by Meryl Sawyer
Drop-dead gorgeous? His description should have thrilled her, but the words had such an offensive edge that it was all she could do not to tell him off.
“I didn’t know until after the surgery that Clive had worked on my nose. I certainly didn’t ask him to do it.”
She’d managed to keep her rising anger out of her voice, but just barely. Granted, Matt had good reason to be upset with Shelly, yet she resented his attitude. Why didn’t he just leave her alone? That’s what he said he was going to do.
His fingers were still in her hair, and one brushed her earlobe. Her body quivered and she had to lean heavily against the cane to steady herself. He didn’t seem to notice the devastating effect he had on her.
He pulled his hand away, saying, “Are you going to tell me silicone boobs were the doctor’s idea?”
Her lips parted and she almost said her breasts were real, but stopped herself in time. He was the type of man who noticed women’s breasts and could tell a bra size at a glance. Apparently, Shelly had a smaller chest. Denying she’d had breast implants would only give her away.
He took her silence for an affirmative answer. One brow angled upward, giving him an even more cynical expression than usual. Anger ticked away inside her like a time bomb.
“You’re prancing around without a bra, jiggling. Your hair looks like you’ve just gotten out of bed. There won’t be a man in Key West who won’t want to hop in the sack with you.”
Only a lifetime of controlling her emotional reaction to people’s insults kept her silent. She glared at him and held up her right hand. It was a complex cast, each finger encased in plaster that covered her entire hand up to the wrist.
“It’s hard to dress yourself properly or comb your hair when your right hand is useless. The last thing I want to do is attract men. I’ve got problems enough.”
That got him. It was probably easier to back down a pit bull than get the best of Matthew Jensen, but she could see that she’d scored a small point.
“What about your voice?” he asked, a little of the edge gone from his tone. “Why are you deliberately trying to sound sexy?”
“My jaw was broken in two places, remember? It had to be wired shut. I can open my jaw only so far. I couldn’t scream if my life depended upon it.”
“I see.”
She knew he couldn’t possibly understand. Having Dexxter after her and not being able to scream terrified her. What would she do if Dexxter found her?
He seemed to hesitate before adding, “Trevor’s the kind of person who tries to take care of everyone. Don’t take advantage of him.”
“Don’t worry. I’m leaving on the commuter boat’s last run,” she informed him, knowing she had to get away from Matt tonight, before he realized she was an impostor. “I’d never hurt Trevor. He takes care of everyone. Stray cats, lost souls, you name it. But who’s going to take care of Trevor?”
She nudged Jiggs with her cane, and the little dog hopped up. With as much dignity as she could manage, considering her halting gait, she moved around Matt.
“What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Do you seriously believe Trevor is happy?”
Shelly was halfway to the house, hobbling on her cane like an old lady, before Matt admitted to himself that the impossible had just occurred. Wacky Rochelle Ralston knew his best friend better than he did. Trevor had filled his life with all sorts of projects, from the cats he rescued, to the people he helped, to the homes he lovingly restored.
Trevor worked constantly, but did he have a life? No, of course not. Trevor wasn’t happy, and Matt should have realized it before now.
“Thank God you had the sense not to unload on Trevor,” he muttered to himself. “He has his own problems. He doesn’t need to take on your troubles. Just handle it yourself.”
When he’d come back to the house from walking on the beach with Trevor, the party had been over. He’d spotted Shelly down by the water and couldn’t resist talking to her. He’d expected to prove to Trevor that she hadn’t changed, but she’d outmaneuvered him.
Her ordeal had made her smarter. Different.
Just seeing her up close, her mane of blond hair tumbling wildly over her bare shoulders, and his pulse had skyrocketed. He’d wanted to throttle her for what she’d done to Emily, but instead he’d touched her face.
Caressed it, actually.
He hadn’t stopped there, had he? Something had compelled him to stroke her hair. It was fine, far silkier than he’d remembered, but then, he’d never been tempted to touch Shelly’s hair—until then.
