by Jenna Ryan
It was no Hollywood fight scene, that was for sure, but Aidan did well, ducking and dodging as one might expect a movie hero to do. The greasy-haired man was too bulky and awkward to fit the role of a slick villain. He did, however, have a wicked right cross that caught Aidan, already battered from his earlier two-on-one skirmish, across the jaw.
Sam threatened the man with the bat when he drew close, but otherwise let Aidan deal with the matter. Her aim was only so-so. She might miss her target and slam Aidan on the head instead.
The man made a desperate last dive for Aidan only to wind up facedown on the pavement, panting and agitated. He swore and rolled away, almost catching Aidan’s ankles as he went.
It was an old trick, one Aidan managed to avoid despite being badly winded himself. Doubled over out of range, he endeavored to catch his breath. When the man staggered upright, Aidan, reacting like a big cat, stepped aside at the last second, caught his wrist in an iron grip and spun him so that his arm was pressed behind his back.
The man let out a stream of curses that brought Miss Busby marching over. “Don’t swear!” she ordered, and hit him with her broom. “The police are here,” she said to Sam. She smiled in triumph at Aidan.
Sam didn’t lower the bat until the two policemen climbed from their car to survey the scene. Miss Busby leaned on her broken broomstick, which in turn rested in the small of the unconscious man’s back. Sam still clutched her bat and Aidan had a chokehold on the second man who, despite Miss Busby’s warning, continued to swear like a sailor.
“What’s this all about?” one of the officers finally asked.
It suddenly occurred to Sam that there was nothing they could say. Not if Margaret’s anonymity and the secret of Mary’s escape from Oakhaven were to be maintained.
A glance at Aidan confirmed it. Thrusting his captive away, he made a weary gesture. “Just a mugging, officer,” he said. “Just a simple L.A. mugging.”
“YOU’LL HAVE A BLACK EYE in the morning,” Sam predicted, handing him a piece of raw sirloin strip. “Try that and tell me again what happened.”
“They jumped me.” Aidan regarded the meat, highly skep-tical. “It’s an old wives’ tale about raw meat and black eyes, Sam.”
“You’re really stubborn, aren’t you?” Picking up the steak, she placed it gently against his sore eye.
It had to be the cold that felt good, rather than the meat. Aidan enjoyed steak as a rule, but well-done, not bloody and raw. His stomach gave an unpleasant twist.
“Ignore it,” Sam advised, reading his mind. “I wish we could have told the police the truth. Those guys’ll be out in no time.”
“They would anyway, you know that.”
“Yes, I do. What happened?” she asked again.
“They came at me out of the bushes,” Aidan told her. He tested his canine tooth with his tongue. It felt loose. “They didn’t say who hired them or why—in fact, they didn’t say a word—but the logical assumption would be that Mary knows we’re after her and wants to stop us before we stop her.”
Sam rubbed a tender thumb across his bruised cheekbone, sending a shudder of desire through Aidan’s aching body. “That makes sense. It could have been one of the people at the party, but the reason’s probably the same. It would just mean that Mary had an ally.”
Aidan eased himself away from her. “I prefer to think of Mary as working alone.”
She uncapped a bottle of antiseptic. “What about Alistair Blue?”
“What about him?” Aidan returned in a wary tone. He didn’t trust her with that bottle and tiny scrap of cloth. He didn’t trust himself within ten feet of her. The side of his mouth was bleeding. The last thing he needed was for Sam to touch him there. “I’ll do it,” he said before she could wet the cloth.
“No, you won’t.” She tipped the bottle, then unnerved him completely by bending over to grin at him. “Men never clean their own cuts properly, at least not the men I’ve known.”
“Mmm, and how many would that be?”
Damn, why had he said that? Aidan gnashed his teeth. He should get the hell out of here while his heart still had a layer of resistance around it. Because once it crumbled, he’d be at her mercy. And that, he reflected grimly, was not a state of affairs he was prepared to handle.
She didn’t flinch, from the question or from him. “I’ve had a date or two in my life. Now hold still.” She trapped his chin in her slender left hand and pressed the cool cloth to the side of his mouth.
