If I Can't Have You (6 page)

She swept the oddly shaped telephone from the floor with one hand, and somehow managed to keep the heavy statue balanced on her shoulder with the other. She stabbed her finger three times against the receiver and Trevor heard three awkward beeps.

What was she doing? If she was calling the police, he had to stop her.

He ran the short distance across the room, jerked the phone from her hand, and slammed it back down on the table.

From the corner of his eye he saw the statue swing toward him and he pivoted. She missed his head, clipping his shoulder instead. Pain shot through his arm. His fingers tingled, but somehow he managed
to wrench the sculpture from her and toss it across the floor. When she tried to run, he grabbed her wrists and pushed her against the wall.

“Don’t try that again. And don’t call anyone.” He couldn’t believe the sound of his voice—the anger, the fear, making him sound like a lunatic on the run from the law.

“Don’t hurt me,” she begged, as she attempted to tug her hands free from his grasp. “Please.”

Dear God! What was he doing? Had he truly gone mad?

He stared into her frightened blue eyes and saw the reflection of his own. He looked just as frightened as she. Maybe more so. He should let her go. She didn’t deserve to suffer because of his rage, his frustration.

He loosened his hold and in less than a second she struck out with her foot, landing a blow to his shin. A dull ache ricocheted up his leg, but the pain wasn’t strong enough to slow his actions. She was a hellcat, a woman who had taken over his home. He wasn’t about to let her get the upper hand.

His fingers tightened around her wrists again and he wedged her between him and the wall. He could feel the tremors in her body as he pressed against her—thighs against thighs, chest against breast. He didn’t want to hurt her, he just didn’t want her to move. What he was doing wasn’t right, but at least now she couldn’t call the police or hurt him again.

Tears slid from her eyes. He didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to know her fear. He rested his beard-roughened cheek against her soft one, holding her head to the wall so she couldn’t lash out at him with her teeth; He closed his eyes for just one moment, trying to think of what he should do next, but the only thoughts that came to him were visions of those nightmarish photos of Carole Sinclair he’d seen in the books he’d been looking through: platinum
blond hair matted with blood; white-satin sheets; and a naked body, slashed and gouged and streaked with something dark and horrible.

The photos were black-and-white, but Trevor remembered the color quite vividly—dark reddish brown.

He remembered the slit across her throat, the wounds in her chest, the gashes on her arms and legs, and he remembered the warm, sticky feel of her blood on his hands, his arms, his face, and on the mattress where he lay beside the dead woman.

His eyes flashed open. He didn’t want to see the horror anymore.

The woman twisted and he was suddenly confronted by a pair of terrified blue eyes, eyes that bothered him just as much as the sight of Carole’s battered body.

“Please let me go,” she whispered.

“Promise you won’t run? Promise you won’t call the police?”

She nodded slowly, but he didn’t believe her. Looking into her eyes, he could tell she was lying. The minute he dropped her hands, the second he moved away, she’d bolt, or she’d grab that statue again and try to kill him.

He’d never hurt a woman before, but he was hurting this one now, and he hated the fact that he had no other choice.

He could feel her heavy breathing as her chest rose and fell against his. He could feel her blood pumping rapidly through the veins in her wrists. He stood so close he could smell the sweetness of her perfume, the scent masking the vile metallic odor of blood that had permeated his senses since he woke in Carole’s
death bed
.

Another tear slid down her cheek. “Please,” she begged.

He eased his hold on her wrists and saw the redness
where his fingers had dug into her skin.

The horrid realization of what he was doing settled in. He’d hurt her. A woman who didn’t deserve any of this.

Anger and frustration swept through him as he stumbled backward, getting as far away from her as he could. He stopped when he reached the bar. He needed a drink. He needed to figure out what was going on. He needed to know who the woman was and why she was in his house.

She hadn’t moved away from the wall, she hadn’t run, she hadn’t picked up the phone again to call the police. She just stood there rubbing the red marks on her arms, breathing heavily as she stared at him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told him, her gaze darting to the phone then back again to his eyes. “The police should be here soon. Why don’t you leave and we can pretend none of this ever happened.”

“I’m not leaving,” he stated flatly. This was his home. He wasn’t leaving unless he was carted away.

“They’ll arrest you.”

He laughed at her words. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

Trevor pulled the stopper from one of the decanters and filled a glass with whiskey. He ignored the bucket of ice, preferring his liquor neat instead of watered down. This way he could enjoy the slow burn as it hit his mouth and throat.

He tossed down a healthy swallow of liquor and stared at the woman over the top of the glass. “You’re free to leave if you want. I won’t come after you.”

She didn’t move, but her hands clenched into fists at her side. Her pretty blue eyes narrowed in anger. ‘This is my house,” she shouted. “Mine! I’m not going anywhere till you get the hell out.”

He downed another gulp of whiskey, thinking
that she must be just as crazy as he, and shrugged. ‘Then we’re at an impasse.”

“I’m sure the police will see things differently.”

“Then, I’ll wait around.”

He heard the deepness of her sigh. Beautiful—but gutsy. He wondered how long it would be before she came at him again.

Absently, he turned his attention from the woman to the things around him. Everything sat on the bar just as he remembered it. Glasses. Decanters. Ice bucket. Even a white terry cloth towel embroidered with an elegant gold
TM
hung from a gold-plated ring. The bar hadn’t changed. The living room hadn’t changed either, except for the way the furniture was arranged. So much was the same; so much was different.

