Twice Burned

by Pamela Burford

  She sank her pearly capped incisors into her collagen-enhanced lower lip, her full, shivering sigh a double-barreled testament to the wonders of modern medical science. She quickly averted her tear-glazed, nipped-and-tucked eyes, just as she’d done back in 1963 when the title creature in The Undead Tongue got a little too close for comfort.

  “Aw, Candy…”

  “I—” That little catch in her voice for effect. “I’m just so—so—frightened, Mac.”

  He released his breath in a rush and sagged into the sofa. Avoiding her eyes.

  She was doomed.

  Why hadn’t she married Billy? She could’ve had him, he’d wanted to make it legal, but no, she had to go and elevate herself. That’s where John Sutcliffe, investment banker, came in. Rambling estate in Connecticul. Piles of moldy Old Money. Hordes of snooty richer-than-thou friends.

  And a mean streak that had no bounds.

  She hadn’t lasted two years. Leaving him was the biggest mistake of her life. By the time she realized John would never let her have the girls, it was too late. He wouldn’t take her back. And she was no match for the high-powered lawyers all that Old Money could buy.

  So she lost her twin daughters, Zara and Emma, her beautiful dark-haired babies. Didn’t see them again till they were grown and came looking for her, after John’s death.

  Mac jumped up and paced to the far wall. “He was there, you know. He’s there every time I turn around nowadays. I can feel him breathing down my neck, just waiting for me to slip up.” He kicked a metal utility pail and sent it flying across the room.

  Candy said, “Who? The cowboy?”

  His gaze snapped to her and she bit her lip. Gone were the puppy-dog eyes. Here was the wolf, dangerous and unpredictable.

  “No,” he said slowly. “Not the cowboy.” He stalked to the Peg-Board and grabbed the loop of rope hanging there.

  A whimper of protest escaped her. He didn’t always tie her when he left the house; it depended on his mood and the depth of his paranoia at the moment. He had to know she was helpless either way. The one window was securely covered with thick plywood nailed to the fifties-style knotty pine paneling. The door at the top of the wooden stairs was bolted from the outside, and there was nothing in either her little prison or the adjacent bathroom that could be used as a weapon or to summon help.

  He stood there for an indecisive moment, scowling at her abused wrists. Then he flung the rope to the tile floor. She let out a silent sigh of relief, careful to avoid eye contact. She’d already learned not to mess with him when he was like this. He could turn on her in a heartbeat.

  Even when he did tie her, he never bothered gagging her, and she no longer wasted her breath hollering for help. Her talents as a scream queen were useless here in this isolated old house in a semirural area north of New York City. No neighbors within earshot.

  Mac grabbed the ray gun and took the steps three at a time. Candy flinched when she heard the bolt slide home.

  THE COCKROACH SKIRTED the edge of the bare mat tress lying on the filthy concrete floor. It paused a moment, then crawled up onto the frayed ticking.

  Zara shuddered. Pierce couldn’t really expect her to sleep on that revolting thing, with its mildewy odor and suspicious-looking stains?

  The cool, coarse floor tugged at her stockinged feet as she crossed to the long wall of grime-encrusted windows. It was nearly dark. The sky—what she could see of it above the windowless brick building across the street—was a deep purplish gray. One window was tipped open and she stuck her head out to feel the cool breeze on her face, to draw in a lungful of the foul New York City air she’d missed so much while she was in Australia.

  She was five stories up in a deserted movers’ warehouse in an industrial area of Manhattan. Somewhere in the Thirties near Tenth Avenue—she hadn’t paid strict attention when they arrived three hours ago, preoccupied as she’d been with trying to pry information out of a taciturn Agent Pierce.

  If he really was an FBI agent.

  He’d escorted her up here, locked her in—for her protection, he’d said—and left immediately. He hadn’t even had the decency to bring her luggage up from the car. For three hours she’d had only her overactive imagination for company.

  And her guilt.

  If Pierce was to be believed, Zara’s mother had been kidnapped. By Mac Byrne, the same maniac who’d tried to kill her twin sister, Emma.

