by JoAnn Ross
Blake didn't deny it. "He's worried about you."
"So he decided to hand me over to you for safekeeping?"
"I didn't say that."
"It was what you didn't say."
"Don't you think you're overreacting?" Blake asked.
Savannah folded her arms. "Perhaps." Her tone said otherwise.
"Savannah." He ran the back of his hand enticingly up the side of her face. "Sweetheart. As much as I can understand your feelings about your father's behavior, I really don't want to waste precious time arguing, when I could be making love to you."
That said, he gathered Savannah into his arms and began distracting her with long, deep kisses.
Blake feared that if he told her everything he and Reggie had discussed, he'd drive her away. And although he fully intended to be the last man in Savannah's life, he knew that after the debacle with Jerry Larsen, she was understandably apprehensive about possessive men.
As he felt Savannah succumbing to his skillful seduction, Blake decided that he'd simply have to take things slowly, until she realized that she belonged to him—as he belonged to her.
10
"I've got another proposition for you," Blake said the next morning.
Savannah's smile was warm. "You know I can never resist one of your propositions."
She'd just stepped out of the shower. Her dark hair was piled in a casual twist on top of her head, she was clad solely in a fluffy white towel, and as his gaze set-tied on the beads of moisture glistening above her breasts, Blake almost forgot what he was going to say.
"How about, instead of going back to Mendocino right away, we stay in the city for a couple days?"
"But I still have to do the title song."
"It's only one song," Blake said.
"We don't have much time left."
"Enough that we can take some time off."
"But—"
"Sweetheart, it's called relaxing," he told her. "Being a workaholic myself, I can understand if you've never heard of the concept. But from what I've been told, the experience can actually be quite enjoyable. And if we were to go hog-wild and do it several days in a row, I believe that it's called a vacation."
He drew her into his arms, enjoying the fresh scent of soap lingering on her skin. "How about it, Savannah?" he coaxed seductively. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do than take a vacation with you."
It was so, so tempting. But impossible. Savannah put her hands on his arms and tried to draw away.
"But your film—"
"Why don't you let me worry about my film?" he suggested.
He was distracting her, sliding his fingertips tenderly, warmingly over her skin. Savannah wished he'd stop. She wished he'd never stop.
"I'd never forgive myself if I was responsible for the studio taking it away from you before it's finished."
"Never happen." He nuzzled her neck. "Because you'll come up with a dynamite song just in the nick of time. I have faith in you, Savannah."
Faith. That was a great deal like trust, wasn't it? Savannah tilted her head back and smiled up at him. "Last one back to bed is a rotten egg."
Years later, Savannah would look back on the following three days as a special, halcyon time apart. She and Blake played tourist, taking advantage of the myriad pleasures San Francisco had to offer.
They joined in the crazy commotion of Chinatown, stepping around the open stalls filled to overflowing with vegetables that crowded the sidewalks, and crates of fresh fish stacked along the curb. They drank in the sights of change: elderly Chinese men playing mahjongg and smoking fat cigars, while Chinatown's younger generation displayed an affinity for designer jeans and Sony Walkman radios.
Hand in hand, they strolled the streets of Cow Hollow, exploring the antique shops. In a boutique specializing in vintage clothing and accessories, Blake bought Savannah a Victorian pearl comb for her hair; at a nearby shop filled to the rafters with nautical paraphernalia, she was thrilled to unearth a yellowed, ancient chart of the coastline where Blake's house had been built.
They stole kisses amid the pink bushes in Rhododendron Dell at Golden Gate Park, drank in the atmosphere of the City Lights bookstore, once the home of Beat writers Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, laughed as they fed each other chocolate at Ghirardelli Square and nearly froze when they joined a boatload of Japanese and German tourists on a harbor cruise to Alcatraz.
They ate crab salads at Fisherman's Wharf, watched the lights come on across the city from the Top of the Mark, listened to jazz in North Beach and danced the night away atop Nob Hill.
During this stolen time together, they talked, sharing childhood memories, adult experiences—all the things that had made them who they were, all the paths that had led to where they were today.
Working so closely together in Mendocino, sequestered from the outside world, both had gradually learned to trust each other. Now, that trust had led to intimacy—and, although neither Savannah nor Blake was prepared to be the one to first say the word out loud, to love.
Savannah experienced a joy she'd never known. Everything would have been perfect if only she could banish Jerry Larsen from her mind. Twice, she thought she saw him following them. The first time was in Chinatown, the second time on Fisherman's Wharf. But before she could be sure it was him, the man in question had drifted back into the crowd and disappeared.
And then there was that phone call. She'd picked up the ringing phone in their suite, only to hear a familiar, ominous silence on the other end. Slamming down the receiver, she'd been grateful that Blake was in the shower and hadn't seen her terrified response to what was undoubtedly a misdirected call.
Despite Jerry Larsen's presence hovering over Savannah like a threatening cloud, she managed, most of the time, to relax enough to bask in the warming comfort of Blake's love. Gradually, with each passing hour, came healing. Enough so that when Blake huskily suggested that they return to their hotel room in the middle of the day to make passionate love in the bright sunlight, she went into his arms willingly. Happily.
