by Tami Hoag
She showered in record time and dried her hair with Jake’s blow dryer cranked on high. She ended up looking as if she had been trapped in a wind tunnel, her bob a wild bush around her head. She tried to press it down with her hands, then left it. Her hair was the least of her worries. After pulling on her jeans and a heavy brown plaid flannel shirt from Jake’s closet, she ran to her house, tripping over cats and dogs on the way.
Tyler Holt’s truck was still there. Either he and Delia had made up or she had killed him. Knowing them both, Dixie figured it was a fifty-fifty proposition.
“My God, Dixie, you look like somebody scared you,” Sylvie said, swinging open the porch door. “What did you do to your hair?”
Dixie started and clutched a hand to her heart. “Cripes, Sylvie, you hadn’t ought to jump out at people that way. You nearly gave me a heart attack.” She trudged up the steps to the porch, stepping around a knot of kittens wrestling on the landing. She scowled at her friend. “What are doing hiding up here anyway?”
Sylvie made an incredulous face and lifted her jewel-encrusted hands to the heavens. “What hiding? I wasn’t hiding. I came to borrow some coffee. Can’t a friend borrow a little coffee? Is this a crime in South Carolina now, to borrow coffee?”
Dixie gave her a steady look. “Coffee. Uh-huh. Your being here doesn’t have a thing to do with finding out what happened between Tyler and Delia.”
“Is Tyler here? I had no idea,” she said, blinking innocently.
Dixie rolled her eyes and strode past her, weaving her way through the clutter toward the kitchen. The house was quiet except for Cyclops, who trotted after her howling for his breakfast.
“You don’t fool me, Sylvie Lieberman,” she said, scooping cat food out of a container on the counter and dumping it into an array of bowls on the floor.
“You want to know if they made up or not.”
“And you don’t?”
“’Course I hope they did. I hope Tyler had sense enough to tell Dee he still loves her even if she does look like a refugee from Chernobyl.”
She opened a cupboard, yanked a can of coffee and slammed the door shut before the junk crammed inside could fall on her in an avalanche.
“And what about you and Mr. Handsome?” Sylvie asked slyly. She peeked inside a plastic container on the table and snatched a cinnamon roll. “Did you tell him?”
“Not yet. I’m going to over breakfast.”
“You’d better, dearie,” Sylvie said, nibbling on her roll. “No good can come of keeping this secret from him.”
Dixie leaned back against the counter and rubbed her temples. “Don’t put any extra pressure on me here, Sylvie. I’m nervous already.”
“It’s just a little stage fright,” Sylvie counseled, coming to wrap a slender arm around Dixie’s shoulders. She gave her a motherly squeeze. “Everything will turn out fine. Trust me, I know these things. My Sid, God rest his soul, always said I had a sixth sense about people. Your Jake is a good one.”
Dixie nibbled her lip, her brows furrowing. “I hope you’re right, ’cause I’m so crazy in love with that man it scares me.”
“So that’s what’s the matter with your hair.”
“Your coffee,” Dixie said, thrusting the can at her friend.
“Coffee?” Syvlie said blankly. “Oh, yeah. My coffee.” She took it and tucked it in the crook of her arm like a football. She bussed Dixie’s cheek and moved toward the door. “Thanks, love. Good luck.”
“Sylvie?” Dixie gave her a tremulous smile. “Thanks for the pep talk. You’re a good friend.”
Sylvie sniffed. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
Jake was trotting up to the cottage when Dixie returned with her cinnamon rolls. He slowed to a walk, wading through the mob of dogs fawning at his feet. He looked flushed and fit, like an ad for running gear. Dixie felt her stomach warm just looking at him as he bent to pat furry heads.
“Hey, lady,” he said, grinning up at her, dimples flashing. “That looks like a shirt I used to own.”
Dixie sniffed at him. “Well, you weren’t there to put your arms around me when I woke up. This was the next best thing.”
“I’m here now,” he said, his voice low, rumbling with sensual promise.
