You Belong To Me (30 page)

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Authors: Patricia Sargeant

BOOK: You Belong To Me
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“Thank you.”
Nicole noted the twinkle in Malcolm's eyes. She wondered if he had noticed the young orderly's resemblance to an exuberant St. Bernard.
“Scott, how many chat members are upset about the movie?” she asked.
Scott cocked his head and squinted his eyes. “Only about four or five.” He looked directly at her. “They said you betrayed the series by agreeing to do the movie. A couple of them got really carried away, and I had to block them from the loop. I'm the list moderator.” He smiled proudly.
“List moderator. That's great.” Nicole smiled weakly, wondering what he meant by “carried away.”
Scott's cheeks were growing pink again. “Hey, maybe you guys can stop by the chat room and answer some questions for us about the movie. What do you think?”
“I think that's a great idea.” Nicole looked at Malcolm, willing him to agree. “What do you think?”
“I agree. Maybe we can convince your members I'm not going to shut down the space station.”
Scott looked uncertain, then returned Malcolm's smile. “Oh, I get it. That was a joke.”
“That's a matter of opinion,” Nicole said dryly.
Malcolm shot her a wounded glance, then turned back to Scott. “How do we sign in to your chat room?”
Scott provided detailed instructions on entering the chat room, as well as a history of the group and their dynamics. He also provided his e-mail address. Nicole and Malcolm listened patiently to Scott's well-meaning ramblings.
“Well, Ms. Collins, thank you for the autograph and everything,” Scott said. “When do you think you guys will visit the chat room?”
“Perhaps next week,” Malcolm offered. “Once Nicole's feeling better, we'll e-mail you to work out a date that's convenient for everyone.”
“I'm sure I'll be up to visiting the chat room early next week. I'd like to attend as soon as possible.” Nicole met Malcolm's curious look with a wide smile, despite the pain chipping away at her skull.
Scott looked stricken. “I'm sorry, Ms. Collins. I didn't even think. Of course, we'll wait until you're one hundred percent. Take your time. How are you feeling?”
“Call me Nicole.”
Scott blushed. “Okay. Thank you, Nicole.”
Nicole smiled. “I'm anxious to visit the chat room. I'll e-mail you when I get home tomorrow.”
“Sure thing, Ms... . Nicole. Thank you.” Scott started to back away toward the door. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bryant.”
Malcolm took his puzzled gaze off Nicole. “Call me Malcolm. It was nice meeting you, too, Scott.”
Scott beamed. “Way cool. Thanks, Malcolm. See you around.” And he disappeared.
“Interesting guy,” Malcolm remarked, turning back toward Nicole. “How's your head?”
Now that she didn't have to use complete sentences in consideration of her fan, Nicole could relax. She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Tylenol not working yet. Where's Joyce?”
“Out in the hall talking to Rita on my cell phone.” Malcolm settled into a chair next to Nicole's bed. “Rita sends her best, by the way.”
Nicole opened her eyes. “Tell her I said hi.”
“I will,” Malcolm promised. “So why were you sending me silent signals about Scott's chat room?”
Nicole wanted to discuss her suspicions about the chat room only once. “Let's wait for Joyce.”
On cue, they heard Joyce's heels clicking back to Nicole's bedside.
“Here's your cell phone, Mal.” Joyce rounded Nicole's bed to return the device, then circled back to stand on the opposite side.
“New development, Joyce,” Nicole began. She recapped her conversation with Scott Gannon, much of which Malcolm had heard. “The stalker has some connection with the
InterDimensions
series. Chances are slim, but we might find someone who's a member of Scott's list and is also on the list of production companies that bid for the movie rights.”
Malcolm rubbed his jaw, a pensive expression in his eyes. “It's a long shot but worth the try.”
“Definitely.” Joyce sounded more hopeful. “But how will we get the list of members?”
Nicole leaned back against the pillows. She was exhausted. “I'll ask for it when I e-mail Scott. I'll make up some reason, like wanting to add their names to an
InterDimensions
e-mail newsletter.”
