Charade (19 page)

famed "weather center" on the other side of the studio. The fourth chair was for the sportscaster. "As you know, I'm rarely on the set during a telecast. All my appearances are prerecorded. When I record them, I generally sit here," she said, placing her hands on the back of the sportscaster's chair. "Today, I was about halfway through my opening remarks when it happened." She pointed upward. The broken studio light had already been replaced with a new one. "Third light from the left," she told Alex. "It fell from the grid and crashed onto the desk?" "Here." The fresh scars in the Formica were clearly visible. A crescent-shaped chunk was missing from the edge of the desk, as though someone had taken a huge bite out of it. "I'm lucky that didn't happen to my skull," she said, running her finger along the jagged gouge. "The light missed my head by inches and almost fell directly into my lap. Made a heck of a racket. Broken glass. Crushed metal." She attempted a grin, but it was feeble. "Needless to say, I had to do a second take." "Did anyone offer an explanation?" "Within minutes the studio was full of people. Bill left a sales meeting and rushed down here. Someone called 911. That's why the fire truck was here. Paramedics, too, although neither I nor anyone on the crew was injured, which was a miracle. "After a while, the police, along with our rent-a-cops, shooed everybody out so the mess could be cleaned up. Bill was on a rampage. He demanded an explanation from the lighting technicians." "And?" "They didn't have one. He threatened to fire them all, but I persuaded him not to. It could never be proved whose negligence had caused it to fall, so it would be unfair to punish the entire lighting crew." "Did they inspect the light?" "Yes. Apparently the bolt was loose." "So it was negligence." "Either that or it had worked its way loose." "Worked its way loose?"

"Something like that," she snapped. She was impatient with his skepticism and frightened because it closely coincided with her own. "Hmm." "I hate it when you do that!" "Do what?" "That 'hmm.' Implying that whatever I've just said is--" "Bullshit." "Well, what do you think happened?" "I think you had the bejesus scared out of you, and it was no accident." She folded her arms over her chest again, a subconscious, self-protective gesture. "That's crazy. Who'd want to harm Kurt?" "Kurt?" "The sportscaster." "The light didn't fall when Kurt was on the set. It fell when you were." "So, you're saying that the light was rigged and timed to fall on me?" "Yeah. And that's what you think, too." "Don't presume to know what I think." "It's an easy guess. Otherwise you wouldn't look like a jigsaw puzzle that's about to come apart." Knowing it would be useless to deny her jitters, she decided to play devil's advocate. "Assuming you're right, why would anyone want to harm me?" "You tell me." "I don't know!" "But you've got a hunch." He laid his finger against her lips to halt her protest. "I sensed something was wrong the other night when you saw the strange car parked in front of your house." "I was apprehensive. Anybody would be." "You were disproportionately apprehensive," he argued. "As though you'd been anticipating trouble. Even before that night, you were acting like a basket case. Any particular reason why?" "No." "Liar." Suddenly drained of energy, she lowered her head and massaged

her temples. "You win by default, Alex. I don't feel like sparring tonight." "Why won't you tell me what's troubling you?" "Because it. . ." She hesitated. "Because I'm going home to bed." She turned to go. He fell into step with her. "Is your boyfriend still at your house?" "He isn't my boyfriend." He stopped. She stopped, turned, and looked at him meaningfully. "Not anymore." "I see." They tacitly agreed not to pursue her relationship with Dean Spicer and continued on their way out of the building, stopping to say good night to Old Bob. He beamed at Alex. "Thanks for the autograph." A copy of Alex's book lay open on his desk. "It's my kind of read." "Enjoy it," Alex said to his new fan as he held open the heavy metal exit door for Cat. "You bribed him," she accused. "It was something to fall back on if swapping stories about the good old days didn't do the trick." "How did you know I'd be here tonight? I usually don't work this late." The parking lot was virtually empty. Even the late news crew had left. "It was another lucky guess. You weren't at home." "You went by the house first?" "And chance bumping into Spicer again? Not on a bet. I called and got no answer." "What did you want to see me about?" "I wanted to hear your version of the studio accident." "Before that. Why'd you come to the studio this afternoon?" They had reached her car. Propping his elbow on the roof of it, he faced her. "To apologize in person for hurting your . . . uh, Spicer." "He wasn't badly hurt," she said. "Embarrassed more than anything, I think." Alex seemed on the verge of saying something else. When he didn't, she unlocked and opened her car door. "Apology accepted, Alex. Good night."

