by JoAnn Ross
Despite the cancellation, Blake found that the controversy created by Police Beat had generated a great deal of interest. Studio executives who'd refused to answer his phone calls or respond to his query letters began battling each other with the ferocity of pit bulls to sign him to long-term contracts. Having played enough poker to know when he was holding all the aces, Blake decided to make the jump to the big screen.
Although it grated now to think back on it, for a time he'd behaved like the proverbial kid in a candy store. Although he'd certainly never lacked for female companionship, after he was touted in Variety as a major player in the industry, there were more stunningly beautiful women than he could count, all dying to go to bed with him. It didn't take long for Blake to realize that they weren't really interested in him at all; it was Hollywood's new wunderkind they wanted to sleep with.
Since such a revelation was not at all flattering to his self-esteem, Blake had vowed never to date another actress. Despite daily temptations, he'd stuck to that vow for three years. Then he'd met Pamela. The stunning blond starlet had auditioned for a role in one of his films, and although she hadn't gotten the part, in her own way she had proved to be single-minded about Blake Winters.
Unlike all the other egocentric actresses he'd known in the past—women who couldn't stop talking about themselves, women whose entire goal in life was fame and fortune—Pamela quickly made Blake the center of her life. She lavished attention on him. She wept when she learned about his checkered youth and tearfully promised that she'd spend the rest of her life making up for his unhappy past. Insisting that she wanted nothing more than to please him, she even professed herself willing to give up her career.
And please Blake she did. In bed and out. But especially in. Her seduction attempts had been about a subtle as a sledgehammer. But they'd worked. Oh, how they'd worked!
It was only later, after they'd married, that Blake learned what a superb actress Pamela actually was— and that the gleaming marble pedestal she had pretended to put him on was made of common, crumbling day.
After the divorce, which had been messy even by Tinseltown standards, the idea of getting involved with another actress was about as appealing as walking stark-naked into a roomful of killer bees. Instead, he'd thrown himself into a new project, expunging any errant sexual needs with long hours and hard work. Such steadfast diversion had worked—until he'd screened Savannah Starr's last film.
Deep-seated feelings he'd thought had died with his ill-fated marriage had stirred; but with a steely self-control that had always served him well, Blake reminded himself that experiencing sexual desire was one thing; acting on those feelings, yet another. If he didn't want to make love to the woman, then he wouldn't. It was as simple as that.
Or at least that was what he told himself. And, for a time, he even managed to believe it. Until Savannah Starr had shown up at his door resembling a bewitching siren washed ashore by the storm. And even as he'd struggled against her seductive appeal, every instinct Blake possessed told him that this particular siren was capable of luring him into dark, dangerous waters. Waters that were over his head.
4
The storm passed. The house was draped in a soft blanket of morning fog when Savannah awoke the next morning, aware of a heavy pressure on her chest. Her eyes flew open, but instead of viewing Blake's dark visage, she found herself staring into the unblinking yellow eyes of the cat, which had settled imperiously on her warm body.
"How did you get in here?" The bedroom door was closed. She was certain she remembered locking it. The cat must have followed her into the room. And, upset as she'd been by Blake's outrageous behavior, she simply mustn't have noticed it.
"Trust the man to have a black cat," she muttered, pushing the animal aside. It shot her a resentful glare before leaping gracefully to the floor. "I suppose a normal everyday tabby would be too much to expect."
She rose, reaching out for the robe draped across the foot of the bed. Initially she'd worn the robe to bed, but finding it too bulky, she'd discarded it sometime in the middle of the night, choosing instead to sleep in the nude. As she tied the sash around her waist, she viewed a familiar overnight case on a nearby wing chair.
Her gratitude toward Blake for making his way back down that muddy road in order to retrieve her clothing was quickly displaced by the knowledge that the man had been in her room, watching her sleep. Naked. Vowing to get this damned audition over with as soon as possible, Savannah inarched into the adjoining bathroom.
