For All of Her Life (26 page)

“Help me!” she said.

He arched a brow. “Katie, you can’t possibly salvage—”

“I’m not trying to. I just want the title page. I need the author’s phone number and address. Oh, damn! This is all chapter seven. Here’s eight.”

Jordan sighed and hunkered down again, looking through the wet pages. Kathy hadn’t realized her towel had come undone until he thrust it back at her. “Will you get decent, please?”

“I am decent!” she assured him.

He offered her a loud sniff.

“Damn you, Jordan!”

“Here.”

“Here?”

“Title page. I found it. It’s a two-one-two area code. Your author is right in the Big Apple.”

“Give it to me.”

She snatched the page from him, offering a hasty, thanks, and hurried out to the phone.

“Kathy, it’s Saturday! Don’t you have to call the agent or something? Shouldn’t this be done on Monday morning?”

“She’s not represented. This is a first manuscript—out of the slush pile. And I’m not losing it!”

She put through the call, and was relieved to talk to a very excited young woman on the phone. Kathy made her the same offer she would have made an author with an aggressive agent, but she carefully insisted on a two-book contract for the price. She’d probably offered too much money, but Marty would back her up. He trusted her instincts. And if she was right, on a hard/soft deal, with a film sale, they would make a fortune—and so would the author.

Jordan watched her throughout the phone conversation, until she hung up, satisfied, smiling.

He crossed his arms over his chest, grinning. “So... did sex just make her a fortune or screw her all to hell?”

“My publishing house and the author should do quite well, thank you very much,” she replied curtly.

“Think nothing of it.”

“Jordan, if I’m going to make dinner—”

“That’s right. You have to salvage that dropped makeup bag, hmmm?”

“Jordan—”

“I’m going. Seven o’clock. Be ready.”

“I will.”

He inclined his head, indicating the door that connected with his office.

“You’ve already spoken with Jeremy and he has no problem with your having dinner with Mickey and me?”

She shook her head. “He’s fine with it.”

“How nice for you.”

She shrugged.

“He’s... very secure in this relationship.”

“Well then, I don’t know whether to be happy for him or to pity him.”

Kathy bit into her lower lip, meeting his narrowed green eyes. If he only knew!

But at the moment he was busy condemning her. For Jeremy’s sake.

She smiled sweetly. “I think I hear a child’s voice calling your name.”

“Do you really...?” he said as he drew near.

A strange, hot trembling took root inside her. “We’ve—we’ve got to stop...this!” she whispered.

They had to stop it. She had to stop it. Being with him again was something she wanted too badly. But years ago, trust had been broken between them. Shutters had gone up; doors had closed.

Humpty Dumpty had fallen from the wall.

And now...

Now sex was great. Better than the invention of fireworks. Eroding what was left of trust.

Yet even as she decided that she had to somehow keep her distance from him, he was closing the gap between them. She knew she should step back and do so quickly, yet the urge to move came too late. His hands were on her, drawing her to him.

Her towel was gone, fallen to the floor. Naked she was crushed against him. Feeling again the things she didn’t want to feel. The sweet, swift surge of fire within her blood, lapping through life and limb, settling in her heart and womb. She tried to wrench from him but too late, for his lips had fallen forcefully upon hers and she was in his arms, protesting, kissing him in return, not wanting him, wanting him with all of her heart.

No...

No, right. He released her. Lime eyes afire, his voice husky, deep, rich. Angry.

“Yeah. We’ve got to stop—this!”

He turned away from her, long strides taking him to the door.

She stared after him, her hand shaking as she touched her swollen lips, as he slammed his way out of the room.

Shelley liked South Beach. She always had. It had a flavor, even if the spruced-up Deco at that south tip hadn’t always been there. In the early seventies, kids had made the beach a surfboard haven, though there hadn’t been any real waves. It had just been a place to hang out. Donut and bagel shops were everywhere, psychedelic T-shirt stores, and ice stands. The ancient inhabitants of the run-down rooming houses had blended right in with the kids and young adults, walkers threading between roller-skaters, gray hair next to blue and green.

