by JoAnn Ross
“If I don’t get you away from here, I’ll end up sharing you with directors, writers and Lord knows what other creative types.
“Meanwhile,” he said when she didn’t answer, letting her off the hook for now, “you’re probably right about tonight. Why don’t you take a long hot bath? And open one of those pleasant bottles of cabernet sauvignon we bought last month at Temecula. A little wine will relax you.”
A little wine would put her out like a light, Blythe decided. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “Have a good time at the party. Please give my apologies to Dr. and Mrs. Menninger. And good luck.”
“Without you at my side, I’ll need all the luck I can get. Good night, darling. Sleep well.”
“Good night,” she repeated softly.
She replaced the receiver to the cradle, sighed, then dragged herself back to the set.
Two days later, the film that she’d seemed destined to spend the rest of her life working on, finally wrapped. Now that the project had been handed over to the postproduction team, Blythe was free to turn at least some of her attention to her upcoming wedding.
The first item of business, she decided, was the dress. Alan had asked about it again during their nightly phone call last night and, unwilling to admit she hadn’t even found time to go shopping, Blythe had hedged, murmuring some-thing about wanting it to be a surprise.
Knowing that Cait had returned from Maine, Blythe called her at her apartment. Since she wasn’t due at police headquarters until later that afternoon, Cait had immediately agreed to accompany Blythe on the shopping trip she’d put off for far too long.
“The problem is,” Cait complained to Blythe as she locked her apartment door behind her, shouting to be heard over the bagpipe rendition of “Viva Las Vegas” coming from the apartment downstairs, “there are miles of coastline for the creep to choose from. And millions of women.” She shook her head with disgust. “It’s a logistical nightmare, getting him to zero in on me.”
Cait had filled Blythe in on some of what Charity had revealed. And although she suspected there was a great deal more that her friend wasn’t telling her, Blythe had heard enough to be even more worried than when she’d first learned of the plan.
“Why don’t you just call a press conference?” Blythe suggested dryly. “And announce you’re available?”
To Blythe’s amazement, Cait didn’t immediately reject her suggestion, which had been part sarcasm, part jest. “You know,” Cait said thoughtfully as they left the building, “that’s not such a bad idea.”
“I was only kidding,” Blythe said, immediately alarmed by the spark of interest in Cait’s eyes.
Cait was still thinking about Blythe’s impulsive suggestion twenty minutes later as she sipped a cappuccino at the oak bar of a trendy Rodeo Drive boutique while the accommodating saleswoman displayed the gowns she’d selected after receiving Blythe’s telephone call this morning.
Blythe appeared to be trying to set a world record for shopping for wedding apparel, Cait considered, as she watched her friend reject one exquisite gown after another.
Finally, just when the saleswoman’s accommodating smile had begun to slip a notch, Blythe said, “I’ll take that one.”
The dress was simple by Rodeo Drive standards—a sleek, off-the-shoulder, short sleeved ivory crepe tunic over a long slender skirt. It was extremely elegant, Cait thought, although she couldn’t help picturing Blythe in some-thing more romantic. More bridelike. Her second thought was that Blythe had obviously chosen something her excruciatingly stuffy bridegroom would approve.
“Aren’t you even going to try it on?” she asked.
“There’s no need.” Blythe handed over her American Express card. “It’s my size, it’ll fit. Besides, you’re due at the station soon.”
Although they had another two hours before Cait was expected to join the other members of the task force, she knew better than to argue when Blythe had made up her mind. Even having no plans to marry herself, Cait nevertheless thought the purchase of a wedding dress should be a more special occasion than Blythe was making it.
“I’m going to make you mad again,” she warned Blythe as they returned to Bachelor Arms. “But I need you to explain to me, one more time, why you’re marrying Alan.”
“Because I love him, of course,” Blythe responded promptly.
“What about lust?”
Blythe slanted her a look, wondering if the out-of-the-blue question had anything to do with Sloan accompanying Cait on her trip to Maine. “What about it?”
“Do you lust for him?”
If the question had come from anyone else, Blythe would have promptly told them it was none of their business. But because she and Cait had been friends for so long, as she stopped for a red light at Rodeo and Sunset, Blythe answered honestly.
“Lust is overrated. Besides, it doesn’t last.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the light to turn green. “I respect Alan. I’m fond of him. He’ll be an excellent companion.”
“Sounds like you should be shopping for a golden retriever instead of a wedding dress.”
“That’s not nice. I truly love Alan. Life isn’t all razzle dazzle excitement like in the movies. And the one thing you and I have in common is that neither one of us wants to marry anyone in the movie business.”
The light turned green again, allowing Blythe to turn. “You know as well as I do that the industry is like a roller coaster, and even the best marriages have enough ups and downs without adding professional jealousy.
“Besides, with fifty percent of marriages failing—and even worse odds in this town—I feel safe marrying Alan.” Blythe smiled. “I can easily see us celebrating our fiftieth anniversary.”
Personally, Cait thought fifty years with Alan Sturgess would be the equivalent of doing hard time. “Why get married at all?”
