“Is Carter here?” she asked.
“I doubt it. He’s supposed to be on set until morning. They’re doing another nighttime shoot. It’s a suspense-horror movie, so there’re a lot of them.”
Her pulse had begun to pick up. She needed to see for herself who had sent her the cocktail and rose.
“Samantha?”
Standing and tossing the cloth napkin that had been in her lap onto her seat, she walked briskly into the restaurant’s interior. Stomach clenched tight, she scanned the length of the antique, dark wood bar, searching anxiously. Dozens of patrons filled the space, talking and laughing with one another. But she saw no one she recognized. The domed lighting fixtures illuminated no familiar faces from her past or her nightmares. Still, she felt an unease that rivaled what she had felt the night she’d believed a car had followed her from the resort.
The unwanted memory tore at her.
Devin would send her a red rose at the club after she left the stage, his signal that he wanted her in his office for a private session. He got aroused watching her dance in front of other men. Even now, she felt his hot breath on her skin as he bent her over his desk, his hand fisting roughly in the hair at her nape. She heard his husky drawl against her ear. He would hurt her.
Do it the way Daddy likes.
Fingers grazed her upper arms from behind. Startled, she choked back a cry, whirling and stumbling a step back.
“Samantha.” Mark stood close. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Heart pumping, she stared at him for a half second before glancing again around the bar. She had to be sure.
“What’s going on?”
She shook her head and tried to tamp down the strain in her voice. “I…I thought someone I knew was here.”
“Who?”
“Just…someone,” Samantha said unevenly.
Mark continued studying her, his eyebrows knitted together. It was clear he wanted to press her as to who she thought it was. But instead he handed her the shoulder bag she’d left hanging on the back of her chair at the table. “I asked the waiter. The restaurant’s owner sent the drink and rose. When we spoke this morning, I told him you were a graduate of culinary school in New York. He wanted to welcome you to the area as a fellow restaurateur.”
She was perspiring, she realized. Embarrassed by her erratic behavior, Samantha put a hand to her face. The disquiet inside her began to ease. It was nothing. Just like the Crown Victoria last week. Her own version of post-traumatic stress disorder, triggered without warning by the smallest things. She had to stop being so jumpy and control her irrational fears. Her overreaction humiliated her.
“We should go thank him,” she managed to say.
“I’ll call him tomorrow. Things are pretty busy, and you’re looking a little pale.” Mark’s eyes held concern. “I already paid the check, so we can go ahead and leave if you want. I just need to get your shopping bags we checked with the hostess.”
She nodded mutely.
A pianist started up from the far corner of the bar, playing a sedate version of a song Samantha recognized as being on the playlist at the Blue Iris. She felt goose bumps rise on her skin at the eerie coincidence. Mark looked around the upscale bar and dining room a final time, as if trying to find whomever Samantha had been searching for. Then, placing his hand protectively on the small of her back, he guided her to the vestibule.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You’re as closed-mouthed as Mark,” Mercer huffed as she jogged on the beach alongside Samantha. “All I want to know is if you had a good time—”
“We had a good time.”
She grinned. “How good?”
Giving her a stern look, Samantha increased her pace. If Mercer was breathless, it would be harder for her to keep asking questions.
“Hey, I was kidding! Slow down—are you training for the Olympics or something?”
Samantha heard Mercer’s soft curse behind her, but didn’t let up. Instead, she focused on her own hard breathing, trying to outdistance the memory of her near freak-out at the restaurant. In the car with Mark on the drive back, she’d waved the incident off with a laugh and a sheepish apology, claiming the caffeine-fueled espresso had put her on edge.
Although she suspected Mark didn’t believe her, he hadn’t pushed, instead engaging her in pleasant small talk until they reached her apartment building. But after walking her to the door of her unit, Mark had touched her arm and asked if she was really okay. Samantha assured him she was, then thanked him again for a lovely night. She could see in his eyes that he wanted to kiss her, but instead he had taken a gentlemanly step off her stoop and waited until she was safely inside before leaving.