The television show “Miami Vice” came along and actually did a lot for the beaches. The rage had been to paint; beautiful pastels, soft and sharp, had begun to highlight whitewashed buildings, some of which were architectural masterpieces, drawn back to life. Clubs opened and clubs closed, but the beaches, South Beach in particular, found a new life all their own. The kids still blended with the old-timers. Clunky old surfboards were replaced by smaller, sleeker ones. Roller-bladers now vied with oldsters with walkers for sidewalk space.

The bagel shops sold gourmet coffees.

But it was still the beach, South Beach. Still with a soul all its own, unique.

She’d come here, taking a room at one of the very small redone Deco hotels, because she’d needed a night on her own before going to Jordan’s. She’d needed a little breathing space, a little thinking space. Needed to look back. And in a way, she was sorry. So much of her life had been wasted. God, she’d sold herself out. She was afraid, excited.

She wanted to sing with Blue Heron again. Wanted time back, her life back, maybe even her soul back.

Sometime tomorrow, she’d go on over to Jordan’s. Tonight, she just walked down the streets. Saturday night. They didn’t really hop until very late, but the restaurants were already getting busy. Humanity was trooping by. A handsome young couple, the woman pretty with soft brown hair and eyes, the guy blue-eyed and blond. They were looking everywhere. Tourists.

More humanity. A girl with the shortest shorts Shelley had ever seen, and she’d worn some damned short ones herself! These were curved right up the butt! Funny. The girl was with a funky guy in a fringed leather jacket—in the heat of summer.

A pair of roller-bladers. One with neon-red hair, one with green. They reminded Shelley of Christmas.

She wasn’t sure about their sexes.

A very old man, crusty looking, an old-timer, probably a fisherman.

German tourists.

Canadian tourists.

A trio of Latins.

Another trio. Two men and a woman. Coming closer. The woman tall, slim, with a rich sweep of auburn hair. Both men tall, the one with longish, sandy hair just beginning to gray...

Oh, God.

Her heart pounding, Shelley slipped into the nearest doorway. It was the entrance to a hotel. She carefully looked around the corner, keeping an eye on the trio.

They were very low key, they’d come from a parked Buick, and they were walking through the doorway of a small steak-house.

Kathy, Jordan—and their friend, the cop. What was his name? Mickey something. Mickey Dean.

Kathy and Jordan. Not a surprise. Kathy and Jordan and the cop. What the hell did that mean?

She hesitated a long minute, biting into her lower lip.

She wanted her life back. The years wasted. Her life.

She was in her mid forties. Beautiful still, people told her. But she was stitched and sewn, and upon occasion felt she was fading fast. Not that life couldn’t be good. If she’d only found something within it. Someone to love. Someone who loved her. Even if she’d had a child...

It was late for regrets.

She had herself—and her voice. She was talented, and she was again going to be given a chance to use her talent. She was no sweet young thing, but she might have years and years ahead of her.

She sighed, hesitated a few minutes longer.

But then she hurried away.

And found a phone. And dialed. That the cop was hanging around again just might be dangerous.

Damned dangerous.

Shelley listened to the phone ring. Once, twice, three times. If there was no answer, she would hang up. She never talked to machines.

But there was a response.

“Hello? Hello?”

She bit into her lower lip, then spoke quickly, listened in return, and hung up the phone.

For several seconds she kept her hand on the receiver. She inhaled deeply, exhaled on a sigh.

Turned around and gasped, seeing a startlingly familiar face.

“Oh, my God! What are you doing here?”

It was good to see Mickey again. He had always been down to earth, honest, warm—and so filled with integrity that he could be more blunt than a desert plateau. He hadn’t changed since Kathy had seen him, not a bit. He hadn’t even gained any gray in his hair, which seemed a miracle, considering his line of work.

Leaving the house had been interesting. That Tara wasn’t pleased was rather painfully evident, that Jordan didn’t care was even more so. However, Kathy was convinced that one day Tara might just make a fine actress, since she had managed to sweetly drape herself about Jeremy, announcing that the two would spend the evening discussing, and working on, fitness techniques. Jeremy had shrugged to Kathy, offering her an awkward smile, and she’d given him a kiss good-bye, whispering that she surely owed him a vacation trip to Hawaii by now.

Neither Bren nor Alex had been happy about the request—made to them by both parents—that they stay in for the night. Sally apparently hadn’t understood it, but she had instinctively come to the fore when needed.

