by Patti Berg
A woman’s scarf lay on the passenger seat. He lifted it, running the long length of black silk through his fingers. The perfume’s fragrance was stronger now. It permeated the scarf. Had a woman been with him on the drive north, a woman he couldn’t even remember? Was there anything else in the car he didn’t remember?
A yellow-and-green plaid blanket rested next to a tan leather briefcase on the backseat. Just like the scarf, they didn’t belong to him and didn’t look familiar. He’d brought nothing with him on this trip except the tuxedo he was wearing. There’d been no need for anything else—he hadn’t planned to stay ... or to leave.
A wave of nausea wove from his stomach to his throat to his temples. He rested his head on the side of the car, telling himself if he got through this, he’d never drink again.
That was a lie, though. It would take more than this god-awful feeling to make him stop. He’d tried before, and failed. This time he had good reason to drink, and he wanted a bottle—now.
He wanted his keys, too, and suddenly he remembered that he’d kept a spare hidden under the rubber floor mat in the back
Climbing into the car, he sat on the edge of the seat and the heavy door swung shut behind him. He searched but found nothing. Kneeling on the floor, he looked further, running his fingers over and around each crack and crevice. Water still dripped about him. His head ached and his stomach lurched from looking down and being in a tight, confining space.
And then he heard voices and footsteps.
He was going to be seen. There might even be a photographer around who would relish catching him this way. Louella claimed to be a friend, but she’d be in seventh heaven if she could catch the always-perfect Trevor Montgomery in such a vulnerable spot.
He wasn’t about to let that happen. Louella’s gossip column normally didn’t bother him, but today it did. His image could easily be ruined.
He crouched low on the floor and pulled the blanket he’d seen on the seat over his head and body. The driver’s door opened. He heard the distinct creak of leather as someone sat on the seat, heard a key grinding in the ignition and the roar of the engine. His engine. The engine of the car he’d driven yesterday from Santa Barbara to Sparta at well over eighty miles an hour on the winding coastal road. Why was someone else driving his car? Why did someone else have his key?
“I’m sorry I can’t stay, Elliott.”
It was a woman’s voice he heard. A soft, sweet, very feminine voice.
“Perhaps you could drive up one evening just for dinner.”
“I’d love to, but I’m so busy with work right now. Maybe I can make it in a few weeks.”
He heard a light sigh of frustration before the man spoke again. “That’s all I can hope for.”
They were quiet, too quiet, until Trevor heard the kiss and their good-byes. They weren’t lovers. He could tell the difference. He’d kissed many lovers, many friends, and many young stars who’d been both.
What the hell was he thinking about? He was hiding under a blanket on the floor of his very own car, strange things were going on around him, yet he was wondering if the woman sitting in the front seat might be worth kissing. The melodic lilt of her voice mesmerized him. The hint of her perfume filled his senses. Had she dabbed it just behind her ears, or behind her knees and on the soft bend of her elbows, too? The fragrance he’d noticed on her scarf wafted throughout the car, drowning out the scent of tobacco he remembered from yesterday. Now there was only the sweetness of a woman. God, he must be crazy. He must be a lunatic. Instead of thinking about making love, he should be climbing out of the car and asking for an explanation, finding out what the hell was going on. But he didn’t want to be seen—not like this.
The car jolted to a start, and he felt the rumbling of the wheels as the Duesenberg moved over the cobblestones. He had no idea where he was going, no idea who was driving, no idea why queer things were happening, but none of that mattered. Not at the moment. His eyelids had grown heavy, and the warmth and darkness under the blanket, along with the gentle rock and sway of the car and too much whiskey were lulling him to sleep. Maybe when he woke he’d be at home again. Maybe the nightmare would have ended.
He prayed for both those things. And slowly, with the sweetness of her perfume and the soft music on the radio easing the pain in his head, he slept.
oOo
Trevor woke when the engine stopped. He heard the driver’s door open and the sound of a woman’s high heels clipping on pavement, moving away from the car. He waited until the footsteps silenced, then shoved aside the blanket and cautiously peered over the door of the convertible.
Thank God! He was parked in his own driveway, right next to the small, Spanish-style ranch house he’d bought in 1931. Two bedrooms, two baths, nestled in the middle of one acre overlooking the Pacific. Just big enough for one person, maybe two, if he’d ever cared enough to find someone to share it.
He’d probably never share it with anyone now. Once the police showed up, he’d be locked away for good.
That didn’t matter now, though. He was at home, and an odd, clenching sensation caught in his throat. His eyes burned. In spite of what had happened with Carole, in spite of all the crazy things he’d heard around the Poseidon Pool, in spite of some stranger driving his car, and the fact that he might soon be in prison, he was home, and once again on familiar ground.
In the moon’s glow, he could easily make out the features of the tall, willowy woman who’d been driving his car and now stood at his kitchen door. Her hair was the color of corn silk. Parted at the side, it waved softly about her face and caressed the tops of her shoulders. She wore black high heels and a jumpsuit that looked like a sleeveless black-and-white tuxedo, the pant legs billowing slightly in the evening breeze. The black scarf he’d touched earlier trailed from her fingers. She was absolutely beautiful. Everything about her matched the sweet, feminine warmth of her voice.
