Lethally Blond (21 page)

“So your mother sent you home with a wedge of
cheese
?” I said as Beau carried in a wine bottle, two glasses by their stems, and a plate with crackers and the blue-veined Stilton.

“Wedge isn’t quite the right word,” he said, pouring a glass of wine and handing it to me. “Wheel, I’d say. I went up there for dinner the other night—they wanted to check me out after I got back, perhaps hoping two months in the Turkish heat had convinced me to stop making documentary films and start a hedge fund. And as I’m leaving, my mother has the housekeeper hand me a shopping bag of food. I could win a bloody Oscar for a film someday, and my mother would still be asking me if I had enough clean clothes for the week.”

“You seem to take it in stride,” I said.

“Years of practice. So tell me more about the intruder. What makes you think she could be the murderer?”

I took a long drink of the wine first. It was an excellent-tasting Bordeaux that was probably noted for being redolent of things like plums and tobacco and saddlebags. Interesting, I thought, that he’d opened such a great bottle.

“I suppose there’s a chance it’s unrelated,” I said. “The detective I’ve been dealing with even posed the idea I could have a stalker unrelated to the killings—someone who’s convinced I’m after her man, for instance. But I just don’t see it. It would make everything that’s happened so coincidental.”

I described the calls I’d received and also the incident at the Half King.

“Bailey, it’s clear you’re really in danger,” he said. “I’m glad you came to your senses and decided not to stay at your place.”

“Well, I appreciate your offer. It’s horrible how something like this can leave you feeling so miserable in your own home.”

He took a sip of wine and leaned back into the sofa, one leg crossed over the knee of the other, and just stared at me with those intense brown eyes. He had an uncanny ability to be
still
, to sit in one position without shifting or flexing or sweeping his hand through his hair. And he could hold your gaze until it became unbearable and you were forced to look anywhere but his eyes. I met his gaze awkwardly for a second and then glanced away, taking another long sip of my wine. I realized suddenly that my cheeks were hot—and not just from a combo of the Bordeaux and my own distress. It was due to lust, pure and simple. I’d kept it at bay yesterday, but now that I was all alone with Beau in his apartment, it felt unstoppable, like trying to contain an oil spill in the Atlantic.

“Why not stay with your actor friend?” he asked finally. His voice was even, as if he were simply curious, asking, perhaps, why I’d chosen Verizon over T-Mobile.

There was no way in hell I was going to describe what I’d learned from Alex Ottoson, the revelation that would create an irreparable rift between Chris and me.

“It’s not like he’s my steady boyfriend or anything,” I said. “I just figured he had plans tonight.”

“Sounds like a kind of casual thing.” Again, perfectly even.

“Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s not some big exclusive deal.”

“I thought you preferred exclusive,” he said. An eyebrow went up this time.

“I wanted things to be exclusive with you and me. But that had to do with how I felt about you. I— Look, why are you asking this stuff, anyway?”

“Why?”
he said, setting down his glass. He straightened up and looked me dead in the eye again. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t really like thinking of you with that actor.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, unable to resist smiling. This was really very funny. “Why? You think I’ll go all Hollywood?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, smiling back. “You’ll buy one of those yappy little dogs and carry it in your purse.”

“And have Paris Hilton as my bff?”

“I think you know where I’m headed, Bailey,” he said, serious now.

“No, honestly, I don’t,” I said.

“I don’t like the idea of you in bed with another guy.”

I couldn’t believe how this conversation was unfolding.

“Well, what is it that I’m supposed to do about that?” I asked.

“Don’t go to bed with him.”

“Isn’t that pretty unfair on your part? I believe they call that having your cake and eating it, too. Because you want to go to bed with other women.”

“I know I told you that I didn’t feel ready for any kind of steady relationship. But I realize I was wrong about that.”

“So what are you saying, then?”

“I’d like to give it a shot,” he said, his voice soft and smooth. “You and me. I want a relationship with you.”

I nearly gulped. Here was the declaration I’d been yearning for and had given up on ever hearing. It was coming totally out of the blue, like the wheel of a plane that snaps off midflight and plunges to earth.

“Gosh,” I said. “I’m just—I just wasn’t expecting this.”

