, Whitney waved him off. “Shoo!”

  His brows lowered over menacing gray eyes. “I’ll get you for this,” he mouthed, then pulled his head back.

  Whitney grinned and pushed herself up from the kitchen chair. The coffee maker gurgled to a stop, and Whitney set it, cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and napkins on a tray. She took the tray into the living room, deciding that it was time to rescue Shadow.

  Ashley had Shadow cornered, just as Whitney had expected. Shadow was at the far end of the couch, wedged between its arm and Ashley. Whitney wasn’t sure if Ashley was interrogating him or seducing him, and from the look on Shadow’s face, neither was he.

  “Here’s the coffee,” Whitney announced, and Ashley retreated to the middle of the couch.

  “Great!” Shadow reached for a cup. “I really need this.”

  “Yes, I know how you love your coffee,” Whitney teased.

  “Couldn’t start a day without it.”

  “My, my!” Ashley’s emerald eyes widened. “You should audition for a coffee commercial, Shadow. You really know how to emote.”

  “He could give Mrs. Olson a run for her money,” Whitney agreed, sitting down in one of the chairs opposite the couch. “Did you come over to get a play-by-play rehash of last night’s escapade?”

  “I admit I was curious about that,” Ashley said with a secretive smirk. “But that’s not the only reason I’m here.” She pulled a rolled newspaper from her hip pocket and extended it toward Whitney. “Have you seen this week’s edition of The Tattler?”

  Whitney stared at the proffered newspaper and frowned. “I’m not a subscriber.”

  “The Tattler?” Shadow asked. “Isn’t that one of those smear sheets?”

  “It’s a publication for those who are curious about celebrities,” Ashley said.

  “I’m not curious,” Whitney stated stubbornly. “I’m not even interested.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this issue,” Ashley crooned. Her gaze shifted from Whitney to Shadow then back to Whitney. “The lead story is all about you.”

  “About me?” Whitney snatched the newspaper from Ashley’s hand and unrolled it. She stared, aghast, at the blood-red headlines and read them aloud: “‘She’s a spoiled, selfish brat,’ says ex-lover of Perky Penelope’s creator. Famous offspring of Jess Campbell and Joan Shepperd points accusing finger at ex-lover, calling him the Malibu Intruder.”

  “What?” Shadow shot to his feet and marched over to her. “Let me see that.”

  “Here!” Whitney shoved the newspaper into his hands, her anger spiraling again and making her tremble. “Take a good look, Detective Tallwalker! Are you pleased with yourself?”

  Shadow looked stunned for a moment. “What does that mean? I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Didn’t you?” Whitney jumped to her feet and glared at him. “Didn’t you? You had everything to do with it. My private life is sprawled across that front page for everyone to see and it’s all your fault!”

  Chapter Nine

  The events of the past weeks seemed to culminate with the tabloid’s story and Whitney’s composure snapped like a brittle branch in a windstorm. Oblivious to Shadow’s own glowering fury, Whitney lashed out at him. She felt cornered, like a frightened animal who could no longer recognize friend from foe.

  “You just had to prove to me that I couldn’t boss you around, didn’t you?” she charged. “Mr. Macho had to harass Jean-Claude—not because Jean-Claude was a suspect—but because you just had to prove your point! Well, I hope you’re satisfied with the results!” She pointed at the newspaper in Shadow’s hand.

  He waved the tabloid like a banner and his voice was pitched low, scraping Whitney’s frayed nerve endings. “I was right to question him, Whitney, and it had nothing to do with my macho ego. It’s not my fault that your old boyfriend is a publicity hound who stoops to this sort of delinquency.”

  “It takes a delinquent to know a delinquent,” Whitney said, wanting to strike out at something…or someone.

  “I’ll contact Noir and inform him that he is interfering with an ongoing investigation.” He glanced at the headline again and frowned. “He’ll pay for this.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?” Whitney asked. “Why don’t you make yourself useful by arresting the Malibu Intruder? Why don’t you just quit messing up my life?”

  Pain flickered in his eyes, and Whitney realized, too late, that she had allowed her anger to distort her intent. She stared at him, not knowing quite how to patch the hole she’d torn in their relationship. His face hardened and his eyes took on a metallic sheen. Shadow flung the newspaper into the chair behind Whitney and strode toward the door.

  “I hadn’t realized until now that I’d been messing up your life,” he said. “Believe me, I want this thing over with as much as you do.” He slammed the door behind him and the sound reverberated in the silent house.

