Heart of the Night (12 page)

She twisted the telephone cord around her finger. “Is there another number where he can be reached?”

“That number is unlisted.”

“I'm calling on official business,” she declared. “It's imperative that I speak with Mr. Snow as soon as possible.”

“If you leave a name and number, I'll see that he gets it.”

With no promise that the call would be returned. “That's not good enough,” she argued. “This is important.”

“Your name, please.”

Savannah held her breath. Closing her eyes, she realized that she must have sounded exactly like one of numerous other fans who no doubt phoned the radio station each week in search of Jared Snow. Her cheeks went pink. The hand that tightly gripped the telephone receiver very carefully replaced it in its cradle.

Mortified, she sat down behind her desk, bowed her head, and pressed a fingertip to her lips. It was a while before she regained enough composure to resume work.

*   *   *

“WCIC Providence, may I help you?”

The voice was different this time, as Savannah had hoped it would be. The first time she'd called at four in the afternoon. Now it was seven. She had counted on the daytime receptionist having been replaced by the evening one.

“Yes,” she said with renewed confidence, “I'd like to speak with Jared Snow.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Snow isn't able to take the phone.”

“Is he there?”

“May I ask who's calling?”

She wasn't sure what she'd expected. One part of her had known that it wouldn't be easy. The other part had dreamed. “I'm calling on an important matter,” she said calmly. “If you would be so kind as to tell me when I might reach Mr. Snow, I'd be glad to call back.”

“It would probably be better if you gave me your name and number. I'd be sure to see that he received them.”

Determined to maintain her composure this time, Savannah said in the same cool and official-sounding voice, “I really do have to talk with him.”

There was barely a pause on the other end. “I'm sure you do. If you'd give me your name and number—”

“The situation is urgent.”

“Does Mr. Snow know you?”

“No, but he may have some information I need. This could well be a matter of life and death.”

“Your name and number?”

She nearly gave it. No one at the station knew about the kidnapping. She wouldn't be endangering Megan by identifying herself. But something held her back. One part of her wasn't sure she should be calling at all. That part wasn't sure of her reasons for calling.

“Hello?” came the voice at the other end of the line.

Savannah quietly hung up the phone. Sinking lower in her chair, she propped her elbow on its arm and pressed her cheek to her fist. She actually looked at her door to make sure it was completely shut. She wouldn't have wanted anyone in the office to have witnessed that call. Or the earlier one. Timidity was not part of the image she tried to uphold. For that matter, even privately she didn't like to think of herself as being timid. But the lines were blurred here.

One part of her was unsure about calling. The rest of her desperately wanted to speak with Jared Snow.

*   *   *

She didn't try to phone again. Instead, she kept busy at the office, then stopped at the house to see how Will and the others were doing. No one there was happy with the silence, and as each hour passed, the tension rose.

Though Savannah had had the benefit of distractions through the day, she felt as anxious as everyone else. Despite all her attempts to find clues as to either the identity of the kidnappers or their whereabouts, she had come up empty-handed. She felt she had let Will down. She felt she had let Megan down. She felt she'd let Susan and Sam and Hank down.

Discouraged, she stayed with them as long as she could, then drove home. It was nearly eleven o'clock when she pulled into her garage, but rather than leave the car and go into the townhouse, she sat in the dark and thought.

She didn't want to go inside. It was too quiet and lonely there. She had work to do, but she felt too emotionally spent to do it.

Nor did she want to go back to Will's. Sam had a handle on things there. She felt useless.

Friends. She had lots of friends. But she could hardly be with them and not tell them about Megan.

For a minute she considered driving to Newport to see her father—but only for a minute. It wasn't a wise idea. For one thing, her dad would either be out for the evening or asleep, and he wasn't one to take kindly to a change in plans. For another, he had never particularly approved of her going to work, let alone her choice of profession. He would have little sympathy for the oppressive sense of responsibility she felt. And he was a terrible gossip. If she told him about the kidnapping, it would be all over Newport by morning.

