Dark Desires

by JoAnn Ross

  All her clothes had been scattered around the room. Obscenities had been scrawled on the dressing-table mirror in lipstick. Savannah picked up a high-necked, long-sleeved nightgown from the floor. Blake thought it looked like something from the wardrobe department of Little House on the Prairie. He realized that the nightgown, along with the rest of her clothes, including those ugly white cotton bras, had been vandalized to give Jerry Larsen some sick kind of sexual pleasure.

  The idea caused gall to rise in his throat. The guy was lucky he'd gotten out of the house before they returned home. Because if he'd gotten his hands on him, Blake decided, he would have killed him.

  "Why?" she whispered. Her fingers traced the long rents made in the snow-white cotton fabric by an unseen knife.

  "It doesn't matter." He plucked the nightgown from her icy hands and tossed it onto the bed. "Because you weren't going to wear this stuff again, anyway."

  Savannah thought about the suitcase filled with all the lacy lingerie that she'd purchased in the city. And how favorably Blake had responded to those silk-and-satin confections. "That still doesn't give him any right to do this."

  Blake, watching the anger rise in Savannah's cheeks, reflected that she was the bravest woman he'd ever met. Any other woman of his acquaintance—hell, most people—would be screaming their heads off about now. Or lying on the floor in a dead faint. Savannah, on the other hand, was furious.

  "We're going back to San Francisco."

  "But Detective Peterson is sending over the sheriff," Savannah said.

  "Okay, we'll stay here long enough to give him our statement. Then, as soon as we get the formalities over with, I'm taking you back to the city."

  "Why?"

  "I've got a friend on the San Francisco police force. That guy I told you about. The one who was a consultant on Police Beat. He'll find you a safe place to hide until Larsen is apprehended."

  "But your film," Savannah argued. "If we don't get back to work on Unholy Marriage, you'll be over deadline."

  "The hell with the damn deadline."

  The idea that he'd jeopardize his beloved film for her proved, more than anything else, that Blake didn't consider what was happening between them to be a casual affair any more than she did. Savannah, moved more than she could have imagined by his gritty statement, was on the verge of confessing her own feelings when the deep sound of a gong reverberated through the house.

  "That's the front door," Blake said. "It's probably the sheriff."

  "I suppose so."

  They were standing there, in the middle of the trashed bedroom, staring into each other's eyes. Neither moved. It was as if their feet had been nailed to the floor.

  The gong sounded again. "I'd better go answer it." Blake appeared no more eager to budge than Savannah was anxious to have him leave.

  "Yes." The moment had passed. Savannah didn't, couldn't, decide whether she was feeling regret or relief. She held out her hand, enjoying the reassuring warmth of Blake's fingers as they curled around hers. "And I'm not leaving," she said as they went down the stairs together.

  The Mendocino sheriff was polite and efficient. Acting as if such vandalism was an everyday occurrence, he took their statements, promised to stay in touch with the Los Angeles police, and assured them that he'd have his men comb the woods around the house.

  "Don't worry, Ms. Starr," he promised. "The guy's not going to hurt you." He put on his slicker, shook hands with Blake and Savannah, then turned to leave. "Oh, there is just one little thing."

  "Yes?" Savannah said.

  "If you wouldn't mind." A dark flush rose from above his collar. "My wife's a real big fan of yours. Do you think, I mean, if you wouldn't mind…"

  Savannah recognized the syndrome. No longer the efficient professional, the sheriff had turned into a tongue-tied fan. "Of course. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?"

  He whipped them out. "Her name's Melanie."

  "Melanie," Savannah murmured as she signed the autograph.

  "She was named after your mama," the sheriff blurted out. "Melanie Raine sure was a beautiful woman," he said admiringly.

  "She certainly was," Savannah agreed. Tragically beautiful, as it had turned out.

  "Yes, ma'am, the lady was prettier than a speckled pup."

  Despite the grave reason for his visit, Savannah smiled. She handed him the paper. "Here you are."

  He glanced down at the autograph, his expression that of a man who'd just been given the key to Fort Knox. "Thanks a lot, Ms. Starr," he said. "My wife's gonna love this!"

