The Book Stops Here (28 page)

“Not for long,” Alex assured him. “We’ll walk out at precisely oh-nine-twenty.”

“I’ll leave the motor running regardless.”

“Ten-four, Tango Bravo,” I muttered. I’d heard the guys on
NCIS
say something like that once or twice.

Derek paid no attention, just gave Alex a brief nod.

“You realize we’re just going to a mini mall,” I said.

Relaxed at the dining table with his coffee and a scone, Derek continued to tap out messages on his smartphone. No doubt he was plotting the takeover of a minor planet.

“Great coffee—thanks.” Alex set her cup in the sink and smiled at me. “All ready to go?”

I looked at the two of them. “You people are sick.”

“Is that a yes?”

Derek smirked. I grabbed his shirtfront and kissed him hard on the lips. He smacked my butt. “Have fun.”

“I’ll try to survive.”

We drove to a small gym in the Hayes Valley neighborhood where Alex taught her Krav Maga and kickboxing classes. Walking into the large space, I saw a row of punching bags hanging from the ceiling. Mirrors lined the opposite wall. The entire floor space was covered by one-inch-thick gray matting.

Alex introduced me to her three fellow instructors, and that’s when I found out that she had arranged for me to be their only student for the next hour or so.

“So you’re all Krav Maga teachers,” I said, and looked at Alex. “I thought you were mostly into jujitsu and black-belt-type stuff.”

“I’m into a lot of things,” she said. “I would usually recommend that you balance your self-defense fighting with some sort of Eastern discipline, but right now, we want to teach you how to kick someone’s ass and leave him crying in pain.”

“Sounds good to me.”

For the next hour, the four experts taught me some great moves. Even if Grizzly came at me with a gun, I knew in theory what to do to change the balance of power.

Unless he decided to shoot me at point-blank range.

I shook off the little chill that skittered across my shoulders at that thought.

We talked about how large Grizzly was, and two of the men showed me how to use Grizzly’s own weight against him. I hoped
it wouldn’t come to that. The brief training session gave me a little boost of self-confidence, but I knew I would need a lot more before I would be ready and willing to tackle Grizzly.

At precisely oh-nine-twenty, I walked out of the gym with Alex and ran to Derek’s car. As I slid into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door shut, I glanced across the street. Leaning against the wall of a seedy check-cashing center, smoking a cigarette, was Grizzly Jones.

His look was one of pure arrogance, as though I was helpless to stop him from harassing me.

I screamed and pointed. “That’s him, that’s him! Right there! Do you have your gun? Shoot him!”

Derek jumped out of the car. “Go inside and stay with Alex. Call the police.”

“He’s getting away!”

Grizzly flicked the cigarette into the gutter and took off running. As soon as there was a break in traffic, Derek raced across Hayes and down the block. Instead of going back inside, I ran right after him, afraid to leave him alone with that horrible creep.

For a man as stout as Grizzly, he could run pretty fast. It figured with the kind of life he’d led, he had to be used to being chased down by cops or other violent criminal types all the time.

Sadly, Grizzly jumped into a car and screeched away before Derek could grab him.

Derek turned and saw me. “I told you to call the cops.”

“I was going to, but . . .” I had no reason not to call the cops, except that my first instinct had been to join Derek in the chase.

“You could’ve been hurt.”

“You, too.”

“I can defend myself,” he said, his voice a low growl.

“So can I,” I said, my fists bunching up in frustration. “I just learned some moves. Want to see?”

He muttered some expletive and grabbed me by the arm.

I pulled away, anger and adrenaline still coursing through me. “Don’t do that.”

He yanked me into his arms and held me, rubbing my back like a recalcitrant toddler until I calmed down. “I will kill that man if he comes this close to you again.”

I was still annoyed, but his words and touch helped dispel it. I breathed in his masculine scent, an intoxicating blend of expensive leather, exotic spices, a touch of the rain forest. I relaxed against him. Damn it, I loved the way he smelled.

I was bordering on delirious. Probably from too much exercise or endorphins or something.

After another minute, we walked silently, arm in arm, back to the car.

Alex was standing outside her studio, watching us. She nodded once at Derek, then went back inside.