She gripped the steering wheel tightly, backed the car out of the garage, and headed for the WCIC studios.

The address she had taken from her media file took her to a largely wooded, residential area on the outskirts of town where the houses were set widely apart, hidden from one another and the street by trees. Only the mailboxes stood as proof of habitation nearby.

Turning in by the mailbox whose luminescent number matched the one she had committed to memory, she drove down a short, unpaved path to a clearing. At the back of the clearing stood a large Victorian house. The night hid its details from her, but there were several cars parked around a pebbled curve and the first floor of the house was comfortably lit. She assumed she had reached the right place.

Turning off her own lights, she sat for a minute and took several slow breaths to calm the rushing beat of her heart. It seemed imperative that she look, sound, and act totally professional.

She felt, however, like a young girl excitedly awaiting a glimpse of her hero. Incredibly, the thing that frightened her most was not that he wouldn't be able to help Megan, but that he wouldn't live up to the image she had of him.

For a moment she toyed with the idea of starting the car and driving home. It still bothered her that she had been so cowardly with not one, but two phone calls. For her own pride, if nothing else, she intended to see this through.

Snatching her keys from the ignition, she buried them in her briefcase, laced the straps of the briefcase over her shoulder, and climbed from the car. The pebbles crunched beneath her heels, a sound so loud that she half expected floodlights to suddenly shoot out and spear her in the night. Pulling her cashmere topcoat more snugly around her neck, she hastened her step toward the front door.

The only indication that she had, indeed, found the right place was a small brass plate over the doorbell that bore the station's call letters. She rang the bell. Its sound came faintly through the door, a sweet long-winded chime. Looking down, she waited. Then she heard the muted sound of rapid footsteps. Her heartbeat accelerated accordingly.

The door was flung open, and a young woman started talking to her before she could fully see her. “It's about time! My God, we're starved!” she said. Savannah vaguely recognized her voice, although her rather plain features were not familiar. Her expectant expression quickly changed. “You're not the pizza house.”

“No,” Savannah said.

“Oh dear.” The young woman looked to be in her midtwenties. She was of average height, weight and build, and wore a jogging suit designed for exercise rather than the fashionable sort Susan wore. Savannah identified the voice.

“You're Melissa Stuart, aren't you?”

Melissa smiled. “You listen.”

“When I can.”

“And you're here for Jared. Quick, come on in. I'm supposed to be in the booth monitoring things.”

Savannah stepped into the front hall. It was a large hexagonal room whose outstanding feature was a winding staircase that led to the second floor. Three doorways led to the center of the house. Melissa disappeared through one, leaving Savannah to wonder how she had known she was there to see Jared.

Her palms felt damp inside her gloves, so she removed them and held them in one hand. She felt trapped, and wished she could turn and run, but it was too late for that. She glanced helplessly around. A pair of lamps on a console table cast a gentle light in the hall. The floor was made of newly polished oak. The walls were clean, uncracked, and painted an almond shade. Savannah was surprised by the contemporary prints adorning the wall and the built-in speakers that played, at a just-audible volume, the station's country sound. In fact, the only concessions to the Victorian style were the delicately carved ballistrade and the patterned runner that climbed the stairs.

With another quick look around, Savannah realized that either the house had been thoroughly renovated within the last year or two, or it had been newly built not long before that. She was trying to decide whether that was relevant to anything when a man appeared at the door through which Melissa had gone.

He was exceedingly tall, exceedingly thin, exceedingly intense. The oxford-cloth shirt that hung on his upper body was tucked into a pair of chinos that fit better than the shirt, but in so doing only emphasized his thinness. She searched his face for the warmth she heard night after night, but his features were nearly as angular as his body.

Savannah wouldn't have called him handsome by any stretch of the imagination, and there was nothing remotely sexy about him. Her heart fell farther than she thought it could.

