Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “You really think you made them love her, and vice versa?” He shook his head. “You sure have an elevated opinion of your influence over people and their emotions.”

  She raised her head and glared at him.

  “You didn’t force them to take her, Cat,” he continued in a quieter, more sympathetic voice. “They asked for the opportunity. They went through extensive training in order to meet the requirements. They wanted Chantal.”

  “Alive. They wanted a living little girl, not a grave to visit on holidays. They wanted to share her childhood and watch her grow up.”

  “Unfortunately, an adopted kid doesn’t come with a lifetime warranty. No kid does. Sometimes they die, and that’s just the way it is.”

  “Please spare me the homespun logic. It’s not making me feel better.”

  “No, because you’re enjoying your self-pity.”

  Angrily she said, “All I know is, if it hadn’t been for me, those people wouldn’t be grieving tonight.”

  “Did they confront you about it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did they say, ‘Ms. Delaney, why in hell did you put us through this? We were perfectly happy until you came along and foisted this sick kid on us.’ ”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They called me to say—” She broke off.

  He leaned forward. “What, Cat? Go on. What did they call you to say?”

  She cleared her throat and averted her eyes. “They called to thank me for helping place Chantal with them.”

  “Probably because the time they spent with her was the most rewarding time of their lives.”

  She sniffed and gave a brusque nod. “They said she’d been a blessing.”

  “So why are you second-guessing what you do? Cat’s Kids is a worthy undertaking. What happened to Chantal is tragic, but she had love and caring when she needed it most, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Given the chance, would you do it differently? Would you undo what was done? Take away the time they had together? Let Chantal die feeling lonely and unloved? Rob those people of what they called a blessing?”

  She bowed her head, making her answer almost inaudible. “No.”

  “Well then?”

  “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” She offered him a sad smile. “This tragedy knocked me for a loop, that’s all. I had some misgivings and needed someone with an objective point of view to allay my doubts. I also needed a good cry.” She blotted her damp eyes with a napkin. “Thanks.”

  He waved off her gratitude.

  The light coming from the kitchen fell on his dark hair and cast his features in sharp relief. Dean had said he looked like a thug. He did indeed have a rough-and-tumble demeanor. No doubt he was capable of inflicting pain.

  But he had also experienced it. Otherwise, how could he understand it so well? His steely eyes and hard mouth were the result of it. With a single word or phrase, he could cut to the quick.

  But with just as few words, he could extend sympathy and kindness. He wasn’t soft, but he could be gentle. He could be a friend when one was needed.

  “How’s the book coming?” she asked, to fill the ponderous silence.

  “At a snail’s pace, although I’ve had a few productive days.”

  “That’s good.”

  With that meager exchange, they’d exhausted the subject. He wouldn’t expound beyond that, and she no longer expected him to. But just because there was a lapse in conversation didn’t mean they stopped communicating. Their eyes met and locked, and the silence teemed with unspoken messages.

  After a moment he eased the tray off his lap and set it on the table. Lowering himself to the floor beside her, he curved his hand around the back of her neck and drew her forward until her lips were scant inches from his.

  “We’ve taken this as far as we can with our clothes on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Her troubling thoughts scattered like the feathery seeds of a dandelion, leaving her mind free to focus on his kiss. Nothing mattered except this moment. She needed his strength, his intensity, his unbridled hunger for her. She wanted him. Why be coy for coyness’ sake?

  Her arms encircled his neck. Their lips clung together as they knelt facing each other. He nudged her middle; she arched into him. He hissed a vulgarity. The desperation behind it was so wildly erotic that she rubbed against him for the sheer pleasure of hearing him repeat it.

  They held a kiss while he removed her blouse. Cat tugged his shirttail from his waistband and ran her hands over his hard, fuzzy chest. He released her long enough to whip off his shirt and toss it aside, then he wrapped her in his arms and held her to him while his mouth again ravaged hers.

