Riptide (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  Whitney lowered the newpaper to her lap. Ashley Summer! Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as fury consumed her. Who else had witnessed that argument she had with Shadow? Who else was desperate for publicity?

  “You’ve gone too far, Ashley,” Whitney whispered between clenched teeth. She rose stiffly from the couch, the newspaper clutched in her hand, and strode from her house.

  Marching toward Ashley’s house, Whitney tried to bring her anger under control. She approached the front door, rang the bell, and waited impatiently for her summons to be answered. The door opened and Whitney stared, aghast, at Selma.

  “Selma! Don’t tell me you’re working for Ashley now!”

  A sheepish expression covered the woman’s face. “Well, I have to work somewhere.”

  “Oh, that does it!” Whitney brushed past Selma and walked into the spacious living room. “Where’s Ashley?”

  “She’s reading a—”

  “Get her.” Whitney turned to face her former maid. “I want to talk to her right now!”

  “Okay, okay,” Selma said, backing toward the bedroom wing. “I’ll get her for you.”

  “Thank you.” Whitney folded her arms across her chest and waited for Selma to fetch Ashley. She heard the murmur of voices at the back of the house and sensed that Ashley was telling Selma to get rid of her. Taking the matter in her own hands, Whitney strode toward the sound of the voices and found Selma standing on the threshold of Ashley’s bedroom.

  “Just tell her I’m ill,” Ashley was saying. “I don’t want to—”

  “You’re going to listen to me, Ashley Summer,” Whitney said behind Selma. “Thank you, Selma, that will be all for now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Selma ducked her head and made a quick escape.

  “You can’t order Selma around. She works for me now!” Ashley rose from the chair she had been sitting in and gathered her dressing gown around her. “I’m not feeling well, Whitney. I must ask you to leave.”

  “I’ll leave when I’ve delivered my message to you.” Whitney stepped into the bedroom and tossed the newspaper onto Ashley’s vanity. “I know you did this, so don’t try to deny it. I’d like to strangle you, but I’ll exercise some good sense and just leave it at this.” She pointed a finger in Ashley’s pale face. “Don’t you ever use me as a spotlight again! If you do, I’ll really grant an interview and tell The Tattler all about your shameless attempts at publicity stunts. I’ll tell them how you faked that Malibu Intruder break-in and how you lied to them about this story. I might even go so far as to tell them that your real name is Ruby Adams and that you were ‘discovered’ on Times Square working in a massage parlor.”

  Ashley took a backward step, her face growing even paler at Whitney’s threat. “You … how did you know my real name?”

  “You can’t keep secrets in the Colony, Ruby. Just let me leave you with a word of advice. Be careful who you make an enemy of in this town because there are some heavy hitters here and I happen to be one of them. My parents taught me every dirty trick in the book, just in case I might need to exercise them one day, so don’t tempt me.” She glared at Ashley’s stricken expression for a moment, then whirled, retrieving the newspaper, and marched back to her own house.

  The moving company men were struggling to get her filing cabinet down the stairs when Whitney swept into the house. She grabbed her purse and car keys and paused to watch their slow progress.

  “Did you clean that cabinet out before you started moving it?” she asked.

  The larger of the men gave her an incredulous look. “No, ma’am, you said—”

  “But you must clean it out first,” Whitney ordered. “There are valuable illustrations in there and I don’t want them damaged during the move. Take it back up, remove the contents and put them in a separate box, and then move the cabinet.”

  “But, Miss Campbell, you said—”

  “I can’t argue about it right now,” Whitney interrupted. “I’ve got to go to the police station. Please lock the door when you’re through.” She left the house, doubtful of the moving company’s fine reputation. What made them think that they could just move that cabinet without removing its contents first?

  Whitney got into her car and drove to the police station, not quite sure why she was going there or what she was going to do once she arrived. She only knew that she must talk to Shadow one more time and let him know that he wasn’t the only one who was hurting. How could he mistrust her so completely? Didn’t he know her well enough by now to know that she couldn’t possibly be responsible for that newspaper article?

  She parked in front of the police station and retraced her steps through the maze of corridors to the detective division, hoping that Shadow would be there. She breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted him at his desk. Gathering her courage, she strode toward his desk, newspaper in hand. When he looked up, a frown settled on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Whitney slammed the newspaper on his desk, her anger rising at his rude greeting. She placed her hands flat on his desk and leaned forward on stiff arms. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Shadow, but what I’m really sorry about is the way you condemned me without giving me a chance to defend myself. If you’ll read that article carefully you’ll see that I had nothing to do with it.” She sared into his impassive face and felt her heart break in two. “I was wrong to blame you for that story Jean-Claude fed to the press. I know you were just doing your job.” When he still made no move to speak, Whitney decided this trip was futile. She straightened and tilted her chin, surrendering her hopes of a reconciliation, but not her pride. “I hurt you, and you hurt me, so I guess that makes us even. I just want you to know that I loved you, Anthony Shadow Tallwalker. But it looks as if I’ve stumbled into another one-sided relationship. Good-bye.”