God help him, he’d gazed into those sexy blue eyes and had been unable to resist touching her soft cheek. Man, oh, man, what had gotten into him? He’d saved himself by lashing out at her, trying to bait her into a fight.
If it had been anyone else but Shelly, he would have had her on her back in a minute. He knew how to handle women. He would have her writhing under him right now, his mouth tasting those pouty lips, his hands squeezing those lush breasts.
He dug his toe into the sand, trying to think with his head not his cock. “You want her. Admit it.” His body already knew the truth. “What in hell have you got to lose? Not a damn thing. Your friggin’ life is already a hopeless mess.”
He sprinted across the beach and caught her just as she was entering the foyer. “Shelly, look …”
The way she gazed up at him, her head angled to one side, struck him as being shy, the way it had when he’d first seen her tonight. Or maybe she was sensitive about the side of her face that had needed reconstruction.
Anger shimmered in her eyes, making them even sexier. “Don’t worry. I won’t bother you ever again. I’m leaving.”
Her sincere tone made something in his chest tighten. What kind of a jackass let a woman who could barely get around leave in the dead of night? He’d meant to protect Trevor from a nutcase, but now he realized he’d gone too far.
“If you’re grateful to Trevor, you’ll help him.”
She gazed at him, baffled. “How can I help Trevor?”
He wasn’t sure how anyone could help Trevor, but he was fairly certain he knew what the problem was. He couldn’t discuss the situation with anyone without violating Trevor’s trust.
“It’s important for Trevor to see you’re well before you leave.”
Shelly blinked hard, lashes lowering quickly, shadowing her eyes. “I can’t stay.”
“Why not? Are you still so hot for my bod that you can’t resist me?”
“Don’t worry about me bothering you,” she shot back, her eyes blazing. “For Trevor, I’ll stay a few days, but I’m not going to have a thing to do with you.”
Chapter 11
Checking the Ashe Street address Trevor had given her, she saw this was her destination. Like many houses in Old Town, the psychiatrist’s home was two stories with a white picket fence and a white-railed veranda that wrapped around the building. Pastel colors were typical of the area; this one was a creamy yellow with moss-green shutters.
This lovely old frame house was similar to others. It had wooden gingerbread scrollwork dripping from the eaves. Trevor had told her ships carpenters had built many of the homes and tried their best to show off their woodworking skills.
She leaned on her cane, admiring the beautifully restored house and saying a silent prayer. Could she possibly fool a professional who had treated others with this disorder?
“You have no choice,” she mumbled to herself. “Pretend to be obsessed with Matt.”
After her confrontation with Matt last night, she had committed herself to a course of action. Like it or not, she had to become Rochelle Ralston. And live in the same house with Matthew Jensen.
At least she didn’t have to talk to him. Why would she want to? Her back went up every time she thought about the way he’d treated her. His behavior didn’t square with the man who had stayed by her bedside. With a few words he’d destroyed the image she’d had of him.
“Yo
u got what you deserved,” she muttered to herself. “White knights exist only in fairy tales.” Still, she couldn’t help being profoundly disappointed that he was nothing like the man she’d dreamed about so often.
She’d tried to justify his actions—after all, he had saved her from that lowlife—and the real Shelly had given him reason to despise her. Still, his reaction to her seemed a bit extreme. She wondered if something else was going on with Matt.
She would never find out. She’d vowed not to have anything to do with him. It was just as well, actually. The more he was around her, the less of a chance she had of deceiving him.
She took her cane off her arm and used it to walk up to the door. Taking a deep breath, her lungs were flooded with the rich, ripe scent of the tropics. God, she loved it here. She’d spent her whole life by the ocean in Seattle and was accustomed to briny sea air. But here the heat of the sun warmed the soil and brought forth the pungent scents of paradise, mingling them with the ocean air.
“Quit stalling,” she told herself. “Go for it.”