“My little darlings, you’re to stay home and entertain your doting old grandma this evening. We’ll have a thrilling game of Trivial Pursuit, and watch while the hours speed by!”

“Gram, you’re neither old, nor have you ever needed entertaining!” Alex had protested, eyeing her parents suspiciously. “And—”

“And it’s Saturday night, a pain to go out,” Angel Garcia had said, slipping it in like a master of diplomacy. He glanced at Alex, shrugging. “Trivial Pursuit sounds great. Bren and me against you and your gram. We’ll beat the pants off you.”

“I beg your pardon, young man!” Sally had teased.

They’d all laughed, and the tension had dissipated. Alex had remained suspicious, but it hadn’t mattered.

Within an hour Mickey had come, and they’d left the house, heading for the restaurant. It was a great place. Small. Homey. The private rooms weren’t in any way lush—they offered the same dark wood tables and comfortable chairs as the main rooms—but they were havens from the din of a Saturday night. Jordan was very happy; he’d left the house with no fanfare, slipped into the restaurant without attracting any paparazzi. For the first few minutes after they’d taken their seats and ordered their drinks, he’d just leaned back, quiet, letting Kathy and Mickey catch up. When Kathy realized that he just sat and listened while Mickey talked about his life and she told Mickey about hers—her excitement over the book about the murder—she realized with a tug at her heart that his being so willing to take a back seat had been something else she had loved about him. He could always have the fanfare: the press, the media, the attention. He could command it; he had not only musical ability, but a capacity to speak clearly and concisely and compellingly. And he had charm. But he often thrust others forward.

Kathy didn’t want to think about that. She did want to know what Mickey thought about the possibility of her daughters being in danger.

When she’d been served her drink—in a tall glass with a lot of ginger ale and a little Jack Black—she leaned toward Mickey. “What do you think about the phone calls?”

Mickey instantly looked to Jordan. “Well—”

“Me, Mickey, over here. Don’t you dare look at him. I want some honesty here. What do you think about the phone calls?”

He threw up his hands. “Kathy, I still don’t know what to make of them. Jordan was convinced ten years ago that something wasn’t right.”

“I know,” she murmured, her voice just a little testy.

Jordan made a sound of impatience. “Kathy, I’ve already said—”

“Guys!” Mickey pleaded.

“Sorry,” Jordan muttered.

“All right. Let’s go back. Jordan is convinced that he saw someone going to the guest house minutes before it burst into flames. He thinks it might be you.”

“Right,” Kathy said coolly, sipping her drink and suddenly wishing she’d asked for more Jack and less ginger ale. “He thinks I must have had something to do with Keith’s death.”

“I never said that,” Jordan interrupted tersely.

“Not in so many words.”

“Guys!” Mickey said again with a sigh. He tried to smile. “Honest, if you two won’t behave, I’m leaving!”

“Kathy wants to hear your opinion on the situation. I’ll be good,” Jordan said irritably.

“I’ll be a damned angel,” Kathy purred sweetly.

“Fine. Then let’s go back. The group had been together a long time. There were all kinds of tensions operative. Keith had a thing for Kathy.”

“Are you sure?” Kathy demanded.

“Damned sure,” Mickey assured her firmly.

Her cheeks reddened, and she couldn’t quite look at Jordan.

“Meantime, Shelley had a thing for Keith,” he went on, “and Miles had a thing for Shelley. Larry was completely impatient with the three of them, Derrick didn’t seem to give a damn about any of it, and Judy was out-and-out hostile to everyone. While Jordan, head of the clan, was furious with Keith and about to throw him out of the band.”

“So it seems, if anyone wanted him dead it was me,” Jordan said. “Except that I know I didn’t do anything.”

“And I know I was completely innocent as well,” Kathy put in.

“There remains the possibility that Keith destroyed himself—along with Jordan’s property,” Mickey reminded them.

“But then why would we get the phone calls?” Kathy asked.

“Right,” Mickey agreed with a soft sigh.

She started to speak again, but Jordan motioned to her. Their waitress had come for their order. She was an attractive young woman, dark haired, nicely built, thirtyish. She knew both Mickey and Jordan, but seemed to have a special, deeply dimpled smile for Jordan.