by Amanda Quick
“Thank you for agreeing to let me give you my side of the story, Miss Glasson,” he said. “I appreciate your time.”
Humility, gratitude, and sincerity shimmered in the atmosphere around him. Irene had been prepared for his good looks and a whole lot of charm, but she was forced to admit that she was impressed in spite of herself. There was something almost unreal about the man. She felt as though she were doing a scene with him in front of a camera.
Oliver’s warning echoed in her head. He really is a very talented actor.
The Garden Room of the Burning Cove Hotel was a glass-walled conservatory fronted by a broad terrace overlooking the cove. Well-dressed guests drank their Darjeeling and nibbled dainty pastries amid an assortment of potted plants, hanging ferns, and colorful flowers. Sparkling fountains were scattered around the elegantly tiled room. Beyond the cove the Pacific glinted and flashed in the afternoon sun.
Irene and Nick were seated in a corner that was screened off from the rest of the tearoom by a half dozen artfully placed palms. The position allowed for private conversation but was also a public venue, just as she had requested.
“I know you have questions for me,” Nick said. “But before we begin, I’d like to make it clear that my relationship with Miss Maitland lasted for only a couple of weeks. It ended about a month ago. At least, it did on my side.”
“How, exactly, did it end?”
“I admit that things got complicated. Look, Gloria and I had some fun together at first. I met her at a Hollywood party. She was vivacious and very pretty. I made it clear that I was not interested in a serious, long-lasting relationship. At this point in my life I am focused exclusively on my art. I thought she understood that.”
“But she didn’t?”
Nick sighed. “To be honest, I don’t know what Gloria understood. It took me a while to figure out that the woman was not entirely stable.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll be blunt. I think she was unhinged. When we first met, she was a lot of fun. But it wasn’t long before she revealed a real talent for high drama. She would cry at the least provocation. She started accusing me of cheating on her. When I reminded her that I had never promised her anything beyond a good time, she threatened to harm herself.”
“Do you think she was serious?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Nick said. “But I made it clear that I was not about to let her manipulate me. I suggested quite strongly that she see a doctor. But that infuriated her. In the end I had to cut things off very forcefully. I told my studio about the situation and I was assured that it would be handled.”
“What did you think the studio would do?”
“I never gave it much thought. I was told that Gloria Maitland would no longer be a problem, and that was the end of it as far as I was concerned. The next thing I knew, she turned up here at the hotel. She threatened to make a scene. I told her to get lost. And now she’s dead.”
“After making an appointment to speak to me.”
“I can’t begin to guess her intentions, Miss Glasson. But I will repeat, the woman was unstable.”
“What do you think happened last night?”
“I think it was an accident, just as the police have concluded,” Nick said. “I suspect that Gloria planned some sort of petty revenge but before she could carry it out, she slipped on the tiles, hit her head, and fell into the pool. I’m sure she had been drinking all evening. She liked her Manhattans.”
“You think you were intended to be the target of her petty revenge?”
“Sure. In her bizarre fantasy world, she concluded that she was a woman scorned. You know what they say. Hell hath no fury.”
“What do you think she planned to tell me?”
“I have no idea,” Nick said. “Whatever it was, I’m sure it was guaranteed to make me look bad.”
“Why do you think she dragged me here to Burning Cove? Why not speak to me in L.A.?”
Nick closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, she could have sworn she glimpsed some deep, wrenching emotion.
He’s an actor, she reminded herself.
“You want the truth, Miss Glasson? I’ll give it to you. But I’m hoping you won’t print it. As I said, I think she planned to tell you something that would make me look bad. But I have a feeling that she intended to take her own life after she met with you, or, more likely, stage such an attempt. She wanted the whole act to take place here at the Burning Cove Hotel because she knew that I was staying here. She knew that there would be a scandal that could easily damage my reputation. And thanks to that piece you wrote for Whispers, that is exactly what is happening. I’ve become the subject of a lot of baseless rumors and speculation.”
Neatly done, Irene thought. Nick Tremayne was playing his role brilliantly. He had concocted a script that made her look guilty of using the power of the gossip press to hound an innocent man.
It might have worked if she hadn’t found Peggy Hackett’s body a week ago.
She jotted down a few meaningless scribbles in her notebook, aware that Nick was watching intently. When she looked up without warning, he narrowed his eyes a little. She knew he was trying to figure out if he had given a convincing performance.
“That is all very interesting, Mr. Tremayne,” she said. She snapped the notebook closed. “But it leaves me with the same question I had when I agreed to this interview.”
“What?” he asked.
There was an edge on the single word.
“I still have no idea what Gloria Maitland planned to tell me.” She rose from the table. “Now you must excuse me. I have a few more people to interview.”
Nick leaped to his feet. She could have sworn that he started to reach across the table, perhaps to grab her wrist and force her to stay. But in the next heartbeat he had himself under control.