Although she was furious at Blake Winters for having invaded her privacy, as she stood under the pelting spray of hot water, disjointed memories of her uncomfortably sensual dreams flashed through her mind like flickering scenes from the late, late show.
She'd dreamed that she was a young gentlewoman from Boston at the turn of the century, embarked on a once-in-a-lifetime Grand Tour of the Continent. She'd been in England, inexplicably sleeping atop a high feather bed in the Tower of London. Outside, an electrical storm had raged, filling the air with crackling yellow energy.
She'd been awakened by a sudden flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder that shook the tower. Gale-force winds flung open the wooden shutters and in the sulphurous glow of light she viewed a bat, perched on the gray stone window ledge.
She opened her mouth to scream, but it was so dry, all she could manage was a faint, ragged gasp. The bat, flapping his gleaming ebony wings, entered the room, landing on her pillow. Frozen with fright, Savannah had stared, transfixed, as the night mammal slowly metamorphosed into a man, clad solely in black.
His face, illuminated by the lightning, was chiseled into planes and shadows, his jet hair swept back from a deep widow's peak. His mouth was sculpted like a poet's, but it was his eyes that captured her attention.
They were bottomless pools. Try as she might, she couldn't look away.
"I've been waiting for you," he said in a low, husky voice that rumbled like distant thunder.
In that suspended moment, Savannah knew that what was to come was inevitable. "Yes," she whispered.
His smile was a flash of white teeth. "'You are so incredibly lovely," he murmured, running his hand down the side on her face. A face that, in her dream, remained blessedly unscarred. "And you're mine. All mine."
When those long fingers began to rhythmically stroke her neck, Savannah sighed and closed her eyes.
But he wouldn't allow her to succumb so easily. "I want to hear you say it." When his thumb lingered on the pulse at the base of her throat, Savannah knew he could feel the rapid beat of her heart. "Open your eyes and tell me that you belong to me."
As if by their own volition, her lashes fluttered open and Savannah found herself once again trapped by his glowing gaze. "Yours," she managed through lips that had gone unbearably dry. "Only yours."
"For eternity."
"For eternity," she echoed dreamily.
Satisfied, he flashed her another brilliant smile. And then slowly, inexorably, he lowered his dark head.
Savannah experienced an initial flash of exquisite pain when his teeth settled into the vulnerable skin of her neck. As he supped unhurriedly, she felt a warm, steady pull between her legs, an ache that grew more intense the longer he drank from her flesh.
Passion rose. Thunder and lightning coursed through her, and just when she thought she'd faint from ecstasy, the storm broke and she lay trembling in his arms, totally possessed.
Savannah had never believed in dreams as omens, but there was something undeniably intriguing about this one…
"No!" Frustrated, she began scrubbing the floral-scented shampoo into her hair. It was only a nightmare, brought on by the storm, her strange surroundings, and the traumatic experience of trudging through the wind and rain and lightning to this Gothic monstrosity of a house.
That was all it was, she told herself furiously. That was all she would allow it to be.
But when she entered the kitchen twenty minutes later and viewed Blake's unner
ving resemblance to the darkly seductive vampire in her dream, a frisson of fear, mingled with remembered passion, skimmed up Savannah's spine.
Frustrated by his uncharacteristic emotionalism, Blake told himself that he had no intention of getting involved with Savannah Starr. All he wanted from her was a score for his film. Nothing more.
He'd almost managed to convince himself of that when the woman who'd caused him such unwanted turmoil entered the kitchen looking like a wood nymph in olive-green corduroy slacks and a matching sweater.
Blake frowned. "Good morning," he greeted her with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that hid the automatic sexual response her appearance created.
"Good morning."
Savannah had hoped that in the bright light of day, Blake Winters would appear less forbidding. But as she watched that all-too-familiar scowl carve its way across his granite-like features, she realized that the man was every bit as cold and disagreeable as he'd seemed the night before.
