You Don't Know Me (23 page)

The door flew open and John Callahan, his shirt off, stood in the aperture, glaring down at her.

The sight of his smoothly muscled body threw Hayley out of sync. She grinned stupidly.

“Yeah?” he asked, clearly annoyed. “How’d you get in? Oh,
shit!
I opened the gates.”

“I’m . . . Hayley Scott,” she said distantly, her ears crashing with thunder from the frightened beat of her heart and the screaming of her nerves.

“I was expecting someone else. What do you want?”

“I’m . . . I’m . . .”

“What?” he demanded impatiently, clearly distracted.

“I’m Denise’s sister.”

That caught him up. He stared, his gaze raking her from head to toe. The crashing in her head changed to a loud hum. She couldn’t think. Struggling, she tried to keep the hum in her head from overtaking her.
My God,
she thought in amazement.
I’m going to faint.

And promptly did.

 

 

She awoke almost instantly, aware that she was in Callahan’s arms and he was carrying her inside the house. Walls and furnishings flashed by and she was placed on a couch in a living room, which was surrounded by an upstairs gallery. Above her head, paddle fans floated lazily.

John Callahan glared down at her, his slate-blue eyes full of harsh questions. “Are you sick?” he demanded.

“No.” It was a pathetic squeak. Clearing her throat, she said again, louder, “No.”

“Let me get you something. Don’t move.”

She didn’t. She
couldn’t.
She thought she might freeze from embarrassment and be in a permanent cryogenic state. This was
not
how she’d envisioned her first meeting with the famed John Callahan.

He returned with a glass of water and a snifter of brandy, cocking an eyebrow and lifting each drink in turn.

“The brandy,” Hayley decided with a faint smile.

“Smart choice.”

Struggling upward, she sipped the fiery liquid, choking a bit. Almost instantly she felt her color return and along with it, a suffocating sense of dismal humiliation.

“Okay, who are you?” Callahan asked with more patience than she would have credited him.

“Hayley Scott, Denise’s sister.”

“My ex-wife is an only child,” he clipped out. “No siblings.”

“A lie. You must know how Denise lies. She can’t help herself. Maybe she doesn’t even know what the truth is anymore.”

His lashes narrowed. “She’s not here right now. I don’t know where she is.”

She heard the worry in his tone but was too distracted by her own amazement. Denise
lived
here with
him?

“So you want to catch up on old times?” He was ironic.

The opportunity was here. All she had to do was pull a copy of her audition DVD out of her handbag—which was somewhere near the front door, she realized in dismay—and wow him with her talent. But Callahan was in no mood to be sold on her acting skills. His concentration was all on Denise.

“Something like that,” she murmured.

He consulted his watch, frowning.

Hayley realized that if she stuck around, she would likely meet her sister face-to-face. This was a wrinkle she hadn’t considered. See Denise in person?

Emotions charged through her in shock waves. They hadn’t been together since their flight from Wagon Wheel. Denise had been crying and Dinah had shaken and shaken her, forcing her to get a grip.

Hayley shut down, heart pounding so hard, she closed her eyes, woozy.

“Are you sure you’re not sick?” His voice was the crack of a whip.

“I’m just tired. I haven’t eaten today and it caught me. When . . . when will Denise be back?”

He shook his head.

 

 

In truth John wasn’t sure. Telltale signs of flight abounded. Clothes were strewn around Denise’s room and the beaten Corolla wasn’t in the garage. A scratched-out note on the kitchen table asked him to feed Bobo. No word on where she’d gone or when she’d return. It could be that she’d just gone out for a few hours; anything was possible with Denise. But the house felt abandoned and empty, bereft almost. John sensed it keenly, in a way that got beneath his skin.

And so he was in no mood to deal with this Denise look-alike and her pack of lies, no matter how entertaining.

She seemed to have a lot she wanted to say, but there was a lock on her mouth. Another day, John might have been interested enough to solve the mystery.