Then he said, “Hi,” and her spirits bounced back up. His voice was as deep but not as smooth or as breathtaking as the one she knew. “You're here to see Jared?”

She nodded.

“He wasn't expecting anyone.”

“I know. But it's important that I see him.”

“You look familiar.”

She shrugged.

“Who are you?” he asked.

There was no way to get out of it this time. “Savannah Smith. I'm with the attorney general's office.”

“What's he done?”

She gave a small smile. “Nothing. It's what he may be able to do that's brought me here.”

“Mysterious,” the man said. His tone was civil enough, but it had an edge. He made Savannah feel as though she were under investigation, which was a new and not terribly pleasing experience, particularly since she was, indeed, feeling guilty.

“Is Mr. Snow around?”

“He'd better be, since he's supposed to go on the air pretty soon.”

“May I see him?”

“I'll have to—”

The doorbell rang.

For the first time the man's eyes came alive. “Here they are.” He started toward her, or more accurately, since he seemed to have momentarily deemed her inconsequential, toward the door. “It's about time,” he muttered. “We called in that order more than an hour ago.” Pulling the door open, he reached into his pocket, drew out several bills, and plastered them into the hand of the delivery boy in exchange for two large pizza boxes. After elbowing the door shut, he made for the doorway through which he'd first come.

“Uh, excuse me?” Savannah called.

“Hold on,” he said and disappeared.

She couldn't believe she was left alone. She wondered whether this was standard security procedure. If so, it was crazy. For all they knew, she could be a deranged killer, set to gun down the man who had driven her crazy night after night.

Of course, few deranged killers would be dressed as she was in imported leather heels, a full-length cashmere topcoat, and gloves of the finest kidskin. Then again, any number of interesting weapons could be concealed in her briefcase.

With no idea when the tall, skinny man would return, and too uneasy to stand still, she wandered across the hall toward the desk that stood by one of the doors. It was a receptionist's desk, tidied up for the night. Her eyes fell on the telephone with its panel of buttons, and, remembering the calls she'd made earlier that day, she felt a glimmer of color rise to her cheeks.

Averting her gaze, she looked into the room the desk guarded. It was the parlor, no doubt a waiting room in which visitors sat before being fetched. Savannah had heard enough of the daytime programming to know that the DJs frequently interviewed guests who were affiliated with the country music scene or, on occasion, with the state.

At night it was different. Jared Snow never interviewed anyone. He didn't need a diversion, nor did his listeners. His voice and his music were more than enough.

For a minute she listened to the music that was barely an echo in the background. Then, taking in a long, shaky breath, she walked into the room. She trailed a finger along the back of a Victorian settee, then along the edge of a modern marble piece. The combination was unusual. Looking around, she saw similar groupings. While the modern pieces were in sedate colors, the period pieces were made of distinctly modern fabrics. It was, she realized, a decorator's twist on “a little country in the city.”

“Do you like it?” asked a voice from the door. It was deep, faintly raspy, as familiar to her as the cracks on the ceiling above her bed.

Aside from her pulse, which beat at a rapid tattoo, Savannah went still all over. Her back was to him. She didn't know if she wanted to turn. His voice was so warm, so rich and wonderful. If the rest of him was not as warm and rich and wonderful, she would be shattered.

So she prepared herself for the worst. In a split second's pause, she imagined that he was an inch shorter than she, twelve inches wider, bespectacled and balding.

Only then did she turn.

C
HAPTER
6

He stood at the door with his right shoulder braced lightly against the frame. One of his hands was anchored in the front pocket of his jeans, the other hung loosely by his side. His legs were long and planted casually on the oak planks underfoot, but it was not the floor that commanded Savannah's attention. Nor was it his pale blue T-shirt, or the flannel shirt that lay open over it, or his soft, snug jeans. The entire man took her breath away—his sandy-colored hair, rough-hewn features, broad shoulders, trim waist, and lean hips.