His gaze was inscrutable as he handed her a glass of juice. "I didn't expect to see you up this early."
Although Savannah had always considered herself an honest person, she decided against admitting that sexual dreams starring her host had shaken her from a restless sleep. "The sooner we get started, the sooner I can leave," she said instead.
She took a sip of the juice. It tasted like nectar. Even living in the land of citrus groves, Savannah couldn't remember the last time she'd been treated to fresh orange juice. "This is delicious."
"When I was a kid growing up in the West Texas oil patch, I had the mistaken idea that everyone in California had fresh orange juice every morning."
"Which they laced with vintage champagne. While sitting beside their Beverly Hills pools," Savannah added. The cat, which had followed her downstairs, twined sensually between her ankles. "Surrounded by tropical flowers."
"Roses," he corrected with a rare smile. "Acres and acres of American Beauty roses. All the women would be blond and beautiful and the men, tanned and powerful."
Savannah found herself responding to the warmth of his smile. "And they all made megabuck movie deals before breakfast."
"That's about it," he agreed. "When I grew up and discovered that things weren't exactly the way the movies had made them out to be, I decided that squeezing a few oranges every morning was as close as I'd ever get to the fantasy."
"But you've certainly succeeded beyond fresh orange juice," she said. "After all, along with making quite a few megabuck deals yourself, you've lived in Beverly Hills—"
"My wife lived there," he corrected brusquely. "I hated the place."
Well, Savannah decided with an inner sigh, the easygoing conversation had been nice while it lasted. Unfortunately, the gruff, unsociable Blake Winters was back. In spades.
"My point was that you've achieved amazing success," she insisted quietly. "Wasn't it a columnist for the Hollywood Reporter who described you as 'the quintessential self-made man'?"
His eyebrows drew together in a forbidding line as his scowl deepened. "You are the last person I would have expected to believe everything you read."
Savannah knew he was referring to the way her life, as well as that of her parents, had always provided grist for the press gossip-mill. She'd learned at an early age that when her activities failed to provide titillating copy, the more unscrupulous reporters would simply make up a scandalous story to sell papers. Readers, apparently, didn't care whether or not the story was true, so long as it lived up to their expectations of sin-drenched Hollywood Personalities.
She met his disapproving gaze with a long, level look of her own. "I don't."
Something passed between them. Something as potent as it was fleeting. Something that Blake knew he'd have to think about—later, when he was alone.
"Well," he said, pouring coffee into a pair of hand-crafted earthenware mugs, "the rags certainly didn't lie when they said you were even more beautiful in person than you appear on the screen."
Savannah was disappointed by the way he'd stooped to false flattery. Last night, Blake Winters may not have been very warm or gracious, but at least he'd seemed different from the run-of-the-mill Hollywood wolf. Apparently she'd been wrong.
"That's very kind of you to say," she said stiffly. "But you don't have to lie. I know what I look like. I face my scars every time I look in the mirror."
In an effort to dissuade any ideas Blake might have for continuing where they had left off last night, Savannah had purposely pulled her thick hair back from her face. Other than a light application of pale pink gloss on her lips, she had forgone makeup. Although she was loath to admit it, she realized that her actions had been a test to see if he would still want her after viewing her scars in the unforgiving morning sunlight.
"Don't be so hypersensitive." He waved away her words with an impatient flick of his wrist. "I couldn't, see them at all last night, in the candlelight. Even by daylight, they're barely visible. Certainly those few faint lines aren't enough to keep you from resuming your acting career."
Even as she was surprised by Blake's easy acceptance of her disfigurement, Savannah refused to consider such a proposal. To her, the scars had achieved daunting proportions, scarring her self-esteem as well as her face. "I'm not returning to the screen."
He gave her a long, searching look that made Savannah feel he could see all the way to her soul. "Suit yourself. I, for one, am damned glad you decided to turn your creative energies toward your music."