“I know I didn’t stay in touch, because things were kind of crazy in Turkey and I didn’t know what I wanted and didn’t know how to say that. But as soon as I was in New York and had my head on straight, I realized how much I’d missed you and that I did want to be with you. I had every intention of calling you, but after I saw you at Elaine’s, I figured you weren’t interested anymore.”

“Nothing’s changed about my feelings,” I said. And I knew for certain nothing had.

I’d let my eyes wander because I felt so flustered that I could barely even
meet
his gaze this time, and after a moment my eyes fell on the large ottoman. I flashed on the night he had laid me down on it, pulled off my dress and underwear, and covered every inch of me with his mouth. I blushed, a rush of blood to my cheeks so fast that it felt like a firecracker going off—and when I turned back, I could tell he knew what I’d just harkened back to.

He grinned. Then he leaned toward me and laid his right hand on my left thigh. Underneath, through the fabric of my capris, I felt my skin turn hot. He slid his hand up the length of my thigh and then moved it to the space between my legs. With his thumb he began tracing the seam of my pants, back and forth, back and forth, until I could feel myself trembling.

“Well, since we’re both on the same page, why don’t we go to bed and remind ourselves of how good it is between us,” he said, grinning.

My tongue felt so numb, I could barely talk. So I didn’t. I just let things unfold. He reached for my right arm and pulled me toward him, kissing me softly on the mouth and then, after a moment, more urgently. I closed my eyes and let myself just savor the taste of him. His tongue slipped into my mouth, and he began to run his thumb more firmly back and forth between my legs. It was almost unbearable.

I leaned into him, kissing him back deeply. His hand moved from my groin to the buttons on my cardigan. With one hand he unbuttoned the entire sweater and pulled the sides apart. He took my breasts in both his hands, and then reached behind me, unhooked my bra and pulled it down. Now his hands were on my bare breasts, kneading them, caressing them, using his thumbs to circle my nipples in that same deliberate, intoxicating motion he’d used between my legs.

“So what do you say?” he said, pulling back but with his face just inches from mine. “Shall we go to bed?”

“Yes. Though I thought you were partial to ottomans.”

He laughed. “Oh, did you like that? Well, why don’t we try again—with a variation this time.”

As he said the word
variation
, I felt a shot of red hot lust run through me. He worked off my sweater and bra and tugged my pants down. Then he laid me on the ottoman, facedown this time.

“I promise this will take your mind off everything—and you don’t have to do a thing.”

“Seems awfully selfish,” I muttered.

“You’ll have a chance later to return the favor.”

He began to rub my back with sensuous, hypnotic strokes. One hand worked its way up my neck, and his strong fingers kneaded my scalp over and over again. Then slowly his hands made their my way down my back and my butt, massaging, caressing. It was pure bliss just to surrender, to think of nothing but the pleasure of what was being done to me—and by whom. Slowly he eased off my thong, and I heard it almost silently touch the rug. By the time he slipped two fingers inside me and began to move them rhythmically in and out, I had lost track of my own name.

It took me only seconds to climax once he entered me, and then I just let myself concentrate on Beau’s quickening breath, him filling me as he thrust powerfully inside me, and the sounds of his groans as he came and relaxed his weight into me.

Afterward, he poured us each more wine, and we took it with us to the bedroom, where we had sex again, and finally I could hear his gentle breathing beside me. I was totally, utterly exhausted, but I knew within minutes that sleep had decided to elude me yet again.

I lay still for a while, as still as Beau was, trying to just let go, to ignore that prickly feeling of awakeness, but eventually it overwhelmed me. I couldn’t believe I was going to be dogged by insomnia again. I tried gradually relaxing all my major muscle groups, but it was as futile as blowing on a burn.

“You okay?” Beau whispered. He’d been lying on his stomach, but now he turned on his side and spooned me.

“I guess I’m too wound up to sleep. Would you mind if I rummaged through your fridge?”

“Be my guest. There’s a quart of milk in there. Isn’t that supposed to be good for insomnia?”

“Yeah—or chopping one’s head off.”