  This whole mess was her own fault. She closed her eyes and slumped against the window, the glass cool against her forehead. It was she who’d put the ball in motion by jumping at Mac’s offer to buy Candy’s ray gun. She should have known it was too good to be true.

  Two million dollars.

  The strident sound of the dead bolt kick-started her heart. Pierce materialized on the threshold, a shadowy figure filling the doorway.

  “It’s dark in here.” His deep voice rumbled across the cavernous room and rolled over her, through her.

  She swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t know if it was safe to turn on lights.”

  He crossed the room in a few long strides, leaving a tantalizing aroma in his wake. A cluster of abandoned furniture occupied one corner, including the unsavory mattress. The floor lamp winked on—a retro-looking throwback to the sixties. She was glad he hadn’t turned on the overhead fluorescent lights. He deposited a white paper sack on the chipped, boomerang-shaped Formica coffee table.

  “If you’re a vegetarian, you’re outta luck,” he said.

  “I’m not.” She didn’t budge.

  He unzipped his windbreaker and shrugged out of it. Even though she was prepared, the sight of his shoulder holster strapped over the maroon T-shirt startled her. The wide brown leather straps hugged his shoulders front and back in a kind of halter design. A black gun grip peeked out from the burnished leather under his arm.

  He kept it on.

  He dragged a straight chair closer to the table, sat and began emptying the bags. Without looking up, he said, “You gonna stand there all night?”

  She locked her knees against a deep shiver. What was it about this man that made her feel so utterly exposed?

  When they had yet to exchange fifty words!

  He raised his head and those glowing golden eyes found her, skewered her. Challenged her.

  She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. The rough floor fought her progress, snagging her stockings. Each tentative step felt Like a cold, clinging kiss on the soles of her feet, urging her to retreat.

  He watched her steadily as she entered the circle of light thrown by the floor lamp. That assessing gaze missed nothing, from her short, dark, stylishly cut hair down to the tiny runs racing up her black silk stockings.

  The inspection was thorough but not lewd. In the instant before he returned his attention to his dinner, she detected a hint of disdain. As if, indeed, he saw right through the glamorous, self-possessed facade she’d so painstakingly erected. Most men were downright intimidated by that facade—the attitude, the trappings of fame and success. The whole beauty-and-brains thing.

  Why couldn’t Logan Pierce be one of those men?

  She stared at the meal he’d laid out on the dusty table. Two large bundles wrapped in white deli paper. A couple of plastic salad containers. Plastic-wrapped carrot cake and two bottles of iced tea.

  “The Sicilian’s for you,” he said.

  “The what?”

  “That’s what the deli down the street calls it.” He unwrapped one of the bundles and lifted the top of a hero roll to reveal the motley contents. “Genoa salami, pepperoni, mortadella, provolone,” he recited. “Lettuce, tomato, onions, olive oil and vinegar. The whole shebang.” Those cool eyes flicked over her. “I figured, since you’re part Italian.”

  She blinked. A lucky guess, or was there a file at FBI headquarters labeled Sutcliffe, Zara?

  Perhaps that file included the little-known tidbits about her mother that had never made it into the film fanzines. Such as her Italian heritag
e. In 1957 beautiful, determined Giovanna Sarro bought herself a one-way bus ticket from New York’s Little Italy to Hollywood, where she soon learned to mix peroxide with celluloid and remade herself as Candy Carmelle.

  Zara wanted to ask what else he knew, but instead said, “What are you having?”

  Wordlessly he opened his hard roll and showed her a pile of ultrarare roast beef slathered with brown mustard. The roll was stained red from the meat.

  She grimaced. “Still twitching, I see.” She peered into the empty bag. “Paper plates? For the slaw and potato salad?”

  Mouth full, he shrugged and indicated the plastic forks. As if he expected the two of them to just dig in to the same container.

  How cozy.

  She looked around for another chair and came up empty. “Listen, Pierce, I’m kinda curious.”