Why couldn’t he remember what had happened? Why didn’t anything make sense? How could sixty years of his life have gone by without him knowing?

The woman by the pool had said he’d disappeared sixty years ago. The newspapers in the house said it was 1998. Nothing made sense.

He’d vanished. That’s what the books had said. No one knew why. No one knew where, but each author had a theory. Each author told a different story about his life before his Hollywood years and during.

He drained his glass, again studying the woman across the room as he drank. She was cold, shivering. Her arms were clasped over her chest, over that flimsy silk nightie, and she just stood there staring at him as if he were mad. Hell! Maybe he was.

Or maybe this was some kind of nightmare. Maybe he’d wake up and life would be normal again. That’s what he’d hoped when he’d awakened in bed with Carole. But that was no nightmare. That was death—horrible and brutal.

Damn! He just wished everything would go away.

Ignoring the woman, ignoring the blue of her eyes that glared at him, he a
gain filled his
glass with whiskey.

He thought about the clippings he’d seen in the books. He’d seen them all before—when they’d first appeared in the papers. Now, though, his Hollywood years had been wrapped up neatly on glossy paper and bound in leather. He’d reread columns by Hedda and Louella, and stared at photos taken at the Brown Derby and some of his other haunts, places where he’d eaten and drunk and danced with friends. Page after page he’d turned until he’d reached the photos taken the night before his “disappearance.” In one, he and Carole Sinclair were locked in a tight embrace next to his Duesenberg following a premiere party at the Trocadero. In another, Carole was blowing a kiss to the photographer as they sped away to their own entertainment.

Then he’d seen those photos of Carole.

He remembered the blood so vividly. And the knife.

He plowed his fingers through his hair and tossed down another swig of whiskey. He’d forgotten so much, why did he have to go on remembering the nightmare?

A scraping noise from across the room startled him. The woman. He’d nearly forgotten about her.

Was she a fool? Why hadn’t she run away? Why hadn’t she called for help? Why was she picking up that statue and putting it back on the table, as though straightening the house really mattered right now?

A sudden pounding on the door made him jerk around. Through the window he saw headlights in the driveway. He heard static and voices—a police radio.

Muscles tensed in his neck and shoulders. How
did they know he was here? She hadn’t spoken to anyone.

He twisted around to face the woman, but she’d already moved across the room. Her fingers fumbled as she unlatched the chain, turned the lock, and yanked open the door.

A uniformed officer stepped over the threshold, and Trevor knew his freedom was coming to an end.

“We received a 9-1-1 call from this address,” the officer said, quickly scanning the room before he turned his attention back to Adriana.

“Did you make the call?” he asked.

Adriana nodded as the officer quickly inspected her face, which she knew was streaked with tears. His investigative eyes glanced over her silk nightgown, her bare arms, and hesitated at the red skin circling her wrists. His gaze darted across the room to the man standing at the bar, and just as he’d inspected her, he did a quick appraisal of the stranger before looking back in her eyes. “Did you make the call?”

All semblance of speech froze in her throat, and she hugged her body, for the first time feeling the chill of night. Or was she feeling the shock of what was happening?

She tilted her head and looked at the man in the shrunken tuxedo, at the books on her table, and again at the intense brown eyes that continued to watch her.

He couldn’t be Trevor Montgomery. He was insane, and she wanted him out of her house.

Looking back at the policeman, she swallowed deeply. “Yes, sir,” she finally answered. “I made the call.”

“Do you mind telling me what the problem is?” the officer asked, scanning the neatly kept living room.

There was no broken glass. No objects thrown on
the floor. How could he possibly believe there was a problem?

The stranger didn’t look threatening—just drunk and disheveled. He looked like he might belong in the house, especially the way he swigged down his whiskey, walked over to the sofa, sat down, and picked up her favorite book,
Trevor Montgomery
—
The Man and The Mystery.

From the corner of her eye she could see the officer turn his attention back to her, but she couldn’t turn her gaze away from the stranger. He lifted the book, holding it so she could see the cover—see the face. Slowly, he smiled at her—the same smile that was on the cover.

Another shiver raced through her body and goose bumps rose on her arms.

The officer cleared his throat. “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you mind telling me why you called for help?”

“I was afraid.”

“Of him?”

“Yes,” she hesitantly told the officer. “He...” She touched the tender skin around her wrists and took one more look at the stranger. His smile had disappeared. His shoulders slumped, and the book fell to the floor.

But he hadn’t stopped looking at her.
Please, help me,
his eyes seemed to beg.
I’m telling the truth, you must believe me.

She looked down at the floor, hating to see the despair in his eyes, frightened of the words he’d uttered earlier about being Trevor Montgomery. She couldn’t let those things sway her from turning him in.

She bit her lip and turned toward the officer. “I heard noises,” she began, ready to tell her story. “I thought someone might have broken in.”

The policeman took a pen from his pocket, absently clicking the end again and again, and Adriana
was suddenly reminded of today’s photo shoot and the photographer who’d tried snapping pictures of her.

An overwhelming knot caught in her throat as she thought of other photographers, the ones that had refused to leave her alone, the ones that had sold pictures of her to the gossip rags.

The same thing could happen again.

Oh, God! She’d tried so hard to stay out of the public’s eye, to keep her picture out of the papers. If she turned this man in, the press would have a field day at her expense.

If she turned this man in, she might be locking away the man of her dreams.

No. How could she think such a thing? He was a stranger. She had to believe that. He was a stranger whose sudden appearance could thrust her into turmoil if the press learned of this incident.