"Look, Cat, the guy's a drip. What do you see in him?" "Well, for one thing he saved my life," she retorted. "So you feel obligated to him." "I didn't say--" "How obligated?" "Stop it, Alex." She had tried to shout, but her voice cracked. "Just shut up and . . . and leave me alone. I told you I don't feel like fighting with you tonight. I ... today . . . you ..." To her utter mortification, she burst into tears. "Aw, hell," he said, pulling her against him. She wanted to resist but hadn't either the physical or emotional strength to do so. His arms held her while she cried. After several minutes of hard weeping, she raised her head, accepted the handkerchief he offered, and blew her nose. "That incident with the falling light has you more frightened than you know, Cat." "No, no," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not crying over that. It's something else." "What?" "I really don't feel like talking about it." "Jeez, you're stubborn." He moved her aside and relocked her car door. Then he turned her around and gave her a push in the opposite direction. "Come on." "Where? I just want to go home." "I don't mean to be unkind, but I've seen scarecrows who'd put you to shame. I'm going to see that you get something to eat." "I'm not hungry." He wouldn't take no for an answer. Within half an hour they arrived at his apartment carting two chicken dinners from KFC. Rather than set the table, they decided to eat off trays in the living room. He sat in the corner of the sofa, Cat on the floor in front of the coffee table. "I have to admit, this is good," she said around a mouthful. "You're a nutritional saboteur, you know. Burgers and fries. Fried chicken." "Cops subsist on fast food. I defy you to show me a cop who likes tofu, yogurt, and wheat germ." She laughed as she saluted him with a plastic spoonful of mashed

potatoes and gravy. He wasn't laughing. In fact, he was studying her intently. "What?" she asked uneasily. He blinked himself out of his momentary trance. "I was just thinking how mercurial your moods are. Not me. My bad moods last for days, weeks, even months if the writing's going badly. You had a crying jag, and you're cleansed. Maybe men should learn to cry." "Don't let my appetite deceive you. My body was demanding the nourishment I'd denied it the last thirty-six hours or so, but I'm still depressed." "Why? Spicer leave in a huff?" "Yes, but Dean's not the reason I'm depressed." She picked at a half-eaten biscuit, pinching off a piece and rolling it between her fingers. "Chantal, the little girl who recently had the kidney transplant, died this morning." He muttered an obscenity, steepled his fingers, and covered his mouth and nose with his hands. After a moment he said, "I'm sorry, Cat." "Me, too." "What happened?" "It was mercifully quick. She rejected. Total shutdown of kidney function. Nothing went right. She died." She dusted the biscuit crumbs from her hands. "Her adoptive parents are devastated. So is Sherry. Jeff cried like a baby when we got the news. Everyone on the crew that produced the piece on her is grief-stricken. She'd become our . . . our poster child, a shining example of how an unfortunate child's future can be rerouted."

"She can still be your poster child." "Alex, she's dead." "I fail to see--" "I meddled in these people's lives," she interrupted in a raised voice. "I made Chantal love them. I made them love her. They took her into their home, went through that ordeal, witnessed her pain, and suffered it with her. And what have they got to show for that emotional roller-coaster ride now?" She made a sound of disgust. "A televised funeral, that's what. Reporters swarming around Chantal's tiny casket and badgering them for a comment. Their grief is a media event. All thanks to me."

She propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. "I was feverishly working at my desk tonight, trying to get my mind off Chantal's death and onto something positive. But all I could think about was the trauma I'd put that couple through." "You really think you made them love her, and vice versa?" He shook his head. "You sure have an elevated opinion of your influence over people and their emotions." She raised her head and glared at him. "You didn't force them to take her, Cat," he continued in a quieter, more sympathetic voice. "They asked for the opportunity. They went through extensive training in order to meet the requirements. They wanted Chantal." "Alive. They wanted a living little girl, not a grave to visit on holidays. They wanted to share her childhood and watch her grow up." "Unfortunately, an adopted kid doesn't come with a lifetime warranty. No kid does. Sometimes they die, and that's just the way it is." "Please spare me the homespun logic. It's not making me feel better." "No, because you're enjoying your self-pity." Angrily she said, "All I know is, if it hadn't been for me, those people wouldn't be grieving tonight." "Did they confront you about it?" "Of course not." "Did they say, 'Ms. Delaney, why in hell did you put us through this? We were perfectly happy until you came along and foisted this sick kid on us.' " "Don't be ridiculous. They called me to say--" She broke off. He leaned forward. "What, Cat? Go on. What did they call you to say?" She cleared her throat and averted her eyes. "They called to thank me for helping place Chantal with them." "Probably because the time they spent with her was the most rewarding time of their lives." She sniffed and gave a brusque nod. "They said she'd been a blessing." "So why are you second-guessing what you do? Cat's Kids is a