  “Most people call me Logan.”

  “Logan, then. You called this place a safe house. I always thought a safe house was supposed to be, like, a house?”

  He studied her as he chewed and swallowed, then chased the wad of raw cow with a long pull of iced tea. “I always thought the operative word was safe. Sit down and eat.”

  She eyed the mattress with distaste, wishing Logan were gentleman enough to offer her the chair. She gingerly lowered herself onto the very edge of the thin mattress, clamping her knees and ankles together while trying to squirm into some semblance of a ladylike posture. Nevertheless, her short, snug skirt rode way up, displaying the tops of her stockings, black satin garter clasps and a healthy expanse of thigh. She yanked on the skirt, to no avail.

  Logan, staring down from his perch next to her, had a spectacular view of the action. She was certain he could see not only her garter belt but her black thong panties, as well. Sitting there under that bright floor lamp, she felt like Sharon Stone being interrogated in Basic Instinct.

  Except Sharon had been in control. She certainly hadn’t been wriggling and swearing like this, wrenching at her recalcitrant clothing. And Michael Douglas had had the grace to be embarrassed. This bastard just sat there watching her, calmly devouring that damn bleeding thing he called a sandwich!

  She squeezed her knees together and splayed her ankles, grunting and sweating as she tried to lever herself off the mattress. “Help me up!” She reached out a hand.

  “Do I have to?”

  So he did know how to smile. She’d assumed his face would fracture with the effort.

  Before she could spit out a reply, he seized her wrist and easily hoisted her to her feet.

  She gritted, “I don’t suppose I could bother you for my luggage. If I’m going to be stuck here awhile, I’d like to change into something less…something more…”

  “Practical?” He got up and strode to the door. “Leave me some coleslaw.”

  Logan returned in less than two minutes. He dumped her elegant matched bags near one of the concrete-reinforced columns studding the room, next to his enormous battered green duffel and a couple of sleeping bags. “There you go.”

  She hoisted one eyebrow and sneered, “Aren’t you going to search my luggage?”

  “Did that earlier.”

  “What!” She’d been kidding!

  “Go change. The john’s over there.”

  “I know where it is.” She stalked toward her large Pullman bag and started pulling out clothes. “I found it while you were gone. For three hours!”

  “Missed me, did you?”

  She shot back, “Are you really an FBI agent?”

  He never blinked. “If I’m not, it’s a little too late for you to do anything about it now.”

  Chapter Two

  When she emerged from the bathroom the lamplit corner was deserted. She peered into the shadows and finally located Logan at the windows. He held something to his ear—a tiny cellular phone. His voice was a deep murmur; she couldn’t make out the words. As he conversed, he scanned the street below, making her wonder for the first time just how safe this safe house was.

  He turned, and though she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was staring at her.

  She had to admit it felt like heaven to get out of those stockings and that constricting suit she’d worn all the way from Sydney. She’d changed into a loose calf-length skirt of sand-washed silk in shades of turquoise and ivory. The supple fabric flowed around her bare legs like a whisper. Over it she wore a long ivory tunic of raw silk. It was the most comfortable outfit she owned, and the most subdued. A far cry from the sexy power suit that was her usual uniform.

  He said, “Hang on, Lou,” and addressed Zara. “You go in Saturdays, right? To the office?”

  “Sure. Almost every week.” She crossed to her suitcase and stuffed her travel clothes in it.

  “Sundays, too,” he said, as if he knew her schedule, and just wanted confirmation.

  “Sundays, too.” Why did he need to know this?

  He turned his back to her and spoke in low tones to Lou, whoever he was. The phone closed with a snap and he pushed the antenna in with his palm.

  She said, “They’re going to miss me at my office if I don’t call—”

  “It’s already taken care of. As far as your employees are concerned, you had to return to Australia and will be out of touch for a while.”

  She stared at him, outraged at his presumption. “Define ‘a while.’“

  Instead, he changed the subject. “If you’re so hard up for cash, why are you still holding on to that second apartment in L.A.?” He strode across the room and tossed the phone on the mattress. “Ever since your divorce, you spend all your time at the office anyway.”