  Tipping his hat, he opened the door and disappeared into the slanting rain.

  "Pretty as a speckled pup," Blake mused, once they were alone again. "I'll have to remember that one—next time I'm trying to seduce a beautiful woman into my bed."

  Savannah smiled. Blake slowly lowered his head. His lips were almost to hers when the phone rang. Frustrated, he picked up the receiver.

  "Hello? Oh, yeah, we've been waiting to hear from you. Sure, she's right here." He held the phone out to Savannah. "It's a Detective McAllister."

  "Hello, Mike," Savannah greeted the detective warmly. "You've no idea how happy I am that you're back. How was your vacation?"

  There was a moment's pause on the other end of the line. "Great," the detective said. "We had a terrific time. But I didn't call to talk about my vacation."

  He'd always worried about her too much, Savannah considered. In fact, there had been times if she hadn't known that he was madly in love with his wife, she would have suspected the detective of having a slight crush on her.

  "I suppose Detective Peterson has filled you in on what's been happening."

  "Yeah. And that's what I'm really calling about," he said. "We got him, Savannah."

  Relief rushed over her in cooling waves. "Really? That's wonderful news!" She looked over at Blake and smiled. "They caught Jerry."

  "He was picked up about an hour ago breaking into your Malibu house. We'll need you to testify about the other stunts Larsen's been pulling—the calls, the roses, that doll, and tearing apart your room at Winters's place—but don't worry, Savannah, we've got enough on the guy to make sure that he'll never bother you again."

  "Thank you so much, Mike," she said, her voice filled with relief. "I owe you one."

  "Hey." He sounded embarrassed. "It's my job."

  After hanging up, Savannah turned to Blake. "You know that new line you wanted to try out?" she asked silkily. Her heart went into her smile as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "The one about the speckled pup?"

  Blake smiled down at her. "It seems to ring a bell."

  "Why don't we go upstairs," she suggested in a voice that was half honey, half smoke. "And see if it works."

  "I thought you'd never ask." He slowly lowered his head. For the second time in as many minutes, his lips were almost touching hers when the phone rang again.

  "Damn. I think I like it a lot better when the power's out," he muttered, releasing Savannah to snatch up the receiver. "This had better be good," he growled. "Oh, hi, Justin. No, nothing's wrong. You just caught me at a bad time." He looked over at Savannah and waggled his dark eyebrows in a lusty fashion that earned a dazzling smile in return. "What's up?"

  "The Los Angeles police contacted me today about Jerry Larsen," Justin said. "Why didn't either of you say anything about the man's threats while we were in San Francisco?"

  "Savannah didn't want to put a pall over her father's wedding," Blake explained.

  "Well, after the detectives left, I started worrying about her."

  "You can stop worrying. She's safe. The L.A. cops just picked up the guy," Justin assured him.

  "That's good news." Blake heard the older man's relieved sigh over the telephone wires. "So now we just have one other little problem."

  "If you're talking about the deadline—"

  "No. Not that. It's me. I'm stuck."

  "Stuck?"

  "Now that I know you're both safe, I realize t
hat I overreacted, but after talking with those detectives, I couldn't stop worrying. I tried to call the house—several times, as a matter of fact—but there was no answer."

  "Savannah and I decided to stay in the city for a few days," Blake said. "We just got home. I guess I forgot to turn on the answering machine when we left."

  "That's undoubtedly the case," Justin agreed. "Well, anyway, I was on the way to Mendocino, to make certain you and Savannah were all right, when the Jag broke down. I'm calling from my car phone a few miles down the road from your house. Do you think you could come and get me?"

  Blake turned toward Savannah. "He's broken down a few miles down the mountain."

  "Well," Savannah said with a wry smile, "you've been absolutely dying for an opportunity to play Superman and rescue someone. Here's your chance." She remembered how frightening that dark road had appeared in the rainstorm.

  After assuring Justin that he was on his way, Blake gathered Savannah once again into his arms.