  “You’re kidding,” he whispered when he slipped his hands beneath her skirt. There was a smile behind his rough voice.

  “Method acting,” she replied on a soft breath. “Whenever Laura Madison’s scenes called for sexiness, I substituted a garter belt and stockings for panty hose to help get me in the mood. Wearing them got to be a habit.”

  He caressed her bare thighs above the stockings. “It’s a goddamn fantasy.”

  “Like something from one of your books?”

  “Much better.”

  He removed her skirt, slip, and panties. Cat stretched out on her back on the carpet. With the cups of her bra barely covering her flushed breasts, her mons framed by a satin garter belt and lacy suspenders, her legs still encased in silk stockings, it was a wanton pose. She was shocked by her lack of modesty.

  Alex’s eyes never left her as he methodically unbuckled his belt and opened his fly. He stepped out of his trousers and underwear. His virile nakedness made her catch her breath. His belly was flat and hard, his limbs long and lean. He was muscular but not muscle-bound. Strong veins showed distinctly on his arms and hands.

  Unabashedly, lustfully, she drank him in, from the arches of his feet, to his proud, heavy sex, to his unsmiling mouth and scar-slashed eyebrow.

  He lay beside her, kissed her breasts through the cups of her bra, then lowered the lace and caressed her nipples with his tongue. Lifting his head, he gazed down at her. His thumb made several passes across her raised nipple.

  “I could write this scene a thousand times and never get it this good.” He watched her flesh respond to his touch. “The nuances of a woman’s body simply can’t be described.”

  He bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth, tugged on it with a strong flexing of his jaw. Responding to a current of sexual electricity, her back arched off the carpet. The demicups of her bra kept her breasts provocatively offered up to him. His tongue was nimble, his appetite carnal.

  He ran his hands over her stomach and along the outsides of her thighs. She reached for him, stroked him, and he groaned elaborate curses. They kissed again, hungrily and greedily.

  “Don’t hold back, Alex,” she whispered urgently. “Don’t be soft with me.”

  “I have no intention of being soft.”

  “I want to know I’m a woman. I want to know I’m with a man. I want to be taken. I want—”

  “You want to be fucked.”

  Placing a palm over each of her knees, he pushed them apart. But instead of slipping his hand between her thighs as she expected, he lowered his head. His open mouth found her center, his tongue moved inside her.

  She was too stunned to cry out, even when, moments later, she climaxed. Her chest was heaving; her upper lip was beaded with perspiration; her hair clung damply to her neck and throat.

  Alex’s skin was also slippery with sweat when he levered himself above her and bridged her body with his arms. Eyes closed, face tense, he guided himself into her. Her body seemed to swallow him. It was a snug, glove fit, and his features formed a grimace of immense pleasure as his hips began a rolling motion, forward and back. Slowly, going deeper each time, he sank into her again and again.

  Cat, who had thought it was over for her, was reawakened by his steady thrusts. She had never experi
enced lovemaking this intense, this soul- and mind-capturing. She surrendered herself to it totally.

  He slipped his hands beneath her hips and tilted them up, holding her tightly. He seemed to concentrate on each delving motion, each slow withdrawal. But the tempo gradually increased. His breathing became rapid and ragged. Suddenly, his arms relaxed and he crushed her beneath him. But by then Cat was already spinning within her second orgasm.

  When he came, it racked his whole body. Every muscle stretched taut, and the harsh, choppy sounds he made were like sobs.

  It took a long while for them to recover, but Cat would have lain there forever, idly threading her fingers through his mussed hair, licking salty drops of sweat from his brow. He lay on her heavily, replete, but she didn’t mind absorbing his weight. He had exerted himself, and that was thrilling to her.

  He knew the mechanics of mutually satisfying lovemaking. He wrote about them. So it wasn’t surprising that he was a skilled, passionate, and totally focused lover.

