Legacy of Lies (17 page)

“I've always wanted to have my name up in lights,” Alex murmured, half in truth, half in jest.

“Blue neon,” Eleanor agreed robustly. “And now I think it's time to relinquish the floor to Lord's brilliant president.”

Zach pushed himself to his feet, trying, as he had been for the past hour, to keep focused on the conversation at hand. Ever since Alex had arrived, bright and brazen in a red blazer and sinfully short, pleated white skirt that made her look like a nubile cheerleader he'd been fighting a losing battle to keep his mind on work.

“‘Blue Bayou' is the number-one show in the world,” he said, telling Alex nothing she didn't already know. “Our research shows that an extraordinary number of women want an opportunity to wear your glamorous Hollywood
fashions. And men want to buy the intimate apparel for their wives or lovers.”

“The studio does receive a lot of mail from fans,” Alex agreed. She wondered if Zach's research had also revealed the transvestites and professional female impersonators who'd professed a desire to own the sexy fashions.

He pulled out a stack of colorful computer-generated charts depicting wholesale and retail costs of producing the line, the estimated potential sales, profit, loss, her share, until her head was whirling with numbers, which made it even more difficult to keep her mind on business.

Because try as she might, and as irritated as she was at him, as Alex watched Zach pointing out the various statistics, she kept focusing on his strong dark hands rather than the numbers depicted, remembering with vivid, painful detail how they had been capable of creating such warmth. Such pleasure. Such deep and aching need.

“I'm overwhelmed,” she said quietly.

Eleanor would've had to be deaf to miss the hesitation in Alex's tone. “But?” she coaxed.

“I'm not certain my contract allows me to enter into outside agreements.”

“Your contract with Friedman Television Production Company gives you sole ownership of your designs,” Zach assured her. “There's no conflict.”

Alex was not surprised that Zach would know the details of her two-page contract with Sophie. He would not have invited her to this business meeting
without
knowing.

“I'm sure your producer would enjoy the additional promotion for her program,” Eleanor said.

Alex knew she was being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She wanted the chance so badly she could taste it. But she was worried about her unruly feelings for Zach
ary, and angry that he'd manipulated her into this uncomfortable situation in the first place.

“I'd like to give you a decision, but my horoscope said I shouldn't enter into any business agreements until Jupiter aligns with Mars.”

“When will that be?” Impatience surrounded Eleanor like a shimmering life force.

“I don't know,” Alex said, regretting the flippant answer the moment it left her lips. “I'm sorry, I was just kidding. I never read my horoscope.” Actually she did. But she only chose to believe the positive messages. “But I would like a few days to think it over.”

“How many days?” Eleanor's earlier restraint began to slip.

Zach put a calming hand on the older woman's arm. “Take all the time you need,” he told Alex.

After promising Eleanor that she would make her decision within the next few days, Alex left the suite of offices, relieved when Zach allowed her to walk away without a word.

She was in the parking garage, congratulating herself on escaping without incident, when he caught up with her.

“Go away.” Alex marched toward her Porsche, her heels clattering on the concrete floor.

“You're angry at me,” he diagnosed.

She spun around, her color rising. “You're damn right I am!”

Zach wasn't all that bothered by her flare of temper. An angry woman was not an indifferent one. Although he would have preferred some other response—such as her throwing herself into his arms—at this point he was willing to take whatever he could get.

“I hadn't realized you'd consider the chance to have your name become a household word an insult.”

“It's not the offer. It's the way you manipulated things just to throw us together again that I'm furious about.”

He rocked back on his heels and regarded her, his eyes shuttered. “I'm not in the habit of manipulating women into my bed. Nor have I ever paid for a woman's favors. The offer is only for your work, Alex. Not your body.”

“Are you saying this wasn't your idea?”

“Actually, I argued against it.”

That statement, calmly spoken and so obviously the truth, took some of the wind out of her sails. “Don't you like my work?”

“Why do I get the feeling I'm in a no-win conversation?” Alex could hear the dry humor in his voice.

“Beats me,” she retorted, refusing to let him see he'd hurt her feelings. When she turned to walk away, he caught hold of her hand.

“Alex.” It was just her name. But uttered with such depth of emotion it had the power to stop her in her tracks.

She shook her head. “I have to go.”

“I know.” He stroked the back of her hand, leaving an unsettling trail of heat in its path.

Their gazes met and held. And Alex felt a strange little jolt in her heart.

“I'm sorry you thought I was trying to manipulate you.”

She shrugged and tried to look away. But she couldn't. “I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions.”

“Would it make you feel any better if I told you I'm very impressed with your talent? And that if you were any other designer, any other woman, I would have been beating your door down trying to get your signature on the dotted line?”