She automatically raised her right hand to knock on the doctor’s door, then remembered it was useless. Earlier, she’d gone to the hospital and had the cast removed. Her hand might as well still be encased in plaster. She couldn’t even draw her fingers together to knock on the door.
Looking around for a plaque with Dr. Holt’s name on it, she saw nothing to indicate a doctor’s office. She’d seen enough of Key West to know it was a place with little regard for the conventional. The town was a warren of narrow streets, tucked-away lanes, and dead-end alleys. Often a house was in front of a house in front of yet another house.
Lush, colorful tropical plants concealed hidden doorways and secret alleys. Birds sang exuberantly from the nooks and crannies of the buildings. An ever-present breeze ruffled the palms, the dried fronds rustling like tissue paper.
Key West reminded her of a cross between a village in the Caribbean and New Orleans’s French Quarter. It was fascinatingly unpredictable, with its own unique charm. She’d fallen under the island’s spell and planned to live here.
After she got her life sorted out.
Using the hand with the cane, she knocked. As she waited, she again silently prayed that she could fool the doctor.
An astonishingly beautiful woman opened the door. Tall and slender with shoulder-length black hair, the woman was dressed in a classic beige suit and high heels that showed off her legs. She assumed this elegant lady must be Dr. Holt’s wife, because she was too expensively dressed to be a receptionist.
“I’m Rochelle Ralston,” she said, now very aware of Shelly’s sundress that hung on her like a choir robe. “I’m here to see Dr. Holt. Did Trevor Adams call about me?”
“Yes, I spoke with Trevor.” The lady held the door open with a hand crowned by fingernails polished the same color of beige as her suit. “I’m Dr. Holt.”
What? Trevor had distinctly said Peter Holt.
The doctor chuckled, a husky sound, then said, “I can see Trevor didn’t tell you, did he?”
She shook her head and managed a weak smile.
The doctor gestured toward a bent-willow sofa with plump pillows in a lime-green pattern. “Don’t let my sex concern you. I’m a psychiatrist and you have a problem. Let’s sit down and talk about it.”
She walked over to the sofa and slowly sat down, keeping the cane in her left hand. The doctor sat across from her in a chair that matched the sofa and crossed legs too gorgeous to be a man’s. The doctor smiled, an engaging smile that made the situation less uncomfortable.
Leaning forward slightly, long-lashed brown eyes looking at her with interest, the doctor asked, “Rochelle, you go by Shelly, don’t you?” When she nodded, Dr. Holt added, “Call me Peter. All my friends do.”
She smiled—or tried to—then said, “All right … Peter. I don’t know how much Trevor told you.”
“Very little. He said you had been obsessed with a man, and I know you nearly died in an accident. Trevor thinks the trauma has changed you, but he wanted me to talk to you and see if I could help.”
“Believe me, it was a terrible accident. You can see I still have a cast on my leg.” She was rattling on, finding it easier to talk about her injuries than lie about an obsession she didn’t have. “I just got the cast off my hand this morning.”
She held up her right fist. The fingers were curved inward like an old crone’s withered hand. If she flexed them more than a fraction of an inch, pain would shaft up her arm.
The doctor nodded sympathetically. “How has this helped you get over this man?”
“I’m lucky to be alive. Why waste my time on someone who no longer loves me?”
“What made you think he loved you?”
“We dated for a while, and he gave me beautiful gifts,” she said, trying to remember what she’d read in the journal. She’d wanted to question Trevor, but didn’t, fearing she’d expose herself. “He took me to Bermuda,” she added, not mentioning the part about making love in the surf. “I thought we’d get married. Then he told me he didn’t love me.”
Again the doctor nodded sympathetically, but didn’t comment.
“I should have accepted it. I couldn’t … somehow. I followed him around and took pictures, using a telephoto lens.” Criminy, she sounded like a total nut. “I thought he was going out with another woman.” She took a deep breath and tried to appear contrite. “I threatened her, then discovered she was Matt’s sister.”
“When did you last see this man?”
“At breakfast.”
