Guilty Pleasures

by Stella Cameron

  “Could you make that a bit clearer for me?”

  “When you said the man who’s been making the calls isn’t just a crank, you were right. We know that because he was here tonight, and I think he came close to stabbing me to death. He made it clear that if I don’t stay away from you, he’s going to kill me. And you. And Bobby.”

  “Sonovabitch,” Nasty said distinctly.

  “But he wants me. He’s going to find a way to get me, I know he is.” Panic surfaced again. “If he does, I might as well be dead anyway.”

  Nasty visibly gathered himself. “He isn’t getting you. First, I’m calling the police. I should already have called them.”

  “Don’t leave me!”

  Something close to rage convulsed his face before he controlled his emotions. “You’re not in danger now, Polly.” But he took her hand and led her into the living room. “Sit here while I make the call. Then you can give me instructions on how to make you some of that tea you love. It’s supposed to be good for calming people down, isn’t it?”

  Her smile felt good. “Uh-huh. They say it got the British through the Second World War.”

  Nasty wrapped her in his arms, and she felt him tremble. “Tea it’ll be, although our friend is going to need more than tea for the war I’m going to put him through. There’s a message on your machine.”

  Polly glanced around and saw the flashing red light.

  Nasty pressed the “play” button.

  “Oh, dear,” the whisperer said. “And I hoped you might have understood that I will not tolerate this behavior. But you’ve defied me, again. Well, I’m a forgiving lover, my love, but don’t push me too hard. Stay away from him. This is number two. And the rest is up to you.”

  “It wasn’t him.” Polly sat down on a chair with a thud. She pointed at the machine. “He left a message while… That man was here when the call came.”

  “Stay calm,” Nasty said. “I’m going to call the police now.”

  “How many people are threatening to kill me?”

  Ten

  Mary Reese was a Class A bitch. Nasty listened to her as he browsed the shelves at Totem Book Shop. “Remember we’re doing you a favor,” she told the owner. “You need us. We don’t need you.”

  The woman Polly had introduced at TGIFriday’s—Caroline—with one lighting assistant, operated the sole camera for what was to be a short segment aimed at reinforcing the wonders of bookstores.

  “We’re on a tight schedule here,” Mary Reese snapped. “Let’s move it. Polly, ask your friend to wait outside. He’s in the way.”

  “Chill, babe,” Jack Spinnel said. He aimed a conspiratorial grin at Nasty. “Plenty of room.”

  Nasty didn’t trust Jack’s newfound charm.

  “The hell there is plenty of room,” Mary said. “How come we’ve got to drag some of these assholes onto the set when they’re supposed to be there, but they’re all hanging around here when we don’t need them?”

  “Language, my pet,” Jack said mildly, indicating several local children who’d been brought in to take part in the scene.

  As far as Nasty could tell, the only redundant cast member was Gavin Tucker, who showed absolutely no reaction to Mary’s barb. He hung around Polly—hung too close for Nasty’s comfort—and found reasons to touch her.

  The two acrobats held an impossible position beside small chairs provided for the children. Each standing on one hand, they propped their knees and feet against each other with nonchalant ease, while turning the pages of books.

  Seated in a chair, Polly prepared to read a story on camera. Dressed in bright pink, she smiled as if she’d had a great night’s sleep, rather than suffered a vicious attack and spent hours with the police before returning to the condo to clean up.

  Nasty stared at her until she looked back. Her smile faltered, replaced by an unmistakably intimate glance that filled him with triumph.

  Gavin Tucker moved between them and bent over Polly, spoke to her in tones too low to hear.

  “Get your goddamn—”

  “Mary!” Jack said, aiming a ruefully apologetic grin at the shop’s pretty blond owner. “We’re all a bit uptight this morning, Dorothy,” he told her. “You’ll have to forgive us. You can cuddle Polly later, Gavin.”

  “She shouldn’t be here at all,” Gavin said, turning on Jack. Gone was the languid pose. “After everything she’s been—”

  “That’s enough,” Jack said, visibly gritting his teeth. “We’re all together in this. A solid front. The less said, the better.” He inclined his head significantly toward the owner.