He cupped the back of her head with one big hand and dropped a kiss to her mouth. He had intended it as a quick peck, but the instant their lips came together, it softened and deepened until both of them groaned at the pleasure of it. Bob Dog tried to wedge his nose between them, then sat down on the path beside them and let out a mournful howl.
“Jealous,” Jake muttered. He tweaked Dixie’s cheek and backed toward the steps. “I’ll hit the shower, then we can have breakfast.”
And talk, his gaze said plainly enough. Dixie sucked in a breath and nodded.
“I’ll make some coffee.”
“Great. Hey, did you change your hair?” He cast a quizzical glance over his shoulder. “It looks…bigger.”
“Get in the shower, Gannon, before I sic my dogs on you.”
The breakfast preparations took all of five minutes. Dixie wandered around the cottage listening to the sound of the shower running and the storm warnings coming over the radio. She was too nervous to sit, too nervous to eat. There was nothing in Jake’s house to straighten even if she had been inclined to do so. The place was neat as a pin, looking like a writer’s retreat to be featured in Country Living magazine. Even his desk was immaculate—typewriter covered, pens in their holder, blank paper neatly stacked.
She leaned over the top like a child who had been instructed to look but not touch. She was curious about Jake’s book, but she had promised to respect his superstition about not wanting other people to see it before it was ready. Still, if she could just accidentally catch a glimpse of a page or two…but there were no pages to be found. Writers on television were always portrayed with a wastebasket beside their desk over-flowing with snowballs of wadded-up paper. Jake’s wastebasket was cleaner than most of her house, not even a gum wrapper in evidence.
She turned her attention to the shelves above the desk. Jake had filled them with reference books and with the large cardboard box that contained his mysterious manuscript. The load was proving to be too much for the flimsy shelves. The screws were pulling loose at the top of the mounting strips. If they weren’t tightened soon the whole works would come crashing down.
Digging a penknife out of her hip pocket Dixie climbed to her knees on the desktop. The instant she applied her makeshift screwdriver, the screw fell out. The mounting strip sprung away from the wall at the top. The shelves shifted ominously, then everything pitched downward like a rock slide. Dixie scrambled to the floor, clamping her hands to her head and wincing as books plummeted in a heap. The box tumbled like a boulder, careening off the desk. She lunged for it as it tipped, but it was too late. The thing had sprung open and papers spewed out.
“Oh, my Lord, he’ll kill me!”
She dropped to her knees amid the rubble and frantically began scooping up papers to stuff back into the box. But her hands stilled as her brain slowly took in what she was looking at.
There were clippings from newspapers and magazines. Some old and yellow, some glossy white. Full pages and scraps of pages. All of them about one subject: Devon Stafford.
Dixie felt a cold lump of dread settle in her stomach. Her hands sifted through the mess on their own, as if they belonged to someone else. Stunned, she watched them as they turned over picture after picture of herself, of the image she had left behind. Colored photos, black and white photos, publicity shots and candid shots snapped by the paparazzi.
Someone had jotted notes on several of the photos in black marker. What if she dyed her hair? Cut it? In one a big, thick circle had been drawn around the golden sea star she wore even now at her throat. She lifted her hand to touch the charm, as if to comfort it even though it had betrayed her.
There were reams of handwritten and typed notes, all spread around her n
ow like abandoned Christmas wrapping. Questions and conjecture on the disappearance of a sex symbol.
Jake was writing a mystery all right, and the mystery was her.
Dixie’s vision clouded with tears. He’d known all along. Somehow he had tracked her to Mare’s Nest and he had been watching her, gathering his facts, researching his topic—in depth. Her stomach gave a sick lurch and she pressed one arm over it as if she’d taken a blow.
He’d known. Jake Gannon hadn’t fallen in love with Dixie La Fontaine. He had come here obsessed with Devon Stafford and he’d found her. She had taken him into her home, into her heart, God help her, into her body, and he was nothing but another man looking to capture a star.
