Charade (33 page)

peep at you from behind your subconscious and just before you can snatch them. The phone was on its fourth ring. Ignore it. You've been waiting for a night like this for weeks, he reminded himself. Everything's coming together. You've worked that knot out of your plot--granted, not quite in the way you expected, but maybe this way is stronger. The action is unfolding fast and furiously; the dialogue is good and crisp. It packs a punch. Whatever you do, dumb ass, don't pick up the phone! He snatched up the receiver. "What?" "Alex, can . . . can you ... I wouldn't bother you, but ..." "Cat? Are you all right?" "Actually no. I'm not." "Fifteen minutes." He dropped the receiver and turned off his computer, but not before saving the fine work he'd done. He crammed his feet into his running shoes, switched out the light, locked the door to his study, and raced from the condo. Tom Clancy was probably interrupted all the time. He might have sold another million copies of Patriot Games if not for life's little interruptions. And Danielle Steele had nine kids. Think how many times a day she was interrupted. Cat opened the door as he jogged up her front walk. "Thanks for coming." "You're as white as a sheet. What happened? Why's your hair wet?" "I washed it." "You washed your hair? After calling me in what sounded like a life-or-death situation, you washed your hair!" "Stop yelling at me!" She pointed imperiously toward the living room. "I had a visitor. Cyclops." The biker had left a clear imprint of himself on her sofa and ottoman. Alex expelled his breath and raked back his hair. "Christ. How'd he get in?" "I let him in." "You what?" "He threatened to hurt Michael if I didn't." "He could have hurt you."

"But he didn't!" "Now you're yelling. What'd he want?" "Let's go into the kitchen," she said. "I've used a whole can of air freshener, but I can still smell him in here." She led the way. Her cow-pattern kettle was simmering on the stove. She asked if he wanted a cup of tea. A belt of straight whiskey, maybe, he told her. But no tea, thanks. She poured herself a cup, added a teaspoon of sugar, and sat across from him at her kitchen table. Her fingers looked translucent as she folded them around her cup. "What'd he want, Cat?" "Money." "In exchange for Sparky's heart, right?" Her eyes swung up to his. "How'd you know?" "I've read about such. A person receives transplanted corneas, or a liver, or skin tissue. Once he's well, a member of the donor family shows up and demands payment." "I've heard of it too," she said, nodding forlornly. "It was cited in our group sessions as one of the reasons for donors and recipients to remain anonymous." She crossed her arms over her chest and ran her hands up and down her arms. "But I didn't know anyone could actually be that mercenary." "Cyclops could." "He's so repulsive. Where he touched my chest and hair with his dirty fingers, I felt like I'd been raped. I took a long, hot shower." She lifted the cup of tea to her lips but could barely hold it steady while she sipped from it. It clattered against the saucer when she replaced it. "I hated to bother you, Alex." "No bother," he lied. "I didn't know who else to call. I could have phoned that Lieutenant Hunsaker, but I have very little confidence in him." Alex supposed he should take that as a compliment. "You did the right thing. You shouldn't be alone tonight. Did you have any trouble getting Cyclops out of the house?" "Not really. I called his bluff and told him that he'd get money from me over my dead body." With a weak smile, she added, "He said that could be arranged." "He could have killed you, you know."

"I pointed out that killing me would be a dumb move if he wanted money from me." Alex considered it a miracle that Cyclops hadn't hurt her. At the same time, he was angry with Cat. "You played the smart-ass, didn't you? I can just hear you spouting off wisecracks. Why in hell did you wave those red flags in his face?" "Well what would you suggest I do? Cringe and cry and show him how frightened I was? I also had Michael and Kismet to consider. He'll probably take out his frustration on them." "Was he frustrated when he left?" "To say the least. I guess he thought he could intimidate me into writing out a check tonight. He was furious when I refused. I told him in no uncertain terms that I wouldn't give him a cent." "To which he said ..." "That I'd be sorry." Alex too was worried about Michael and his mother, but he wanted to allay Cat's concern. "He'll think long and hard before raising a hand to Michael again. Just a few weeks ago, he barely escaped a long jail sentence." "I hope that's a deterrent, because blood ties won't stop him. Michael's not his child." She recounted what Cyclops had told her. "Maybe that explains why I became infatuated with Michael's picture before I even met him." Alex leaned forward across the table. "What are you getting at?" "Nothing." "Come on, Cat. I raced to your rescue. Doesn't that entitle me to hear the nitty-gritty?" "It's silly." She gave a small, mirthless laugh, a slight shrug, and tinkered with her spoon--all dead giveaways that she was stalling. Finally she said, "From the time doctors began performing heart transplants, there has been discussion over whether characteristics of the donor could be passed to the recipient." He took a moment to absorb that, then said, "Go on." "Well, it's ridiculous, of course," she declared, a little too loudly. She took a moment to compose herself. "The heart is an organ. It's apparatus, physiological machinery. A person's heart, where his or her soul resides, is something entirely different."