  Gavin appeared ready to argue. Instead he blew at the limp brown hair that flopped over his forehead and ambled out of camera range, muttering as he came to stand beside Nasty. “You were there, then,” he said, his voice dramatically lowered. “You got there afterward?”

  The fact that Polly had chosen to share last night’s events with the cast of the show didn’t thrill Nasty. “Yeah.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Gavin propped a shoulder against a shelf and studied the book Nasty held. “You into South America?”

  “I used to be.”

  “You been there?”

  “Uh-huh.” End of topic. “Polly says you’re great to work with.” When he wasn’t a pain.

  The painter didn’t hide his pleasure. “Polly brings out the best in everyone. She’s a natural. But I guess you know that.”

  “Sure,” Nasty agreed, not at all sure he knew Gavin’s angle.

  “So what really happened last night?”

  Nasty looked past the other man and through the store windows. Sunshine bounced off the tops of cars filing into the back lot of a nearby strip mall. “Whatever Polly told you happened, happened,” he said.

  “The guy”—Gavin came closer than Nasty liked to be to any man—“you didn’t get a look at him?”

  Shouting interrupted them. Mary Reese banged a clipboard against her forehead. “Wake up, Jennifer, darling. You’re supposed to be bloody moping now, not prancing. You’re expecting to be made fun of because you don’t read as well as the others.”

  “Bloody moping,” came a husky female voice from inside one of the monster heads. “Anything you say, Mary, babe.” The acrobat seemed suddenly to melt. She descended to the floor and lolled. “Better?”

  “Silence,” Mary fumed. “And watch the babe, bit, babe.”

  “Things are going from bad to worse around here,” Gavin murmured. “I don’t mind for myself. I’m used to it. But Polly’s a shooting star, a fragile shooting star, and she hasn’t been around the block like I have. This pressure could break her spirit.” Serious brown eyes regarded Nasty.

  He felt tense. Not frustrated from dealing with a man he disliked, but on edge without being sure why. The air seemed thinner, hotter—tropical.

  Tropical?

  “You know what I mean?” Gavin asked.

  “What did you say?”

  “Polly. She’s under too much pressure, and not everyone’s as keen for her to succeed as I am—if you know what I mean.”

  Did he know? “Why don’t you explain?”

  “There are some who think they’d do a better job hosting the show than she does.”

  Nasty frowned. “Like who? There’s only one other woman in the cast.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  The female acrobat remained slumped on the floor. “Jennifer Loder, right? Polly says she’s a good friend.”

  “Polly’s too damn trusting.”

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  “Mary’s picking on me, Art,” Jennifer complained theatrically. “I reckon she doesn’t love us anymore.”

  The other acrobat batted her playfully. “Who couldn’t love us, sis. We’re irresistible.”

  “Hear that, Mary?” Jennifer said. “You gotta love us.”

  “Was it your idea for Polly to tell the world what’s been happening?” Gavin asked.

  Nasty’s back turned clammy. He undid
another button on his shirt. Damn, but he didn’t have time to be sick.

  Gavin nudged him. “I’d have thought it could be dangerous to spread it around. Might make this crazy do something stupid—even more stupid.”

  Good old Gavin had a brain or two. “It wasn’t my idea. And I thought she’d just told the show insiders, not the world.”

  “In theory. If I were her, I wouldn’t trust everyone who qualifies to keep their mouths shut.”

  “She decided she needs your support. And she doesn’t want to keep explaining me away.”

  “Planning to stick around a lot?”

  Nasty didn’t meet the other man’s eyes. “I’ll do what I think’s necessary.” He got a fleeting impression of trying to see through darkness, of someone calling him.

  “How did you go from voyeur to sidekick?”

  Nasty did look at him then. “Voyeur?”

  Gavin chuckled. “Figure of speech. I’m not the only one who knows you’ve spent time watching Polly from your little rubber boat. Maybe you should be making sure no one questions your motives.”

