You Don't Know Me

by Nancy Bush

  By hook or by crook, she was going to get back on track.

  If she had to kill him to do it.

  “You’re fired,” Flick growled into the phone.

  “No, I’m not,” Dinah argued. “I got you the last piece right on time, and it was good, if I do say so myself.”

  “Nobody cares,” Flick sniffed.

  “I’m almost finished here,” Dinah said, grimacing at the almost lie. Was she almost finished? Who knew?

  “Yeah, well, I’m hiring. Someone else’s fanny’ll be warming your chair by Thursday.”

  “Hold on to your trousers.”

  “I’m serious, Scott,” Flick assured her, his voice altering. “You said six weeks. It’s been twelve.”

  “Ten,” she corrected quickly.

  “Honey, you’ve used up my patience. Good luck in the job market.”

  He hung up before Dinah could protest.

  Infuriated, she slammed out of the Corolla and stalked into her favorite Kinkos. The wireless had gone on the fritz again, which made her want to rip out her hair, and her laptop was in computer purgatory, apparently forever.

  “I gotta get outta this place,” she muttered as she e-mailed Flick her latest article, annoyed at the need for all this subterfuge. If John Callahan would just LEAVE HER ALONE, she could work in peace at the house and find out what the hell was wrong with his temperamental router.

  Outside again in air so smoggy you could taste it, Dinah went back to the convenience store where she’d first contacted Flick and ordered a SUPER SODA!—MORE THAN EVEN YOU CAN DRINK! Then she settled into the Corolla, listened anxiously for the engine, popped the clutch, and slid into traffic.

  The super soda was more than even she could hold, the cup so wide, it kept slipping through her hand. She balanced it on her thigh and drove one-handed, certain she was about to die on the maniac-congested freeways of L.A.

  She couldn’t bear to see John. One touch and she was a goner. She had to reach Denise. She had to get free!

  For days now she’d toyed with the idea of telling him the truth. What would happen? Dinah shuddered. Even her fertile imagination had trouble envisioning that scenario. No matter what, she’d be the bad guy. Impersonating her sister. Taking over Denise’s life. Sleeping with her husband.

  Ex-husband.

  That excuse is wearing pretty thin, isn’t it?

  The answer to all her problems was Denise. Find her, straighten out this mess, leave town with her tail tucked firmly between her legs.

  At the house she walked into the den. She needed Denise to phone again. If she didn’t, Dinah was going to have to do something drastic, like go to the police and tell them a tale they wouldn’t soon forget. Because she knew her twin was in serious trouble. She sensed it.

  Just like she was in serious trouble herself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Flick didn’t publish her column. The Santa Fe Review introduced a new writer, Kate Patton, whose first endeavor concerning romance was entitled “What’s Love Got To Do with It?”

  Dinah scanned the article with hard fury, wadded up the paper, and flung it against the wall.

  She had to go back. She had to leave this mess she’d made for herself in California and return to New Mexico.

  She didn’t want to go.

  Muttering epithets directed solely at herself, she packed her suitcase, tossing in items unseeingly. She, Dinah, The Fixer, had created an ungodly mess and now she had to run out and leave everything.

  “What is the matter with you?” she demanded.

  Suitcase in hand, she stood in the gallery, listening to the sounds of the empty house. Callahan was at work, but he was coming back tonight. He’d been notably absent since their nights together, working like a fiend, or so he said in one of his numerous phone calls. At least once a day he checked in. He was concerned about her being alone. He worried about the break-in and considered reinstalling an alarm system.

  Dinah assured him she was all right and then they sat on opposite ends of the phone with nothing—and everything—to say. Neither of them knew where to start. This cooling-off period was good. Very good. Dinah felt like she was losing her mind.

  He, like her, had entered a phase of not knowing how to act. Protocol was lost. He believed he’d slept with his ex-wife, and he was mulling over that one. She knew he’d slept with his ex-sister-in-law.

