Satisfaction

by Marianne Stillings

  A mental picture formed inside Ethan’s head of Georgiana Mundy, a six-foot-tall middle-aged felon with a Boston accent and a five o’clock shadow. Fighting down a cringe, he said, “Is Miss Mundy in some kind of trouble?”

  Horton nodded, his battleship gray eyes earnest, wary. “I don’t know. But something, yes, something is going on.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “About two years ago,” Horton said thoughtfully, “just a little under two years ago, Georgie canceled all her speaking engagements and took a sort of sabbatical, you might say. Her best friend was quite ill, and Georgie found it too stressful to work. She was gone for about two months.”

  “This friend have a name?”

  “Snow something…no, wait. Uh, Sunny? No. That’s not it. Oh, I remember. Raine. Raine Preston. They’ve been friends since they were kids, I guess.”

  “Miss Mundy ever talk about what was wrong?”

  Horton shook his head and rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. “Only to say that everything had turned out okay, and that her friend had gone into remission or something. But since then, she’s been, I don’t know, stressed in some way she wasn’t before. Nervous. Distracted. Oh, she’s still the same old Georgie, but different. I’ve asked her about it, and she just smiles and brushes me off, but I’m worried, Ethan. Yes, I am, I’m worried.”

  Ethan gave Horton an appraising look. “What do you think’s wrong?”

  “Don’t know. That’s why I called Paladin.”

  “Do you want Miss Mundy protected, or investigated?”

  Horton sucked on his bottom lip. Then, “Well, I’m not sure. Because, you see, there’s more. Somebody’s been playing pranks on the set. Switching the labels on some of Georgie’s spices so that the chili powder’s labeled cinnamon, and the basil’s labeled parsley, that kind of thing. If she hadn’t caught it in time, well, have you any idea the culinary havoc that could have created, Ethan?”

  “I’m a salt-and-pepper man, myself.”

  The station manager eyed him, shaking his head. “Yes. Yes, I can see that you are. Hmm. Unfortunate. Well, the fact remains, Georgie usually cooks for a studio audience. As part of the show, her guests sample the dishes she prepares. They’re supposed to close their eyes in ecstasy and whimper, Mmmm, yes, oh, God, yes! like they’ve just experienced their first orgasm, not gag, wince, choke, and spit up into their napkins!”

  Well, there are orgasms, and then there are orgasms.

  “Does Miss Mundy have any enemies that you’re aware of?”

  “None!” Horton insisted, his eyes wide with astonishment and sincerity. “Everybody adores Georgie. Why, why, why, she’s sweet and kind and generous, beautiful, funny, charming—”

  “Nobody’s that perfect,” he interrupted, before Horton got to the part where Georgie Mundy walked on water. “As to everyone adoring her, the fact is, the more popular someone is, the more likely there’s somebody who’s jealous or angry about it. So, bottom line, what do you want me to do?”

  “Well, first off, I guess I want you to find out who’s behind these tricks on the set. You know, before they get out of hand and somebody gets hurt.”

  “For which the station would be liable.”

  “A litigious nightmare, to be sure!”

  “And you also want to know what’s going on in her life off the set. This what ever-it-is that’s caused her so much stress?”

  “Yes. I want to know if her behavior has anything to do with—”

  Horton’s words were abruptly halted when the blond receptionist flung his door open. “Ozzie!” she squeaked, her eyes wild with panic. “Come quickly. It’s Georgie!”

  Simultaneously, Ethan and Horton jumped to their feet.

  “What’s wrong?” Ethan asked as the three of them headed out the door and down the hall.

  “I don’t know,” the girl said breathlessly. “Sh-she was inside her dressing room when somebody heard her scream. When they opened her door, they found her on the floor. Somebody said she was dead!”

  Chapter Two

  Affirmations carry a megaton of power. To get Mr. Right knocking on your door, chant the following every day: I now let into my life a man I truly desire. I am involved in a perfect, loving, intimate relationship. The trick here is, when you say it, honey, you gotta believe it!

