Seduced and Betrayed

by Candace Schuler

  Zeke decided it was an omen.

  And, besides, he'd lied to Patsy. He couldn't stand six weeks in a hotel, after all. Not even the Regent Beverly Wilshire.

  * * *

  "Current tenants'll be out by the end of the week," Mueller said when Zeke went in to inquire about the apartment. "I gotta get it cleaned, and the faucet in the bathroom sink needs fixing but the place don't need painting. I can have it ready for you by Monday, if you're interested."

  "I'd like to see it first," Zeke said, in a belated effort to be practical. "If it wouldn't inconvenience the current tenants."

  "Don't see why it should. Ain't nobody home." Mueller opened his apartment door, then stood aside, pointedly waiting for Zeke to precede him into the hall. It wasn't from politeness, Zeke knew, but sprang from a basic distrust of people. Mueller simply didn't want anyone to be alone in his apartment-cum-office, even for a split second.

  Zeke obliged him by exiting the apartment, and then, hands stuffed into the pockets of his elegant gunmetal gray Armani slacks, stood aside, waiting as the wiry little man carefully triple-locked his apartment door.

  "This way," Mueller said, and headed off down the hallway without a backward glance, as if he didn't particularly care whether his prospective tenant was following him or not.

  Zeke gave a mental shrug, more amused than anything else at being treated like a nobody. It wasn't personal, he knew; the Mueller he remembered had treated everyone as if they were nobody.

  They made their way out a side door that opened onto the courtyard of the apartment building, obviously heading for the corresponding door which opened into the hallway on the other side of the pebbled concrete patio.

  It was exactly the way Zeke remembered it. The luxuriantly overgrown hibiscus and trailing bougainvillea, the faint outline in the concrete patio where the pool had been filled in, the cool shadows cast by the overhanging balconies from the second and third floor apartments. He shivered a bit, feeling a cold finger trace its way up his spine as he stepped over the exact spot where he'd stumbled over Eric Shannon's lifeless body all those years ago.

  What an awful night that had been. The screams. The sirens. The blood. He'd never seen so much blood in his life—before or since. He'd been forced to endure the feel of it on his body for what had seemed like hours while the police took their photographs and asked their questions. And the smell; he'd never forget the dead, coppery smell of Eric's blood.

  "You want to see that apartment or not?" Mueller demanded, breaking into Zeke's morbid reverie.

  Zeke refocused his eyes on the present and saw the superintendent standing with one hand on the open door, a scowl of impatience on his face. If I had any sense, Zeke thought suddenly, I'd say no and get the hell out of here. It was no good, digging up the past. "Yes, I want to see the apartment," he said.

  Mueller grunted and let go of the door.

  Zeke caught it before it swung closed and hurried to follow Mueller down the second narrow hallway. He almost bumped into the superintendent when he stopped, abruptly and unexpectedly, in front of apartment 1-G.

  "I don't believe it," Zeke murmured under his breath.

  "Changed your mind?" Mueller asked, almost as if he'd been expecting that reaction. As if, in fact, he were waiting for it.

  Zeke gave him a searching look but could see no sign of recognition in the other man's pale gray eyes. "No. I haven't changed my mind." At least, not yet. "Let's see it."

  Mueller yanked at the chain running from his belt loop to the pocket of his baggy chinos, pulling a jangling ring of keys out of the deep front pocket. With no fumbling, he found the proper key and inserted it into the lock.

  The door to Zeke's past opened on well-oiled hinges.

  Mueller stepped back and waved him in. "After you," he invited with the first show of real civility Zeke had ever seen him display.

  Brushing by him with barely a glance, Zeke stepped over the threshold and walked back into his past. Nothing happened. No deafening thunderclaps, no flashes of lightning warning him not to proceed further. There was no particular feeling of dread or elation, either. It was just an apartment, a place he had once lived. Breathing a small sigh of relief and, yet, feeling strangely, vaguely disappointed—didn't what had happened here deserve some sort of divine recognition?—Zeke started down the narrow hallway to the living room.