"Then why did you automatically link your attraction to Michael to the possibility that his father was your donor?" "I didn't." "Yes, you did. And so did Cyclops." "He doesn't care who donated what to whom," she said heatedly. "He just sees a way to make a buck. He hates Michael because he's Sparky's living legacy to Kismet. He's punishing her for choosing Sparky over him. He's made her life hell. No wonder she looks so haunted." "They're not your responsibility, Cat." She looked at him as though he'd just urinated on the American flag. "Of course they are! They're human beings, and they're in danger." "I admire your altruism, but you can't save all the unfortunates of the world." "If Cyclops hurts them, I couldn't live with myself. Could you? Doesn't a human life mean anything to you?" He felt a wave of angry heat flood his face. "I'm going to ignore that because you're upset and, I hope, don't realize what you're saying. I'd like nothing better than to pound the shit out of George Murphy and see to it that he never touches Kismet and Michael again. But there are millions of victims just like them all over the country." "I know I can't save millions, but I'd like to help them." "You're not seriously thinking of giving him money?" Their shouting match had depleted her energy. Her shoulders slumped forward, and she rested her head in her palm. "I would never surrender to blackmail, but he made it clear that if I don't, I'll regret it. One way or another." Then she raised her head and looked at him. For the first time since he'd met her, she looked frightened. "Alex, I want to call it off." "Call what off?" "This insane search for my stalker. I haven't heard from him in almost two weeks. I'm convinced that someone with a perverted sense of humor was playing mind games with me, that's all. "The phony obituary was his grand finale. He did what he'd set

out to do--rattle my cage. But now he's finished playing his little game." "You sure of that?" "No, I'm not sure," she snapped. "But I don't want to overturn any more stones. Every time I do, there's an ugly worm underneath. I'm afraid to open my mail for what I might find. A one-eyed, tattooed biker with homicidal tendencies, whom I'd never even heard of until a few days ago, is now trying to extort money from me and threatening my life. "I jump at my own shadow. I no longer feel safe in my home. I can't concentrate on my work. My appetite's shot to hell, and I don't even remember when I last slept through a whole night without waking up, listening for the bogeyman. I don't need any more of this crap." "It's not that easy, Cat. You can't just call it off." "lean. lam." "Well I can't and I won't," he stated firmly as he came to his feet. "You don't close the files on an investigation just because you don't like the looks of the evidence you uncover." "Oh, stop with the cop talk. You're no longer a policeman, and this isn't a bona ride investigation. Nor is it a plot for one of your novels. This is my life!" "Right. And I'm trying to protect it. I'd like you to live past the fourth anniversary of your transplant." "So would I." She paused and drew in a shuddering breath. His gut clenched. He wasn't going to like what was coming next. "That's why I'm going to California and stay with Dean till we're beyond the date. It's all arranged." Alex placed his hands on his hips. "Oh really? When did you arrange it?" "Before you arrived." "I see. You called me to rush to your rescue, but I'm only a temporary wing for you to hover under until you can run back to Daddy Dean, is that it?" He snorted derisively. "And you accused me of using you just for sex," He'd meant to offend her and he had. Tears sprang to her eyes, but, being Cat, she didn't crumble. "I'll see you to the door." Dame Judith Anderson in her prime couldn't have looked or

sounded more regally indignant as she rose from her chair and left the kitchen. He followed, but only as far as the entryway, where he slammed shut the front door, which she was holding open for him. "I'm not leaving you alone tonight, Cat." He held up his hands for silence before she could protest. "I'll sleep in the living room." He glanced at the dirty sofa and added, "I've slept on worse, believe me. "Now, you can stamp your foot, rant and rave, whatever, but it'll be a waste of energy. Energy that I can tell you don't have. You can pout, pack for your trip, paint your toenails, anything you want, but until we have an indication of what Cyclops's next move is going to be, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