  Georgiana Mundy’s Feng Shui for Lovers

  Georgie lay perfectly still, her eyes tightly closed as she listened to the hubbub going on around her. Guilt nibbled at her conscience like a mouse consuming cheese. Okay, maybe gnawing would be a better word, since her conscience never cut her any slack.

  Right now that overactive conscience was scolding her, reminding her it was cruel to let everyone believe something was wrong when it really wasn’t. But she couldn’t confess just yet. She needed to buy a little more time to come up with a reason for screaming and fainting—pretending to faint, anyway.

  “Let me through! Is she all right? Did somebody call 911? Georgie, baby, speak to me!”

  Ozzie, of course. Alarmed, worried. For her. So sweet. Such a dear man. She should let him know she was all right. Her conscience jabbed at her skull.

  She was about to end the game when strong, warm fingers gently pressed her throat just under her jaw. Ozzie’s fingers? No. He had soft, pudgy hands. Whoever owned these fingers would be strong and angular.

  “Pulse is good,” said a voice from close above her. The man with the fingers, no doubt. “She’s just fainted.”

  His voice was familiarish, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  An arm slid under her knees, another under her shoulders, and she felt herself being lifted from the floor. As though she really were out cold, she let her arms dangle at her sides and her head loll against the man’s shoulder.

  And what a shoulder. Certainly not Ozzie’s. And this guy smelled good, too. Clean and soapy, and, yes, there it was, that familiarishness feeling again…

  “Where can I take her?” he said, the reverberation of his deep voice rumbling against her ear.

  “Well, uh, uh,” Ozzie rushed, his voice filled with panic. “There’s a couch in the women’s restroom! Take her there.” Poor Ozzie. Georgie fought the urge to open her eyes and confess her deceit. “Do you, uh, do you think we should call the paramedics?”

  “No need, Mr. Horton. I have a feeling she’ll be just fine.”

  Where had she heard that voice? He’d lifted her effortlessly, and she was no bantamweight, that’s for sure, so he must be very manly. Desperately, she wanted to pinch open one eye to see if he was as good-looking as he sounded.

  As he moved with her down the hall, she felt like she was in a canoe, gliding quietly along a river to some exotic landing known as the Women’s Restroom. Soon they would dock, and she’d have to open her eyes and explain to the natives just what in the hell was going on.

  The swinging door of the ladies’ room sang its familiar squeak-swish song as her champion carried her in, easing her onto the soft corduroy couch everyone used on those days their menstrual cramps were too much to bear, they had a headache, or were pregnant and needed to pamper their swollen ankles for a little while. Somebody shoved a velvety pillow under her head.

  “Mr. Horton,” Manly Man said, with a very authoritative air, if Georgie was any judge. “You can stay. But send everyone else away and close the door.”

  “Shouldn’t I call the—”

  “She’ll be fine. I promise.”

  Georgie knew she was fine, but how did this stranger know? And just why was Ozzie taking orders from him? Whoever this guy was, he was beginning to irritate her, and she hadn’t even seen him yet.

  “Everyone out, please,” Georgie heard Ozzie order. “Hurry, people. Thank you. We’ve got it under control. Thank you…”

  The sound of protests, concerned voices, and the scuffle of feet inched her guilt up another notch.

  While Ozzie was apparently occupied at the door, Georgie felt her rescuer lean forward, putting his mouth c
lose to her ear. “You can open your eyes now,” he said. His breath caused little chills to dance down her spine. Her skin prickled with awareness, her heart skipped a beat—but she didn’t budge.

  He bent nearer, and she felt the heat from his body wrap around her like an embrace. Softly, so only she could hear, he whispered, “If green is for healing, what color is for faking?”

  Her lids flew open. Him! Glaring down at her with a gotcha gleam in his eyes.

  “You,” she mouthed on no breath at all. She inhaled. “From the elevator…the Darling guy. How did you…why are you—”

  “Georgie?” Ozzie scurried from the door to her side, crouching next to Scowling Manly Darling Man. “Georgie, honey, what happened? Was it something you ate? Are you having your period, sweet thing? Because I remember my sisters—”

  “I’m fine, Oz,” she assured him, taking his hand between hers, patting it as though he were a small child in need of comfort. “I just fainted, and—”

  “No, you didn’t.” The Darling guy set his jaw, looking down at her, daring her to challenge him.