Although they weren't at all anxious to leave the city, on the morning of the fourth day, both reluctantly agreed that it was time—past time, really—to get back to work.
"Another couple of days and we should be done," Blake said as he maneuvered the car around the winding curves. It was raining again—a heavy, slanting rain that made the interior of the car seem more intimate than usual.
Savannah murmured a vague agreement. During these past days in San Francisco, as she'd basked in the pleasure of Blake's company, she hadn't allowed herself to think about work—about what would happen when she'd finished scoring the movie and returned to her own home in Malibu.
She'd miss him, she realized. Terribly. An unexpected melancholy settled over her, as cold and gray as the mists outside the car.
"You're awfully quiet," Blake said after they'd traveled several miles in silence. "Anything wrong?"
How could she tell him that she was missing him already? Hadn't he already assured her that he wasn't the kind of man to put strings on a relationship? Hadn't she been the one who insisted that she didn't want a commitment?
"Nothing." She forced a smile that wavered only slightly.
Even as she tried to reassure him, Savannah knew that Blake wasn't fooled for a minute. He saw too much. What if he realized that she loved him?
Love. The word came crashing down on her like a ten-ton weight. At first she had tried to deny it. She'd told herself that she was only responding to the romance of her father's wedding, of the blissful time she and Blake had shared.
But the more the word reverberated inside her head, the more Savannah knew that it was the truth. Somehow, when she wasn't looking, she had fallen hopelessly, inexorably in love with Blake Winters.
Now what?
Unable to answer, Savannah decided to follow Scarlett O'Hara's example and think about it tomorrow.
Blake would have given all the gross he expected to make on Unho
ly Matrimony in exchange for one quick look inside Savannah's head. Something had changed. The air was more charged. She'd become more tense. And distant.
He couldn't count the times he'd been on the brink of revealing his feelings. Over the past three days she'd shown a freedom of spirit, a joi de vivre, that he suspected she hadn't possessed since Jerry Larsen had hurt her. But now, as each mile brought them closer to the house, he could feel her pulling away, withdrawing inside herself. Frustrated, he gripped the steering wheel more tightly and glared out into the slanting silver mist.
They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, neither one certain of the other's mood. Or of their own. The air grew nearly as chilly inside the car as out. Savannah cast a tentative glance at Blake.
His fingers had tightened around the steering wheel as if he was imagining them around someone's neck. His mouth and jaw were set in rigid, threatening lines. Right now it was impossible to believe that the person sitting beside her was the loving, laughing man who'd flown that colorful kite with her along San Francisco's rocky waterfront.
This man was the one she'd encountered that first stormy night. The man of the dark shadows and even darker moods. The man who'd reminded her so vividly of Dracula.
Noting Savannah's shiver, Blake reached out and turned up the car heater. But neither of them spoke the rest of the way up the mountain.
They finally arrived at Blake's house, only to find it shrouded in fog, looking as eerie as when Savannah had seen it for the first time.
"I'd forgotten how spooky this place can be," she murmured as they pulled up. It reminded her vaguely of the House of Usher. "I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear dogs howling."
Blake had thought, over these past days, that he'd been making headway. Obviously he'd been wrong. He arched a challenging black eyebrow, looking none too pleased by her quiet statement.
"Don't worry, the hounds of the Baskervilles are on temporary loan to Universal Studios." She would have had to be deaf to miss the add sarcasm in his voice. "Does your reference to spooks and things that go bump in the night mean that I'm back to being Dracula?"
Savannah glanced over at him, deciding that it wouldn't be prudent to point out that at this moment, with the lambent anger smoldering in his fathomless eyes, there was a distinct resemblance.
"Only sometimes," she hedged.
"I suppose I should consider that progress," he decided gruffly.
The strange, uneasy mood followed them into the house. Blake started to carry the suitcases upstairs when something Savannah said garnered his instant attention.
"Oh, Blake, how sweet of you."
He turned, puzzled. "From Dracula to 'sweet' is one helluva quantum leap in two short minutes."
She was standing at the foot of the stairs, holding a long white box, tied with a red satin ribbon. It was a florist's box—the type used to send long-stemmed roses.
"This was on the foyer table. How on earth did you arrange to have them delivered so they'd be waiting when we got home?" She began to untie the elaborate bow.
Damn. Once again, he should have bought her flowers. Once again he hadn't. Then who? The answer, when it came, was chilling.
"Savannah—" Blake's harsh voice was almost a shout as he grabbed for the white box "—don't open—"
It was too late. Blake held his breath.
The box didn't hold flowers, after all, Savannah discovered. She stared down uncomprehendingly at the contents.
The Barbie doll was one of the few that weren't blondes. Indeed, her long black hair, beneath a frothy white lace wedding veil, was eerily similar to Savannah's. And if that weren't enough to frighten Savannah out of her wits, the doll's head had been cruelly twisted off its body.
"This is what happens to unfaithful women," the note pinned to the doll's wedding gown read.
Comprehension dawned. The doll, and the accompanying note, sent a frisson of icy fear up Savannah's spine. Her head began to swim. She reached out and clutched blindly at the banister.