I made my way to the kitchen, a sleek, smallish space with lots of stainless steel, brightened by a large abstract painting of red and gold. As I opened the fridge, I let my eyes explore the few things tacked on the door—a take-out menu from a sushi restaurant, a photo of a small girl splashing in the ocean who I assumed might be a niece. Next to the fridge on the counter was a white ceramic bowl with two oranges and papers that appeared to have been thrown there during a cleanup mission. Another take-out menu, this one from a Mexican restaurant. A Con Ed bill. And one of those small cards that accompany a floral arrangement: “Welcome home, Beau. I missed you.”

CHAPTER 17

O
h fuck, I thought. Was this the Daisy razor moment I’d been dreading? Please let it be from his mother, I pleaded in my mind. After all, the kind of mother who forces a wheel of cheese on you is also the kind of mother who would send flowers upon your return home from a long trip. But, of course, it
could
be from a chick.

I wondered if Beau had been honest with me earlier, if he was really ready to forsake seeing other women and date me alone. I worried that a surge of testosterone had prompted him to bullshit me into bed with him. Guys were brilliant at deceiving chicks when they wanted to pants them. But I had no reason right now
not
to believe Beau.

For the first time all night, I thought of Chris—and experienced an accompanying twinge of guilt. It’s not as though we’d pledged to have an exclusive arrangement, yet there had been this implied sense of getting into something special. But what did it matter now, anyway? As far as I knew, he’d totally misrepresented himself to me as a person, allowing me to believe that he was Tom’s friend and had never had anything but Tom’s best interest at heart. That was totally affecting how I felt.

I took my milk into the living room, where I unzipped my laptop and set it up. I assumed, rightly, that Beau had wireless service, and I went online, checking Web sites for updates on Locket—nothing yet but endless speculation—and e-mails. There was a message from Nash, which he’d assumed I’d read on my BlackBerry—saying he’d heard I was continuing to handle the press well and that there’d be plenty more tomorrow. There were also e-mails from the PR team, detailing my responsibilities for tomorrow. Oh, goody. I had my suit with me, of course, and I’d do what was required—but I also needed to find the time to talk to both Chris and Harper as soon as possible. There were loose ends to tie up as well: I still wanted, for instance, to determine if Deke had actually repaid (fat chance) the loan to Tom. Certainly Deke wasn’t the person who had prowled around my apartment, but he may have convinced some chick to do it for him. And I needed to get to the Chaps Theatre.

After dashing off a few replies, I felt suddenly ragged, almost shaky with tiredness, as if the day were finally catching up with me. It seemed as if the sheer power of my fatigue was going to be able to defeat my insomnia. Before staggering back to the bedroom, though, I Googled “stalker.” Detective Windgate had piqued my curiosity with his question. I couldn’t imagine who from my own universe might have suddenly decided to stalk me, but I wanted to at least consider what Windgate had suggested. Though I’d recently investigated the subject for a piece on a celeb with an obsessed fan, I wanted to look at the information again and see if it sparked an idea.

Experts broke stalking down into categories. The types that showed up most often in films and pop literature were love obsessional—what some experts called “intimacy seekers”—and erotomania stalkers. Intimacy seekers are obsessively in love with their victims, a person they may have once been involved with or just know casually (think Alex Forrest in
Fatal Attraction
). They know their love isn’t reciprocated, so they begin a campaign to win over the person—e-mails, letters, gifts. Erotomanic stalkers, on the other hand, are completely delusional. They believe the object of desire loves them back, though in many cases the two have never even met. Everything the victim says and does is interpreted in some way to support the delusion.

The harassment I’d experienced—the nasty calls, the knife in the sink, possibly (but not necessarily) the drugging—didn’t bear any resemblance to these types of stalking. But it did fit under the umbrella of predatory or resentful stalking. That was stalking done to cause distress to the victim or frighten her silly, possibly out of a desire for revenge. Was there someone out there who was mad as hell at me over a perceived injustice on my part? I
hadn’t
stolen anyone’s boyfriend, at least not that I knew of. But could this be someone I’d covered in a story once—a criminal now at large or the girlfriend of a criminal? Or even an individual I’d written about in a human interest story? It was possible that some woman who had eagerly agreed to an interview had experienced negative ramifications from her moment in the limelight and now resented me for exposing her.

