You Don't Know Me (17 page)

He’d thrown himself into
Borrowed Time
and laid the groundwork for
Blackbird.
No thoughts of Denise. No thoughts of anything but work. Work. His lifeblood.

But then she’d shown up at his house.

Their house.

Now he parked in the driveway, cutting the engine and relaxing against the leather seat. He closed his eyes and inhaled air through his teeth.

He’d never thought he would be able to speak to Denise again without feeling deep, burning anger and a certain amount of humiliation at having the whole world know he was cuckolded.

But over the past several weeks, and the few encounters he’d had with her, John had suffered a change of heart. He wasn’t angry anymore. Not in the same way. And he didn’t feel as personally injured. Was it time and distance that had soothed the pain? Or was it the realization that Denise’s problems were so deeply rooted that she truly was incapable of distinguishing right from wrong?

Or maybe it was the change in her? A change so evident that John found himself staring fixedly at her, as if she were some strange, fascinating creature with which he’d never made contact before.

She looked different; she talked different; hell, she even
walked
different. She wouldn’t sleep in her old bedroom. She wore a minimal amount of makeup. Her hair was dark blond and thick with health. No bleach and touch ups.

It was as if she were consciously becoming a new person. A phoenix rising from the ashes of the life she’d burned down herself.

And he liked this person more than he should.

Stretching, he climbed out of the Land Rover and strode slowly to the front door. Twisting the lock, he stepped inside, listening to the quiet. Vaguely, he heard a hollow tapping—the depressing of computer keys.

John shook his head. She was at his desk again. Anticipation mounting, he walked in the direction of the sound.

The tapping noises stopped. When John reached his office doorway, she was sitting poised at the keyboard, her head turned his way.

Suspicion swam in her aquamarine eyes. Her mouth tightened into a line. No lipstick. No visible makeup. The faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Pinkish glow to her skin, as if she’d gotten a bit too much sun. White tank top, frayed denim shorts, Birkenstocks.

Birkenstocks?
What role was she bucking for?

“Home again?” she asked, sounding irked.

John felt irked right back. “What’s for dinner?”

The mouth grew tighter. “I bought some cat food.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“I do.”

She pointed to a calico kitten sleeping in the den chair.

He stared. “You’re allergic to cats.”

“No, I’m not. I just never liked them much. I’ve changed my mind.”

This last was mumbled into her hand as she began a fit of coughing John was sure was faked. “Maybe that cough’s your allergies flaring up.”

“I’ve got a cold,” she said shortly. “I’m not allergic.”

“Okay, okay.” Who was he to argue? He believed she never meant half the things she’d told him in the past, why should she start now? Though she seemed to be making perfect sense.

“What’s the cat’s name?”

“Bobo.”

“Bobo the cat?”

“Did you want something? Something specific, I mean?” she demanded. “I’ve got things to do.”

He glanced at the screen, but she’d exited the program as soon as she’d heard him approach. She lifted one fine, blond brow, waiting.

Raising his hands in surrender, John backed away. Who was he to argue when she was in this kind of mood?

And when had Denise ever
had
this kind of mood before?

“By the way, your wireless router is a piece of shit,” she called after him.

“Who are you sending to?” he threw over his shoulder as he strode up the stairs to the gallery.

“NONE OF YOUR GODDAMNED BUSINESS!” she hollered back.

In the sanctuary of his bedroom, John threw himself down on the immaculate chocolate-colored comforter and stared up at the ceiling. Was she acting? Some kind of guru-induced method acting disguised as psychotherapy?

“Screw it,” he muttered, turning facedown, infuriated that his senses were raw and even the slightest scrape of material against flesh developed a gnawing ache inside him.

Bad news. He was horny for his ex-wife.

 

 

Denise awoke with grit in her eyes, a sour taste in her mouth, and an overall numbness she usually associated with too much alcohol consumption.

“Oh, God, I feel like crap,” she muttered.

The bed was huge. Acres of comforters and pillows and some kind of foam pad beneath the silk sheets guaranteed to give you a good night’s sleep.

She buried her head beneath a pillow and sought refuge. It was too early. Her brain hurt. She wanted to whimper but was afraid to make a sound.

Consciousness slowly returned. What was she afraid of?

Cautiously, she pulled her head from beneath the king-sized pillow and glanced around. An unfamiliar bedroom. Lambert’s bedroom, she remembered with a rush of panic. She’d slept in Lambert’s bed.

Now her aches and pains made a bit more sense. His lovemaking had been rough and demanding. She’d had terrible dreams. Evil specters with leering faces and scraping claws. Yuck. Just touching on the memory made her mind shy away even now, in the bright light of day.

Where was Lambert?