We didn’t speak on the drive home, but once we were inside our apartment, I turned on him. “You might think you’re James Bond or some superhero, but you’re not. I was scared to death that you’d be hurt. That guy is huge and mean and completely evil. I couldn’t let you face him alone.”

“And just how could you have helped me take him down?” Derek demanded. “I’d have been so distracted by you possibly being hurt that he would’ve ended up clocking me royally.”

I fumed. He was right, but that didn’t mean I was going to admit it out loud.

He cupped my face with his hands. “And let’s get one more thing straight right here and now. I
am
James Bond.”

He sounded exactly like Sean Connery, and he spoke so seriously that I laughed out loud. “Now that you mention it, I might’ve noticed a slight resemblance.”

After a long moment during which he studied my face
intently, he leaned in and kissed my neck. “And you bear a rather striking resemblance to a former associate. Miss Moneypenny. Perhaps you’d be interested in a bit of role-playing?”

“Perhaps,” I said, smiling as his lips moved up to my earlobe. “As long as it doesn’t involve handcuffs.”

•   •   •

W
ay too early the next morning, Ian called. “Edward Strathmore can meet with you for one hour if you can get there by noon.”

It took me a few seconds to shake off my sleepiness and realize it was Sunday. Derek and I had nothing planned that day, so I figured I’d better jump at the opportunity Ian presented.

“That’s perfect,” I said. “Where and when? And thank you.”

I wrote down the details.

“Have a good time,” Ian said. “It’ll be an experience you won’t forget.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I swear it’s not,” he said with a soft chuckle. “He’s an interesting fellow, an old-fashioned gentleman, and a bachelor, to boot. And his house is, hmm. Let’s just call it unusual.”

•   •   •

E
dward Strathmore’s home in Belvedere was almost twenty miles from my place south of Market, across the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County on a strip of land that jutted out into the San Francisco Bay.

Derek was adamant about driving me there and although I tried halfheartedly to talk him out of it, I was just as glad he insisted. We had just run into Grizzly Jones yesterday, so I had a feeling he was hovering nearby. As if there was a disturbance in the Force, I could
feel
him out there. He knew I worked at the studio. I had to believe he knew where I lived, too, and was waiting in the shadows to attack again.

That was too horrible a thought to dwell on, so I chose to ignore it. It helped to have my hunky boyfriend bodyguard along for the ride.

Once across the bridge, we wound our way through Marin and took the Tiburon turnoff. It was a roundabout journey to reach Mr. Strathmore’s opulent mansion on Belvedere’s westernmost promontory overlooking the Bay. We drove a hundred yards down the driveway until Derek pulled off to the side and came to a stop.

“It looks pink,” I said, staring at the huge stucco home clinging to the steep hillside.

“I think it’s a warm shade of beige,” Derek countered. “But the sunlight on this side of the house gives it a pinkish glow.”

The Strathmore home sat on a large piece of property that sloped all the way down to the Bay. It was a glorious example of the Mission Revival style that had been popular in the Bay Area since the 1920s. The style took its influence from the early California missions that had been built by the Spanish as they attempted to colonize and civilize the territory. It was epitomized by red tile roofs, arched windows, a bell tower, and often, as in this case, several balconies.

“Are you sure you don’t mind waiting?” I asked as Derek turned off the engine.

“Not at all.” He checked the dashboard clock. “I have a conference call starting in six minutes. It should last an hour, perhaps longer.”

“I shouldn’t be longer than that.”

“If the call ends early, I’ve got a briefcase full of work to do. I’m not going to drive off and leave you. I’ll be here waiting when you’re ready to go.”

“Thank you.” I leaned over and kissed him. “I love you.”

He pulled me back for a longer kiss. “I know.”

I was smiling as I shut the car door. For the longest time, I
hadn’t been able to say those three little words without stumbling over them. It wasn’t him; it was me. I couldn’t trust my feelings after getting myself tangled up in a number of disastrous relationships in the past. But times had changed. Now the words rolled off my tongue with ease. Because they were true. I loved Derek so much. And I knew he loved me, too.