“What?” To say the doctor was floored would have been a gross understatement. “You’re both staying at Half Moon Bay?”
“Along with a few other people. But it isn’t what you think. I’m not talking to Matt or having anything to do with him.” After she’d finished breakfast this morning, Matt had walked out onto the terrace. She hadn’t even looked up. She’d marched away. Well, as close to marching as she could with a cane. “I have no money. It’ll take weeks of rehabilitation before I can use my hand again and get a job.”
“What type of work do you do?”
“I was a reporter, but I’m thinking of a career change. I took some advanced computer courses. I think they’re the wave of the future, don’t you?”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully, and she had the disturbing feeling Peter saw right through her. Still, she had to lay the groundwork for the job she intended to get. Somewhere in Key West was a good-paying position as a computer systems analyst.
“How much do you know about obsession disorders?” the doctor asked.
Oh, boy, here it comes. “Not much. This person gets into your head. You want to see him, be near him … anything. It’s pretty sick, really. I’m all over it—honest.”
“It’s possible, considering the trauma you’ve been through, but it would be unusual. Obsession disorders are difficult to overcome.” The doctor studied her intently for a moment before adding, “You’re at risk of fixating on another person and beginning another cycle.”
“I won’t. I swear. I’m not going near a man.”
She meant every word. While it was thrilling to be normal and have men look at her for a change, she had to remember that her life was in danger. Not only was Dexxter hunting for her, undoubtedly the FBI was searching for her. A federal marshal had died in the bombing. They would want to question her. She’d thought about this in the hospital but had shunted it aside. She could no longer allow herself that luxury.
“I’m concerned about you being around Matt. It might very well trigger your erotomania again.”
“Erotomania?” It sounded pornographic, disgusting.
“That’s the term for patients who delude themselves into believing someone loves them. The wisest course of action is to have no contact with the person.”
For the life of him, Dexxter Foxx couldn’t understand what had happened with Irene. First Amy Conroy, now Irene. Women—go figure.
Sin
ce the day she’d given him the back rub, Irene hadn’t approached him, which was just as well. He was concluding his deal to sell Foxx Enterprises to an Asian consortium. He didn’t want to break the news to her until the last minute.
He picked up the office telephone and punched the button for her extension. She answered immediately, “Irene Hanson, Foxx Enterprises.”
“It’s Dexx. Do you have Zane’s latest report on Amy?”
“Check your computer for a memo.” She slammed the receiver down.
He stared at the instrument for a full second before dropping it into its cradle. Shit! Irene was breathing fire. She must have noticed how aroused he’d been during the back rub, but he’d made no move to touch her.
Evidently, he’d profoundly insulted her. Why would he have sex with the likes of her? It was thinking of Amy that had given him the meanest erection he’d ever had.
“Let Irene sulk. She can’t keep the sale from going through,” he assured himself as he keyed in his password, then reviewed his private memos. Irene had lent him the start-up money to open his company. He’d paid her back; she didn’t own any part of Foxx Enterprises.
Trouble was, she did know all about their illegal operation, and the people he’d killed to make his money. Just what he didn’t need—two women who knew his secrets.
The memo consisted of the private eye’s complete report. Checking plastic surgeons had not produced a trace of Amy. Same thing in L.A. She had vanished, which seemed impossible.
The FBI wasn’t doing any better. Zane had received a message from his source in the regional FBI office. The FBI had lowered its priority on the case. They weren’t looking so closely at Dexx. Agents were no longer searching for Amy, but they still had an alert status on her, meaning they still wanted to talk to her and agents were advised to be on the lookout.
Evidently, Irene hadn’t had any luck with animalnetwork.com. The search for the abused mutt had proved futile, just as he knew it would.
It was late afternoon by the time she had finished discussing everything from obsession disorders to rare orchids with Dr. Holt—Peter. She’d never met a transvestite before and didn’t know what to expect. She liked him, and what’s more, the doctor accepted at face value her account of being obsessed with Matthew Jensen.