  He was, however, as sensual as he was demanding. He’d drawn from her responses that were purely animalistic, without conscience. Her reactions had originated entirely and unapologetically in the senses. She’d had no control over them.

  Yet, it had also been a cerebral coupling. Her mind had had intimate intercourse with his. They’d been perfectly in tune with each other’s needs and desires, and had seen to their fulfillment. That’s why she cherished this restful aftermath, this quiet moment when their breath and sweat mingled and seemed to emanate from one body instead of two.

  He must have felt the closeness, too. Because perhaps the loveliest thing he did, just before his body withdrew from hers, was to place a soft kiss between her breasts where her scar had been.

  She awoke first. Knowing he wasn’t a morning person, she lay still and let him sleep. His hair was tousled and looked very dark against the pillowcase. Whiskers were beginning to sprout from his jaw and chin. There were a few gray ones in his sideburns, she noticed. His eyebrows were drawn into a slight frown, indicating that he was never entirely at peace. His private darkness shadowed him even in sleep.

  The nightstand clock told her that she’d indulged herself long enough. She kissed his bare shoulder and slipped soundlessly from the bed. Downstairs, she dressed, gathering clothes that had been discarded with shameless abandon. Speaking softly into the telephone, she called a taxi.

  While waiting for it to arrive, she cleaned up the remains of their dinner. On her way into the kitchen to dispose of the debris, she passed the door to the forbidden room but resolutely went by without pausing. She disposed of the trash, rinsed out their glasses, and poured herself a glass of orange juice, which she found in the refrigerator.

  While leaning against the countertop sipping the juice, she toyed with the idea of opening that door again and taking a peek inside. His objection had worked in the reverse, whetting her curiosity instead of satisfying it.

  Last night, his naked body had been hers to explore and exploit with unlimited access. They had engaged in the most intimate act between two people. Surely, now that their relationship had progressed to that plateau, he would no longer object to sharing that area of his life with her.

  But what if he did object? Was it worth risking? No, she decided. She wouldn’t trespass; she would wait for him to invite her.

  The taxi arrived and she left his apartment without his waking up. She retrieved her car at the TV station and drove home, where she showered and dressed and tried to outline an agenda for the day. But her mind kept drifting back to the night before. Erotic recollections crowded her mind, leaving room for little else.

  Her euphoria must have been apparent because Jeff remarked on it the moment she entered the office. “What happened? You win the lottery?”

  She laughed and gratefully accepted the cup of coffee he extended to her. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because your aura is visible to the naked eye this morning. You’re positively glowing. I expected you to be upset over Chantal.”

  Her smiled faltered. “I’m still terribly sad, naturally, but not as negative about life in general as I was yesterday. A friend reminded me how marvelous it is to be alive.”

  “Would this ‘friend’ by any chance be the hunk novelist?” Jeff asked, winking.

  “He is a hunk, isn’t he?” she asked, giggling.

  “He looked pretty good when he was here yesterday.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Jeans and boots, et al.”

  She grinned. “That’s my boy.”

  “He has that unmade-bed appearance, you know? The rumpled look women find irresistible.”

  Dean had criticized Alex’s looks. Jeff obviously approved. “You didn’t mention seeing him,” she said.

  “It was during that hullabaloo.” He tugged his earlobe in embarrassment. “I admit I was star-struck and tongue-tied. I’d read his novels, and of course I knew you’d been seeing him. But I didn’t think I’d ever have the pleasure of meeting him.”

  “I wish you’d paged me and told me he was here.”

  “You were surrounded by cops. Mr. Webster was on the warpath. Later, you seemed so upset that I hated to lay anything else on you. But I take it Mr. Pierce found you last night.” He squinted as he appraised her. “Judging by your goofy grin, my guess is that it was a…uh, therapeutic evening.”

  “None of your business,” she replied coyly, feeling herself blush.

