Drop Dead Gorgeous (24 page)
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.
"You thought about things last night, obviously, or you wouldn't have made this list."
"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 back, it didn't show that call separately from the first one, it just showed the total number or 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,
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 to 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
!"