She had wanted to kiss him, as well. Self-recrimination twisted her insides.
“Just so you know, Mark gave me hell,” Mercer managed to say between gasps as she caught up with Samantha.
“For what?”
“For telling you about Carter and Shelley. And about the accident. He says he feels like a pity date.”
Samantha slowed, then stopped running altogether, reaching for Mercer’s arm to bring her to a halt, too.
“That’s ridiculous.” Panting, she wiped at the perspiration beading her forehead. “Mark’s a decent, wonderful man.”
“So you do like him? Because I get the feeling he isn’t sure…”
Staring at the crashing ocean waves, Samantha watched as a small white bird with stork-like legs waded into the surf seeking dinner. The early evening sky appeared dusky, and the lowering sun looked like a muted orange globe over the grayish-green water. She was giving Mark mixed signals, she knew that, but she hadn’t been able to hide the attraction she felt to him. Her mind involuntarily conjured up one of the intimate, outdoor garden rooms in the Charleston waterfront park. They’d passed through several of them during their stroll, and she imagined Mark kissing her there, hidden behind tall boxwoods and ornamental trees. It had been years since she’d felt a man’s mouth on hers, years since a male touch didn’t send revulsion rushing through her. The truth was, she felt safe and protected with him, things she’d never felt before with a member of the opposite sex. Not in her entire life.
“I do like him,” she said quietly. “But you have to understand that things are…complicated.”
Mercer tugged her damp T-shirt away from her skin as she gazed at Samantha with serious eyes. “Anything worth it usually is complicated, Sam. I know Mark comes with a lot of baggage. He’s widowed and he has a young child. Emily has problems—”
“Emily stole my heart from the moment I met her,” Samantha assured her. She hesitated. “The complications I’m talking about…they aren’t Mark’s. They’re mine.”
Mercer appeared surprised. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” She shook her head, wishing desperately for a change of subject. Wishing she could get Mark off her mind. “Let’s just go, okay? We’re almost done.”
They took off again, this time at a more manageable pace. Not too far off in the distance, Samantha could see the public parking lot where they had left Mercer’s convertible. Their beachside runs were becoming a regular thing. But Samantha had missed last night’s due to her trip into Charleston, and she and Mercer would both be skipping tomorrow because of the reception at the St. Clair. She hoped once the event was over, Mercer would find something else to discuss. Even more, if Mark asked her out again and she declined, she hoped Mercer wouldn’t be angry with her.
“I heard you bought the dress at Serendipity.”
She nodded. “Thanks for recommending the place.”
“Mark’s wearing his gray suit. You’ll look gorgeous together.”
Samantha felt a tug of sadness but remained resolute that her future with Mark was a very finite one. She would go to the reception with him, they’d have a good time and that would be that. It had to be.
“Are you feeling all right?” Mercer asked as they climbed the sun-bleached, wooden stairs
that led to the parking lot. “Because you haven’t had much to say.”
“I’m sorry. I think I’m just tired. We were out late last night, at least late for me. And I had a long day at the café that started at six thirty this morning.”
“Hey, want to stop at Fiorini’s before I drop you at home?” Mercer suggested, referring to the town’s one Italian restaurant as they climbed into her car. The place was a cliché with its red and white-checkered tablecloths and candles made from old Chianti bottles, but the food was good. “I’m really not in the mood for the hotel dining room, let alone room service. We can get a side salad and a slice of pizza, or pasta if you prefer. Wouldn’t that be better than eating dinner alone in your apartment?”
“I don’t know—”
“C’mon, Sam. I know I’ve been going at you like Homeland Security, but I’ve been feeling a little worried since I sort of manipulated the whole date thing last night.” Mercer raised her right hand as if she were being sworn in to testify in a courtroom. “I’ll make you a solemn vow. If you go to Fiorini’s with me, no more nosy questions about you and Mark. Just red sauce, simple carbohydrates and maybe a light beer.”