They were standing a discreet distance apart, linked by eyes and hands. “It should,” she admitted quietly.

“But it doesn't.” They were courting disaster. Even knowing that, Zach could not let go of her hand.

“I really ought to leave.”

“Not yet.” He drew her closer.

“We can't do this,” she insisted shakily. It was only a whisper, but easily heard in the cavernous stillness of subterranean garage.

“You know that.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “And I know that.”

He observed her solemnly, almost sadly, over the top of their linked hands. “So do you want to tell me why the idea feels so right?”

There were reasons. Alex knew there had to be reasons—hundreds of them, thousands, millions of logical, sensible reasons. But heaven help her, with his lips burning her hand and his eyes looking so deeply into hers, as if he could see all the way to her soul, she couldn't think of a single one. “Zach—”

“I love the way you say my name.” The thumb of his free hand brushed against her lips, his touch as light as goose down. “Say it again.”

“I can't.” She pulled her hand away and was appalled to realize she was trembling. Her mind was turning cartwheels; it was a struggle to think straight.

“I have a picture of you. Of us.”

“You do?” She had her own pictures, of course. Hundreds of them. Wonderful, romantic, sexy portraits, all in her mind, popping up at the most inopportune times to torment her.

“It's a snapshot taken by one of my brothers-in-law at the wedding. I keep it in my wallet.” When she backed away, running up against the driver's door of the red Porsche, Zach moved toward her, closing the distance once more between them.

“We're dancing.” He stroked her hair. “There's not a day that goes by that I don't take it out and look at it and think of how right you look, how right you felt, in my arms.”

Alex longed for Zach's touch. His kiss. She ached for him. What she craved was wrong, forbidden, and a mortal sin in probably every major religion of the world.

She knew that. But she couldn't help herself.

The need to touch him was overpowering. Just an innocent touch. What could it hurt?

She lifted her hand to his cheek. “I think about you, too. Far too often,” she admitted softly. To herself she admitted there was nothing innocent about what was happening here.

“Ah, Alex.” He closed his eyes, as if the touch of her fingertips was just the balm he needed. “Do you have any idea—”

“Yes.” She pressed her fingertips against his lips, cutting off the words. It was as if once he said the words out loud, once he told her how much he wanted to make love with her, she would be helpless to prevent it. “I do.”

She bit her lip and wished her mother had not brought her up to feel responsible for the consequences of her own behavior. “But we can't.”

“I know.” Zach cursed softly. “And that's what makes this all so damn hard.” He took in a deep, shuddering breath. “But I promise not to let my personal feelings stand in the way of your future.

“Eleanor's right. You're extremely talented, and the Blue Bayou collection would be a boon for our bottom line. We need you, Alex. And I think at this point in your career, you could use us, too.”

“Of course I could.” The opportunity would establish her as a top name in design. Like Cher's sexy television costuming did for Bob Mackie in the seventies. “But do
you really think you could keep things on a business level?” she asked doubtfully. If her own feelings were anything to go by, they were sunk.

“I'll do my damnedest.”

It was, she allowed, all she could ask for. If she was absolutely honest, she would have to admit it wasn't really what she wanted.

What she wanted, she realized with little surprise, was for Zach to take matters into his own hands. She wanted him to free her of all responsibility. She wanted him to drag her to the floor—all right, perhaps the back seat of the nearest car—and wildly ravish her until neither one of them could move.

But she knew that wasn't going to happen. When and if she decided to make love with Zachary Deveraux, Alex knew, she'd have to be willing to accept the consequences.

“Tell Eleanor I'll seriously consider her offer.”

He studied Alex for one final, painful minute. “I will.”

He stepped back, giving her room to open the car door. He stood there, silent and watchful as she fastened her seat belt and put the key in the ignition.

And then he watched her drive away.

Alex lectured herself all the way back to the “Blue Bayou” offices. He's married, she reminded herself.

Unhappily married,
an argumentative little voice piped up.

That doesn't matter. Unhappily married is still married.

Everyone knows his wife fools around
. Since meeting Zach, Alex had developed an almost unhealthy obsession with jet-set gossip. Especially that concerning Miranda Deveraux.

So, if everyone jumped off the roof, she remembered her mother saying, that wouldn't give you permission to jump off, too.

Lord, when had she become so willing to justify bad behavior?

When she'd fallen in love with a married man.

The bottom line was that Zachary Deveraux was married. And that made him off-limits.

Sophie was, unsurprisingly, ecstatic. “This is absolutely fantastic! The high-profile visibility Eleanor Lord is offering will definitely translate into big bucks at syndication time.” Watching Sophie's smile, Alex could practically see the dollar signs dancing in her head.