“Because I want children,” Blythe said without hesitation. “I’m also old-fashioned enough to believe that when possible, two parents are better than one. And Alan will make an excellent father.”
If you considered Duvall’s autocratic portrayal of fatherhood in The Great Santini to be a role model, Cait countered silently.
By the time Blythe pulled up in front of Bachelor Arms, Cait was already feeling sorry for the poor kids.
Later that evening, Cait was sitting in front of her television, wrapped up in an oversize purple terry cloth robe and eating her way through a pepperoni pizza, when someone began pounding on her door.
A glance through the peephole revealed Sloan. He was not smiling.
Suspecting she knew what had him so angry, she sighed and opened the door.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, marching into her living room as if he had every right to be there.
“Eating a pizza and watching a movie.” She pointed at the red-and-white box atop the green marble-topped Victorian table. “Would you like a piece? There’s enough for two.”
“What I’d like is for you to explain what the hell that press conference was all about.”
“Oh.” She closed the door with another sigh. “Actually, that was Blythe’s idea.”
“Blythe? I can’t believe it was her idea for you to put yourself at risk that way!”
“She may have been kidding,” Cait allowed. “But I thought it was a good idea. So, obviously, did my superiors.” She lifted her chin in that pugnacious gesture he recognized all too well. “I thought it went very well, actually.”
Better than well. Realizing the need to alert innocent women who might fall victim to the serial rapist, the chief of police had called a press conference announcing the convict’s escape. At Cait’s suggestion, they’d staged the event on the Malibu pier. The chief had assured the people of Los Angeles that the man would be quickly apprehended. In the meantime, he suggested women refrained from going to the beach alone.
On cue, just as he’d finished answering the questions and left the pier, Cait
sauntered by in a bikini brief enough to capture any male’s immediate attention. She was carrying a red-and-white surfboard that matched the polka dots on the minuscule suit. The press descended on her like sea gulls fighting over an abandoned french fry.
“Am I afraid?” she answered one of the television reporters. “Hell, no.” She tossed her red hair over her shoulder with obvious feminine disdain. “I come to this beach every morning and every evening. There’s no way I’m going to let some crazy pervert keep me from having fun.”
That said, she waved to the assembled press and strolled out into the surf, where the television cameras from all the network affiliates and various independent stations filmed her paddling into the sunset-brightened surf.
“You put yourself out there like a piece of bait,” Sloan objected. Having always considered himself adept with words, he knew he’d never be able to describe the mixture of fear and fury that had flooded over him while watching that news report.
“That’s my job,” she reminded him.
It was the same thing she’d already told him. The same thing Starbuck and Dylan had told him. The same thing he’d been trying to tell himself.
“I’m trying to understand why you feel you have to do this,” he said. His expression was grim; brackets formed on either side of his lips. “But I’m not going to deny that I hate it.”
Looking up at the emotions warring on Sloan’s handsome face, Cait realized she was in deep, deep trouble. As if her heart had taken on a mind of its own, she was falling in love with him.
“I know it takes getting used to.” She placed a hand against his rigid dark cheek and felt the muscle tense beneath her palm. “Would it make you feel any better to know that I’m going to have tons of backup?”
“Not really.” What would make him feel better would be for her to give up this dangerous quest in the first place. But then she wouldn’t be who she was, Sloan admitted. And he wouldn’t have fallen so hard.
“Perhaps I can convince you that the operation is really a lot safer than it sounds.” Her hand trailed down his face, along the side of his neck.
“I doubt that.”
“I could try.” Going up on her toes, she pressed her lips against his chin. “I can be very persuasive.” She kissed the deep frown lines framing his firmly cut lips. “When I put my mind to it.”
Feeling himself giving in, as he’d known all along he would, Sloan caught hold of her waist. “It might take some time,” he warned.
“That’s the same thing I was thinking.” She linked her fingers around his neck and pressed the body he’d come to know so well against his. “Blythe and I went shopping today,” she murmured against his neck.
“That’s nice.” Cupping her buttocks to lift her to his rising arousal, he didn’t really focus on her seeming change in subject.
She could feel his sex stirring against her belly and had a sudden urge to drop to her knees and press her mouth against the denim placket of his jeans. An urge she resisted. For now.
“Blythe bought a wedding dress.” She pressed closer. “I bought an extra toothbrush.”
His hand slid between them to untie the voluminous robe. To his absolute delight she was wearing nothing beneath it. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
With a feminine smile, she backed away and shrugged the robe off her shoulders, where it fell to the floor around her feet. She stepped out of it and held out her hands. Her eyes gleamed with a gilt-edged invitation.
“I want you to spend the night with me, Sloan.”
Forgetting that he’d been tempted to wring her lissome neck when he’d first arrived, Sloan scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the adjoining bedroom.
“Sweetheart, I thought you’d never ask.”
* * *
IT WAS RAINING. The day had broken with dense gray skies and rain. A cold drizzle that seeped into the bones. Although Cait told herself that no serial rapist with any sense at all would be stalking a woman in weather like this, especially when sunny days were the norm in L.A., she couldn’t take the chance that the one day she didn’t stake out the beach would be the day he’d show up. So far, thank God, there’d been no reported rapes matching the description of the escapee’s MO.