  The apartment was nicer than he'd remembered, even with the neatly stacked piles of boxes and the packing materials scattered on the floor. It was light and airy, with an elegant old world charm he'd been too young and stupid to appreciate the first time around. Of course, he thought, it probably hadn't helped that the decorating style of the time had dictated psychedelic colors, beanbag chairs, cheap beaded curtains, and black light posters on the walls.

  The walls were painted a soft, creamy white, now. The high, arched windows overlooking the courtyard were flanked by slatted wooden shutters. The floors were hardwood, polished to a glossy sheen. Zeke moved through the rooms of the apartment slowly, his hands stuffed deep in his pants pockets, taking it all in, observing, remembering. A wide graceful archway opened off the living room onto the dining room, with a small efficiency kitchen beyond that which, in turn, led back into the living room. He walked down a short hall to the two small bedrooms and a surprisingly large bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-footed tub and pale aqua tile running halfway up the walls. It was all eerily the same, he thought, right down to the massive old mirror on the living room wall.

  It was a ridiculous piece of expensive Victorian frippery, at least four feet wide by five feet tall, framed in pewter that had been elaborately cast with dozens of roses and ribbonlike scrolls. There had been some legend connected with the mirror, Zeke recalled. Some curse. He couldn't quite remember what it entailed, except that it had had something to do with a young starlet who was rumored to have drowned in the pool that had once graced the courtyard. He'd always thought that particular story had been dreamed up by someone who'd taken one too many drug-induced trips.

  "Did you ever see her?" Mueller asked.

  Zeke shifted his gaze from the mirror to the building super. "Did I ever see who?"

  "The woman in the mirror." Mueller lifted his chin at the mirror. "Some say it's the ghost of the girl who drowned in the pool that used to be down there in the courtyard. That's why it was filled in, you know. Nobody knows whether it was an accident, or if she drowned herself on purpose, or if somebody held her under 'til she stopped breathing. She's supposed to live in that mirror there, and she only shows herself when somebody's life is about to change somehow."

  "Really?" Zeke murmured, trying not to encourage the superintendent. He wasn't the least bit interested in ghost stories.

  "Sometimes the change is for the better and the person who sees her gets their dream. But mostly it's a change for the worse," Mueller said with relish. "There was a girl saw her the night of the party you guys had. Your old roommate saw her, too. That one who's running for Congress now? He saw her the day before he got the part in that soap opera he was in. The one that started his career." Mueller's gray eyes glittered. "Told me all about it one night."

  "Ethan Roberts? He saw the—" And then Zeke realized the significance of Mueller's remarks. "You know who I am," he said, and he wasn't referring to the fame he'd achieved via the silver screen.

  Mueller nodded. "You're the kid who fell over Shannon's body that night."

  "Well, why the hell didn't you say something when I first came in and asked about the apartment, if you knew who I was?"

  "What for? It wouldn't make no difference to anything, would it?" Mueller shrugged. "Couldn't see no point in bringing it up, not if you wasn't going to take the place."

  "Point?" Zeke said, inexplicably irritated. "No, I guess there was no point, but it certainly would have been the polite thing to—"

  "Hello?" A lilting female voice, accented with the soft vowels of the deep South, came floating from the direction of the open front door to
the apartment. "Mr. Mueller, is that you?"

  "Dammit, Angel—" the speaker was male, his voice rich with exasperated affection "—don't go running in there like that. For all you know, an ax murderer could have broken in while we were gone."

  "An ax murderer would have used his ax to break the door down," the woman said. "I didn't see any signs of dam—Oh, all right. You go first, if it'll make you happy."

  A man appeared from down the front hallway with a brown paper grocery sack cradled in one arm. He was as lean and rangy as a big cat, with a cat's watchful eyes and instinctive wariness. He tensed when he saw Zeke standing in his living room, automatically shifting his stance to keep the woman safely out of reach behind him. And then he caught sight of the superintendent and relaxed. Infinitesimally.

  "Mueller," he said, a question in his voice and eyes.

  "I got a prospective tenant here," Mueller said, jerking his head toward Zeke. "Showing him the place."

  "See?" the woman said, giving the man a saucy little smile as she slipped past him. "I told you it wasn't an ax murderer."

