Drop Dead Gorgeous by Linda Howard
I didn’t take my usual route home, either. Instead of turning right when I left the parking lot, to hit the main drag in front of the gym, I turned left and wound my way into a residential area, where I’d instantly spot any car behind me, then took a circuitous route home. Nada, no one behind me, at least not in a white Chevrolet.
When I reached my neighborhood, Beacon Hills Condominiums, I did notice a few white cars parked in front of the various buildings, but as Wyatt had pointed out white cars weren’t unusual, and, yeah, those white cars were probably always parked there this time of night because no one else was paying any attention to them. There’s one lady in the condo next to mine who takes a progressive approach whenever someone unknown parks in her allotted space: she lets the air out of their tires. A guy in one of the other buildings will park his pickup behind the trespasser, so there’s no way the offender can leave without hunting him up. As you can see, urban parking is akin to guerrilla warfare. I didn’t see any warfare going on, so evidently there weren’t any trespassers tonight.
Wyatt’s big Avalanche was parked in front of my unit. I live in the third building, first unit on the end. The end units had more windows and extra parking, with covered porticos, so the end units cost more. I thought the cost was worth it. Having an end unit also meant I had neighbors on only one side, which can be a blessing, especially if we were going to have another argument that involved yelling.
I went up the steps and let myself in the side door. I could hear the television in the living room. Wyatt hadn’t re-set the alarm, knowing I’d be coming home, and though I locked the door I didn’t re-set the alarm, either—because he’d be leaving. I knew in my bones he hadn’t come here tonight intending to spend the night. He would say what he wanted to say, then leave. Nor would I try to stop him, not tonight.
I dropped the bag containing my sweaty gym clothes on the floor in front of the washing machine, then went through the kitchen into the dining room. From there I could see into the living room, where he was sprawled on the couch watching a baseball game. His posture was relaxed and open—his long legs stretched out, his arms draped on each side of him, along the back of the couch. He did that, took command of a piece of furniture, a room, a scene, with his physical presence and confidence. At another time I would have gone into the living room and snuggled against his side, reveling in the feel of his arm coming around me and holding me tight, but I stayed where I was, rooted to the floor.
Somehow I couldn’t go into my own living room and sit on any of my own furniture, not now, not with him there. I put my purse on the dining room table and stood there, at a safe distance, watching him.
He’d heard me come in, of course, had probably noticed my car lights reflected on the windows as I turned in. He lowered the volume on the television, then tossed the remote onto the coffee table before looking at me. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
I shook my head. “No.”
His eyes narrowed; he didn’t like that. The sexual attraction between us was already thick in the room, despite our current…was “estrangement” too strong a word? He’d been ruthless in using our sexual attraction when he’d been pursuing me, bringing every weapon he had into play to break down my defenses. Touch is a powerful thing, and he was accustomed to touching me—and being touched, because it went both ways—whenever he wanted, however he wanted.
He stood up, his powerful shoulders seeming to block most of the room. He’d been home and changed; he was wearing jeans and a button-up green shirt, with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. “I’m sorry,” he said.
The bottom dropped out of my stomach as I waited for him to finish the sentence, to say “I can’t do this, I can’t marry you.” Mentally I reeled, and I reached out and braced my hand on the table, in case my body imitated my mind.
But he didn’t say anything else, just those two words; a few seconds clicked by before I realized he was apologizing.
The wrongness of it slapped me in the face, and I drew back. “Don’t you dare apologize!” I flared. “Not when you think you’re right and you’re just saying it to…to placate me!”
His brows lifted in disbelief. “Blair, when have I ever placated you?”
Stopped dead by that question, I had to admit, “Well…never.” The realization made me feel better, except for that teeny little diva part of me that would like to be placated every now and then. “Why are you apologizing then?”
“For hurting you the way I did.”
Damn him, damn him, damn him! I turned away before he could see the sudden tears that burned my eyes. Right from the first he’d had an uncanny knack for slipping under my defenses with the simple truth. I didn’t want him to know he’d hurt me, I’d much rather he think I was furious.
He wasn’t saying he’d realized he was wrong about all the things he’d said to me last night, just that he was sorry he’d hurt me. Nor had he said those things just to hurt me, to be deliberately spiteful. Wyatt wasn’t a spiteful man. He’d said what he said because he believed it to be true—and, yes, that was what hurt so much.
I mastered the tears by deliberately thinking of something disgusting, like people who went shopping barefoot. That really works. Try it sometime. I totally lost the urge to cry, and was able to turn back to Wyatt with my feelings under control.
“Thank you for the apology, then, but it wasn’t necessary,” I said carefully.
He was watching me intently, focusing on me the way he used to focus on the ball-carrier. “Stop pushing me away. We need to talk about this.”
I shook my head. “No, we don’t. Not yet. All I’m asking of you is to just let things ride for a little while, let me think.”
“About this?” he asked, leaning down to pick up an opened notebook from the couch where he’d been sitting. I recognized the one I’d used last night, with my list of the things he’d said—and I knew I’d left it on my bedside table.