“Not to mention your designs being sold in every major city in the country. My God, girl, do you know what this means?”

“Of course,” Alex murmured. Her sketch pad was covered with lopsided stars, proof of her inability to concentrate these days.

Sophie's hands were splayed on her silk-draped hips. “As long as I've known you, I've never seen you as indecisive as you've been these past couple of weeks. First you didn't want to go to Eleanor Lord's party, and now you're hesitating about working with her. What do you have against the woman?”

“Nothing at all,” Alex answered honestly, switching to rectangles.

“It's a very good opportunity, Alex.”

“It's a terrific opportunity,” Alex agreed.

“So what the hell is the problem?”

“I don't know.” Not wanting to discuss anything so personal as her feelings for Zach, even with this woman who was both friend and benefactress, Alex laughed off her indecision.

One week later, still worried she was stepping into quicksand, she picked up the telephone.

“I've made a decision.”

Her answer shouldn't mean so damn much, Zach told himself. It shouldn't. But it did.

“I'm glad to hear that,” he replied mildly.

How was it that even his voice, coming across the wires, could create that now familiar, enervating flood of desire? What was she doing?

She should hang up. Now! Before she found herself in very hot water. Over her head.

She took a deep breath.

“You can draw up the papers.”

T
he Irish pub, located in, of all places, Pasadena, would definitely not have been Miranda's first choice for an intimate rendezvous. The single thing the out-of-the-way watering hole had going for it, she decided, was that she did not have to worry about running into anyone she knew.

Or more importantly, anyone who knew Zach.

She was on her second martini when the man she'd been waiting for finally showed up.

“You're late.”

Mickey O'Rourke shrugged uncaringly as he waved to a pair of uniformed cops seated nearby. From what she'd already determined during her irritating wait, the Hibernian watering hole was a favorite with the police. “Something came up.”

She frowned at him over the rim of the iced glass. When he sat down across the table, she caught the unmistakable scent of cheap drugstore cologne. “If you must meet me reeking of other women, I would prefer you find a bedmate with better taste in perfume.”

He grinned unrepentantly. “Don't tell me you're jealous.”

“Hardly.”

The grin widened, a cocky flash of white in his freckled face. He tilted the wooden chair on its back legs and laced his fingers behind his head. The gesture, which she had no doubt was meant to impress, caused his biceps to swell against the sleeves of his navy blue polo shirt.

“You sure about that?” Lines crinkled outward from his boyish blue eyes.

“Absolutely. I was merely pointing out that I am not paying you two hundred dollars a day—”

“Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses,” he reminded her helpfully.

“Plus expenses,” she agreed, “to waste time screwing.”

“Could have fooled me.” He lowered the chair to all four legs again and leaned across the small wooden table toward Miranda. “My balls still ache from our marathon fuckarama in Bungalow Five of the Beverly Hills Hotel last week.”

“Must you be so crude?”

“Don't get up on your high horse with me, sweetheart.” He ran his hand up her leg beneath the table. His thick square fingers slipped beneath her emerald silk skirt, exploring the soft skin above her stocking top. “I remember you liking it crude.” His fingers tightened. “And hard.

“In fact, how about you and I moving this meeting somewhere else. Somewhere more private.”

Mickey O'Rourke was everything Miranda despised. He was uneducated, horridly common and, thanks to an unfortunate habit of playing the ponies at Santa Anita racetrack, he was also, despite his hefty fees, always skating on the brink of poverty.

She had no doubt that while her civilized ancestors had
been drinking tea and playing polo, his people had amused themselves by painting their naked bodies blue and leaping out of trees.

He showed her no respect. Not in their business meetings or in bed. But, she allowed, the man was hung like a Brahma bull and could keep it up all night. He also had access to something she wanted. Something that made her willing to hang around places like this waiting for him to show up.

“What have you discovered?”

“I'll give you the rundown in a minute. Soon as I get a drink.” He signaled the bartender, calling out an order for something called a Black Marble.

“Okay. The information your husband's private cop came up with checks out,” he revealed, proving finally that he could, when required, get down to business. “Alex Lyons was born in Raleigh. She had a twin brother who was killed when he was still a kid. There's no record of any father.”

“I already know that,” Miranda said on a frustrated huff of breath.

“Yeah, but did you know that the mother seemed to have an incurable case of wanderlust?”

Damn. Miranda wondered if O'Rourke was going to turn out to be a waste of money, after all. “The papers I found in my husband's home safe reveal that the family moved a great deal.”