  "Justin and I have been friends for a long time. And as much as I appreciate his apparent matchmaking efforts in getting us together, his timing definitely leaves a lot to be desired."

  "You can say that again." Her sigh echoed her own disappointment.

  He tipped her face up with a finger and kissed her. "I'll be back before you know it." A wicked glint came into his eyes—one she was beginning to recognize. "In the meantime, why don't you go upstairs and change into one of those frilly things you bought in the city?"

  "But Justin will be coming back with you, and—"

  He kissed her again, cutting off her protest. "No problem. I'll simply tell him that you're still upset over the shock of Larsen breaking into the house and have gone to bed."

  "Good idea." Savannah couldn't suppress her saucy grin. "And it's almost the truth," she said, breathless at the expectation of making love to Blake again. This time, Savannah decided, she'd surprise him. This time, she'd seduce him.

  Blake could see emotion shimmering in her dark eyes. Her curved lips were full and filled with sensual promise and the soft hue of late summer roses bloomed in her cheeks.

  Gazing down into her face, Blake decided that if the early Puritan settlers of Salem had witnessed Savannah Starr looking like this, they would have burned her at the stake.

  Mine, he thought with a certain mind-stunning wonder. The woman is mine.

  Dragging her to him, Blake gave her one long, hard kiss that left her head spinning. "Keep that thought."

  Then, with one last look, he disappeared out the door, into the night.

  11

  Savannah was humming as she ran the water into the deep, lion-paw-footed copper bathtub.

  "I love him."

  She tossed some bath salts under the tap and watched them turn the bathwater to a deep green foam.

  "I love him."

  For good measure, she tossed in another handful.

  "And when he gets back, I'm going to show him exactly how much."

  Smiling with anticipation, she went downstairs, retrieved her suitcase and carried it up to Blake's bedroom. A new storm had blown in from the Pacific. Rain streamed down the windows, lightning flashed across the dark sky. Immersed in the warmth of her recently discovered love, Savannah wasn't at all bothered by the coastal storm.

  "Boy, am I going to show him."

  Riffling through her new cache of silk and satin, she retrieved one particular item she hadn't had the nerve to wear. Until now.

  The strapless, lace gown was as black as the devil, as sheer as a whisper and as tempting as sin. After laying the gown on the bed, to be put on after her bath, Savannah peeled off her jeans and sweater. Crossing the room, she retrieved Blake's black robe from the closet, shrugged into it and went back into the bathroom.

  While she waited for the deep tub to fill, she lit the numerous white candles that Blake had put in every room, in response to the frequent power outages caused by coastal storms.

  The ancient, but ever-reliable boiler was doing its job. The hot water rose in the copper tub, sending steam billowing upward in a fragrant cloud. The mysterious, Oriental perfume of the bath salts mingled seductively with the vanilla scent of the candles.

  Savannah had just turned off the water when the lights in Blake's adjoining bedroom went out. Her pulse jumped.

  "It's the storm," she said firmly, as if saying the words aloud would make them true. "The lights go out all the time. They were out the night I first came here."

  The candle flames made shadows dance and jump on the bathroom wall like St. Elmo's fire; outside, the wind moaned like a lost spirit. Then Savannah heard a board squeak.

  "Blake?" How strange that he'd be back so soon, Savannah considered, her nerves beginning to hum. He must have forgotten something.

  When there was no answer, panic lodged in her throat, making it hard to breathe. She licked her suddenly dry lips and tried again. "Blake?" The flat sound of her voice scared her.

  "This is an old house," Savannah reminded herself in a trembling whisper. "Old houses always make noises at night." There was another ominous squeak that made her skin turn to gooseflesh. "Creaks and groans come with the territory," she insisted as she tugged the sash on Blake's robe tighter. "It doesn't mean anything."

  The sound came again. When she looked out into the hallway only to discover that all the lights had gone out, creating a well of darkness as deep and black as a tomb, Savannah felt a flicker of absolute terror.

  She was a woman alone in this huge, dark Gothic house. All the movies about women in peril she'd ever seen flashed through her mind, causing fear to billow like smoke from a wildfire.