Her knees turned to water. Just when she thought she was going to crumble to the floor, Blake shoved the bentwood foyer chair beneath her.
"Don't worry. It's going to be all right." He ran his hand down her hair in a clumsy attempt to soothe. Loath as he was to leave her, from the way all the color had fled Savannah's face, Blake realized that she was on the verge of fainting.
"Put your head between your knees," he advised. "I'll get some water."
He was back before Savannah had realized he'd gone. "Here." He put the glass in her hand, curling her numbed fingers around it.
Savannah drew in several deep breaths, willing the oxygen to clear her head. "I feel so foolish," she murmured, after taking a sip of the icy water. "I never faint."
She was huddled forward and although her hands, wrapped around the glass, were steady, they were white at the knuckles. She was still unnaturally pale and her eyes, wide with shock, appeared too large for the rest of her features.
Blake squatted beside the chair and held her stricken face in his hands. "I promise, Savannah. I'm not going to let that bastard near you."
Her head was spinning. But the resolve in Blake's tone fed Savannah's own courage. "I know."
They exchanged a long look fraught with emotion. Both had so many things to say. But this wasn't the time.
"He's crazy," she said in a papery voice that was close to a whisper.
"As a bedbug," Blake agreed grimly. "Why don't you call the police while I check the rest of the house and make sure he's gone."
"I'm coming with you."
"The hell you are."
"But—"
He cut her off with a fierce wave of his hand. "Have you forgotten that this is the guy who tried to kill you? The same guy the police can't find? Have you forgotten why you're staying here with me?"
Remarkably, she had. The events of the past few days had completely exorcised Jerry Larsen—and everything he represented—from her mind.
"You're staying right here and calling the cops," Blake said in a low, warning tone.
Anger flared, hot and quick. Savannah welcomed it; it took her mind off her fear. "You sound just like a character from Police Beat," Savannah said. "Didn't anyone ever warn you about taking your work to heart?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm talking about the fact that you're happy to get an opportunity to act out all those adolescent male fantasies you wrote for your series."
"My what?" Frustration mixed dangerously with irritation in his eyes. "Are you saying that not wanting some lunatic to kill you is an adolescent male fantasy?"
Although Savannah realized that she may have stepped out of line with that one, she refused to flinch. "I really can take care of myself, Blake. I don't need a white knight or a hero to come dashing to my rescue."
It took a major effort, but Blake resisted pointing out that if she'd been so capable of avoiding Jerry Larsen's murderous rage the first time, she wouldn't have those damn scars she'd been so hung up about.
"The problem with your analysis,, sweetheart, is that this is no fantasy." His fingers curved around her upper arms; his touch was firm, not gentle. "The maniac who decapitated that doll isn't the product of some screenwriter's warped imagination. He's real. And he's after you."
His grip tightened as the idea of Jerry Larsen getting this close to Savannah sent ice coursing through Blake's veins. "And you can call me a chauvinist or any other unflattering thing you want if it makes you feel better, but the truth is that I care about you, dammit."
His intense expression made her stomach flutter. "You certainly don't sound very thrilled about it."
"It was not having a choice that I wasn't wild about."
Savannah could certainly identify with that. "I care about you, too," she said softly.
"Then stay here. So I don't have to worry about you."
Savannah heard the steel in his voice and decided that discretion was in order. "All right."
H
er sudden turnabout earned a sharp, suspicious look. "So we're agreed? You'll call the cops while I search the house?"
Savannah dipped her dark head. "You're right. It's probably the best plan."
Blake didn't believe a word of her sweetly issued acquiescence, but each second he stood here arguing gave Larsen, if he was in the house, further opportunity to escape. He went into the parlor, returning with a pistol.
"Here," he said, handing it to Savannah. "Just in case."
She looked at the gun as if it were a cobra, poised to strike. Then, gingerly, she took it from Blake's outstretched hand. "I don't like guns."
"If Larsen suddenly pops up, I have a feeling you might like this one a lot better," Blake said dryly. "Besides, you don't have to worry about actually shooting the guy because it's only a starter's pistol. Justin left it here after officiating at some celebrity north-coast ten-kilometer charity run. How good are you at bluffing?"
"Very good. After all, I am—was—an actress." She gave him a reassuring smile. "Go check the house, Blake. I'll be fine. I promise."
His eyes, warm with emotion, swept over her face. "You're a lot more than fine, Savannah Starr," he murmured. Bending his head, he gave her a quick, hard kiss that made her head start spinning all over again. And then he was gone.
Savannah called the Los Angeles police and talked with Detective Robert Peterson, who proved every bit as distant as he'd been the first time she'd talked with him. Although he promised that he'd contact the county sheriff's office and have them send someone out to the house, his tone was brusque and officious, lacking any personal warmth.
Remembering the unwavering support she'd received from the detective who'd first handled her face, Savannah found herself wishing that Mike McAllister had chosen any other time to take his vacation.
After she made the call, Savannah picked up the starter pistol and followed Blake upstairs.
She found him, standing in front of the open door to the guest room. "Dammit," he growled, "I thought you promised to stay put."
"I had my fingers crossed." Savannah stared in at the destruction Jerry had wrought.