  “I’m Polly’s friend.”

  “New friend.”

  “Good friend.”

  Something different entered Gavin’s eyes, and it wasn’t friendly approval. “Okay. Good friend. So how badly was she worked over last night, good friend?”

  “Whatever Polly’s told you is what she wants you to know.”

  “He roughed her up?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Would you say that? Or would you say he did more than that?”

  Nasty wanted to believe the man was concerned for Polly. Instinct picked up something other than concern, something closer to prurient interest. “There was no sexual attack.” Not the complete truth, but what Polly would prefer to be generally accepted.

  “Is that the official story?”

  “It’s the story.” He’d chosen the direct approach for this first morning—an open presence. From here on it might be better if he was less evident. “You’re not in this segment?”

  “No. I’m here for Polly, like you.”

  The inference wasn’t subtle. Gavin Tucker would prefer to be the one watching over Polly. “I’m sure she’s grateful for your support.”

  Laughter riffled among the children seated at Polly’s feet. She appeared to be performing an imitation of a bored turtle—in pink.

  “Isn’t she something?” Nasty said.

  Gavin’s response accompanied a lascivious grimace. “You might be able to say that. I certainly can’t—yet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Laughter came too easily to the Gavin Tuckers of the world. “Hell,” he said, elbowing Nasty lightly. “You know what it means. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want a piece of her.”

  In this instance Gavin might do himself a favor by lying. “Polly isn’t a woman who gives out pieces,” Nasty commented.

  “Except to you? She’s already put out for you, hasn’t she?”

  “Do you like the way your face is arranged?”

  “I’m not afraid of you, fucker.”

  “You should be. Touch Polly, and you’ll find out why.”

  The children laughed again, and Polly began singing. Down and Out joined in, harmonizing while they set up an exaggerated swaying behind her.

  “It’s time,” Jennifer Loder said, wiggling her fingers at the small audience. “Time to do our thing, kiddies.”

  Polly gathered the kids around her and encouraged them to clap.

  Sweat breaking out on his brow shook Nasty. He took a stick of gum from his jeans, unwrapped, and slid it between his teeth.

  Animosity—no, too weak—hatred emanated from Gavin.

  Too bad. Gavin wouldn’t be a problem. Nasty understood weak, twisted people. Their very desires were what stopped them every time.

  The ankle wound hurt as it hadn’t hurt for months. Nasty shifted his weight. What the hell was going on with him?

  “I’m going to make sure you aren’t welcome on the set again,” Gavin said very softly.

  Nasty didn’t say anything. The pain intensified. So did the flow of sweat. He blinked as it stung his eyes.

  There was something here—something he ought to be able to place.

  “Time,” Jack Spinnel called. “Time, people. Good job.”

  Nausea joined Nasty’s other discomforts. He slid the book back on a shelf.

  Darkness. Heat.

  He’d lost his gun, but not the knife.

  He was remembering when it happened! The night in Colombia when someone tried to kill him. He’d eventually played dead so well that they’d left him to drag his smashed ankle back to the waiting chopper.

  “You do know I mean what I say?” Gavin Tucker asked.

  “What?” Nasty looked at him blankly

  “Polly won’t do anything to jeopardize her part. It means too much to her. You’re a liability. You’ll have to go.”

  “You stupid sonovabitch,” he said, swallowing. “Get away from me while you still can.”

  He’d been taken by surprise. Everything should have been right on target—smooth. Then the figure had appeared through the undergrowth, beckoning. And he’d had to take the chance. Wrong chance. It had cost him his ankle—and his career.

  It had cost the other bastard a back and shoulder wound that probably meant he was no longer singing in the church choir. Nasty would have given big odds that the guy bled to death.

  Polly rose from her chair. She bent to hug one child after another. The owner of the bookstore chatted with Jack and Mary.

  “Play time.” Jennifer whooped and tore off her costume head. A few seconds later the children were taking turns being Main Monsters.