  Whitney retrieved the tabloid and collapsed in the chair, her anger spent and the full import of her accusations taking their toll on her. Her eyes lifted to confront Ashley Summer’s curious expression, and Whitney sat up with a start, having forgotten that Ashley had witnessed the ugly scene between herself and Shadow.

  “Don’t you think you were a little hard on him?” Ashley asked. “
I thought you had complete faith in the police department’s efforts.”

  Whitney winced inwardly, and averted her gaze. She read the article, attributed to Jean-Claude, and a deep pain settled in her heart. The story was vicious, and Jean-Claude had presented her as a paranoid, sniping, spoiled woman who was too immature to accept a terminated affair. Whitney tossed the newspaper onto the table. She didn’t deserve that kind of abuse, she thought. She had been kind to Jean-Claude and she had tried to explain her innocence when he had phoned and accused her of siccing the police on him, but he hadn’t wanted to believe her. How could he have known her for all those months and think her capable of such childish retaliation?

  “You know what you should do?” Ashley asked, her eyes bright with fiendish ideas. “You should contact the tabloid’s editor and insist on being interviewed so that you can tell your side of the story.”

  Whitney shook her head stubbornly. “Not on your life. I’m not talking to the press. It would only add fuel to the fire.”

  “You deserve fair coverage,” Ashley insisted. “It’s a great opportunity. Think of the publicity—”

  “I don’t want publicity, Ashley!” Whitney forced her voice down to a civilized level. “I want to be left alone. I just hope this thing blows over soon.”

  “Think about it,” Ashley persisted as she stood up from the couch. “If I were you I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay.” Whitney didn’t bother to show Ashley to the door. She fell back in the chair with a headache pounding in her temples. Hearing the soft click of the door, she closed her eyes, grateful to be alone with her troubled thoughts.

  She picked up the tabloid again and moaned when she saw the publication date. It had been out three days already. She was probably one of the last to know that shed been smeared by her former lover. Had the others at Ashley’s party known of this? Had they been laughing behind her back?

  Whitney tossed the paper over her shoulder with disgust. She was being paranoid, just as Jean-Claude had accused. Had Hampton seen the story?

  Grabbing the telephone, Whitney dialed Hampton’s home. The telephone rang six times, and she was beginning to think Hampton wasn’t in, when he finally picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hampton, it’s me. Have you seen the latest edition of The Tattler?”

  “Whitney, you cut me to the quick. Why would I waste my time reading that trash?”

  “Because I’m in it.”

  “In reference to what?”

  “Jean-Claude retaliated by granting an exclusive interview about what a shrew I am.”

  “Oh, dear,” he said in a dismayed voice. “Do you want me to come over?”

  “No.” She paused and heard voices in the background. “You have company, don’t you?”

  “Yes. A few friends are joining me for brunch. Would you like to join us?”

  “No, thanks anyway.”

  “Is Shadow with you?”

  “No, he left in a huff. I … I blamed him for everything.”

  “And now you’re lovesick. I’ll be right over.”

  “No, Hampton!” Whitney clutched the receiver, not wanting him to ruin his day just because she had ruined hers. “I’m okay. I want to be alone. I’ve got to do some serious thinking.”

  “I’ll call you later, but if you need me—”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Whitney promised. “You’re a peach, Hampton.”

  “And you are a coconut. Good-bye, sweet Whitney.”

  Whitney replaced the receiver with a wistful smile. Hampton couldn’t help her out of this situation, she told herself. This was between her and Shadow.

  She made a slow perusal of the room, remembering a time not too long ago when this house had represented peace and happiness to her; now she felt alone and insecure in her castle by the sea. Bars on the windows and a burglar alarm wouldn’t make her feel at peace, she realized, because her uneasiness was internal. She was no longer happy with her lot—without Shadow her life was colorless.

  Leaving the chair, she wandered through the dining room and into the kitchen where dirty dishes lined the counter. Not only had she lost Shadow’s respect, she had also lost Selma! Whitney fought back a scalding gush of tears and began loading the dishwasher. Selma was the best maid in the Colony and she’d be hard to replace, Whitney thought. Perhaps she could phone her and sweet-talk her into coming back to work. Maybe once the Malibu Intruder was arrested, Selma would feel safe to, return.

  Feeling as if her life was in chaos, Whitney escaped from the kitchen and ran upstairs to her office. There was one person she could always depend on, she told herself, taking in the smiling face of Perky Penelope. Whitney went over to a large poster of Penelope on the far wall and ran her fingertips across the urchin’s chubby cheeks.