Was she some starlet he’d picked up? Had he drunk so much that he couldn’t remember her?
She stepped into the house, turned on the light, and disappeared from view. Trevor hopped over the side of the convertible and hid behind the hedges, watching, listening, waiting for a chance to get into the house.
He laughed at himself. Hell, this was his home. He should walk right in. But the stranger might see him. He’d rather wait until he could clean up, make himself presentable, and look like the Trevor Montgomery the world was used to seeing.
He peered around the edge of the open door. The woman was nowhere in sight, but just as he started to step inside, he heard her footsteps on the red terra-cotta tile. Again, he crouched between a hedge and the white adobe wall, and watched her walk to the car.
Tall, leggy, and blond. Three of his favorite things in a woman. Of course, he liked them short, too. Plump hadn’t mattered either, and he’d never been averse to redheads or brunettes. He liked the way this one walked, with a little sway to her hips, a slight swing to her arms. She climbed into the car once again, started the engine, and he watched in amazement as the garage door opened of its own free will and she drove the Duesey inside, right next to his cherry red ’32 Auburn Speedster. The cars were in the right places, but how had she opened the door?
And who did that strange-looking green vehicle belong to that was parked alongside the garage?
He couldn’t think about those things now, though. He had to get into the house while she was still in the car.
Except for the kitchen, all was dark inside. He longed to get to his closet, to get out of the tuxedo that had shrunk on his body and now felt tight, confining, and damp. Quietly, he maneuvered through darkened rooms, bumping into a living-room sofa that had been moved since yesterday morning. He didn’t want to think about who had moved it or why. Instead, he rushed down the hallway and into his bedroom.
He tried to ignore the fluffy white bedspread and ruffled pillows he could see in the moonlight shining through the window. They weren’t the least bit masculine. They weren�
�t anything close to what he’d had on the bed the last time he slept there. Had his housekeeper decided to make changes without consulting him first? He had so many questions, but none of them mattered. Not now.
He opened the closet, pulled the string to turn on the overhead bulb inside, and gripped the edge of the door, feeling the nausea once again. There wasn’t anything masculine in sight. No tuxedos, no top hat. He rummaged through the garments hanging on the rod. Long silk and satin gowns. Colorful blouses and skirts. High-heeled shoes, low heels, sandals. An assortment of purses on a vertical shelf next to the shoe rack.
Where were his things? The handmade loafers he’d bought in Italy? The leather jacket he’d bought in Spain? Where were the cashmere suits, the starched white shirts, the dozens of silk ties?
His breathing grew deep and rapid. What was happening?
Again he heard her distinctive footsteps on the tiles.
Quickly he grabbed the ring at the end of the pull string, accidentally ripping it from the short chain near the bulb. He balled up the string in his hand, pulled the chain to rid the closet of light, and closed the door. Without making a sound, he pushed to the back of the tightly stuffed closet. Hidden in the dark, he saw nothing, and smelled only the sweet perfume that had filled his senses since he’d entered his car.
He stayed out of sight while the woman moved around his bedroom. When it appeared she wasn’t going to open the door, he pushed aside the hanging garments just enough so he could peer through the louvers.
Light shone from an overhead fixture and from a small Tiffany lamp next to the bed. The slats in the door made it difficult to see her clearly, but he watched her step out of her heels and unbutton the collar that fastened at the back of her neck. He thought he should close his eyes, that voyeurism wasn’t right, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Her arms were long, her back slender. She unfastened the button at the back of her waist and let the outfit slip to the floor. She was wearing the skimpiest panties he’d ever seen, nothing more than a few little straps across the back. He couldn’t see the front of her, but his imagination ran wild. She bent over the bed, picked up a silky white negligee, and slid it over her head before she turned around.
He ran his fingers through his hair, frustration more than evident in the depth of his breathing, in the way his body was reacting of its own accord.
He could see the slight roundness of her breasts through the white satin—small, much less than a handful. The fabric molded to her body, and he could see every curve, her slender waist, her narrow hips, the line of those almost nonexistent panties underneath.
A thick lump caught in his throat, and he nearly gasped when she reached under the shimmering satin. Her fingers slipped around the straps at her hips and she pulled the panties away, sliding them slowly down her legs, stepping out of the small scrap of fabric one foot at a time.
Life wasn’t the least bit fair, he decided. She’d put on a strip show, teasing him with just a hint of what was yet to come, then covered up the best before he got a peek. Maybe he had died and gone to heaven, or maybe, just maybe, he was in hell, having to watch naked women for all eternity without being able to touch. Was that to be his punishment for a life that had been less than perfect?
She lifted the black-and-white garment from the floor, slipped it onto a hanger, and moved toward him. He crouched at the back of the closet, hoping the clothes would quit swaying before she opened the door.
All he could see when she stepped in front of him were her slender ankles, her feet and toes, all tanned a nice shade of golden brown, and he wondered if the rest of her body would be tanned as nicely if he saw it in bright light without the hindrance of louvers.