  “Polly isn’t your type,” Gavin murmured. “Or you’re not her type.”

  What was it he couldn’t recall? Most of that night had become a blur.

  “She’s an artist—a performer,” Gavin said. “You may be able to get inside her pants, but you’ll never get inside her head.”

  Nasty straightened and faced the man. Shielding what he did, he found Gavin’s “artistic” right hand and put a light lock on the wrist. “Outside,” he said shortly. “Now.”

  “My hand!” Gavin hissed. “You’re hurting my hand.”

  Tightening the lock was second nature. “Outside.”

  His face deathly pale, Gavin backed up. The moment Nasty released him, he shoved his hair out of his eyes and rushed from the shop.

  Nasty was close behind.

  “You’re dangerous.” Gavin fumbled for his car keys. “Damn dangerous. And I’m going to fix it so Polly knows I think so.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Nasty moved menacingly close. “Do you think I’ll bow out if you do?”

  “Men like you are used to this, aren’t you? Using your brawn to smash your way in where you don’t belong. Women fall for it. Men don’t. It’s time someone stopped you.”

  Nasty looked over his shoulder into the bookstore, then at Gavin again. Pieces of a night he’d tried to forget were pouring back. The doctors had talked about the brain’s ability to block out trauma; they’d said he’d probably never remember more about what had happened.

  Gavin gave him a final, malevolent stare, and climbed into a vintage red Morgan.

  Polly appeared beside Nasty and asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Did you and Gavin have a spat?” The energy she’d found to do the show had fled. Signs of exhaustion showed on her face. “You two looked like circling animals in there.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looked hurt, and he hated himself for that. “Let’s get you home,” he said. “You’re dead on your feet. So am I.” Dead on his feet, and more convinced he should listen to his legendary instincts than he had ever been.

  “Nasty.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m scared.”

  Absently, he put an arm around her sho
ulders. “Where did that come from? I thought you said you were cool with everything.”

  “I lied. I’ve got this… this feeling. It’s not going to stop. Whoever he is—they are—they’re going to keep coming after me.”

  “You aren’t alone.” He began to sweat again. “I’m with you now.”

  “They’ll wait. It won’t matter how long they have to wait. When they decide it’s the right time, they’ll find a way to get at me. There’s something out there.” She stood with her shoulder against his side. “I won’t have to ask you to go. You’ll want to. Either I’m completely nuts, or I’m on a collision course with real evil.”

  He took a moment too long to gather her in his arms, but he prayed she hadn’t noticed. “You don’t get over what happened last night that easily. Let me worry, okay. I’ll make sure nothing touches you.”

  She felt it, too. Not just coming their way, but right where they were. What they called, the presence of evil.

  “You will do exactly as Festus and I tell you, Polly.” Belinda’s hair fascinated Nasty. Today she wore it gelled into kinky curls that made a black halo at least a foot in radius around her highly colored face. “And you, too, Nasty. A most commanding name, that. Nasty. One could not ignore a man with such a name. You and Polly are in my care. It has been ordained. Venus phoned me, thank goodness. She must be calmer. I could scarcely understand a word she said. But I phoned that nice Dusty Miller. He will pick her up and bring her here to the shop.”

  Nasty had wanted to collect Bobby from Dusty and take him and Polly away. Only Nasty knew there could be no away. The line had been drawn here, and here it would all end.

  “I only came because you sounded so upset when you called,” Polly told Belinda. “We shouldn’t stay.”

  “But you have to,” Belinda insisted. Adorned with black, sparkle-dusted gauze, she billowed before them through the shop and up a flight of spiral stairs. “You both look desperately depleted. Festus! Come here, Festus. Come out of your wretched dome. Help me with Polly and Nasty. We’ll sit in the roof garden. I’ve locked the shop. Venus knows to ring the residence bell.”

  Overcome by a sense of the unreal, Nasty held Polly’s hand. She clutched his fingers. There were questions he ought to ask her, but he didn’t want to hear the answers—not if they were what he expected them to be.