Aidan swore succinctly to himself. Half a hundred questions burned in his brain, but they paled by comparison to the insistent throbbing in his lower body. One thing was sure, the name Samantha fit her like a glove. How, though, he wondered, fighting the heat, was it possible to fall under the spell of a Hollywood witch?
Feeling oddly resigned, he leaned back in his chair, a hard-backed honey oak chair in Sam’s dangerously homey apartment. The kitchen was white with light wood cabinets and floor. The living room was a blend of pale greens and antique roses with splashes of deep blue to set it off. The overall effect was one of welcoming charm, a place that was neither fussy nor frivolous. She and Domina would not have gotten along.
“Can I ask you something?” Sam paused in her ministrations to regard him.
Eyes veiled, he studied her face. “That depends on the question.”
“Would you tell me about your wife?”
It must be a trick of the light that she looked so beautiful right now, fine-skinned, delicate-boned—and about as fragile as a wildcat. Her black hair smelled like roses and tumbled in silken waves around her cheeks and shoulders. All he could think about was how much he wanted to make love to her, and she was asking him about his failed marriage.
“She was a witch,” he said. “With a capital B.”
A tiny smile curved her lips then disappeared. “Did you really try to kill her?”
“It crossed my mind once or twice.”
She knew just where to press on his cut to provoke a stab of pain. “I don’t scare as easily as that, Brodie. What did you do that made her accuse you?”
“I poured her a glass of wine.”
“That doesn’t sound very deadly.”
“It does if there’s arsenic in the glass.”
She whipped her hand away and bent low again to stare him straight in the eye. “You expect me to believe you put arsenic in your wife’s wine?”
Aidan forced his gaze away from the tantalizing view of cleavage and set it calmly on her face. It was his turn to trap her chin now. He did so firmly, stroking her soft skin with his thumb as he murmured cryptically, “It might be a good idea if you did.” And with that nebulous warning hanging in the air between them, he urged her lower and set his hungry mouth on hers.
IT TOOK SAM an unreasonably long time to recover from Ai-dan’s kiss. His kisses, she corrected herself as the night wore on and sleep continued to elude her. Hot, hungry kisses that made her long for things she couldn’t remember wanting before. And shouldn’t want now, she reminded herself firmly. There were too many problems in her life—and apparently an equal number in his. No, a sexual involvement would not be wise for either of them at this point.
Not to mention that he was a brooder, she thought, twisting around in the sheets. His mouth had burned on hers, hot, insistent and exploratory. And she’d responded with the same intensity of desire. Then, just when she’d been about to get panicky, he’d drawn away. Eyes closed, breathing decidedly uneven, he’d murmured another vague, “Damn,” and pulled away from her.
She’d known what he would do even before he did it. He’d wanted distance, and so had put a full fifteen feet between them.
Sam had stared at his lean back, feeling not so much hurt as puzzled. Most men would have said something, no matter how inane. But inanity appeared to have no part in Aidan’s makeup. When he’d turned to regard her, she’d been unable to read his smoldering expression. All he’d said was, “I’ll go now, Sam. Thanks for the first aid.”<
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She slept fitfully that night, more disturbed by her own feelings than by what Aidan had told her about his wife’s death—or the fact that he’d been attacked on her doorstep. It wasn’t until she climbed out of bed at dawn that her mind was finally able’to focus on the unlikely coincidence of the assault.
A cool shower and coffee revived her. She cut up fresh fruit and mixed it with birdseed for Koko, fixed herself some toast, jam and juice, then with the surf breaking in the distance, sat and stared at the cordless telephone for thirty minutes. She had, after all, made a deal with Aidan.
Sighing, she picked up the receiver and dialed. Theo Larkin answered on the second ring.
“Is Margaret awake yet?” Sam asked. Absently, she studied the videocassette that Miss Busby’s dog had chewed yesterday. If there was a title, Angel’s teeth had torn it away with the bottom half of the jacket.
Polite but firm, Theo returned, “Madame seldom rises before eleven.”
Sam frowned at the mouthpiece. Margaret hadn’t struck her as the slothful type. “I have to talk to her,” she told him. “About a friend of mine. He wants to help me find Mary.”
Theo’s tone sharpened. “What kind of friend?”
“Mary’s doctor at Oakhaven asked him to look for her. And there’s another man on her trail, too. At least I think he is. His name’s Alistair Blue. The doctor said that Thurman Wells hired him.”