  Her terrified mind was whirling, her thoughts disconnected. Flickering through them were images of the decapitated Barbie doll, her torn underwear, of Jerry. In a strange, surrealistic, out-of-body flashback, she saw herself flying through the window, viewed the ambulance speeding through the night, watched as the doctors sewed up her jagged wounds, saw the crimson blood—her blood—everywhere.

  "Don't be ridiculous," she insisted in a voice that was shakier than she would have liked. She was desperately trying to hold back the growing fear that was eating at her flimsy barrier of control. "Jerry's been caught. Detective McAllister said so."

  Another sound. This time, the unmistakable step of a foot on a stair. Her muscles tensed; panic buzzed in her head. It was only the cat, Savannah struggled to convince herself. Come for his dinner.

  Frantic, she looked around for Blake's starter pistol, only to remember that she'd left it down the hall, in her vandalized bedroom. Calling herself a fool for getting so paranoid about the simple sound of a house settling, she grabbed Blake's Oscar from its bedroom shelf.

  Perhaps, the thought suddenly occurred to her, she was dreaming. Perhaps this was merely a new version of the nightmare that hadn't haunted her since she'd fallen in love with Blake.

  But as much as she would have welcomed the return of that horrific dream right now, the reality of the Oscar was undeniable. The statuette was real and heavy and tangible under her frozen fingers, forcing her to accept the nightmarish fear that had made her grasp it was all too real.

  Holding the Oscar in front of her, she quietly slipped out the bedroom door and began to creep, barefoot, down the narrow hallway, into the swallowing darkness.

  She was almost home free. Savannah had just begun to breathe again when Jerry Larsen appeared at the top of the stairs.

  "Hello, Savannah."

  Lightning flashed outside a nearby window, revealing his handsome, unthreatening face. His tone was calm, as if there were nothing unusual about breaking into another man's home.

  Hysteria surged up; Savannah pushed it down. "What are you doing here, Jerry?"

  "I'd say that should be obvious ."He glanced past her, down the hall to her bedroom. "Didn't you get any messages?"

  Savannah rubbed her temple, where her pulse was beginning to pound. "I got them."

  "Then you'll understand why I ca
me. Why I have to punish you."

  Somehow, she would deal with this. "How did you get away from the police?" she asked, forcing herself to remain calm.

  He laughed at that, but the cruel sound held no humor. "I didn't get away. They never found me in the first place."

  Comprehension dawned, cold and harsh. Savannah felt beads of icy moisture form on her forehead. "You made those calls yourself," she said. "You pretended to be Mike McAllister. And then you called pretending to be Justin, to get Blake out of the house."

  "Maybe now you'll appreciate my talent." Venom poisoned his voice, reminding Savannah of the night he'd tried to kill her. But he continued to smile, while Savannah knew the blood had drained from her face.

  "But I always appreciated your talent," she protested frantically. "Didn't I ask Justin to get you that HBO special?"

  "You could have done more."

  "Just tell me," she said. "Tell me what you want, and I'll do it." She stepped toward him, stopping when she heard the quick, deadly click of a pistol.

  "It's too late for that, Savannah." The gun was steady, but a wild hatred raged in his light blue eyes. "In the beginning, I thought you were a good girl. That you weren't like other women. I thought you loved me, and I believed you when you promised to help my career."

  "But I did."

  "Not enough. You made me a laughingstock of the tabloids."

  "Nobody believes anything they read in those things," Savannah protested, wishing that it were true.

  "Shut up!" He cut her off by waving the gun in her face. "You ruined my career. You testified in court that I was some sort of crazy, possessive monster. That your accident was my fault."

  She'd seen that frantic, deadly light in his eyes before—right before she'd gone flying through the window. Biting her lip, Savannah didn't respond.

  "But we both know that you deserved what happened to you, Savannah. You ruined my career, then you slept with another man, just like you've been sleeping with Winters."

  This time, Savannah didn't bother to argue that she'd never slept with that other actor. Experience had taught her that Jerry wouldn't believe her, anyway. As for her relationship with Blake, how could this horrid man even begin to understand love?