“Every year, like clockwork,” he agreed. The waitress delivered his drink to the table. He took a taste and nodded his satisfaction.

“You know, Wambaugh invented this drink,” he informed Miranda. “Stolichnaya on the rocks with an orange peel and a black olive.”

“It sounds absolutely delightful.” Her acid tone said otherwise. “Who is Wambaugh?”

“Joseph Wambaugh. The writer,” he elaborated at her blank look. “He used to be a cop. Now he writes books about cops.”

“Ah. A kindred spirit.” Her voice was tinged with sarcasm, letting him know she was fully aware that he'd been dismissed from the LAPD for various infractions, among them allegations of illegal gambling and citizen complaints of police brutality.

His open Irish face closed up. Storm clouds gathered in his blue eyes, reminding Miranda that despite his seeming Celtic charm, O'Rourke could be a very dangerous man. “Christ, you can be a bitch.”

“True enough.” She took another sip of her martini. Her green eyes turned as frosty as the Beefeater gin. “But let us not forget that I happen to be a very wealthy bitch. Who has thus far paid you a great deal of money for nothing.”

“Not exactly for nothing. What would you say if I told you that the Lyons family happened to move hearth and home each spring?”

“Spring?”

“April to be exact.” He leaned back in the chair, took another drink and waited.

It did not take long for comprehension to click in. “That's the anniversary of the murders and kidnapping. It's also the same month Eleanor runs her annual newspaper advertisements seeking information concerning Anna.”

“Bingo. Interesting coincidence, isn't it?”

“But not proof.”

“True enough. But it's a start.”

“Yes.” She sipped thoughtfully.

“You know, if this Lyons chick does turn out to be Anna Lord, it wouldn't be that difficult to arrange an accident.”

“An accident?” The idea, which she honestly hadn't considered, proved surprisingly appealing. “Surely that would be extremely dangerous.”

He shrugged again. His shoulders, thickly muscled from daily workouts at Gold's Gym, strained the shirt seams. “Not really.” He lifted his glass in a pantomimed farewell to the cops as they left the pub to return to their black-and-white cruiser parked outside.

“Don't forget,” rogue cop Mickey O'Rourke reminded Miranda, “I've got a lot of friends in high places.”

Miranda toyed with the green plastic toothpick from her drink as she thought about Eleanor Lord's will leaving the bulk of her vast empire to Anna. She thought about the irritating design deal Eleanor had offered Alexandra Lyons.

Then she thought about the way Zachary had been looking at Alex the night of Eleanor's party. From his intense expression, she'd suspected the pair had not been discussing business.

Whether or not Alex Lyons was, indeed, Anna Lord, Miranda realized that the woman still represented a very real threat.

“Let's cross that unsavory little bridge when we come to it,” she advised. “In the meantime, I've something else I want you to do.”

Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a photograph. The candid snapshot of Zach had been taken on Ipanema Beach during their honeymoon. Before that unfortunate little episode in the Mesbla store. He was wearing the brief black European swimsuit she'd had to coax him into. His hair was ruffled by the ocean breezes and he was smiling into the camera lens. That was, Miranda considered, the last time she could recall Zach smiling at her.

“This is a photograph of my husband.”

O'Rourke nodded in recognition. “Zachary Deveraux. The department-store honcho.”

“Yes. I wish to know every time he and Alexandra Lyons are together.”

“You got it.” He took the snapshot and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “How much coverage do you want? We can do bugs in both their offices and the broad's home, photo stakeouts, around-the-clock surveillance—”

“I want, as you investigator types put it, the works.”

“Gonna be expensive.”

“I've always believed one gets what one pays for.”

“A lady after my own heart.” He tossed back his drink, popped the fat black olive into his mouth and slipped his clever hand beneath the table again. “Is this meeting over?”

A familiar warmth that had nothing to do with the two martinis she'd drunk began to flow through Miranda's bloodstream. “I believe so.”

“Good.” He snapped her garter. “What would you say to a little afternoon delight?”

She'd been planning a brief trip to Saks. A few days ago, while comparison checking their couture lines, she'd seen a silk Chanel scarf she'd found particularly appealing. Miranda weighed the equally attractive choices; both shoplifting and sex always gave her a rush. Then, remembering that long, lust-filled afternoon at the Beverly Hills Hotel last week, she made her decision.

“It will have to be off the clock.” She absolutely refused to pay for what was so readily available for free. “You're good, Mr. O'Rourke. But not that good.”

“Why don't you withhold judgment on that?” The rogue grin was back. “Until you've seen what I can do with my handcuffs.”

That idea, Miranda admitted privately as they left the pub, had definite possibilities.