A throaty voice broke in. “That makes for a jolly little group, doesn’t it? Good morning, Sam. Hang up, Theo. I want to talk to my granddaughter.”
“Did you hear what I said about Aidan?” Sam asked carefully, unsure of Margaret’s morning mood.
The line clicked before Margaret replied, “Is that his name? Aidan? Aidan what?”
“Brodie. He’s an insurance investigator.”
“Doing a favor for a friend, hmm? Is he young and sexy?”
The directness of her question caught Sam off guard. “I—uh—well, he’d be in his late thirties, and I suppose you could call him sexy.”
“My dear girl, I’d call any man under eighty who still has his original teeth and hair sexy.”
“Can I bring him over?”
Margaret thought about it. “I suppose I could risk it. He’s not a blabbermouth, is he?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, all right, bring him over. How are things coming, by the way? How was Leo’s reception?”
Sam decided not to tell her about last night’s—whatever it had been—or the slashed brakes, or the car chase, not over the telephone at any rate. “Interesting,” she allowed, then grinned. “The last I saw of poor Mr. Wells, he was propped up in a comer doing Hamlet’s soliloquy.”
Margaret’s voice softened. “He always loved Shakespeare. I was married to him, you know, way back when. So was Mary. However, being a journalist, I’m sure you’ve discovered that by now. Did you also. learn about my marriage to Frank?”
Sam searched her memory. Had Guido mentioned the name or had she dug it up herself? “Frank Durwald, wasn’t it? Businessman.”
“He made ice cream. Parlor Shoppe Ice Cream. Had to sell the company, of course, but that’s another story, nothing to do with Mary’s vendetta. Frank and I separated five years after I stopped acting. I haven’t seen or heard from him for more than three decades. There was some trouble, but I never knew the details. I believe, though, that he changed his name.”
Tucking that information away, Sam ventured cautiously, “What about Anthea?”
“What about her?” Margaret sounded equally cautious.
“Do you know where she is?”
“I wish,” Margaret said softly. “We were cousins by marriage, you know.”
“I thought she was your blood cousin. Which marriage?”
“To Frank.” The old woman sighed. “It’s all very complicated, and unconnected to Mary’s scheme in any case. No need for you to get sidetracked by old mysteries, no matter how tantalizing they might appear on the surface.”
This whole thing was getting decidedly complicated. An ex-husband named Frank Durwald, cousin to Anthea Pennant Whereabouts of both people unknown. A slashed brake line, attackers outside her apartment, someone chasing them in a sedan; an actor, a director and a producer, all behaving suspiciously. And Margaret insisting she must retain her anonymity.
“I’ll call Brodie,” she said, not at all prepared to let the subject of Anthea Pennant rest. Given their past relationship, Anthea might provide valuable insight into Mary’s character, the kind that stood a chance of pointing her and Aidan in the right direction.
“Mary is seriously deranged,” Margaret warned. “Never forget that, Samantha. She’d murder her own mother if she stood in her way. She’d murder Anthea, too, if she believed Anthea could tell you anything,”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Sam admitted, troubled.
“That’s because you’re applying logic where little if any exists. Mary was an excellent actress and an even better marksman. She could shoot the toes off. a crow at a hundred yards. Be careful, Sam. If you value your toes, be very, very careful of Mary Lamont’s tricks.”
THE SQUAWK of the telephone jarred Alistair Blue out of a dream about Ingrid Bergman, Morocco and a piano player called Sam. Cracking his eyes, he fumbled the receiver off the hook and growled, “Yeah?”
“You’re drunk,” a familiar voice said coldly.
“Hungover. What time is it?”
“Almost nine.” A pause, then, “Why did you go to Leo Rockland’s reception?”
Alistair’s head spun. He grunted. “Were you hiding behind a potted palm or something, watching the door? A buddy of mine got me in. I went to scope out the situation. I left about the time Anthea Pennant’s name came up.”
“That was discreet of you. What did you do when you left?”
Alistair swore, partly at the painful pounding in his head, but mostly at the caller’s accusing tone. “I went home and put away a case of Bud.”
“I see. Nothing more helpful than that?”