  Either way it was a disaster . . . but he’d mentioned he was coming back tonight.

  She was at the door when the phone rang. She hesitated. It could be Callahan, but it might be Denise.

  Dropping her bags, she raced for the phone. It wasn’t a number she recognized.

  “Hello?” Dinah answered cautiously.

  “Denise!” a woman’s voice declared. “O-M-G! Everyone thought you left with Lambert, but you’re at the Malibu house? Isn’t your ex still living there? You’re not cohabitating, are you?” she asked, feigning shock. When Dinah didn’t immediately respond, she added, “You there . . . ? For God sakes, it’s Carolyn.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Who is this?” she asked with sudden suspicion.

  Dinah pulled herself together. “It’s me. Who else would it be?”

  She chuckled. “Anybody, dearest, with his reputation.” A beat, then, “Oh! You got the part! That’s why you’re with John again!”

  “No, no . . . I’m not with John. And there’s no part. I’m just keeping an eye on the house.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment bordering on boredom colored her voice. Slyly, she added, “Peter’s been asking about you.”

  Peter? Treacherous waters, here. “Really?” she asked lightly.

  “You still like him?”

  “I . . . no . . . not that way.”

  “Well, I guess! Do you know his nose was broken? He whined about it for weeks!”

  What was this all about? “Umm, how does he look?” Dinah asked curiously.

  “Oh, you know. He’s still parading the perfect cock. Thinks we’re all standing in line.” She sniffed, then subtly shifted gears. “Have you seen Lambert? I need to get in touch with him, but I’ve misplaced his number.”

  “Uh . . . Lambert . . . ?”

  “What’s wrong with you? Lambert Wallace. Remember him?”

  “Sorry.” Dinah half covered the receiver and coughed. “My ears are plugged with this cold.” Here, finally, was a link to Denise’s whereabouts. Treading cautiously, she heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve lost the number, too. You don’t have his address, do you? I could swing by and leave a message.”

  “Hey, all I know is Beverly Hills. I thought you two flew back together. Didn’t you get those vital statistics?”

  There was suspicion in her voice and more than a hint of jealousy. Not surprising, knowing Denise’s penchant for attracting the male sex. “You know I’m not good at remembering the important things,” Dinah said, guessing Carolyn was acquainted enough with Denise to know how unstable and volatile she was. The more you knew of Denise, the less you expected of her.

  “Well, how are you doing?” Carolyn suddenly gushed with remembered solicitude.

  “Coping.”

  “Stone helping you out there?”

  “Not really,” Dinah said, lost.

  “Now, you didn’t lose his number too, did you? For God’s sake, Denise, he cared about you. And he’s back in L.A.”

  “Do you have his number?” Dinah asked, wincing, afraid she was about to step over the line. She half expected Carolyn to scream out, “Fraud! Liar! Imposter!” but all she said was, “The good doctor’s probably listed. Go see him, Denise. And get better.”

  The subtext was clear: You total looney, you really need serious help.

  On that Dinah and Carolyn agreed.

  A few more cryptic comments about Peter, and Carolyn hung up, frustrated in her search for Lambert Wallace. But Dinah had learned something impor
tant.

  Denise was seeing some doctor in town named Stone.

  Hefting her bags over her shoulder, Dinah scratched out a note to John about feeding Bobo—he was sure to love that—locked the front door behind her, and headed for her beloved Corolla, aware she was running away from John Callahan and not certain whether she was sorry or relieved.

  John Callahan was a happy man. Slogging through the last phases of Borrowed Time with Frankie bitching and screaming and the actors whining and sulking should have been pure hell. But John didn’t really much care. Let ’em screw it up. He had other things to occupy his mind and keep him happy.

  The script for Blackbird was on his desk. Smiling, he thumbed through it, imagining Denise in the title role. She could do it. She could do it right—if she were so inclined—though dependability wasn’t her strong suit.