He smiled, startling her. His eyes warmed.
“I appreciate your time, Miss Glasson,” he said very earnestly. “I hope you’ll at least consider my side of things before you write another piece for Whispers.”
“Definitely.”
He lowered his voice and infused it with meaningful intensity.
“I had nothing to do with Gloria Maitland’s accident last night,” he said. “All I’m asking is that Whispers prints the truth. If it does I will be very . . . grateful.”
She angled her head slightly as though she hadn’t heard him clearly.
“Grateful?” she repeated.
“My career took off with Fortune’s Rogue. As a result, I am besieged with requests for interviews. Let’s just say that I am now in a position to pick and choose which reporters get the real inside information regarding my career and my personal life. Naturally I’ll tell my publicist that I will only talk to the members of the press I know I can trust.”
She gave him her most winning smile. “No need to make threats, Mr. Tremayne. Your assistant already did that for you.”
“I wasn’t threatening you.”
“Yes, you were.” She turned to go and then stopped.
“One more thing,” she said, trying to make it sound as if a last-minute thought had just occurred to her. “Would you care to comment on why you refused to talk to my predecessor?”
“What?” He looked wary now.
“Peggy Hackett. I’m sure you remember her. She was a reporter for Whispers. She tried to schedule an interview with you shortly before she suffered an unfortunate accident and drowned. An interesting coincidence, don’t you think? Two women associated with you have recently drowned. You’re sure you don’t have a comment?”
For a beat he looked as if he had been struck by lightning. An unnatural stillness came over him.
It was all over in the next instant. He gave her a pitying look, as if she were not very intelligent.
“I have no idea what you mea
n, Miss Glasson,” he said. “I had no relationship of any kind with Peggy Hackett. Everyone knows that she was a washed-up drunk. The studio publicist mentioned that she had begged for an interview but it never happened. The publicist turned her down cold.”
“Did Gloria Maitland speak to Hackett?”
“I have no idea. A word of advice, Miss Glasson. You’re playing with fire. The studio can destroy you and your cheap newspaper in the blink of an eye.”
“Thanks for the quote.”
She turned quickly, instinctively wanting to escape—and collided with a very solid, very unmovable object blocking her path. The shock of the impact rattled her. She gasped, lurched back a step, and found herself off balance.
Oliver used his free hand to steady her.
“Sorry,” he said. But his attention was on Nick Tremayne, not her. “I’ve been looking for you, Miss Glasson,” he said. “The front desk just had a telephone call from Mildred Fordyce at the Cove Inn. Evidently someone in L.A. is trying to reach you. Mildred said it sounded important.”
“Thanks,” Irene mumbled. She pushed her hair back behind her ears and collected herself. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to the inn and return the call.”
“No need to do that,” Oliver said. “You can use the telephone in my office.”
Startled all over again, she stared at him. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. Really.”
“I insist.” He took her arm. “You’ll have privacy here. You can’t say the same about the telephone in the lobby at the inn.”
She started to argue but something in his eyes made her change her mind.
“Fine,” she said. “Your office. I appreciate it. Don’t worry, if I have to telephone my editor, I’ll reverse the charges.”
“We can discuss the charges later.” Oliver kept his attention on Nick. “I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us, Mr. Tremayne?”
“It’s been interesting,” Nick growled. He did not take his eyes off Irene. “You’ll remember what I said, won’t you, Miss Glasson?”
“Every word,” she vowed.
A shiver whispered through her. She knew that Oliver felt it, because his hand tightened around her elbow in a reassuring way.
“I’ll take you to my office,” he said.
Chapter 13
She did not succeed in taking a deep breath until they were out of the Garden Room. Oliver steered her through the graceful, arched walkway that ran the length of the hotel’s main building.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, of course.” She glanced at him. “Was there really a telephone call for me?”
Oliver’s mouth curved faintly. “Yes.”
“Why did you insist that I return it from your office?”
“Just trying to be helpful. The Burning Cove Hotel prides itself on offering our guests every convenience.”
“I’m not a guest.”
“Details.”
“You were trying to send a message to Nick Tremayne, weren’t you? You wanted him to know that you were keeping an eye on me.”
“Maybe.”
“I realize you meant well, but I can’t do my job if you insist on hovering over me.”
“I wasn’t hovering.”
“What would you call it?”
“I was observing,” Oliver said. “From afar. I didn’t hear a word of your conversation with Tremayne. As promised, you had privacy. But when you got to your feet and he started to grab your arm, I had the impression that he had reached the stage of making a few threats.”
She winced. “Something about the studio destroying my career and Whispers.”
“Had a hunch that was what was happening.”
“So you stepped in to let Tremayne know that I had a little muscle on my side, is that it?”
“I thought we agreed that we were partners in this venture,” Oliver said.