  “What makes you think so?”

  He seemed to assess her for a moment, and she realized that by not denying it, she’d tacitly confessed.

  “When people faint,” he said slowly, a triumphant glint in his hazel eyes, “their head drops forward and they fall flat on their faces. Given the small size of your dressing room and the furniture crammed into it—”

  “I beg your pardon,” she interrupted. “My dressing room is carefully arranged according to feng shui—”

  “You managed,” he continued, interrupting her, “to fall neatly into a little ball in the center of the room without smashing your beautiful face on your dressing table, bookcase, coffee table, or costume rack.”

  Beautiful? She tried to move her thoughts past that comment, but it was hard to do. He thought she was beautiful?

  “Your pulse was strong, and too rapid for somebody who’d just passed out. You were scared,” he said flatly. “Maybe even terrified. The question is, of what?”

  She eased herself up onto one elbow and scowled. “Are you, like, a doctor or something?”

  “No.” His eyes met hers in an accusing stare. “Why’d you scream and then pretend to faint?”

  “Pretend?” Ozzie said, his tone one of disbelief and worry. “Pretend? Georgie?”

  There was no way she was going to explain a damn thing to either of the men, but most especially not to this stranger. He already knew way too much about her as it was. Besides, for all she knew, the Darling guy could be working for the Corcorans. Paul’s father was a powerful man, influential, vindictive. She would have to guard against both of the Corcorans forever.

  It was then she remembered her guilt, and her original lie. “I…saw a mouse.” She widened her eyes as though still suffering from the trauma of the incident. Adding a dramatic tremble to her voice, she said, “I have an irrational fear of mice. Untreatable. Textbook case, I’m told. Incurable. You’re lucky I didn’t have a heart attack.”

  Darling pursed his lips and narrowed one eye. “You screamed and fainted because you saw a mouse.”

  More like a rat, she thought, but nodded anyway.

  He grunted, obviously not buying it, but she didn’t care. She only wanted to get back to her dressing room and look out the window one more time…

  Movement behind the glass in the building next to the Golden Gate Towers had caused her to glance out her dressing room window…and there he’d stood.

  Paul Corcoran. A mere few feet away, staring back at her, his hands in his pockets, his head slightly lowered, an unreadable expression on his way-too-pretty face. The shock of seeing him standing there had caused her to scream and recoil from the window. She’d tripped over her dressing-table chair and fallen to her knees. When she’d heard footsteps rapidly approaching her dressing room door, she’d curled into a ball on the floor and closed her eyes, trying to buy herself time…time to give her thundering heart a chance to slow, time for coherent thought to return to her brain, time to hope it had been a mirage she’d seen, and not her worst nightmare.

  She looked at Ozzie, then back at Darling.

  “It was a mouse,” she stated. “Looking at me. Evilly.” Having created the stupid mouse myth, she now had to make it stick.

  “A six-ounce mouse looked at you evilly, so you screamed and fainted.” Darling was looking at her a little evilly at the moment, but he was a lot bigger than six ounces.

  So what? Whether or not he believed her, she didn’t care. Who was to say if she’d actually seen a mouse? The truth was too complicated to explain, and even if she found a way, the aftermath could be disastrous if she trusted the wrong person. She’d stopped trusting people de cades ago, and even if she hadn’t, Paul had struck the final blow when he’d done what he’d done. As a result, she had little faith in anyone except herself, and Raine.

  “Thank you for coming to my aid,” she said coolly, “but you can go on about your business now.” She smiled dismissively.

  Since he didn’t buy her story—not that it mattered—the best thing would be to simply get rid of him. What ever he was doing at KALM didn’t involve her, so she never had to see him again.

  “Oh!” Ozzie blurted out, as though he had suddenly awoken from a dream. “Georgie, I need to introduce you two. In all the commotion…well, anyway, this is Ethan Darling. He’s a private investigator. I’ve hired him to try and find out who’s been messing with your sets.”