  Zeke smiled his most charming, aw-shucks, I'm-really-perfectly-harmless smile. "I'm sorry if we startled you."

  "Oh, you didn't startle me," she said, returning his smile with one of her own. "My husband's the one with the suspicious mind." She held out her hand. "I'm Faith Shannon. And this is my husband—"

  "Jack," Zeke said, unconsciously interrupting her. "My God, you're Jack Shannon."

  "Yes, that's right."

  Suddenly uneasy, Faith shifted her gaze back and forth between the two men. They were staring at each other as if they'd just seen a ghost. "Jack?" she said hesitantly, reaching out to put her hand on her husband's arm.

  "It's all right, Angel. This is an old—" he hesitated briefly, as if he weren't quite sure of the proper word "—friend of mine. I haven't seen him for twenty-five years. Not since right after Eric died." He shifted the grocery sack he held so he could offer his right hand. "How are you, Zeke?"

  "Stunned," Zeke said as they shook hands. "Completely stunned. I had no idea you were the tenant Mueller was talking about. Or that the apartment I was going to look at was 1-G. He never said a—" Zeke broke off in midsentence and turned to face the man in question. "Why the hell didn't you say anything about this?" he demanded.

  "No point until you decided to take it," Mueller said, unperturbed by Zeke's hostility. "So, have you?"

  "Have I what?"

  "Decided to take it."

  Zeke didn't even have to think about. "Yes," he said. "I'll take it."

  Mueller nodded, as if he'd known the answer all along. "Stop by my office before you leave," he said, and headed for the front door. "I'll have the rental agreement ready for you to sign." He paused, waiting until he had everyone's attention. "Ask the Shannons about the woman in the mirror," he said, his voice low and dramatic. "They'll tell you she's real."

  Nobody said another word until he had walked down the hall and out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

  And then Faith Shannon sighed and shook her head. "Mr. Mueller is a very strange man," she said. "It's very disconcerting."

  "It's irritating as hell, is what it is," her husband grumbled.

  "But he's right, you know," Faith said to Zeke. She reached out to take the sack of groceries from her husband, transferring it to her hip as she spoke. "The woman in the mirror is real. I've seen her. And so has Jack."

  Zeke tried not to look too skeptical. "And did your lives change?"

  "Completely," she said blissfully, and smiled at her husband over the top of the grocery sack.

  He smiled back and reached out, tenderly brushing back a tendril of hair that lay against her temple.

  Zeke felt as if he were watching them kiss. Passionately. He cleared his throat. "Well, I guess I'd better be going. Let you two, um... finish your packing."

  "Oh, we're finished for the day," Faith said, shifting her attention back to her guest. "I was just going to put on a fresh pot of coffee to go with the baklava—" she tapped the side of the grocery sack "—Jack couldn't resist. You're more than welcome to join us, ah..." Her smile was both charming and apologetic. "I'm sorry. I guess I didn't catch your name."

  Jack Shannon gave a muffled snort of laughter at the quick look of surprise that crossed Zeke's face; being so completely unrecognized was a novel experience for him. "Angel, this is Zeke Blackstone," Jack said, before Zeke could introduce himself. "One of Hollywood's brightest lights?" he prompted. "Actor. Director. Producer."

  "Actor?" she said hesitantly.

  "You know, like in the movies?" he teased gently, then flashed a grin at Zeke. "You'll have to forgive her. She's only seen about five movies in her entire life."

  "It's been more than fi—Oh, my goodness." Faith put her free hand to her chest, her eyes wide as she stared at their guest. "Of course. Zeke Blackstone. I read an article about you in People magazine while I was waiting at the dentist's office last week. It was about your new movie... ah..."

  "Sacred Ground," Zeke supplied.

  "Yes, that was it. Sacred Ground. It looked like a very interesting movie," she said earnestly. "The article predicted it would be a big hit."

  "Let's hope so," Zeke agreed drily.

  Faith shook her head. "I can't believe I didn't recognize you."

  "It happens all the time," Zeke lied.