When she closed the door, he moved through the clothing again and watched her shove something black and rectangular into a metal box on top the dresser. She climbed under the frilly white covers, fluffed the pillows, and wiggled until she got comfortable.
She picked up another black object, pointed it at the dresser, and he saw snow and heard static in the glass-fronted box. Words flashed across the screen. He could just make out the beginning, something about it being illegal to make copies. He tried to make sense of the words, but they disappeared and something familiar met his eyes. The Warner Bros. emblem blazed across the screen in black-and-white, and in big letters, Trevor Montgomery in Captain Caribe. He smiled, not at his name, but at the thought that she had a movie theater right here in the bedroom. He liked the concept, liked the idea of lying in bed and watching gorgeous young starlets, maybe a bevy of Busby Berkeley beauties, parading before him as he fell asleep. He’d heard talk of an invention like this, but he didn’t think it had been developed to this extent. The woman must be rich to afford such a thing.
He watched her resting against the pillows, finding the lady in his bed much more interesting than his own small image. She cried during the love scenes, wiping her eyes again and again. She smiled when he climbed the mast and swung from one ship to another, pulling out his sword and fighting the soldiers who’d soon be hanging from the yardarm. And close to the end, her head gently dropped to one side and Trevor knew she’d gone to sleep. The movie played on, the credits rolled, and once again snow and static appeared on the title screen.
The noise didn’t disturb her sleep and he hoped his movements wouldn’t either as he retied the string below the light bulb, crept out of the closet, and started for the door. Maybe somewhere in the house was an explanation for what was going on. As far as he knew, it was July 5,1938. Two days ago he might have murdered a woman; last night he’d tried to commit suicide and failed. Today someone strange—but beautiful—was living in his house, driving his car, and even worse, he’d heard all that talk about his disappearance—sixty years ago.
It didn’t make any sense at all.
He headed for the door, then stopped when he heard a soft sigh from the bed.
“Trevor,” she whispered.
The gentle sound of his name made him momentarily forget his troubles, and he went to the bed. The woman lying there wore no makeup. Her pale blond lashes rested lightly against the creamy smoothness of her skin, and her eyes flickered beneath nearly translucent eyelids. Silently he thanked the moon for shining through the window to reveal the loveliness of the woman in his bed.
Was she a guardian angel come to rescue him? He wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but he’d often prayed for help, prayed for someone to take away his demons. No one had come. Maybe things hadn’t been bad enough.
Now they were. His life seemed to be crashing in around him. Nothing made sense anymore.
Last night, right before he’d stepped into the water, he’d asked for forgiveness. He could have prayed for a miracle. He could have begged for help. But all he’d wanted was an end to the agony and absolution for all his wicked ways. Maybe this time his request had been granted.
Maybe this woman was the answer to a lifetime of prayers.
Adriana jolted awake. Somewhere in the house someone or something was rummaging, and for the first time since moving into Trevor Montgomery’s home, she felt a tremor of fright
Maybe the neighbor’s cat had sneaked inside when she’d come home. That had happened before, but in daylight. The cat had gotten into a pile of papers set aside to be recycled and had pushed and pawed and made a bed. Perhaps the curious, mischievous feline was at it again.
Sliding out of bed, Adriana tiptoed across the cold tile floor, careful not to make any sound. Down the hallway she moved, silently, slowly, more than halfway afraid it might not be a cat disturbing her belongings. She reached the doorway to the living room but stayed hidden, listening to the definite rustle of paper.
Peeking around the edge, she saw a man sitting on the sofa, hunched over looking at the books on her coffee table about Trevor Montgomery.
She jerked back, cowering behind the cover of the wall. Holding her breath, she prayed that he hadn’t seen or heard her. Get out of here now, she told herself. Run to the neighb
ors. Run to your bedroom and try to get out a window before he finds you.
No, she couldn’t run away: She couldn’t risk him taking her precious belongings.
Her heart beat heavily. A lump had formed in her throat, and her legs and arms tingled with fear.
Stay calm. Don’t panic. He’s in the living room looking at books. He didn’t sneak into your bedroom. He isn’t rummaging through drawers or hastily throwing silver and crystal into a bag.
He’s not here to hurt you. Just tell him to leave.
Forcing herself to breathe slow and easy, she again peered into the living room. The man hadn’t moved.
Her gaze darted to the front door. Locked, and he was directly in its path. There was no easy way to escape if her foolishly brave plan didn’t work.
For the first time in her life, she wished she had a gun for protection. She settled for the tall, sleek, but heavy bronze sculpture of a man in top hat and tails sitting on the table just inside the room. The carving would make the perfect lethal weapon, unless the intruder had something better, like a gun or a knife. That thought horrified her.
She kept her eyes on the stranger and stepped quietly into the room.
The man lifted his head and looked toward the bar. He hadn’t heard her or seen her... not yet anyway. She raised the statue to her shoulder, just in case she had to use it. Call the police, she told herself. Let them get rid of him.
She grabbed the phone.
The intruder’s head jerked around and, even though his face was cloaked in shadow, she could see the intensity of his eyes as a thin beam of moonlight slashed across his face.
Oh, God.
The phone slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor, its dial tone ringing annoyingly in the stark silence of the room.