But not today.

The color had come back to her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled, a darker blue than Denise’s but the same shape and size. Her hair wasn’t as blond. Maybe she kept it natural, although Denise seemed to have lost her bottle of bleach these days as well. If he didn’t know better he would believe they
were
related; they certainly possessed the same look.

“Give me your name and phone number, and I’ll have Denise call you,” he said tersely.

“Can’t I stay awhile?”

“I’ll give her the information,” was his answer.

She chewed on her bottom lip, a gesture that added to her resemblance to Denise even though his ex was too careful about her physical appearance to indulge in nervous habits. Still, there was something that reached him. What did she really want?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, she told him, “I’m a struggling actress myself.”

“Oh, God.”

That stopped her. She wasn’t stupid, at least. “But I guess you don’t want to hear that right now. Got a pen?”

He grabbed one from the office and when he returned she was holding a copy of
Entertainment.
She scratched down her information on the backside of the magazine and handed it to him.

“That’s my cell. Have Denise call me,” she said.

He glanced at the name. Hayley Scott.

“Tell her I’ve been in town awhile.”

“You haven’t tried to contact her before?”

“We kind of lost touch, Mr. Callahan.”

He gazed at her expectantly. She wrinkled her nose. Now that definitely was Denise. This Hayley person had copied her movements so well, it was uncanny.

“So you still believe she’s an only child?” she asked, climbing to her feet where she stood unsteadily a moment or two. John automatically reached out to help her, but she jerked away.

“I don’t really know,” he admitted honestly.

“Make her tell you the truth.”

With that advice, she headed for the door. He followed behind her and watched as she climbed into a car a decade older than Denise’s Corolla.

“Where are you?” John whispered as soon as her taillights vanished around the corner of the drive. He’d let the gate re-open as soon as he’d realized Denise wasn’t home. Now, with dusk approaching, he pushed the button to close the wrought-iron fence.

Two hours later, as he sat in his office, doodling pensively, the landline suddenly buzzed.

“Callahan,” he answered.

“John? Tha’choo?”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Denise. The slur in her voice was unmistakable. Memories tumbled over each other. Ugly memories of the times she’d been stoned and drunk and generally out of her head. His fury knew no bounds. She’d fooled him. He’d believed in her and she’d played him for a sucker again.

“Where are you?” he demanded.

“Don’t be mad . . .”

“For God’s sake, Denise, you just don’t know how to stay clean.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She started to cry. Or at least it sounded like it. Denise never gave in to true emotion, but she sure as hell played the part. “Don’t be mad. I love you, and I want to come home.”

“You should have thought of that before you left.”

“No, John. Don’t . . .”

A skirmish on the other end of the line. Swearing. Then a male voice demanded, “Who the fuck is this?”

“Who are you?” he demanded right back.

The man on the other end cut the connection.

John slowly set the phone down. The bitch had done it again. Stolen his heart then left. Made passionate love to him, then jumped in the sack with the nearest, most repulsive loser she could find. A punishment to her or to him. He didn’t know which.

But it was the last time it would ever happen. The very last time.

She wouldn’t be allowed into his house—into his goddamned life—again.

 

 

Through a drug-hazed vision Denise watched Lambert stare at the phone in his hand. A second later he slammed it at her.
Thwack, thwack.
Pain exploded inside her head. Her vision grayed. Something warm and thick stuck to her eyelashes. Rivulets of her own blood. Swiping them away, she glanced down at scarlet-stained hands. Shocked, she turned her hands palm up, smelling the slightly sweet odor of blood, remembering the hot sticky feel.

“Call him again and you’re dead,” Lambert hissed in her ear, shaking her.

Denise didn’t respond. She waited until Lambert’s ragged breathing came under control. Seconds felt like hours as she stayed perfectly still. Rigid. Firm in the belief that if she didn’t move, maybe he would leave her alone. Finally he left the room, locking it from the outside.