Since his victims had always been surfers—or girlfriends willing to wait patiently on the beach while the guys challenged the sea—the undercover plan was much the same as it had been when Charity apprehended the rapist the first time.
Unlike Charity, who, never having learned to surf, had played the role of a beach bunny, Cait, who’d spent her teenage years on the beaches up and down the southern California coast had chosen to go all the way.
Every day for the past five days, she’d joined the dawn patrol and the evening riders, deftly riding the undulating curls.
This evening the waves were ominous, rising like a thick wall that grew and grew into a massive swell that growled across Malibu’s Third Point.
A former recreational surfer, it did not take Cait long to realize that she was in over her head, both literally and figuratively. After wiping out four straight times in a row, and almost being hit on the head by a piece of driftwood, she decided to call it quits.
After lashing her board on the rack atop her car, she returned to the beach to watch others more skillful or foolhardy than she brave the wild surf. With the exception of the undercover officers who jogged along the wet sand at the water’s edge, blending in as typical California exercise fanatics, the beach was nearly deserted. The only other occupant was an elderly woman who, dressed in a bright flowered muumuu covered with a clear plastic raincoat, walked her ancient cocker spaniel as she had each morning and evening Cait had come to the beach.
Her teeth chattering from the chill, Cait wrapped a towel around her torso and stripped the wet suit from her body. Changing clothes on a public beach took practice. Her numb fingers almost dropped the towel.
As it slipped down her breasts, a voice from the radio secreted in her tote bag, said, “Nice touch, Carrigan. If that little peep show doesn’t hook him, nothing will.”
The male voice came from one of the squad’s observers, who was standing on the cliff above, appearing to be just another tourist watching the action. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she could hear the repressed laughter in his tone.
“Go to hell, O’Hara,” she muttered, yanking the towel back up again, tucking the end in more firmly, before pulling on a pair of baggy gray fleece sweat pants. Although not exactly the sexiest item of apparel in her closet, it was too cold for her bikini. Besides, rape was not about sex, but control.
After she finished dressing, Cait picked up her tote bag again and went strolling along the waterfront, as she had every day. When she reached the pier, she sat down on a wide flat rock and waited.
“I think we may as well call it a day,” the voice said. “The guy isn’t going to show. It’s scheduled to clear up tomorrow morning. Maybe we’ll have better luck then.”
Cait certainly hoped so. She was beginning to feel as if she were living three separate lives. Early mornings she’d spend on the beach. Then, during the middle of the day, she’d help Blythe plan her wedding, although the conversation inevitably shifted away from the upcoming nuptials to the Alexandra Romanov project.
Then, as the sun set, she’d be back here, trolling for her rapist.
Nights were spent with Sloan. Although they made love with a frequency and a passion that continued to stun her, they also talked. To her amazement, Cait had found herself telling him about her childhood, about the game of musical mates her parents had played, about the continual parade of stepmothers and stepfathers and stepsisters and brothers.
Each night he’d manage, somehow, to draw more from her, including something she’d never even told Blythe. About one particular stepfather—who’d only lasted six weeks, fortunately—who’d possessed not only a roving eye, but roving hands as well.
She’d been thirteen when he’d corner
ed her in the kitchen and put his hands on her budding breasts and his tongue down her throat. Terrified and furious at the same time, she’d grabbed a nearby butcher knife and threatened to castrate him if he ever touched her again.
Apparently, he’d believed her. With good reason, Cait assured Sloan.
Recalling that story she’d tried so hard to forget had not been easy. Neither had telling it to Sloan. But with a tenderness that was so at odds with the steely strength beneath his handsome exterior, he’d held her in his arms and kissed away her tears. Afterward, he’d made love to her with something close to reverence that had made Cait weep all over again.
Her thoughts focused on Sloan, on how close they’d grown in such a short time, on how much she’d already come to count on him being in her life, Cait was only vaguely aware of the others leaving the beach.
She’d just realized that although he’d talk about politics, world events, sports, his work, or how things were progressing on Blythe’s Alexandra project, he’d never—not once—shared any of his past with her.
For all Cait knew, he could have been a pod person, dropped suddenly onto the planet and into her life from outer space.
Without having realized it was happening, she’d invited him into the deepest, darkest, most intimate corners of her mind and soul. It was time—past time—for him to share.
“Beginning tonight,” she vowed as she climbed the concrete stairs to the roadside parking lot.
Cait was already in her car, prepared to drive away, when she remembered that she’d left her tote bag, along with the radio, on the beach. Unwilling to blow her excellent record by being disciplined for losing expensive police property, she returned to the beach to retrieve it. Nearby, the elderly woman, apparently oblivious to the cold, was tossing a stick into the surf for her dog to retrieve.
The tide was coming in. The aged wood, covered with barnacles, creaked overhead. Beneath the pier it was dark and silent. And a little frightening.
Cait grabbed her tote and had just turned around when she felt someone come up behind her. She spun around and exhaled a huge sigh of relief when she viewed the old woman. The dog, she noted, on some distant level, was nowhere to be seen.