He had turned the tables on her as neatly as could be. She had gone on thinking she was so smart, such a consummate actress that no one would ever guess. Well, she was an amateur compared to Jake Gannon. He had played the part of a man in love and she had bought the act hook, line, and sinker.
From the corner of her eye she saw him stop in the doorway between the bedroom and living room. He was barefoot in jeans and a navy blue fisherman’s sweater, his hair damp and finger-combed. He closed his eyes as if against a stabbing pain and swore softly under his breath. Dixie stayed where she was, the centerpiece among the display of damning evidence.
Jake took a hesitant step forward. “Dixie, I can explain—”
“I’ll bet you can.” She sifted papers through her hands and let them scatter across the hardwood floor. “Just like you explained why you came here. Just like you explained how you love me.”
“Dixie—”
“Oh, you’re real good with words, Jake,” she said, staring at a picture of her former self—gorgeous, sexy, blond, slim, an apparition, an aberration, a woman she had grown to hate. “I believed every line you fed me.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Isn’t it?” She pushed herself to her feet and dusted her hands on the tails of the shirt she’d borrowed from him. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think. I think you came here looking for Devon Stafford, and I think you came here planning to write about her and make a wheelbarrow full of money. Are you gonna tell me that’s not true? Because if you are I think it might be the first time I won’t believe you.”
She glared at him, tears brimming in her eyes. She refused to let them fall, calling on her reserve of pride. Her voice went hoarse with the effort to hold her devastation in check. “You gonna tell me that, Jake? Huh? You gonna tell me you didn’t come here looking for Devon Stafford?”
His silence was as damning as any confession. He hung his head, having the grace or the shrewd sense to look contrite. Dixie cursed herself. She wanted him to deny it. She wanted him to explain it away. But she knew there was only one explanation.
She pushed at a pile of photographs with the toe of her sneaker. “Tell me, what’s the going rate on stories about me now? I used to be worth big bucks. A tabloid offered half a million for a scoop when I first left Hollywood. That would fill your garage right up with Porsches, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s not like that,” he said tightly, the muscles in his jaw working furiously.
“It’s not like that,” Dixie repeated softly.
She took a couple of steps toward him, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “You want to know what it’s like, Jake? You want to know what it’s like to have people hound you night and day because they think you’re something different, because they think you’re some kind of goddess when everything you are is just a lie? You want to know what it’s like to have people want to touch you, not because you’re anyone special inside, but because you’re a star? You want to know what it’s like to have your best friend kill herself because she can’t be you? You want to know what it’s like to have a man tell you he loves you and then find out it’s not you he’s making love to, it’s some dead glossy image he wants to make a buck off?”
The tears streamed down her face unchecked now. She had edged closer and closer to him as she’d spoken, until she was standing right under his nose. She stared up at him, trembling with fury and hurt, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
“Did you get a big kick out of it, Jake? Did you close your eyes and think of Devon Stafford while you were doing it?”
“No.”
“You bastard!” she shrieked, pounding his chest with her fists. “You lying bastard!”
“Dixie, I love you.”
She slapped him as hard as she could.
“How dare you say that to me,” she said, stepping back from him. “How dare you. What do you take me for? Am I such a pathetic little thing you think you can buy me back with a few pretty words?”
He winced more at the sting of her words than at the blow she’d delivered. He stepped toward her, his laser-blue gaze never leaving her eyes. “I love you, Dixie. It’s the truth. If you’ll just let me explain—”
“I’ve seen the explanation, Jake,” she said, gesturing to the mess on the floor. “When were you going to tell me—the day the book hit the stands? Maybe you were gonna invite me to an autographing. That would have been a nice freak show. Parade me in front of the public and let them marvel at what their perfect woman turned into after all the glitter faded.”
“Stop it,” Jake ordered. He grabbed her by the arms, his fingers biting into her flesh through the heavy flannel shirt. “Just stop it. Let me get two words in, will you?”
She glared up at him. “You want two words? I’ve got two words for you, but since you’ve already done it to me, I’ll spare myself the trouble of saying them.”
She kicked him hard in the shin and bolted for the door the instant he let go of her.