How had it happened? One moment she’d been at Carolyn Lenton’s, the next in this nightmare. Lambert had seemed like the ticket out of trouble; in fact she’d sailed into a whirlpool straight to hell.

With an effort she hauled herself to the bathroom to clean up. At the sight of herself, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The bastard had whacked the phone against her head so hard, he’d broken the skin. Lots of blood. Lots and lots of blood, but upon closer examination, not much of a serious cut at all.

“I am going to kill him,” she said softly to the pathetic image staring back at her. The thought was calming. Just like before, when she’d decided to kill her stepfather.

Frowning, Denise scrubbed at the blood. Thomas Daniels was dead. He’d died and stayed dead. But she hadn’t killed him. She’d planned to. God knew she’d wanted to. But then something happened and she didn’t have to.

If only she knew what that something was. Delving into her subconscious, she carefully picked through pieces of memory better left untouched. A bad feeling invaded her every pore.

“Maybe I did kill him,” she said aloud.

Maybe that’s why it sounded so right to kill Lambert.

 

 

The man in question sat at the bar downstairs, smoking a cigarette and watching Lina, his maid, move lethargically around the living room, ostensibly dusting and cleaning. He owned her ever since she’d been caught stealing from an uppity friend of his and had been persona non grata at the best homes in Beverly Hills.

She’d protested her innocence, of course. The pool boy, Juan Miguel, was responsible. Lambert had assured her he believed her, hired her himself, and proceeded to be her best friend and patron. But he knew she stole from him.

She had a young son, Paolo, who lived with his grandparents in Colombia. Lina wanted to save enough money to bring Paolo to Los Angeles. Her husband, a bum who drank all her earnings, wasn’t even part of the picture. Lina escaped him by heading to the land of opportunity and living with friends who had an eye on a sizable chunk of her wages as well.

Then the report of her thieving. Enter Lambert Wallace, with offers of money and protection.

Yes. He owned her now.

The very first night of her employ, she had worked late. He’d offered her a drink and asked questions about her life in Colombia. She refused the drink, but slowly warmed up. Very slowly. It had taken several months to break down her defenses, but by the time he ran his hands over her sturdy buttocks, she didn’t refuse him. She accepted him with quiet stoicism, her black eyes flashing with repressed emotion that both amused and inflamed him.

She didn’t protest when his fingers crept up her leg. The first time he mounted her she was bent over, cleaning the marble entryway. The sight of her swaying hips and subservient position did him in. Yanking up her skirt, he pulled down her undergarments with shaking fingers, climaxing so quickly he could hardly get inside her before the deed was done.

After a first gasp she’d said nothing. Lambert was in heaven. He liked sex, especially sex where he dominated. When he was eleven years old, a mistress of his wealthy father had turned him on to marijuana and mutual masturbation. He’d wanted sex with her but she’d tormented and teased, refusing him the ultimate act. Was it his fault he’d turned to Heather Newberger?

What a circus. Lambert smiled faintly, sipping Courvoisier and reliving those early years. Of course his wealthy, puritanical father had hushed it up. And the Newbergers had made out, make no mistake about that. The cost of Heather Newberger’s virginity? Well, it was a helluva lot more than it was worth, by God. She’d screamed and cried and made a real nuisance of herself.

The recriminations! You’d have thought he’d raped Mother Teresa. He’d told them she’d wanted it. He’d been pretty clear on the whole thing, but they didn’t hear him. Sent to an all-boys school. Time passed. Boredom. Lambert decided women were only on this earth for the pleasure and domination of men. He’d found a friend who believed the same, and the two of them had snuck out of school and met some girls as eager as they were. Then one of them claimed she was pregnant. More hush money.

And so it went until dear old Dad flamed out with lung cancer. Mom held the purse strings for a while, but Lambert made sure she knew he was the entitled one. He intimidated and threatened and made her life hell until she just gave up one day, signing over everything and melting into the woodwork like the pathetic little worm she was.