  Whitney wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught a glimmer of regret in his eyes before she turned and walked blindly from the room. She thought she heard him call her name, but she couldn’t be sure and she didn’t want to turn back.

  Whitney held her tears in check until she was outside the building and had made it to her car. She sat behind the steering wheel for a few moments, sobbing softly and letting the tears flow, and then she drove in the direction of the hotel where a cold, impersonal suite awaited her.

  When the telephone rang Whitney ran from the bedroom to the living room to answer it. She’d only been in the hotel suite for a few hours, but it seemed like days. The moving men had arrived a half hour ago, placing the contents of her office into the suite’s bedroom and leaving her to unpack everything. Starved for company, she had tried to get them to stay for a cup of coffee or a beer, but they were decidedly unfriendly as if she had offended them in some way.

  Grabbing up the receiver before the phone could ring twice, Whitney prayed it wasn’t the wrong number. She was so lonely … so lost … she needed someone. “Hello?”

  “Whitney, this is Hampton.”

  “Hampton! Oh, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been bouncing off the walls. It’s so quiet here. I miss the roar of the surf and—”

  “I’ve done a dreadful thing, Whitney,” Hampton broke in. “I won’t blame you if you never speak to me again.”

  “Hampton, what is it? Did you call Perky Penelope a dirty name behind our backs?”

  “Your detective phoned me and I told him which hotel you were staying in.”

  “What?” Whitney closed her eyes and laid her hand across her forehead. “He’s not my detective. Oh, Hampton, how could you? I don’t want to see him. I won’t see him.”

  “See him, Whitney. He wants to talk with you,” Hampton urged.

  “I’ve talked to him until I’m blue in the face,” Whitney said with a weary sigh.

  “I wasn’t going to tell him, but he sounded so sincere. He said that he had to speak with you. I think he has news of the Malibu Intruder case. You agreed to keep the police posted on your whereabouts.”

  “He
has news of the Malibu Intruder,” Whitney repeated, then laughed at herself. She had jumped to the conclusion that Shadow wanted to see her to patch up their relationship, but it seemed the joke was on her again.

  “What do you find so amusing?” Hampton asked.

  “Me. Sometimes I laugh so hard at myself that it hurts.” Someone rapped sharply on her door, and Whitney didn’t have to ask for the caller to identify himself. “He’s here,” she whispered into the receiver. “Maybe he’ll go away.”

  “Whitney, you answer that door immediately!” Hampton ordered before severing the connection.

  Replacing the receiver, Whitney stared at the door as if expecting Shadow to burst through it in a dramatic police maneuver.

  “Whitney? I know you’re in there, so open up.” Shadow’s voice sliced through the barrier.

  “Open up, this is the police;” Whitney whispered to herself. She cleared her throat and shouted back, “Go away!”

  “Either open the door or I’ll get the passkey. One way or another, I’m coming in.”

  Well, at least he wasn’t threatening to break down the door, Whitney thought as she went to unlock it. She opened it slowly and peeked around the door. Shadow’s mouth was slightly pursed with chagrin and his eyes were friendly.

  “Can I come in or do I have to get a warrant for that?”

  “Come in,” Whitney said, opening the door further and stepping back. “Hampton was just on the phone. He told me that he squealed.”

  “You promised to keep us informed if you moved or left the city,” Shadow said, stepping further into the suite and glancing around at the tasteful decor. He pushed his hands into his navy trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels.

  “I told you earlier today that I was moving,” she reminded him.

  “Right, but I wasn’t listening to you earlier today.” He gave her his full attention now. “We arrested Steven York this afternoon and he’s confessed. He’s the Malibu Intruder.”

  Whitney’s knees buckled as sweet relief washed over her and she sank into a nearby chair. “Are you sure?”

  “His prints match those we lifted from the postcard you were sent and off the frame of the portrait in your living room. I’m sure.”

  “But why did he do it?” Whitney massaged her temples tenderly. “What was the point?”

  Shadow shrugged and wandered around the room, stopping occasionally to look out the window or examine a vase. “He’s plea bargaining with his attorney right now, but from what I could gather Steven York has a distorted jealousy of the offspring of the famous. He thinks that people like you succeed by riding on your parents’ coat-tails and that’s why he can’t get a job.”

  “But we don’t have the same profession,” Whitney said. “I’m an artist and he’s an actor. I’m not keeping him out of work.”

  “Don’t explain it to me, Whitney. I’m just telling you what he said. He had singled you out. He said he thought you were pretty and he’d like to get to know you better.”

  Whitney shivered uncontrollably at all the implications behind that statement. “Why did he rip up my bedroom and turn that portrait around and send me that postcard?”