Jake hobbled after her, swearing under his breath, limping heavily. He stumbled out onto the porch and down the steps. Dixie ran ahead of him, her hair bobbing, the long tails of his shirt streaming behind her. He closed ground on her easily, even though he was barefoot and hurting. Then Bob Dog bounded onto the path directly in front of him, cutting his legs out from under him and sending him flying.
He hit the path with a thud, landing on his belly, and came up spitting sand. He shook his head to clear it, then looked for Dixie. She was already rounding her house, making a beeline for her truck.
He sat up, swearing a blue streak. The German shepherd stood a few feet away, bowing and barking at him. Jake scooped up a handful of sand and flung it at the dog, who cut off his barking, gave Jake a hurt look and slinked away with his tail down. Hobbit came to sit on the path directly in front of him, the little corgi perking his triangular ears. Honey and Abby stood to the side, staring at him. They seemed to know he’d hurt their mistress and they glared at him with accusing brown eyes.
Jake cradled his head in his hands, feeling more lost and miserable than he’d ever felt in his life. He’d blown it royally. He hadn’t seen any way to tell Dixie about his original purpose in coming here, especially when she hadn’t been willing to tell him about her past. He had wanted her trust, had felt hurt that she hadn’t given it to him. Now she might never give it to him.
“I did know you from somewhere,” Sylvie said quietly. She stood beside the path, her slender form swallowed up by the yellow slicker she wore against the increasing wind. It was apparent from the look on her face that she had listened in on part of the row. “A. J. Campion, the biography writer. I knew it would come to me. Too bad it didn’t come sooner.”
Jake pushed himself to his feet. “Sylvie, I know this looks bad, but I swear to you I love her. I love Dixie. I don’t care who she used to be. I love who she is.”
“You broke her heart.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“What did you mean to do, Jake?” she asked with a shrug. “Write a story? Is that what you came here for? Did it ever occur to you that she wanted to be left alone?”
“I wanted to know why. I wanted her to tell me in her own way, in her own words. If you know who I am, then you know how I write. It would have
been her own story, not some sleazy exposé.” He slicked back his damp hair, gritty now with sand. “But I don’t give a damn about the book now. I don’t care if the rest of the world never finds out about Devon Stafford. I want Dixie. I love Dixie. Help me get her back, Sylvie.”
Sylvie looked at him a long moment, weighing his words and the sincerity behind them. She stared long and hard, her arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched against the wind that buffeted her and tore at her hair.
“This I can’t do, Jake,” she said, shaking her head. “This is between you and Dixie. I told her to tell you about herself. I told her no good would come of keeping secrets. So you’re the one I should have been telling this to. Now you’ve broken her heart. I don’t know if anyone can fix that, Jake. You don’t know how fragile she was when she came here, how badly she needed people to love her. This hurt you’ve given her…I don’t know what I can do.”
“You can loan me your car keys.”
TWELVE
DIXIE DROVE WITHOUT regard for traffic laws or the worn-out shocks in her Bronco. She sent the truck hurling up the old coast road, and it bucked and pitched over bumps and potholes. On the seat beside her Cyclops bounced like a scruffy furball, digging his claws into the upholstery. The cat complained loudly, his squawks and howls like an out-of-tune oboe concerto. Dixie paid him no mind. She clutched the steering wheel, occasionally jerking one hand away to swipe at the tears pouring from her eyes. Her ragged sobs and jerky breaths accompanied the cat’s discordant wails, making a racket that hurt her ears.
Yet another warning about the approaching storm came over the radio. Dixie switched it off. She didn’t care if it stormed. She hoped it stormed to beat Hades. It would be nothing to rival the storm raging inside her now. Mother Nature would be put to shame by comparison.
Blast it all, why had she trusted Jake Gannon? Why had she allowed herself to fall in love with him? She’d known the minute she’d laid eyes on him and his Porsche that he would be nothing but trouble. She’d spotted him right off for a perfectionist. Men like that didn’t go for women like her, they went for women like Devon Stafford.