Chapter forty four

Cyc could hardly believe his eyes when he shuffled into the kitchen for his morning coffee. Kismet was already sitting at the table. Her appearance nearly bowled him over. She was wearing makeup like she had when he'd first met her. Applied with a heavy hand, it outlined and shadowed her dark eyes. The nun's bun he despised was gone. Her hair had been left free to fall around her shoulders in a wild tangle. Missing too were the long skirts and shapeless blouses she'd worn the past four years. She was back in the threadbare jeans that fit her ass like a surgical glove. Her tattooed bosom had been squeezed into a low-cut tight black tank top. It was like she'd been sleepwalking since Sparky's death but now had suddenly awakened. The startling transformation had taken place overnight. And it wasn't only skin deep. Her surly expression was reminiscent of the old Kismet. The moment he entered the room, she got up and poured him a cup of coffee, her movements quick and abrupt, the restlessness of years ago having returned. He would have sus pected her of being wired if she hadn't sworn off drugs after the kid came along. "Want some breakfast?" she asked. Mistrustful of her sudden reversal, he said, "If I wanted breakfast I'd tell you, wouldn't I?" "You don't have to be an asshole about it." She refilled her coffee cup and returned to the table. Picking up her lit cigarette from the ashtray, she took a drag and aimed a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. She'd given up cigarettes while she was pregnant and hadn't smoked again. Now, as he watched her full, red lips close around the filter of the cigarette, his loins filled with desire. He'd seen her like this a thousand times--angry and kinetic--but it had been a damned long time. Until this moment, he hadn't realized just how much he'd missed her sassiness. But Cyc was suspicious by nature and rarely took things at face value. "What got into you?" he asked. She ground out the cigarette by impatiently jabbing it against the amber glass. "Maybe you knocked some sense into me last night." "You had it coming." He'd worked her over good for making him look like a goddamn fool in front of the Delaney bitch and her cop boyfriend. The bruises hardly showed beneath her heavy makeup. "I can't believe she refused to give you any money." Over a bottle of booze and a few lines of coke, he'd told her about his unproductive visit with Cat Delaney. "Don't worry. She'll come around." "But when?" "Soon as I think of something." He slurped his coffee. "Who does she think she is? If not for Sparky, she'd be dead." "She says she might have got somebody else's heart. It might not've been Sparky's." "Even if it wasn't, she owes me," Kismet said, tossing her head defiantly. "We've had to struggle these last four years, while she's been living high on the hog. It's not fair." "We'll get some money from her. I just gotta think up a plan." "I've been doing some thinking of my own." His good eye narrowed to a sinister slit. "Oh yeah? What about?"

"We've gotta make a move before that cop friend of hers starts filling her head with bullshit. He could ruin this for us." She came out of her chair as though the seat of it had bitten her on the butt. Charged by caffeine and nicotine, she began to pace. Cyc agreed with what she was saying, but it would look like weakness if he complied too soon. "You stay out of it," he said crossly. "I got the situation under control." She whirled around and angrily confronted him. "The hell you do! You let her buffalo you with her pretty face and big blue eyes. For all your threats, you came up empty." He came out of his chair like a shot and slapped her hard across the cheek. To his astonishment, she hit him back. Her palm landed against his ear with a loud smack that hurt his eardrum. Nevertheless, he heard every word of what she hissed at him. "I'm not going to take that shit from you anymore, you son of a bitch. You've hit me for the last time." Her turnabout was exciting, but there was a limit to what he'd allow. He wanted her somewhere between the spitfire she'd been and the calf-eyed dishrag she'd become. "I've got something you'll take." Grasping her by her plump upper arms, he shoved her against the countertop and pinned her there with his body. She struggled to be released, which he had to do in order to unfasten her jeans. While his head was being pummeled by her flailing fists, he managed to work the tight jeans down her legs and off her bare feet. She tried to run from the room, but he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her back. He lifted her onto the table and pushed apart her thighs. Flattening his hand on the center of her chest, he held her down while he undid the buttons of his jeans. His cock sprang free. Cyc grunted with pleasure and surprise when her hand formed a tight fist around it. She pumped him greedily, eagerly, like she'd done years ago when she couldn't get enough, when she'd made sex a contest of wills and stamina that she won as often as not. He pushed up her top and clutched her breasts, pinching her large nipples. Then, turning her head, she bit his arm. He slapped her again, leaned over her, and bit her nipple hard before sucking it like