A little scattered by my thoughts, I strolled dreamily down the drive to a paved stone walkway that led to the oversized front door. From here, the house appeared to be only one story. It was still lovely, but not nearly as intimidating as the side view of the entire three-story mansion.

Before knocking on the front door, I took in the picturesque fountain and terraced garden that made up the front yard. Indigenous shrubs and flowers meandered up the hill, and old oaks and palm trees lined the top of the ridge. I stopped and breathed in the subtle scents of lavender, rosemary, and ocean breezes.

Pulling myself together, I rang the doorbell, and was immediately greeted by a jovial housekeeper. “Oh, Miss Wainwright, we’re so happy you found your way. Come in.”

“Thank you.” I glanced around the large, sunny foyer. “It was no problem finding the house.”

“Isn’t that nice?” She was a woman in her sixties and she wore a classic white uniform with a black apron and sturdy white shoes. She was almost the same height as me, but stockier, with wide shoulders and an impressive chest. Her blond hair was braided and wrapped around her head, and she was almost bursting with cheeriness. “Such fun to have you visit Mr. Edward.”

“Thank you. It’s lovely to be here.” She was so happy and welcoming, I felt instantly as ease.

“He’s waiting for you in the living room.” She held out her arm to indicate the direction. “Please go right in. May I bring you a refreshment? Coffee? Tea? Aperitif?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“If you want anything, anything at all, you just ring for me. I’m Mrs. Sweet.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sweet.”

She smiled brightly and bustled away.

I walked through the wide arched opening into the large, open living room and came to an abrupt stop.

Holy guacamole,
as my mother would say.

The walls were covered with dozens of photographs of Mae West. Some showed her with other people, costars, friends, politicians, studio heads, partygoers. There were also framed playbills, probably featuring the shows in which Mae West had starred. Along one wall were six life-sized mannequins that displayed flashy, glittering floor-length gowns that must have been the ones she wore in her movies and plays. Around the mannequins’ necks were jeweled necklaces of all sizes. Were the stones real?

On the mantel was a row of mannequin heads that held platinum blond wigs, each coiffed in a convoluted hairstyle that was similar to the styles I’d seen her wear in her movies. Several featured diamond tiaras.

The room was a museum completely dedicated to Mae West.

In the middle of it all, a thin, older gentleman sat on the couch, quietly fiddling with a computer tablet. Probably checking his stocks and bonds. He was dressed comfortably in an old oxford-cloth blue shirt with the collar buttoned down and a gray cashmere vest. His trousers were a dark plaid. He looked eccentric and very wealthy. And frail, but that might’ve been because he was so thin.

A Siamese cat sat next to him, purring loudly as the man petted his sleek coat.

Despite the outlandish displays around the room, the furniture itself was comfortably contemporary. Two pale yellow couches faced each other, separated by a wide coffee table. Matching toile chairs were placed nearby and faced the fireplace. Another seating area was arranged at the opposite end of the spacious room.

The man noticed me after a few seconds and gave me a wide smile. He nudged the cat. “We have a guest, Prinny.” The cat jumped off the couch and skedaddled out of the room.

Mr. Strathmore walked toward me with both arms extended. “Miss Wainwright, what a treat.” He took my hands in his and shook them gently. “It’s delightful to meet you.”

“Please call me Brooklyn, Mr. Strathmore. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.”

“It’s my pleasure. And you must call me Edward.” As he walked me toward the glass door leading to the outside balcony, he whispered conspiratorially, “We don’t get many visitors. Unless we throw a party, that is. So we try to throw them quite often.”

Was that the royal
we
?
I wondered. Ian had mentioned that Edward was a bachelor, so was he including his housekeeper in the equation?

“Your house is magnificent,” I said, gazing at the high, beamed ceiling and stone fireplace. In the ceiling above the stone wall was a recessed panel that would open to release a screen. Did Edward watch old Mae West movies in this room? It would be the perfect setting.

“We like it,” he said pleasantly.

At the sliding glass door, I stared out at the expansive sight of city skyline, Bay, and Golden Gate Bridge. “What a stunning view.”

But I had to be honest. Who could concentrate on the view when the room itself was so bizarre and compelling?