Samantha pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “How can I refuse that?”
He had never considered himself an artist, but Lenny Cook admitted the weight of the camera in his hands felt, well…right. He loved the clicking sound the shutter made with each press of his finger. The way the new telephoto lens he’d purchased brought his subject up close and personal.
Click.
The images captured on the digital screen were clear as daylight, even though it was dark now and he was on the other side of the street from the apartment building, hidden by the glossy foliage of a flowering camellia bush. The tips on flashless nighttime photography the clerk at the camera shop in Charleston had given him were like money in the bank. Lenny peered at the backlit screen and grinned in satisfaction at the image. He had raw talent, even if he did say so himself. In another life, he might have been one of those high-fashion photographers shooting supermodels for a living. Those guys could get a lot of grade-A pussy, except for one problem: Most of them were fags.
He’d already taken a dozen photos of her face and profile. Now she had her back to him as she said good night to her cute girlfriend in the pricey red convertible. He allowed his lens to linger on the well-defined shape of her ass in the blue running shorts.
Click. Click. Click.
Those last shots were solely for him. Something he planned to jerk off to later that night in his hotel room. But the others had another purpose.
If he played his cards right, they were going to make him a whole lot wealthier.
The photos he’d taken through the car windshield that night had been too dark and grainy to prove much of anything. But these were going to turn out just fine. Lenny patted the long scope of the lens and congratulated himself again on his wise investment, even if he’d had to wait a week for the special order to arrive.
He watched as the convertible drove off, its red taillights glowing. Trina went into the first-floor apartment.
She had changed, sure. Gotten older, no longer practically jailbait. Her tits were smaller, too—a disappointment since he liked them nice and big. Tig Bitties, he thought, chuckling lewdly to himself. But he had to admit he was partial to the long, dark hair. It was more natural looking than her previous platinum blond.
But, damn. It really was her. The close-ups the telescopic lens provided confirmed it. And Lenny should know better than anyone. How much time had he spent at the Blue Iris, nursing his whiskey and staring up at Trina as she took it all off on stage? How many nights had he nearly come in his pants, fantasizing about the things he wanted to do to her while she practically had sex with herself right in front of him? Nobody worked a pole like Trina. Six years later and the thought of it could still give him a hard-on.
He had wanted to get to know her. But unlike the other girls, Trina had been aloof, unwilling to give a lap dance for fifty bucks or even sit with a customer for a drink. In fact, she rarely smiled or made eye contact with anyone in the crowd. She didn’t have to, since she was Devin Leary’s exclusive property and everyone knew it.
Lucky man. Except for one small detail.
Devin was stone-cold dead.
But look at this—he’d actually found her after all this time, living it up in this little ocean resort town. Lenny figured he was the lucky one now.
Finding her had become his hobby, something he’d dabbled in over the years whenever paying work was slow. She’d been careful and smart, but eventually Trina had slipped up.
They always did.
He praised her sentimentality and the roses that had arrived on her mother’s headstone nearly a year ago. The marker’s engraved date indicated they’d been sent on what would have been Liza Grissom’s fiftieth birthday. After being tipped off by the cemetery’s maintenance chief, Lenny had tracked the wired order to a florist in Manhattan. The arrangement had been paid for in cash, the sender unnamed, but it had given him a geographic starting point, albeit a large one. Tenacity had been his friend. It had taken months to home in on her new identity, and by the time he’d located her address and her workplace, she was already gone. But armed with her new name, he’d picked up the scent again and trailed her to here fairly quickly. His previous career as a skip tracer had come in handy. In his day, he had been one of the best.
Eventually, he would turn her over to Red, the scary son of a bitch. But first he was going to whet his appetite. See how much that ginger-haired gangster was really willing to pay for her after all this time. He’d overnight the photos to a friend who owed him a favor. His pal would make the anonymous delivery—that way, there would be no postmark to divulge the location.