  His casual observation clawed at wounds that were still raw after eighteen months. She closed her eyes for a few moments, willing the bitter memories back into the dark place in her soul reserved for her failures. It was getting pretty crowded in there.

  She took a deep breath. “I need a place to stay on the coast. I’m out there all the time, negotiating bookmovie deals for my clients.” She joined him at the coffee table.

  He sat and grabbed a fork and the container of potato salad. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of crackerjack businesswoman. What possessed you to get involved with Mac Byrne?”

  “Don’t you think I checked him out first? I talked to a couple of people who’ve dealt with him. MacGowan Byrne is a well-known dealer—supposedly reputable—in art and collectibles. He locates pieces for well-heeled clients, for a commission. That’s why I don’t understand all this.”

  She settled on the mattress again. It felt good to cross her legs under the voluminous skirt and sit comfortably. Logan, his mouth full, tipped the potato salad toward her in offering. She shook her head and reached for her sandwich. It weighed several pounds.

  She continued, “Mac first called a few weeks ago, on behalf of some mysterious, reclusive client. Some nut job willing to fork over beaucoup bucks for that worthless old ray gun of Mom’s.”

  “A prop from Return of the Atomic Bride.”

  “Right. He called the apartment looking for Mom, but I answered the phone. Which seemed a stroke of luck at the time. If he’d talked to Mom, she’d never have agreed to part with the damn thing. He offered

  three grand at first. I mean, it was laughable. I could

  tell just by his tone of voice that whoever wanted that ray gun was willing to shell out a lot more than three grand.”

  “The infamous Zara Sutcliffe business savvy.”

  “I’m telling you, I could practically smell Mac’s greed, even across the phone lines,” she said, unwrapping her sandwich. “I’ve only spoken to him on the phone. Never met him in person. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  Something about the way Logan said, “I know,” gave her pause. She glanced at him, but his expression revealed nothing.

  He plunked the fork into the potato salad and set it on the table, then slid down a little on the rickety chair, crossing an ankle on his knee and lacing his fingers behind his head. She decided he w
as the type who could relax in any setting, no matter how austere.

  His movements drew her attention to the sheer male elegance of his form. The shingled muscles of his abdomen tightened briefly under the snug T-shirt; his powerful thighs stressed the worn denim of his jeans.

  Somehow she knew he was one of those rare big men with lightning-quick reflexes, a man gifted with speed and stamina as well as raw strength. She sensed it in the aura of confidence and authority he exuded, even in repose.

  Nothing could get past him. No one could get to her while she was with him.

  Which wasn’t a wholly comforting thought.

  Are you really an FBI agent?

  If I’m not, it’s a little too late for you to do anything about it now.

  He eyed her sandwich with interest. “You gonna eat that?”

  Forcing her attention to her meal, she took a bite. The mingled flavors and textures detonated in her mouth.

  A groan of ecstasy erupted from her throat. A long, low moan of sheer gustatory rapture that warbled through a range of octaves. She couldn’t help it. She’d always been absurdly appreciative of good food.

  She shot an embarrassed glance at Logan, his indolent posture now at odds with the smoky intensity of his gaze. That’s when she realized her shoulders had been doing that little shimmy she’d always thought of as her “yummy dance.”

  Suddenly she regretted her decision to shed her bra along with her stockings.

  He leaned forward quickly. Drained half the tea in his bottle. “So. You upped the price.”

  Price? “Uh, yeah, I could tell when I was reaching the upper limit of what Mac’s client was willing to pay. He was absurdly easy to read.”

  “Not so easy, as it turned out.”

  She stared at him.

  He said, “If you could’ve read him for real, you’d have known he’s a psychopath. A very dangerous psychopath.”

  She thought of her mother at the mercy of a homicidal maniac. She thought of Emma, timid, unprepossessing Emma, Daddy’s “good girl,” fending off a murder attempt.