  She flicked a look at Darling, whose unsmiling face gave nothing away. Her stomach churned and her knees went weak. Good thing she was already lying down.

  With a casual lift of her shoulder, she said, “I—I don’t think that’s necessary, Oz. Just somebody playing a prank. A joke. There hasn’t been any real harm done.”

  “I disagree, sweet thing. I believe these incidents need to be checked out.” Averting his eyes, he said, “And, and, and, well, um, I’ve also hired Ethan to sort of watch over you, in a, um, in a bodyguard sort of—”

  “No!” she blurted. In one movement, she sat up and swung her legs to the floor, glaring into the station manager’s shocked face. “No bodyguard. That’s ridiculous. Besides, I value my privacy, Ozzie, you know that.”

  “But Georgie, honey, it’s just until—”

  “Absolutely not.” She pushed herself to her feet. Damn, that was all she needed, some guy following her around, watching her every move. No, it wouldn’t do. It would never do.

  She began pacing the carpeted area where the couch sat tucked against a wall. Placing her fingers at her temples, she said, “I’ll simply envision my protective white light. Surround myself with it, immerse myself in it. I’ll be fine. No bodyguard.”

  Ozzie stood, lifting his hands, palms up. “But I hired him—”

  “Then fire him,” she snapped, trying to overcome her panic. “No bodyguard!”

  She walked over to the short bank of sinks that stood across from the stalls and turned a tap, splashing her face with lukewarm water.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darling slowly rise to his feet. He was watching her now, thinking about everything. Ethan Darling seemed to be a very intelligent man and the last thing in the world she needed right now was a smart man in her life…one who could figure things out.

  Turning off the tap, she reached for a paper towel from the dispenser to dab her flushed cheeks. “Mr. Darling, please don’t take this personally—”

  “It’s Ethan.”

  She rolled her lips together, smiled condescendingly. “I don’t need or want a bodyguard. I know you probably carry a gun, and I have an aversion to them.”

  “Kind of like mice?” he drawled.

  “Much worse. I don’t want them anywhere near my aura.”

  “Mice?”

  “Guns.”

  “But Georgie—” Ozzie began.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Horton,” Ethan interjected. “Let’s leave Ms. Mundy to slip into her
protective white light. You and I can go back to your office to discuss those set disturbances. If the lady doesn’t want a bodyguard, then we wouldn’t want to force the issue.”

  Too smooth, Georgie thought. He’d given up way too easily, and he didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d give up at all, once he’d set his mind on something.

  Dammit, she’d have to be doubly on guard now. What with Paul being around—and watching her—and the weird things that had been happening on the set, she already had her hands full.

  As soon as Ozzie opened the restroom door, a rush of women pushed past the two men to crowd around her.

  “…in the world happened? Are you okay, honey?”

  “…eat this. It’s chocolate. It’ll help…”

  “…like, hee-hah. Who is that man?”

  She smiled and assured them all she was perfectly fine, but her gaze never left Ethan as he walked toward the door. Just as he reached the threshold, he turned, and their eyes locked.

  His glittering stare held a challenge: I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m going to find out.

  She raised her chin and stared back: Take your best shot, pal.

  With a cool smile and a tilt of his head, he sealed the bargain. Disappearing into the hallway, he let the door swing closed behind him.

  Georgie swallowed the lump of fear and apprehension in her throat.

  He’d tossed the gauntlet at her feet, and she had no choice but to pick it up. This was a game to him, and she had a feeling he was a very accomplished player. But he had no idea how high the stakes were for her—and she was going to have to make damned sure he never found out.

  “I’d like to take a look at Georgie’s dressing room,” Ethan said, as he and Horton returned to the station manager’s office. “Can you keep her away from it for about a half an hour?”

  Horton closed his office door behind them. “Sure. Sure, sure.” He moved around behind his desk, dropped heavily into his chair, and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Do you think she’s okay, Ethan? I mean, I guess a mouse could somehow have made it up to the thirty-first floor of this building without an oxygen mask or hemorrhaging its little brain.”