Meanwhile, he’d let Trina think he was open to bargaining and squeeze her for some cash, too. Everyone knew she’d stolen big from the Learys before disappearing.
Lenny’s lips thinned into a smile. Maybe she’d be willing to do anything to keep out of Red’s hairy-knuckled grip. He could finally fulfill his X-rated fantasies about her. He imagined her on her back, him on top of her, pumping into her tight snatch.
Once he’d had his fill, he would tell Red where to find her. Maybe he’d even kidnap her and deliver her himself.
He thought of her nude, lithe body swaying on stage. His sadistic side wanted to make this last. He was due for a vacation anyhow, and the southeastern seacoast was nice. Lenny sniffed the pleasant ocean air. One thing was for goddamn sure.
Trina wouldn’t snub him again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mingling with the well-heeled guests in the St. Clair ballroom, Samantha felt as though she’d stepped into a more elegant, genteel time. Arched windows soared to a twenty-foot-high ceiling, and a massive, sparkling chandelier hung from the ballroom’s center over a polished wood floor. The hotel’s antebellum ambience made it seem as though the female guests should be wearing corsets and hoopskirts instead of modern-day cocktail attire.
Mark had kept by her side, handsome in a gray suit with an ice-blue silk tie. They had danced and nibbled on hors d’oeuvres being passed around by wait staff on silver trays, and she’d also been introduced to many of Mark’s friends and business associates. Observing him as he so easily conversed with guests, Samantha wondered what it must be like to have been born into such Southern aristocracy as the St. Clair family. Mark seemed to accept his birthright with a natural grace.
“I was right about the dress,” he commented in a low voice once they were alone again. “Everyone’s staring at you.”
“They’re staring at us, actually,” Samantha replied, trying to keep the mood light despite the small thrill she felt each time her eyes met his. “I think we’ve created a bit of a scandal…”
Mark’s gaze followed hers to the reception line, where Carter stood after a late arrival, greeting guests. Olivia hovered nearby, along with an attractive, petite redhea
d in a plum-colored sheath dress. The two women had their eyes fastened like laser points on Mark and Samantha.
“Great,” Mark grumbled.
“Is that Carter’s date?”
“Unfortunately, no. He came alone. That’s Felicity Greene. She’s a friend of my mother’s from the country club.”
A heavyset African-American male whom Samantha knew to be president of the Rarity Cove Chamber of Commerce interrupted them. Mark introduced her, and she listened politely as the businessmen talked about a redistricting proposal that would allow fast-food chains inside the town limits. As he theorized with Mark on the best method for blocking the initiative, Samantha looked across the ballroom again. Carter had escaped from the reception line but hadn’t gotten far. A small throng of women of varying ages surrounded him.
“Sorry about that,” Mark said once the man had left.
“It’s fine. I want to keep the town’s atmosphere, too. The fast-food restaurants would only be competition for Café Bella.”
“I doubt it.” Mark kept his hand low on her back as they reached the bar. “Mercer hasn’t stopped talking about the fresh crab salad she had for lunch there. That’s not something you get at a drive-through.”
“Where is Mercer, by the way?”
“She went to take a phone call in her room. I haven’t seen her in a while.”
At the bar, Mark ordered a soda for himself and a sparkling water for Samantha, who had declined another glass of the bubbly champagne. As he handed her the goblet, Olivia approached with Felicity Greene in tow.
“Look who I found wandering around all by herself,” Olivia announced brightly as she nudged Felicity forward.
“Mark, how nice to see you again,” the redhead enthused in a heavy Southern belle accent, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “Everything just looks exquisite tonight—you’ve outdone yourself. And where is little Emily?”
“She’s in the children’s playroom. They’re showing a movie.”
“Well, you have to bring her out here.” She laid her hand on Mark’s arm and smiled up at him through thick lashes. “But I warn you, if that child’s gotten any sweeter I might have to eat her with a spoon!”
Before the Storm Page 9