But surely if either of those scenarios was what was going on, there would have been an initial tip-off—an angry letter or call, for instance, or a warning from a source of mine that the person wanted to make trouble.

Totally wiped by this point, I snapped my computer closed. With my last reserve of energy, I checked my voice mail. There were a ton of calls—everyone from Landon, to reporter pals looking for info, to my mother congratulating me on my press blitz but chiding me for not letting her know what I was up to. And there were two calls from Chris. “Where are you?” he asked almost plaintively in one. “I’m going nuts here, and I need to talk to you,” he said in the other message. I felt such a weird mix of guilt and anger hearing his voice.

This time when I hit the pillow, sleep overtook me almost instantly. The next thing I knew, Beau was sitting right next to me, touching his hand to my shoulder. The room was filled with a sooty light that meant it was still very early or raining outside.

“I believe your public awaits you,” he said, grinning.

“What time is it, anyway?”

“Ten of seven.”

“Shit. I set my internal alarm clock, but I guess I was so zonked I never heard it.”

“I figured I’d better wake you—I can hear your cell phone buzzing like crazy in your purse.”

“Oh God, I better get going.”

He ran his hand up just behind my ear, his open fingers firmly stroking my scalp. “I had to resist jumping your bones. I figured you needed the sleep.”

I smiled groggily. “Rain check, then. Do you have an iron? I never took my suit out of my bag.”

“I’ll dig it out for you. I think it still works.”

I checked my voice mail—the PR chicks wanting to make sure I was on schedule—and hopped into the shower. It was my first shower at Beau’s, and as I dried off with a huge bath sheet, I glanced around the lovely white-tiled bathroom, with its clean, sparely covered surfaces, and tried to imagine myself here on a regular basis. How many nights a week would I sleep over at Beau’s? Was it really going to happen? On the one hand, it felt like my destiny to be with him, yet at the same time it seemed like such an elusive concept.

While Beau took his turn in the shower, I chugged coffee and ironed my suit, using the kitchen counter as a makeshift ironing board. I allowed my eyes to be tugged back to the “welcome home” note again. Give it
up
, for God’s sake, Bailey, I told myself. The man redefined the phrase
Ottoman Empire
for you last night, so you have every right to believe he’s smitten. But as I chased my doubts away, I realized that something else was gnawing at me, some elusive thought that I couldn’t snatch. It was not unlike what had happened to me the other night after I’d learned about Locket’s death. Only later in the park did I realize that it had been my subconscious jostling me, trying to suggest that I may have goaded Harper into realizing Locket was the other woman. I wasn’t sure if my brain was trying to tell me something about Beau or the murders. Hopefully if I were patient and bided my time, I would eventually learn what was nudging me.

Beau walked me to the elevator and suggested, to my relief, that I spend tonight there, too. He was going to be editing late into the day in his studio but we agreed that I’d call him around seven-thirty and we could grab a bite after that. I figured it would be smart to let a day or two pass before seeing him, but I craved being with him again. And I had about as much desire to be in my own apartment tonight as I did to be riding the Lex at four in the morning.

On my way to my first interview I called Windgate, and this time I reached him, not his voice mail.

“Did the crime scene people turn up anything at my place?” I asked.

“It’s too early to know anything about the prints we found around the kitchen. But smudging on the knife in your sink indicates that the last person who used it wore gloves. Which means we probably won’t turn up anything from any other surface.”

“I gave some more consideration to your stalker question,” I said. “But I can’t think of anyone who might be holding a grudge. This has to be related to the murders.”

“I tend to agree. I’ve put surveillance on your place in case this person shows up again. I want you to let me know if anything out of the ordinary happens.”

“Absolutely,” I said. His comments had sent a jolt of fear through me, though I felt a soupçon of comfort knowing that the police would be keeping an eye on my building. Oddly, I also experienced that nudging sensation in my brain again. I made a hard grab for the thought, but it escaped my grasp once more.

“And I want you to be extremely careful,” he added. “You should talk to your super about security in the building and watch your back when you’re out. This person is extremely dangerous.”