  “Oh, Penelope,” Whitney said with a sob. “I need a friend. Are you still my friend?” She pressed her damp cheek against the poster and cried on Penelope’s shoulder.

  Engrossed in her work, Whitney was only barely aware of the chiming bell. After a few seconds her concentration shattered and she realized that someone was ringing her doorbell relentlessly. Rubbing her eyes, she straightened from her crouched position over the drawing board and covered the illustration in progress with a sheet of protective tissue paper.

  On her way out of the office she glanced at the clock and was surprised to discover that she’d been working on the Penelope book illustrations for almost four hours. She raced down the stairs, skidded around the corner, and flung open the door. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart slammed into the roof of her mouth.

  “Shadow!” She grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him into the house. “I’m so glad you came back. I want to tell you how sorry—”

  “I talked with Jean-Claude,” he interrupted her, his manner all business. “He admitted that he’d made up most of the story in that tabloid.”

  “He did?”

  He slanted her a curious glance. “Well, he did, didn’t he?”

  “Of course, he did,” she defended herself. “I’m just surprised that he admitted it.”

  “The tabloid editors agreed to run a small article saying that Jean-Claude fabricated much of the earlier story.” He loosened his tie knot and cleared his throat. “That’s the best I could do.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate your help.” Whitney touched his hand tentatively, and a shaft of pain speared her heart when Shadow unobtrusively removed his hand from her reach.

  “I hate to bother you again, but I need you to come to the station and look at some mug shots.”

  Whitney searched his face for a flaw in his taciturn attitude, but could find none. With a sigh, she nodded.

  “I’ll take you to the station and bring you back here. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

  “Okay. Just let me change clothes. I won’t be a minute.”

  “Take your time.”

  She started for the stairs, but turned back to find that he hadn’t moved an inch from his stance in the foyer. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” she asked, nodding toward the living room.

  “No, thanks. I’ll just wait here for you.”

  “Suit yourself.” She turned and ran up the stairs to her bedroom.. Closing the door behind her, she paused to assess the stranger downstairs. He was doing a slow burn, Whitney thought, and he wasn’t going to let her apologize for her earlier faux-pas.

  She couldn’t blame him for being angry, Whitney decided as she stripped off her jeans and shirt and grabbed a pair of tailored gray trousers and a black silk blouse. Her behavior had been contradictory. First she had pledged her faith in his ability in front of Ashley’s guests, and then she had thrown that pledge right in his face with Ashley as a witness. He had a right to be mad, Whitney thought, but he didn’t have the right not to allow her to apologize!

  She felt wretched enough without having to carry this burden indefinitely. It seem
ed impossible now that Shadow had been on the verge of confessing his love for her just a few hours ago. But that was the way her life seemed to be progressing these days; one moment she was on the peak of a mountain and the next she was tumbling into a valley.

  Pushing her feet into black flats, Whitney went over to her dresser mirror and ran a brush through her hair. She added a touch of blusher to her cheeks, a stroke of mascara to her lashes, and a bit of color to her lips before hurrying from the bedroom.

  Shadow was still in the foyer, his hands shoved into his pockets, and a bored expression on his face.

  “I’m ready,” Whitney announced, reaching for her purse on the foyer table. “Does this mean you’re close to arresting a suspect?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d just like you to look at a few pictures and tell me if you recognize any of the men.”

  “Okay.” She started to add that she was more than happy to cooperate, but then thought better of it. In his present mood, Shadow would view that as the height of hypocrisy.

  The drive to the police station was uneventful and silent. Several times, Whitney started to attempt an apology, but the stern set of Shadow’s jaw told her it would be an exercise in futility. It was obvious that Shadow wanted to stay mad at her, and he wasn’t about to let her spoil his stormy mood.

  The police station was nondescript, and Shadow led her through a catacomb of corridors until they reached a large room filled with desks, file cabinets, and Wanted posters. Men in shirt-sleeves and wrinkled trousers sat at some of the desks while others hovered near a coffee machine. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung at ceiling level like smog over the Los Angeles skyline.

  Whitney was fascinated by this masculine territory, primarily because this was where Shadow spent much of his time. Shadow led her to one side of the room and motioned for her to sit in a straight-backed chair while he took the padded chair behind the desk.

  Sitting in the rickety chair, Whitney examined Shadow’s cluttered desk. It was impersonal with no family photographs, no cute pencil holders or planters, and no semblance of order. The only personal items were his nameplate and a stained coffee mug with his last name written across it in Magic Marker ink.