  His casting director, Susan Markson, had tested a dozen actresses, and she had several more interested who were “above” testing. If John brought up Denise’s name, Susan would squint at him over the curl of her cigarette smoke, skewering him with cold eyes that had seen it all and then some. Susan was nothing if not opinionated. But John would win because it was his picture.

  But did he really want Denise for Isabella?

  Yes.

  A knock on the jamb of his open door and one of his assistants peeked in. For a moment he had trouble remembering her name. Tonja. Tonja Terkell.

  She regarded him sheepishly, a DVD in her hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “An audition video,” she admitted on a sigh.

  “You want me to look at it?”

  He’d offered her a job during production of Borrowed Time because he’d felt sorry for her. He felt sorry for a lot of them whose dreams of success in Hollywood turned them desperate and miserable.

  “It’s up to you,” she said diffidently, afraid to commit. They were all afraid to commit. Too risky. The producer or director might disagree. Stick your neck out? Forget it. It’d only get chopped off.

  “Leave it on the desk,” John told her. Maybe he’d get around to watching it after the mountains of work he already had scheduled. Maybe he wouldn’t.

  He was at that phase of production where he spent 110 percent of his time on the phone. Shockingly, Blackbird had been purchased by Titan Studios. They’d come to him, if you could believe that. The only thing John could figure was, because he owned a percentage of the corporation, Rodney Walburn III felt compelled to acknowledge him.

  Or at least that’s what he’d originally thought. Because he despised Titan, John had blithely demanded total control and a budget one and a half times what he needed. He’d expected to be turned down—and how. But surprise! Good old Rod had agreed to all conditions, demanding only a Christmas release.

  John’s conclusion: Rod was sweating under those layers of fat. He became head of Titan Pictures by default and the board was sorry they’d appointed such a slug. A smart slug. A far-sighted slug. But a slug nonetheless.

  But that was Rod’s problem. John had signed the papers and the deal was set. He was driven now by two needs: to bring the picture in under Titan’s generous budget, a mission he could easily fulfill, and two, to cast this picture brilliantly in as quick a manner as possible and get production rolling.

  And there was Denise. Though he’d sworn long and loud that she would never get a part in Blackbird, there was no denying the main role fit her to a T. And why not? He’d purchased the struggling writer’s fresh, fast-paced screenplay years earlier with Denise in mind. He’d reworked the main character himself, thinking of her. He’d seen her so clearly. A more devious Denise, but possessing that strange inner vulnerability his ex could never quite destroy.

  Maybe that was his fascination with her.

  Twiddling a pen fast and furiously between his thumb and forefinger, he barreled through the first of his phone calls, all the while pacing around like a restless tiger, anxious and tense. He’d told her he’d be home tonight. He needed her. God, he felt like an idiot.

  Four hours later, tired and irritable, he strode away from his production offices and unlocked his Land Rover by remote. He should forget Malibu and work at his apartment tonight.

  It was wasted thought. He turned the nose of the Land Rover toward Malibu and Denise.

  Through the windshield of her Rent-A-Wreck, Hayley watched John Callahan stride toward his black Land Rover. Her window rolled down, she heard the soft beep-beep of his remote as he pointed it toward his car. Seconds later the man was inside and pulling into traffic. Hayley eased out behind him.

  Okay, following the producer was pretty low. When had it ever worked for anyone? But he was her ex-brother-in-law and that, if nothing else, was at least an interesting point of conversation.

  She could see it now. “Hey, Mr. Callahan! I’m Hayley Scott, Denise’s sister. I know you didn’t know about me, but it’s all true. Could you look at my audition video? I’d really like to be your next big star!”

  Stupid . . .

  But . . . nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  He was heading to his Malibu home, Hayley realized. Tonja said he rented an apartment nearby, but no such luck today.

  She almost changed her mind. She would rather catch him closer to her own home. After all, she was already running late for work and Jason would have a hemorrhage if she showed up late again. A trip to Malibu would definitely put her in the tardy category.

  But such was the price of stardom.