  Jeff was no fool. He smiled broadly. “Good. I hope you worked out all the kinks. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. In fact—” His smile faltered and he cleared his throat. “Can I speak candidly? Not as your assistant, but more like a friend?”

  Cat nodded him into a chair. He pinched up the creases of his trousers and sat down facing her. “I hope I’m not…That is…”

  “Spit it out, Jeff.”

  “Well, in the last couple of weeks, you’ve seemed distracted. Not that you aren’t doing a terrific job,” he added hastily. “You are. You haven’t let whatever is bothering you interfere with work. You’re as fabulous as ever. It’s just…I wondered if there’s something on your mind. Something besides Alex Pierce, that is.”

  Had her uneasiness been that transparent? Several close acquaintances had commented on it—Dean, Alex, now Jeff. She didn’t want anything to cloud her sunny mood today, but she welcomed an opportunity to talk about the two pieces of mail she’d received. She wanted Jeff to second her opinion that it was the handiwork of a kook, that it was nothing to worry about.

  “You’re very observant, Jeff. Actually I have been slightly off balance lately.”

  She removed the two envelopes from her handbag and handed them to him. Days ago she had begun carrying them with her, perhaps with a subconscious hope that she’d have just such an opening in which to show them to someone.

  “Have a look,” she said. “Tell me what you think. And be honest.”

  After comparing the two identical envelopes, he read the enclosed newspaper clippings. “Damn,” he whispered after he’d finished reading each of them twice. “Both died in bizarre accidents and both were heart transplantees.”

  “An odd coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say. But what does it mean? Do you have any idea who sent them?”

  “No.”

  “I go through all the fan mail you receive. I don’t remember seeing these, although you get so many letters they could have slipped past me. Or did they come through while Melia was still working with us?”

  “They were sent to my home.”

  He looked at her with consternation. “How would a…a fan…get your home address?”

  She shrugged. “That’s just one of the things that disturbs me about them.”

  Jeff studied the envelopes and reread the articles. Cat watched his eyes moving across the lines of print. His initial reaction and comments hadn’t been very encouraging. She had hoped he would tell her outright not to worry.

  Instead, a
fter he’d reread them, he asked, “Have you shown these to anybody else? Mr. Webster? The police?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “I don’t want to be an alarmist.”

  “No one would accuse you of that.”

  “I don’t know, Jeff.” She sighed. “I don’t want to send up flares and draw attention to something that’s probably nothing.”

  He forced a reassuring grin as he returned the envelopes to her. “Well, you’re probably right. I’m sure they’re nothing to get upset about. Boy, some people don’t have much to do, right?”

  “Must not. They create dramas for themselves by meddling in the lives of celebrities. They live vicariously.”

  “Exactly. But…” He hesitated. “If you get another one, I think you should reconsider and take the matter to the police. Screw what they think. Let them think you’re a hysterical female.”

  “Which I’m afraid is exactly what they’d think.”

  “At the very least you should consult the guards here at the station, alert them not to let any strange characters into the building.”

  “Which would exclude about three-quarters of the employees,” she quipped.

  “You’ve got a point.” He flashed a smile but turned serious again. “Be careful, Cat. There’re lots of nutcases out there.”

  “I know.” She returned the envelopes to her purse and snapped it shut, effectively closing the discussion and resuming the role of boss. “I need to know the particulars on Chantal’s funeral.”

  “Friday at two o’clock. And just so you’ll know, Ron Truitt called from the Light earlier. He wanted a statement.”

  “I hope you told him to take a bullet train straight to hell.”

  “Not in those words, but that was the general message. I said you were, and would be, unavailable for comment.”

  “Thanks. If I’d spoken with him, I doubt I would have been that diplomatic. The man’s a jackal, always on the scent of fresh blood.”

  Not wanting to dwell on the carnivorous reporter, she moved on. “Please have a flower arrangement from WWSA sent to the funeral home. I want to send something personally, but I’ll make those arrangements myself.”