Malcolm nodded. “That's a good idea. The worst that could happen is that he says no.”
“I agree.” Joyce looked between Malcolm, who was comfortably settled in the chair, and Nicole, lying drowsily against the pillows. “Well, Nicky, I think I'll head on home now so you can get some rest.”
“Okay. Thanks again for saving me, Joyce. I owe you.” Nicole tried to keep her voice firm, but fatigue made her words slur. She wondered if the pain tablets contained a sleep agent.
Joyce leaned over and cupped Nicole's hand. “No, you don't. Now try to get some rest.” She turned toward Malcolm. “You, too, Mal.”
Malcolm inclined his head. “I'll see you soon, Joyce.”
Joyce pulled her purse higher up on her shoulder and left them alone.
Nicole continued to fight against her growing fatigue. Someone had tried to kill her. It was no longer anonymous threats in letters and phone calls. It had escalated to physical attempts against her life. She thought she had lost the young man at the running trail, but a silver BMW had shown up at Joyce's house, which meant the stalker knew she was staying with Malcolm.
She glanced at Malcolm and found him studying her. Was he in danger also? “I don't want anything to happen to you.”
His gaze was steady. “It's you I'm worried about.”
“Promise me you'll be careful,” she demanded, fighting to keep her sleepy gaze focused on him.
“I promise.”
Nicole's eyes slid shut. She could feel herself losing the battle to stay awake. She forced her eyes back open and caught Malcolm's gaze. “Could you stay with me? Just for a while longer?”
He answered without hesitation. “I'll stay all night.”
She smiled, sliding down onto the thin hospital mattress, and closed her eyes. Still, her mind kept searching for the link between her, Tyrone, and Malcolm. What was that link? Or perhaps, who was the link?
“Mal?” Her sleep-slurred voice reached for him.
“Yes, Nicky?”
“What kind of car does Omar drive?”
She heard his answer as she fell inexorably into sleep. “A silver BMW.”
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
Winded, Malcolm pushed open the door from the stairwell. Walking up the eight flights to Omar's office may have taken his breath, but it had left his temper intact. He was just as furious today as he had been yesterday when he'd remembered Omar drove a silver BMW. Having to wait until Carter Enterprises opened this morning for business to confront his rival chafed. He'd barely slept in the hospital visitor's chair last night.
Now, as he stood with his back against the stairwell door catching his breath and mastering his emotions, he acknowledged that pounding Omar to dust was the only thing that would exorcise his temper. He'd almost lost control when he'd seen the silver BMW in the parking lot with the C
ARTER
O personalized plates. He squared his shoulders and marched down the hall to Carter Enterprises's glass entrance.
A young woman looked up from behind a receptionist's station. A six-inch-high marble wall wrapped the desk behind which she sat. From the doorway, all Malcolm could see of the receptionist were her head and shoulders, making her appear like a pretty, redheaded desk ornament.
“Good morning,” she chirped. “Welcome to Carter Enterprises. May I help you?”
Malcolm paced to the desk as he spoke. “Good morning. Malcolm Bryant to see Omar Carter.”
“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Bryant?” She folded her hands on her desk, cocked her head, and regarded him smugly.
Malcolm had the impression she already knew the answer to that question. He looked down at her with cool determination. “No.”
The receptionist blinked and lowered her gaze. “Well, Mr. Carter is a very busy man.” Her birdlike voice faltered. She peeked up, and Malcolm held her uncertain gaze. “I'll see if he can spare a few minutes for you.” She lifted her chin in shaky defiance and reached for the intercom.
“Thank you,” Malcolm murmured.
He stuffed his fists into the pockets of his jeans and breathed deeply to ease his impatience. He understood the receptionist was only doing her job, arranging her employer's appointments. She was like Rita in that respect. But Malcolm didn't give a damn about Omar's daily planner. He had tried to kill Nicole. He probably had something to do with Tyrone's death as well. When Malcolm was done with his rival, he was going to hand over whatever was left of Omar, his schedule, and his Hugo Boss suits to the LAPD.