I was horrified. “You snooped upstairs!” I accused. “That’s my list, not yours! Yours is on the counter!” I pointed toward his list of transgressions, which hadn’t been moved; he was still ignoring it. I didn’t like him knowing I’d sat up last night obsessing about the accusations he’d made, although he probably didn’t need to see that list to guess I hadn’t got much sleep.
“You’re avoiding me,” he calmly pointed out, not the least bit uncomfortable. “I have to get information somehow. And since I don’t deal with situations by running away from them…”
The accusation was obvious. I said, “I’m not running away from the situation. I’ve been trying to get everything sorted out in my head. If I were running away from it, I wouldn’t be thinking about it at all.” That was true, and he knew it. I have great avoidance skills. What I didn’t say was that he was right, that there was a great deal I hadn’t yet been able to face, because facing it might mean the end of Us, big U, us as a couple.
“But you are avoiding me.”
“I have to.” I met his gaze. I can’t think when you’re around. I know you; I know us. It would be too easy to end up in bed together, to gloss over this and not get anything settled.”
“You can’t think when you’re at work?”
“I’m busy when I’m at work. Do you spend all your time thinking about me when you’re at work?”
“More than I should,” he said grimly.
That admission made me feel a little better, but only a little. “There are too many interruptions at work. I need some quiet time, some alone time, to get things worked out in my head so I know where I stand. Then we’ll talk.”
“Doesn’t it strike you that this is something we should work out together?”
“When I know exactly what it is…yeah.”
Frustrated, he rubbed his hand over his face. “What do you mean—? This is what it is,” he said, holding up the notebook like Exhibit A.
I shrugged, unable to get into an item-by-item breakdown, which was probably exactly what he wanted.
&n
“Some. The three obvious ones, anyway.”
“And you had all morning to think about the other four.”
Man, what was I, the suspect in a triple homicide? Any minute now he would be shining a light in my face. “As it happens, I was busy this morning. I was with Jazz.”
His expression changed, softened a little. Being with Jazz meant I was still working on our wedding. “And?”
“And I’ll be busy tomorrow morning, too.” Looking for material for my wedding gown and, if possible, meeting with Monica Stevens.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“That’s all I’m prepared to tell you.”
All this time we’d been facing each other like enemy soldiers, he in the living room while I still stood in the dining room, with twelve, maybe fifteen feet separating us. That wasn’t far enough, because I could still feel the tug of chemistry between us, still see the heat in his eyes that meant he was thinking about jumping my bones. My bones were very happy at the idea of being jumped by him. Even with all this unfinished business between us, I wanted him.
The temptation to walk into his arms and forget about all this was strong. I know myself, know how truly, pathetically weak I am when it comes to him, so I looked away to break that eye-to-eye thing we had going on. The red light blinking on my telephone base caught my attention, and automatically I walked over to punch the button and hear the message.
“I know you’re alone.”
The whisper was barely audible, but it rasped along my nerve endings, made my hair stand up. I jumped back from the answering machine as if it were a snake.
“What is it?” Wyatt asked sharply, suddenly beside me and seizing me with a firm grip. From where he was standing, he hadn’t been able to hear the message.
My first impulse was not to tell him, not after he’d accused me of calling him about every little thing that popped into my head. Hurt pride can cause people to do stupid things. When I’m scared, though, hurt pride can go hang itself, and this business of people following me around had me spooked.
I just pointed at the answering machine.
He hit the replay button, and obligingly the whisper came again. “I know you’re alone.”
His expression was hard and unreadable. Without a word he went back into the living room, picked up the remote, and turned off the television. Then he came back and replayed the message again.
“I know you’re alone.”
The little window gave the date and time of the message, as well as the name and phone number of the caller. The message had been left by that Denver caller, at 12:04 a.m., today’s date.
He immediately accessed Caller ID. When the same person called more than once, it didn’t show that call separately from the first one, it just showed the total number of calls from that number. The Denver weirdo had called me forty-seven times, the last time at 3:27 this morning.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked, tight-lipped, as he fished his cell phone from its clip on his belt.
“You know how long it’s been going on. You answered the second call yourself, last Friday night after I got home from the hospital, while we were eating pizza.”
He nodded as he thumbed a number on his cell. “Foster, this is Bloodsworth,” he said into the phone, still keeping me hooked to his side with his free arm around me. “I have a situation here. Someone has been calling Blair, forty-seven times since last Friday—” He stopped and looked at me. “Or have you erased your Caller ID log since you got home from the hospital?”
I shook my head. Erasing Caller ID wasn’t high on my list of things to do.
“Okay. Forty-seven times. Last night, the caller left a message that makes me think Blair’s residence is under surveillance.”
“Surveillance?” I squeaked, completely unnerved by the thought. “Holy shit!”
Wyatt squeezed me, either in comfort or to tell me to keep the comments down, take your pick. I picked comfort.