worthy undertaking. What happened to Chantal is tragic, but she had love and caring when she needed it most, right?" "Right." "Given the chance, would you do it differently? Would you undo what was done? Take away the time they had together? Let Chantal die feeling lonely and unloved? Rob those people of what they called a blessing?" She bowed her head, making her answer almost inaudible. "No." "Well then?" "You're right. Of course you're right." She offered him a sad smile. "This tragedy knocked me for a loop, that's all. I had some misgivings and needed someone with an objective point of view to allay my doubts. I also needed a good cry." She blotted her damp eyes with a napkin. "Thanks." He waved off her gratitude. The light coming from the kitchen fell on his dark hair and cast his features in sharp relief. Dean had said he looked like a thug. He did indeed have a rough-and-tumble demeanor. No doubt he was capable of inflicting pain. But he had also experienced it. Otherwise, how could he understand it so well? His steely eyes and hard mouth were the result of it. With a single word or phrase, he could cut to the quick. But with just as few words, he could extend sympathy and kindness. He wasn't soft, but he could be gentle. He could be a friend when one was needed. "How's the book coming?" she asked, to fill the ponderous silence. "At a snail's pace, although I've had a few productive days." "That's good." With that meager exchange, they'd exhausted the subject. He wouldn't expound beyond that, and she no longer expected him to. But just because there was a lapse in conversation didn't mean they stopped communicating. Their eyes met and locked, and the silence teemed with unspoken messages. After a moment he eased the tray off his lap and set it on the table. Lowering himself to the floor beside her, he curved his hand around the back of her neck and drew her forward until her lips were scant inches from his. "We've taken this as far as we can with our clothes on."

Chapter twenty-six

Her troubling thoughts scattered like the feathery seeds of a dandelion, leaving her mind free to focus on his kiss. Nothing mattered except this moment. She needed his strength, his intensity, his unbridled hunger for her. She wanted him. Why be coy for coyness' sake? Her arms encircled his neck. Their lips clung together as they knelt facing each other. He nudged her middle; she arched into him. He hissed a vulgarity. The desperation behind it was so wildly erotic that she rubbed against him for the sheer pleasure of hearing him repeat it. They held a kiss while he removed her blouse. Cat tugged his shirttail from his waistband and ran her hands over his hard, fuzzy chest. He released her long enough to whip off his shirt and toss it aside, then he wrapped her in his arms and held her to him while his mouth again ravaged hers. "You're kidding," he whispered when he slipped his hands beneath her skirt. There was a smile behind his rough voice. "Method acting," she replied on a soft breath. "Whenever Laura

Madison's scenes called for sexiness, I substituted a garter belt and stockings for panty hose to help get me in the mood. Wearing them got to be a habit." He caressed her bare thighs above the stockings. "It's a goddamn fantasy." "Like something from one of your books?" "Much better." He removed her skirt, slip, and panties. Cat stretched out on her back on the carpet. With the cups of her bra barely covering her flushed breasts, her mons framed by a satin garter belt and lacy suspenders, her legs still encased in silk stockings, it was a wanton pose. She was shocked by her lack of modesty. Alex's eyes never left her as he methodically unbuckled his belt and opened his fly. He stepped out of his trousers and underwear. His virile nakedness made her catch her breath. His belly was flat and hard, his limbs long and lean. He was muscular but not musclebound. Strong veins showed distinctly on his arms and hands. Unabashedly, lustfully, she drank him in, from the arches of his feet, to his proud, heavy sex, to his unsmiling mouth and scar-slashed eyebrow. He lay beside her, kissed her breasts through the cups of her bra, then lowered the lace and caressed her nipples with his tongue. Lifting his head, he gazed down at her. His thumb made several passes across her raised nipple. "I could write this scene a thousand times and never get it this good." He watched her flesh respond to his touch. "The nuances of a woman's body simply can't be described." He bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth, tugged on it with a strong flexing of his jaw. Responding to a current of sexual electricity, her back arched off the carpet. The demicups of her bra kept her breasts provocatively offered up to him. His tongue was nimble, his appetite carnal. He ran his hands over her stomach and along the outsides of her thighs. She reached for him, stroked him, and he groaned elaborate curses. They kissed again, hungrily and greedily. "Don't hold back, Alex," she whispered urgently. "Don't be soft with me."