  Callahan drove at breakneck speed. A conservative, he wasn’t. Hayley maneuvered as best she could but was in a thorough sweat as they wound the last few miles to his home.

  The houses were set back from the road by wrought-iron gates. Whether this was Callahan’s jealous way of guarding his privacy, or a testament to Denise’s paranoia, Hayley couldn’t say. What it did mean was that she was out of luck until she figured some way to get past the gates because they’d already shut soundly behind her quarry.

  Honesty was the best policy. She didn’t necessarily believe it, but it was worth a shot.

  She was about to call on the intercom attached to a post when the wrought-iron gates mysteriously opened again. Not bothering to learn why, Hayley gunned her Rent-A-Wreck inside the sanctum and cruised to a stop in the driveway of the unprepossessing home.

  She’d expected a mansion, something more than this anyway. Not that it wasn’t nice. By normal standards, it was an immaculate, beautiful home. But this was Hollywood, and between them, Denise and John Callahan were loaded. They’d bought this place at the height of their love affair, so Hayley had expected no expenses spared.

  On the other hand, she’d give a lot to live in such quiet splendor. She’d just thought Denise would be more, well, tacky.

  Swallowing the butterflies in her throat and stomach, she grabbed her audition video and marched to the front door. She’d asked for Tonja’s help and it hadn’t worked. Callahan hadn’t paid any attention to the video. Now she had to rely on her own fortitude, intelligence, and general chutzpah.

  Chimes rang through the house, jangling her nerves with every reverberation. She trembled with fear, and memory suddenly threw her back to her youth. With tooth-grinding effort, she squeezed the horrid thoughts back, refusing to acknowledge them. Instead, she used her favorite trick of denial: she filled her mind with the sight of a mountain stream, concentrating on the peacefulness, the total quietude and sense of sweet displacement.

  The door flew open and John Callahan, his shirt off, stood in the aperture, glaring down at her.

  The sight of his smoothly muscled body threw Hayley out of sync. She grinned stupidly.

  “Yeah?” he asked, clearly annoyed. “How’d you get in? Oh, shit! I opened the gates.”

  “I’m . . . Hayley Scott,” she said distantly, her ears crashing with thunder from the frightened beat of her heart and the screaming of her nerves.

  “I was expecting someone else. What do you want?”

  “I’m . .
. I’m . . .”

  “What?” he demanded impatiently, clearly distracted.

  “I’m Denise’s sister.”

  That caught him up. He stared, his gaze raking her from head to toe. The crashing in her head changed to a loud hum. She couldn’t think. Struggling, she tried to keep the hum in her head from overtaking her. My God, she thought in amazement. I’m going to faint.

  And promptly did.

  She awoke almost instantly, aware that she was in Callahan’s arms and he was carrying her inside the house. Walls and furnishings flashed by and she was placed on a couch in a living room, which was surrounded by an upstairs gallery. Above her head, paddle fans floated lazily.

  John Callahan glared down at her, his slate-blue eyes full of harsh questions. “Are you sick?” he demanded.

  “No.” It was a pathetic squeak. Clearing her throat, she said again, louder, “No.”

  “Let me get you something. Don’t move.”

  She didn’t. She couldn’t. She thought she might freeze from embarrassment and be in a permanent cryogenic state. This was not how she’d envisioned her first meeting with the famed John Callahan.

  He returned with a glass of water and a snifter of brandy, cocking an eyebrow and lifting each drink in turn.

  “The brandy,” Hayley decided with a faint smile.

  “Smart choice.”

  Struggling upward, she sipped the fiery liquid, choking a bit. Almost instantly she felt her color return and along with it, a suffocating sense of dismal humiliation.

  “Okay, who are you?” Callahan asked with more patience than she would have credited him.

  “Hayley Scott, Denise’s sister.”

  “My ex-wife is an only child,” he clipped out. “No siblings.”

  “A lie. You must know how Denise lies. She can’t help herself. Maybe she doesn’t even know what the truth is anymore.”