  But Faith wasn't quite as innocent as she looked. "I doubt it," she said with a sweet smile, "but thank you for trying to make me feel better." She hefted the bag of groceries, resettling it on her hip. "I'll have that coffee ready in a few minutes."

  "And I should be going," Zeke said. "I've intruded long enough."

  "Nonsense. You haven't intruded at all," Faith said firmly. "I know you and Jack must have a lot to talk about." She looked up at her husband. "So, please, sit down, both of you, while I go make the coffee."

  There was a second or two of silence after she left the room. "Only five movies in her entire life?" Zeke said, his tone somewhere between scandalized and incredulous.

  Jack grinned. "Hard to believe, isn't it?" He motioned Zeke to take a seat on a long brown leather sofa. "But that's Faith. She had a rather sheltered upbringing."

  "She's a lovely woman. You're very lucky."

  "Yes, I am." Jack said simply. He gave Zeke a level look. "So... are you really moving in here?"

  "Just temporarily," Zeke said quickly, suddenly feeling as if he had to justify himself to Eric Shannon's brother for staying in the apartment building where Eric had died. "Until my daughter's wedding is over or the construction on my house is finished, whichever comes first."

  Jack nodded understandingly. "I was drawn back, too," he said. "Temporarily. And it changed my life." He glanced at the big ornate mirror on the wall. "Maybe it's your turn now."

  Chapter 3

  She dreamed about him that night. Vivid dreams. Heated dreams. Dreams that left her damp and aching and feeling oh, so desperately alone. She awoke in the early morning hours, flushed and fevered, with her fragile white silk nightgown twisted around her thighs and her pillow clutched to her breasts. There were tears on her cheeks.

  It had been years since she'd dreamed about him. Years longer since she'd cried over his memory. So many years that she'd thought... hoped... prayed she was finally, completely over him for good. And then, with just one look, one touch, one whispered exchange in a room full of people, and she was on that emotional roller coaster ride all over again.

  Aching for him again.

  Crying for him again.

  With a strangled moan of denial and rage, Ariel threw back the white satin Porthault sheet that covered her. If she couldn't sleep without dreaming about him, then she wouldn't sleep at all.

  She'd done it before. And survived.

  She'd survive it again.

  She slid across the big empty bed and got up, automatically reaching for the silk robe that lay across the tufted white velvet fainting couch at the foot, automatic
ally stepping into the quilted white satin mules that sat, side by side, beneath it. But it was too warm to put the robe on, her skin was too hot and... itchy. The mules were too confining. Tossing the robe across the foot of the bed, kicking off the mules, she walked barefoot across the plush carpet to the tall glass doors leading out onto the terrace.

  She wanted to fling open the doors and feel the cool air on her skin but the alarm would go off if she did that, bringing the Beverly Hills police and the people from the private security company. She pressed her palms against the cool glass, instead, and then her cheek and her breasts and her thighs, willing it to draw the heat from her body, knowing it couldn't.

  She pulled away from the glass door with an anguished cry and hurried across the bedroom, her bare feet sinking into the thick white carpet, her thin silk nightgown floating out behind her. She jerked open her bedroom door, leaving it gaping behind her, and ran down the wide, curving staircase, a ghostly apparition flying through the dark, shadowed house as if she were being pursued by demons. She paused at the back door for a moment and took a deep breath, calming herself long enough to remember the security code and punch it in. And then she was flying again, running lightly across the smooth gray quarry tiles to the very edge of the pool.

  She hovered there for a long moment, her arms at her sides, her bare toes curled over the tiled edge of the pool, watching the moonlight glimmer on the surface of the water. It was almost enough. And then a breeze rose up out of nowhere, playfully lifting her hair from her shoulders, pressing her thin silk nightgown against her body, caressing her skin like a lover's teasing fingers. And it was suddenly all too much to bear.

  Without thinking about appearances or the inappropriateness of it, without thinking of anything except finding relief from the heat that plagued her, Ariel lifted her hands, each to the opposite shoulder, and pushed the straps of her nightgown off. It fluttered down her slender body, soft as a sigh, and pooled around her feet. She stepped out of it, a beautiful butterfly leaving her silken chrysalis behind, and dove into the water.