  “It was just his way of blowing off steam and getting even with all the successful offspring of the Colony.” Shadow smiled and walked over to her. “Don’t try to make any sense of this, Whitney. After years of experience in dealing with this kind of thing, I can tell you that there isn’t any logic in a twisted mind.”

  “Steven was at Ashley’s party,” Whitney said, mainly for her own benefit.

  “That’s right, and he left early and went next door to your house for a private party. I’ve suspected him for over a week, but it took a little time to get my evidence together.”

  “Thank you for all you’ve done on this case,” Whitney said, feeling less relieved by Shadow’s news now that she had time to think about the consequences. There wasn’t any reason for Shadow to hang around anymore, and Whitney realized that this was good-bye.

  “You don’t seem very happy to know that the Malibu Intruder won’t be bothering you again,” Shadow said. He crooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face until she was looking in his eyes. “Why the sad frown?”

  “I…” She paused, unwilling to reveal her inner torment. “I was just thinking that I’ll have to move my things back to my house tomorrow. If I had stuck it out one more day, I could have saved myself the inconvenience.” She shrugged and turned aside. “It’s over.”

  “The Malibu Intruder is history, but we don’t have to be.”

  “There is no ‘we’ when it’s obvious we don’t trust each other.” Whitney stood up and pulled the draperies against the impending night. She felt Shadow’s gaze on her, but she kept her back to him.

  “Whitney, I was wrong to accuse you of talking to the press. Ashley was the culprit, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Whitney stared at her clasped hands and wished that he would just leave. She didn’t need his apology now. It was too late for that.

  “I know it’s a little too late to be apologizing, but I had to come here tonight and try to clear the air. My only excuse for my behavior earlier today was that I was personally involved and I reacted as a wounded lover instead of a levelheaded professional.” He walked over to stand just behind her, and touched her hair. “After I had cooled off, I knew that I’d behaved like a fool.”

  “I know the feeling,” Whitney whispered, relenting when she realized she had behaved as a wounded lover herself. “But do you trust me now?”

  “Of course, I do.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. “I could never love a spoiled, selfish publicity seeker, and I love you very much.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Whitney asked, her heart taking wing and soaring.

  “What do you want me to do? Take a lie detector test?”

  Whitney smiled and shook her head. “’No, just convince me.”

  A taunting smile curved his mouth and without a word he swept her up into his arms and strode into the bedroom. His mouth met hers with a flaming kiss, then he froze and stared at the boxes strewn on the bed. Whitney grimaced and gave him a consoling kiss.

  “It’s not as classy as rose petals, is it?” she asked.

  Shadow walked to the side of the bed with Whitney still in his arms and surveyed the clutter. “No, it isn’t. This really puts a damper on my intentions.” He let her slip to her feet and began removing the boxes from the bed. “Well call this ‘intermission.’”

  Whitney smiled, watching as he removed his jacket, but the sight of his shoulder holster made her catch her breath and drew Shadow’s attention back to her. He looked at his shoulder holster and slipped it off.

  “You’re going to have to get used to this,” he said, draping the holster on the back of a chair. “If I can get used to—” he poked dimples into his cheeks with his index fingers and smiled ridiculously—“Perky Penelope, can’t you get used to my shoulder holster?”

  Whitney laughed at his Penelope impression. “I’ll give it a try,” she promised. “It’s just that guns are violent and hateful and you’re not like that at all to me.”

  “We all have our crosses to bear.” He lifted the last box from the bed, set it on the floor, and pulled back the bedspread and top sheet. “Act Two.”

  Whitney examined the bed that separated them and experienced a momentary apprehension. She looked into Shadow’s eyes, searching for and finding the love there that she so desperately needed.

  “Is this forever, Shadow?” she asked with some hesitation, “or just for now?”

  He reached for her hand, took it, and pulled her down onto the bed with him. “This is forever,” he whispered just before his mouth covered hers in a kiss that sealed his pledge.

  Whitney wound her arms around his neck and hugged him close, vowing that she would never let anything come between them again. His kisses told her how much he’d missed her and his gentle murmurings piec
ed together her broken heart. When his mouth moved hungrily over hers, she knew he had suffered as much as she during their time apart.

  Catching fire in Shadow’s embrace, Whitney knew she was home at last.

  Deborah Camp is a freelance writer and editor. She specializes in writing for small business magazines.

  The author of more than 40 titles, she has received the Janet Dailey Award (given to a romance novel that best addressed a social problem and was inducted into the Oklahoma Professional Writers Hall of Fame. She also received the Nightwriter of the Year Award, Tepee Award from OWFI for published fiction, and the Golden Certificate from Affaire de Couer.

  Her personal motto is: “Don’t wait for your ship to come in – swim for it!” And she has lived by that all of her life.