“A Mr. Bryant is here to see you, Mr. Carter. He doesn't have an appointment.” The receptionist's voice was at once sulky and spiteful. She paused, sliding a speculative look in Malcolm's direction.
“Yes, Mr. Carter.” She was back to chirping. “Right away.” She replaced the phone and smiled at Malcolm. “Mr. Carter has a few minutes to spare for you. His office is at the end of the hall.” She pointed behind her.
Malcolm nodded, his shoulders tense with anger. His shoes tapped against the tile, echoing his deliberate steps. He passed pale gold walls and vibrant paintings. Without knocking, Malcolm entered the tastefully decorated office, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Mal.” Omar came around his desk, his hand outstretched and a grin spread across his face. “I was hoping you'd reconsider.”
Malcolm's fists remained in his pockets. His anger strained against a short leash. “Reconsider what?”
Omar chuckled, dropping his hand. “The
InterDimensions
deal, of course.”
Malcolm's hands exploded from his pockets to grab Omar's shirtfront. Through the hazy, red borders of his vision, Malcolm registered the other man's surprise.
“You bastard.” Malcolm ground the words between clenched teeth.
Omar tried but failed to knock Malcolm's arms away. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Did you kill Ty, too?” Malcolm demanded, struggling against the urge to punch the shocked expression off his adversar y's face.
“What?” Omar exclaimed.
Malcolm gave him one, hard shake. “Was that your intention all along? To kill everyone who matters to me until I reconsidered your offer?”
Omar struggled against Malcolm's hold. “Have you lost your damn mind?”
Malcolm released Omar with a shove. His temper spiked when the other man didn't stumble.
“Did you think I wouldn't remember you drove a silver BMW?”
Omar smoothed his shirtfront, fury and bafflement burning in his dark eyes. “What the hell does my car have to do with anything?”
Malcolm's rage built with every one of his former co-worker's denials. “You used it to run Nicky over.”
Omar's expression went from furious to incredulous. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed. “Is she okay?”
Malcolm sneered. “Don't worry. You won't be tried for murder. Probably just attempted murder.”
Omar glared at him. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you accusing me of trying to kill Nicky?”
“Stop pretending,” Malcolm shouted, the control on his temper slipping further.
“I'm not pretending,” Omar shouted back. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”
Malcolm studied his rival's angry expression and saw traces of confusion in his eyes. He didn't want to let go of his anger. Someone had tried to hurt Nicole, and someone was going to pay for that. But in fairness, it should be the right person.
Malcolm took a mental step back. He skewered Omar with a probing stare. “Where were you around noon yesterday?”
“I was here.” The other man jabbed a finger toward the ground.
“Prove it.”
Omar glared at him a moment longer, then returned to his desk to punch the intercom button. “Shelly.” His tone was short and sharp.
“Yes, Mr. Carter?” the birdlike voice responded.
“Could you please bring in the receipts from yesterday's lunch with the accountants?”
“Right away, Mr. Carter.”
“Thank you.” Omar leaned back against the front of his desk, crossing his arms and his ankles. His Hugo Boss suit pants retained their crease. He fixed Malcolm with a baleful glare, which Malcolm returned. Neither broke eye contact when Shelly knocked on the door before entering.
Omar didn't move. “Give the receipts to Mr. Bryant, please.”
Malcolm accepted the receipts, two papers stapled together. The charges were itemized and tallied on the receipts, which were dated, with the time stamped. Omar's signature appeared on the credit card slip. The date was Wednesday; the time was 12:23
P.M.
Malcolm returned the slips to Shelly.
“Thank you, Shelly.” Omar waited until the receptionist had left the room before continuing. “Even if I were inclined to run someone over—which I sure the hell am not—do you actually believe I would do it with my own damn car?” He returned to his desk and dropped into his chair. “I have personalized plates, for God's sake. How stupid do you think I am?”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting. He acknowledged that Omar had a point about the personalized plates. He hadn't thought of that earlier, probably because he'd been blinded by rage in search of an outlet. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“If it wasn't you, who was it?” he asked himself aloud.