I wondered if I should volunteer Harper’s name. But I didn’t want to create trouble for her and taint her reputation if she wasn’t the killer.

“I hear you. By the way, is there anything you can share with me about the case in general? There’s got to be some kind of update.” I was hoping he might be inspired to cough up a tidbit in light of how cooperative I was being.

“There is one thing I’ll share,” he said after a pause. “There was no sexual assault. And Miss Ford’s purse was still on her, with three hundred dollars in it.”

“What about Alex Ottoson? Is he still a person of interest to you?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

After signing off, I immediately phoned
Buzz
and dictated a rough update on Locket to one of the deputy editors so it could be posted on the Web site. Then, with a lump in my throat, I phoned Chris.

“Bailey, where’ve you been?” he said, his voice thick with concern. “It’s like you’ve been off the grid for the past twelve hours.”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I—I’ve been juggling so many balls. I’ve had to cover the story and also do a ton of press.”

“Did you go to bed last night and just turn off your phone or something? I tried your home phone about twenty times.”

“I only managed about an hour of sleep the night before, and I was zonked,” I said, skirting the need to tell the lie. “How are you, anyway?”

“Okay, I guess. I mean, I feel sick about Locket—we all do. But it’s sounding, at least, as if the show is safe. They had a big meeting with all of us, and though they were vague about details, they told us to be prepared to start shooting Monday—and that they’ll somehow write Locket’s death into the show. My agent told me that they’re auditioning every actress over thirty in Hollywood for the new part. For all I know, I could end up starring with Meg Ryan.”

I forced a laugh at his Meg Ryan line, but just hearing him mention his agent had made my stomach knot.

“So as grim as things are, my part seems relatively secure,” he added. “At least by Hollywood standards. And I have the rest of the week off, thank God. Do the police know anything more—about Locket
or
Tom?”

“All I know is that Locket wasn’t assaulted sexually and she apparently wasn’t robbed. By the way, have you seen Harper since we talked yesterday?”

“She was in the meeting we had, offering tips on how to blow off the press, which by the way were staked out around my apartment this morning. Are you still thinking Harper may have done it?”

“Things just keep pointing to her. Didn’t you tell me that she once wanted to be an actress?”

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with it?”

“I’ll tell you more later. Look, Chris, there are some other things I need to talk to you about. Is there a time when the two of us could meet up later?”

“Is something the matter?”

“I just want to talk face-to-face.”

“Sounds pretty ominous.” He sighed heavily. “Like I said, I’m off this week, so you name the time.”

I suggested six-thirty, figuring that would give me time to finish my press rounds and also swing by
Buzz
. He proposed we meet at his apartment in TriBeCa.

“I can’t believe you haven’t seen it yet,” he said. “It’s just been so crazy.”

I finished the call just as my cab pulled up in front of the Fox News building. Two members of the PR team were waiting outside for me, both looking as brisk as a spring breeze. This kind of press coverage was a big deal for them, proving that
Buzz
could break hard news rather than simply offer up exclusives on which celebs were sneaking into the trailers of their costars.

Shortly after we were shown to the green room, I was led to makeup. As a solemn woman dabbed at my face with one of those little white wedges, I deliberated on what my strategy should be with Harper. The chances of her taking a call from me or returning a message were next to nil—she’d already indicated just how
unfun
she found talking to me and that I was persona non grata as far as folks at
Morgue
were concerned. I decided I had no choice but to flush her out. Once my face had been painted and my hair sprayed from a can the size of a subway car, I slipped into the corridor and tried Harper’s number. “Harper, it’s Bailey, and I need to talk to you ASAP,” I said. “I
know
—so let’s talk.”

Maybe
that
would get a rise out of her.

For the rest of the morning, I zipped around in a town car with the PR twins, going to several TV and radio stations. Some of the interviewers tried to drag me into the speculation game—one guy, I swear, would have asked me who I thought killed Natalee Holloway if we’d had the time in the segment—but I stayed with the facts I’d presented in my article and didn’t proffer any theories. The older of the PR chicks told me she thought I was doing great, but it would be super if I could smile a bit more.
At which point?
I wanted to ask.
Like when I describe the blood-spattered bathroom I found Tom’s charred body in?