He had the nerve to sound offended, as if she had somehow reneged on a promise.
“That doesn’t give you the right to take charge whenever you feel like it,” she said.
“Did you get anything useful out of Tremayne?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“It’s called distraction. It’s a classic technique in my former profession.”
There was no point in arguing with him. She had agreed to the partnership. Besides, she had to admit that there was a great deal to be said for having him in her corner. He was both mysterious and intimidating. She knew that Tremayne had not been oblivious to the impact Oliver made.
The problem, she thought, was that she wasn’t accustomed to having anyone else in her corner, least of all a man like Oliver. She wasn’t sure what to do with him.
She had dated and flirted in the light, casual way of the modern woman but she had only been seriously involved with one man—Bradley Thorpe. He had been her employer. Charming and good-looking, he’d had a great job and given every appearance of being in love with her. She still cringed whenever she reflected on how remarkably naïve she had been.
Afterward she had discovered that she was merely the latest in a long line of naïve young women who had occupied her position in Thorpe’s plush offices. He seduced secretaries the same way he collected sports trophies. As far as he was concerned, both were fair game.
Oliver stopped and opened a door.
“Here we are,” he said.
She pushed the unpleasant memories aside with the motto her grandfather had taught her—it’s only a mistake if it kills you or if you fail to learn from it—and walked through the doorway of a handsomely appointed reception area.
A trim, forty-something woman with striking features and warm brown eyes sat at the desk. Her jet-black hair was shot through with silver. She wore it caught back in a sleek, elegant knot at the nape of her neck. There was a gold band on her ring finger.
She stopped typing on the handsome Remington, looked up, and removed her glasses.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Ward,” she said. “I was wondering if you got my message. I assume this is Miss Glasson?”
“Yes, it is. Irene, this is Elena Torres. She runs this office. Actually, she keeps the entire hotel running. I just try to stay out of her way.”
“How do you do,” Irene said.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Glasson.”
“Please, call me Irene.”
“And you must call me Elena.”
“I told Irene that she could use the telephone in my office,” Oliver said.
Irene thought Elena’s brows rose ever so slightly in reaction to that statement. She could not tell if it was surprise or curiosity or amusement that she detected. Perhaps a mix of all three. Whatever the case, she got the clear impression that Oliver was not in the habit of offering the convenience and privacy of his office telephone to his guests.
Oliver had already crossed the room and opened the door, revealing a second, handsomely paneled room.
“Do you have the number of the inn?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Take your time. I’ll wait out here with Elena.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He closed the door very quietly.
She glanced around the office. It was a large space decorated with warm gold walls and dark wood trim. The high, arched windows looked out over a private patio and the ocean beyond. The elegantly inlaid desk glowed from extensive polishing. The chairs and sofa were padded in rich, saddle brown leather. A tall vase of fresh flowers stood in the corner.
There were two paintings on the wall. Both were a contrast to the serene surroundings. They were coastal scenes, but they were not pleasantly languid pictures of sunny beaches and cloudless skies. Instead, they depicted wild, violent storms. Waves crashed and dark clouds swirled. A strange, eerie, ominous
light infused each picture.
There was a signature in the lower right-hand corner of each picture. She took a closer look. Pell.
With the glaring exception of the two paintings, Oliver’s office looked exactly like one would expect the office of the proprietor of a fine hotel to appear. Oliver’s office was a Hollywood stage set of an office.
He said he had been forced to reinvent himself two years earlier but she wondered if he had created an illusion for himself, one that he thought would appear convincing to others. That was exactly what she had done. It seemed that they had both constructed new lives for themselves but neither of them felt truly at home in that new life—not yet, at any rate. Maybe never.
She knew why some part of her was always prepared to pack her bags, grab the notebook, Helen’s gun, and some money, and run. The message that Helen Spencer had written in blood haunted her. She could not escape the fear that someone might be hunting her.
She wondered why Oliver was having trouble settling into his new life. It was difficult to imagine that he spent any time looking over his shoulder. He seemed in command of both himself and his world in Burning Cove. But everyone had secrets.
Perhaps we have a few things in common, Mr. Ward.
She went to the desk, took the business card out of her handbag, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number of the inn. Mrs. Fordyce answered on the first ring.
“There you are, dear. I’m so glad you got my message.”
“I was told that you were looking for me. Is something wrong?”
“I had a very odd call from a Velma Lancaster. She said she was your editor and that you were to telephone her immediately. She said it was an emergency.”
“Is that all? Relax. As far as Velma is concerned, everything is an emergency.”
“She made it sound very urgent so I thought I’d better let you know immediately.”
“Thank you. I’ll call her now.”
“Good. Well, that’s that. By the way, the clothes that got soaked when you jumped into the spa pool were returned by someone from the Burning Cove Hotel staff a short time ago. Everything looks like it has been nicely laundered and pressed.”