Omar leaned his elbows on his desk. “I don't know. How's Nicky?”
Malcolm saw the concern in Omar's eyes, mixed with remnants of anger. “She has a concussion, but she'll be fine. She spent the night in the hospital so they could watch her.” Malcolm glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of hours before he'd meet her at the hospital to take her home.
“So what happened? I take it you don't think it was an accident?” Omar shifted back in his chair. His temper seemed to be abating.
Malcolm envied the other man. His own anger still searched for a target. He looked Omar in the eye. “I'm sorry I accused you of trying to hurt Nicky. I thought ... Well, I thought wrong. I apologize.” He turned to leave.
“Mal.”
Malcolm turned and watched Omar approach him.
“We were never friends,” his competitor continued. “But we were colleagues. Tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.”
Malcolm regarded him skeptically. “I thought you suspected me of being involved in Ty's murder.”
Omar's gaze slid away. “I never believed that. I just said that to try to convince Nicky to buy back her movie rights.” He looked back at Malcolm. “I didn't realize the two of you were married. You're a lucky man.”
“We're not married.” Malcolm's tone was flat.
Omar frowned. “I saw the article in the
Preview.
Are you telling me Nate was wrong?”
“Yes, your boy was wrong.”
“Well, that's good news.” Omar's grin faded in proportion to Malcolm's increasing frown. “Okay. Well. Come on. Tell me what happened yesterday with Nicky. Maybe I can help.”
Malcolm mentally flinched from Omar's suggestion. The idea he couldn't protect his woman on his own hurt. The pain was almost as sharp today as it had been six years ago. But Nicole had told him she wasn't leaving, so he'd better find another way to protect her, even if it meant getting help.
Malcolm studied Omar. His rival had a lot of contacts in the city, he thought, looking around the office at the photos of Omar posing with political officials and corporate power figures. The other producer's connections, including his friendship with Nathan Rutherford, could prove useful in catching the stalker. Nathan had proven himself to be a very good investigator, Malcolm thought, remembering the reporter's recent foray into his personal life.
“Someone is trying to hurt Nicky,” he began. His voice carried more reluctance than he'd intended.
“Sit down.” Omar gestured to one of the teak wood visitor chairs. He rounded his desk to resume his seat.
Malcolm lowered himself into the chair and briefed Omar on the calls and letters Nicole had received, bringing him up-to-date with the break-in of her apartment, the mystery man on the running path, and yesterday's attempted hit-and-run.
Omar stared at him in amazement. “And you don't have any idea who's behind this?”
“I thought it was you.”
“Well, you thought wrong.” Omar's outrage returned.
“I know that now.”
“So now we just have to figure out who it is.”
“And why.”
Nicole pushed aside her hospital identification band to check her wristwatch again. She sighed and stretched her back. It wasn't even 10:00
A.M.
She was dressed and ready to leave. There was nothing to do now but wait until Malcolm came for her this afternoon.
She looked at her watch again, this time studying the cracked face.
So close.
She remembered the headache that now was a mild throb.
So lucky.
She could have cracked more than her watch. She let her arm drop onto her lap as she half-sat, half-reclined on the hospital bed.
A knock on her room door diverted her attention. She looked up, but her visitor wasn't Malcolm coming to get her early.
“Frank.” She was surprised to see the young man standing in the threshold. He regarded her with disconcerting intensity, or perhaps it was just that his sapphire sweater deepened his violet eyes.
“Hi, Nicole.” Frank entered the room. “I heard about your accident. How are you?”
“I'm fine,” she lied. “Thank you.”
“I'm glad.” He nodded toward the empty bed. “Did you have the room to yourself?”
“Yes.” She cocked her head. “How did you hear about the accident?”
“Malcolm told my father.” Frank tucked his fingertips into the front pockets of his straight-leg Gucci black jeans. “So, what happened? Do you mind my asking?”

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