Alistair reached for a beer bottle on the bedstand. When he realized it was empty, he heaved it across the room. It knocked his one and only copy of The Invisible Man to the floor. Swearing again, he snapped, “I called my ex, okay? Or do I have to clear everything with you first? This is a favor I’m doing, remember?”
“A favor to yourself,” the caller reminded him coolly, “and you’ve a tendency to be lazy. That’s a dangerous thing, Alistair Blue. Now you listen to me, and listen good. Your ridiculous burbling has reminded me of a loose end. I’ll help you, of course, but I want you to locate someone for me.”
Transparent as glass, Alistair thought sullenly. “Would her initials be A.P. by any chance?”
“Don’t trifle with me, young man,” the caller warned in such a frigid tone that the hair on Alistair’s neck momentarily stood up. “You find Anthea Pennant for me, and you do with her exactly what I tell you to do. I wouldn’t argue, Alistair,” the person added before he could form a suitably flippant reply. “My mood’s not the best these days. If your mother was here, she’d attest to the fact that I’m hell to deal with in a bad mood. But she isn’t here, is she? So unless you want to join her, you’d do well to follow my instructions, and follow them to the letter….”
Chapter Six
“Morning, Gui…do.” Sam halted on the threshold, her smile vanishing. “What are you doing here?” she demanded of the man perched on a corner of Guido’s overflowing desk.
Aidan gave her a bland look. “Waiting for you.”
“Wouldn’t my office be a more appropriate place to wait?” She took a breath to steady her nerves. “Where’s Guido?”
“Behind you, Minx.” Laden with a tray of coffee and Danish, he kissed her cheek. “Is there a problem?”
Sam masked a sigh. “I take it you two have met.”
“Ten minutes ago,” Guido confirmed. “It was my idea that Mr. Brodie should wait for you here.” He set the tray on a stac
k of precariously piled magazines, handed a steaming cup to Aidan, then one to her. “Now, where’s this mysterious videotape you called me about?”
Aidan’s brows arched. He looked too good for 9:00 a.m. on a hazy California morning, too rumpled and touchable de-spite the wary look in his deep green eyes. The area above his right cheekbone was bruised but not as black as she would have expected given the punch he’d taken.
“What tape?” He wanted to know.
Relenting, Sam shrugged. “I have no idea. My VCR’s in the shop being cleaned. I think it came in the mail. At least, it was chewed with the rest of the mail.”
Aidan’s lips twitched. “Miss Busby’s dog?”
She bit back a reluctant smile. “She’s still crowing about last night’s victory.”
Guido’s head swiveled with the conversation. “Do I want to know what you’re talking about?”
Sam couldn’t help laughing. “No, but I’ll explain anyway. It really isn’t funny.”
Guido’s thin face sobered as her story unfolded. Aidan’s remained placid from start to finish.
“You’re right, it isn’t funny,” he agreed. He picked up a raspberry Danish. “What do you think about all of this, Mr. Brodie?”
“Aidan. And it’s simple enough. Mary—or someone—wants us off the case.” He regarded Sam, who was trying to shove the videotape into Guido’s antiquated machine. “Did you say Margaret was married to Frank Durwald?”
“Yes.” She poked three buttons to no avail. “Do you know him?”
“Maybe.”
“I do,” Guido said. Holding the bun in his mouth, he began pawing through a stack of old movie magazines. “Where is that thing? I saw it yester—Ah, here it is. Movie Mirror. January, 1953.”
Sam felt Aidan behind her. Reaching over her shoulder, he pressed a button on the left. The video carriage immediately popped up.
“Show-off,” she grumbled, glaring at the panel. “Can I play this, Guido?”
He held up a forestalling hand. “Listen first. This is an interview with Evelyn Mesmyr. She was one of the studio makeup artists who worked on The Three Fates. She says here that Margaret was getting, quote, ‘heavily involved with the distinguished Franklin P. Durwald, of Parlor Shoppe Ice Cream fame. Trust our lucky star to land herself such a sumptuous fish. Most of us would bait our hooks with diamonds to catch the eye of such a man as Mr. Durwald. But, of course, he would want Margaret over anyone else. The irony is that Mary saw him first. Story of Mary’s life. What’s that old expression? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride…?’”