Savannah was relieved at the mention of the professional reason for her being here. The conversation had been getting uncomfortably personal. "About the score—"
"After breakfast."
"That's right," she muttered. "You don't believe in doing business when you're eating." She looked at him curiously. "I can't see you in Hollywood at all," she said, thinking how mealtimes were more often than not just another opportunity for deal making.
"Neither could I," he said. "Which is why I don't live there." He gestured toward the doorway. "I thought we'd have breakfast in the sun-room."
Although Savannah had never been much of a morning eater, she found it impossible to resist the enticing aromas wafting from the oven. She watched in awe as he removed the baking pans and placed them on the ceramic counter. Streusel-topped muffins and golden biscuits lured her.
"How many people do you intend to feed?"
"Just the two of us." He handed her a wooden tray. "You can take the coffee. Oh, and the jam." A dish of ruby-colored preserves joined the coffee carafe and mugs on the tray.
"I don't usually eat jam."
"You'll love this." He overrode her protest. "I made it from huckleberries that grow wild in the woods."
"People magazine would probably pay a bundle to know that Hollywood's most reclusive wunderkind makes his own jams and jellies."
"Too boring."
This time the smile reached his eyes—eyes that were the color of the fresh-brewed coffee he'd given her. Savannah stared, momentarily transfixed by their gleaming warmth. To her vast relief, Blake appeared not to notice the effect he'd had on her.
"The sun-room's down the hall, around a couple of corners, third door on the left," he said. "Just stay in the main hallway and you won't get lost. I'll bring the rest of the stuff."
The narrow corridor twisted and turned like a maze. As she walked along it, Savannah tried to memorize the way back to the kitchen. But by the time she reached the plant-filled solarium, she was totally disoriented.
Walking through the doorway was like stepping through a time machine. A quick glance around the room had Savannah deciding that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert would have been at home with the antique black wicker furniture and leafy, dark green foliage.
She was studying the botanical prints on the wall when a strange, almost-human voice called out, "Nevermore." Spinning around, she saw a large black bird staring at her from his perch in a cage in front of the bay window.
"It's no wonder you made a horr
or film," she said when Blake joined her. "After living in this place."
He lifted a dark eyebrow. "You don't like my house?"
"The house is okay. More than okay," she admitted. "In its own rather quirky way, it's spectacular. What I'm referring to is the way you've gone overboard to make it so damn spooky."
"If you're taking about Cujo," Blake said blandly, nodding toward the black mynah bird, "he belongs to a magician friend. After he got a gig touring clubs in Canada, Sam discovered he couldn't take his bird with him. Something about animal-health laws. So I agreed to keep Cujo as a favor."
She glanced over at the bird with an unwilling fascination. "What kind of person names his bird Cujo?"
After reading the horror tale about a killer dog, Savannah had never felt completely comfortable around Saint Bernards. As if responding to his name, the bird suddenly flapped his wings, left his open cage and came to perch on the back of her chair.
"Congratulations," Blake said. "Cujo doesn't take to many people. As for his name, Sam's a rabid Stephen King fan. He also has a sense of the bizarre."
Remembering the novel in graphic detail, Savannah wished that Blake had chosen some other term besides rabid. She cast a cautionary glance upward at the mynah bird, who stared back at her with bright, shoe-button eyes.
"Good night, sweet prince," Cujo cackled.
"A bird named after a dog in a Stephen King novel who quotes Shakespeare and Poe," Savannah mused. "Fascinating."
"Sam used to be a high-school English teacher," Blake explained easily. "I figure that Cujo picked up a lot of stuff hanging around the classroom."
Savannah looked over at the cat, who had curled up under a slender beam of pale yellow sunlight.
"I suppose that explains Cujo," she said. "What about the black cat? I'm almost afraid to ask his name."
Blake shrugged. "I've never known it, although he answers to Cat. When he wants to answer, that is. He showed up one night in the middle of a storm, wet, bedraggled and demanding food. Once fed, he refused to leave."