“The Caller ID log shows a number, and Denver, Colorado, which leads me to believe this is a calling card number,” he continued. “How do we stand on tracing those numbers? That’s what I thought. Shit. Okay.” He listened a moment, then looked at my phone/answering machine. “It’s digital. Okay. I’ll bring it in.”
He flipped his cell phone shut and hooked it back on his belt, then unplugged my phone from both the phone jack and electrical outlet, wrapping the cords around the base unit to hold the cordless receiver in place.
“Are you taking my phone into custody?” I demanded.
“Yeah. Damn it, I wish you’d said something before now.”
Well, that did it. “Excuse the hell out of me!” I yelped indignantly. “I do believe I called you the first time she said something; remember last Saturday, and the woman who whispered, ‘Too bad I missed’? You said something about it being a crank call. As for all these other times, I think they were all last night, because I haven’t noticed anything on Caller ID and there certainly hasn’t been a message before now. After the fourth one last night, I turned the ringer off on all the phones.”
He whipped around to glare at me. “Are you saying this is the same voice as before?”
“Yeah, I am,” I said in a belligerent tone. “Yes, I know it’s a whisper. The other time she whispered, too. No, I can’t be one hundred damn percent certain, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s the same voice, and I think it’s a woman! So there!” Mature and reasonable, that’s me.
“Not only that,” I continued, on a roll now, “a woman has been following me! Take it to the bank, Lieutenant! It was a woman who tried to flatten me in the mall parking lot, a woman who’s been making harassing phone calls to me—gee, what are the odds that three different women have all of a sudden got it in for me? Not very high, right? My goodness, do you think it might be the same frickin’ woman?”
One might reasonably add “sarcastic” to my list of characteristics.
“Might be,” said Wyatt, grim-faced. “Who have you pissed off now?”
Chapter
Seventeen
“Other than you?” I asked sweetly.
“In case you haven’t checked lately, I’m not a woman.” He proved it, catching me to him with his free arm, still holding the phone in his other hand. I expected him to kiss me and I was prepared to bite, something I haven’t done since the first time Mom took me to the dentist, unless you want to count the time I bit…never mind. Something of my intent must have shown on my face because he laughed and pulled me full against him, prodding me with his erection.
I shoved myself away, staring at him, my mouth open in shock. “I don’t believe this! You just find out someone’s stalking me, and you have a hard-on? That’s perverted!”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s this little hissy fit you’re throwing. Does it to me every time.”
“I am not throwing a hissy fit!” I shouted. “I am righteously angry!”
“I like the hissy fits way better than you looking at me like I’ve slapped you,” he said. “Now listen up.”
I wasn’t in any mood to “listen up.” I stalked into the living room and sat down in one of the chairs, so he couldn’t sit beside me.
He put the phone on the coffee table and leaned over me, bracing his hands on the chair arms and pinning me in. His gaze was hard and glittering. “Blair, you will listen to me. I sincerely, deeply apologize. You’re a lot of things, but paranoid isn’t one of them. I should have listened and put the pieces together.”
I pressed my lips together, waiting for the comment that, if he’d had all the pieces, he might have come to that conclusion earlier. He didn’t make it; he doesn’t feel the need to state the obvious, as I often do.
“That said,” he continued, “there’s a strong possibility this nutcase has been watching your condo. How else could she know you were alone last night? We’re usually
“I didn’t see any strange cars when I got home.”
“Do you know what everyone in these condos drives? I didn’t think so. If she’d made any threats I wouldn’t leave you alone, but she’s stopped short of that.”
“You don’t think trying to run me down is a threat?”
“That person was driving a beige Buick, not a white Chevrolet. I’m not completely discounting it as part of the pattern, but it’s entirely possible that was a stand-alone incident, and until proof surfaces that the driver of the Buick is also the driver of the Chevrolet, it’ll be treated as stand-alone. These harassing phone calls are Class-Two misdemeanors, and if I can find out who’s making the calls then you can press charges, but until then—”
“What you’re saying is that this doesn’t appear serious enough to warrant a great deal of police attention.”
“You’re getting a great deal of my attention,” he said. “I’m not taking this lightly. I want you to pack your things and go home with me. There’s no reason why you should be harassed and annoyed when you don’t have to be.”
“I can also just have my phone number changed, and get it unlisted,” I pointed out.
“You’re moving anyway, when we get married. Why not do it now?”
Because I wasn’t certain we’d be getting married. His apology about the woman following me and my supposed paranoia was gratifying, but didn’t address our larger issues. “Because,” I said. There. Short and to the point.
He straightened, looking incredibly annoyed, considering I was the injured party here.
For a minute I thought he would press the point, but instead he decided against an argument and changed subjects. “I’m taking your phone in to the department, letting one of our techno geeks see if he can do anything with that recording, maybe pull out some background sounds or enhance the voice. Don’t answer the phone unless I’m the one calling. In fact, turn on your cell phone; I’ll call it instead. If anyone comes visiting, don’t answer the door; call nine-one-one instead. Got it?”