Reaching out a tentative hand, she examined the other side of the bed. No body and no warmth. Either he didn’t sleep with her or he was an early riser.

She shivered. On shaking legs she headed for the master bath. Malachite green marble and matte black fixtures. An actual bear rug as a bath mat.

Twisting on the shower, she turned the water as hot as she could stand, then stood beneath the burning, stinging spray and fought back sudden, hysterical sobbing.

An hour later she was more in control, her hand almost steady as she applied makeup. In the mirror something caught her eye. A soft discoloration near her collarbone.

She twisted to look at her skin but it was too close to her neck. Leaning forward, she examined the area in the mirror. A spreading bruise.

Memory slammed into her. Thomas Daniels’s thick, red fist, smashing her cheekbone.

That was a lie. Nothing had happened. It was her own fear. Fear, because he’d been such a sadistic bastard. He’d never touched her. Never.

Her hands spread protectively across her neck and collarbones. Not Lambert, either. This was explainable. She’d had too much to drink. Tripped. Stumbled into the wall. She could remember now. A drink. Something like gin . . . or something. And wasn’t there an archway that was kind of narrow? Between the bar and hallway? She’d been clumsy. She’d always been kind of clumsy, and after a few drinks . . . well, it was bound to happen.

Relief spread like liquid through her veins. Forcing a smile at her reflection, she applied soft pink lipstick. Her hand shook a little. Understandable. She was just going to have to tell Lambert not to give her anything to drink. She couldn’t hold her liquor. She was a terrible drunk.

Spying her suitcases and bags, she hesitated, unsure. Should she unpack? Was she moving in?

She should really call her agent. This no cell phone thing was killing her. She had to use Lambert’s landline.

“I’ll have Leo get back to you,” his snooty secretary told her.

“I’m not at home,” Denise said, giving her Lambert’s number.

“I’ll leave him the message.”

For a moment Denise considered calling Dinah. She owed her sister a phone call.

The bitch. The man-stealing bitch.

Swallowing, Denise reached into her shirt pocket for the business card she knew was in there. Empty.

Panic struck her.
Where? Where?

Frantically, she threw open her cases, digging through her clothes, throwing them around the room, fighting a surging panic that threatened to engulf her.

She found Stone’s L.A. number and address in the pocket of her kelly green shirt. Of course. She’d been here a few days already. She’d just kind of forgotten. Trembling, she placed the call, only to reach a receptionist.

“Please,” Denise said, voice quivering. “I desperately need to talk to him.”

“I’ll tell him, Ms. Scott.”

She hated begging. Hated it. Stumbling back to the bathroom she grabbed a washrag, twisted it into a rope, and bit down on it. Shudders swept through her.

A dull chime sounded through the quiet house. Dimly, she understood it was the front bell. She ignored it, but the smothered-sounding peals continued. With an effort she unclamped her jaw, removed the washrag, examined her pale face in the mirror, fluffed her hair, then headed downstairs on unsteady legs.

“Who is it?” she asked, peering through the peephole.

One helluva good-looking man stood on the stoop.

Without waiting for an answer she flung open the door.

He stared at her and she stared at him.

“Denise Scott?” he asked in a quiet voice.

When she nodded, he offered her a warm, dry hand. Returning the handshake, she sensed the tremors that wracked her and wondered if he could feel it, too.

“Connor Jackley,” he said. “Private Investigator . . .”

 

 

He’d been to Wagon Wheel. He had a sister there. He’d grown up around Bend. He was an ex-cop. She sensed, though he didn’t say it, that he was on some kind of furlough. The P.I. thing wasn’t really him.

Lord, he possessed movie star looks. And that serious manner. Those soul-deep eyes. But he was no actor. This was his real self. A flesh-and-blood former L.A.P.D. cop with a mission.

What was he saying? Something about her family?
Her
family?

“I grew up on a farm in Indiana,” she said rotely.

He was talking again but she couldn’t make out the words. The buzz in her ears drowned out everything. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

“Ms. Scott . . . ?” His voice was wavery, dreamy, far, far away.

She awoke suddenly, flat on her back on the couch, staring up at the white molding surrounding the ceiling.

She was alone.

“Ms. Scott?”

She gasped, shocked, then as she whipped around, disconcerted to see her visitor was seated on a nearby chair, watching her intently.

Her head throbbed. “What happened?”

“You seemed to pass out.”

“What . . . what time is it?”

“Five o’clock.”

Five o’clock. Denise collapsed back into the cushions and squeezed her eyes closed. She’d lost a whole day. Another whole day. And he’d been here the whole time.

“You didn’t rape me or anything, did you?” she muttered breezily, but the effect was spoiled by her trembling lips.

There was a long hesitation. Denise peered at him through the corners of her eyes. Seeing him reminded her achingly of John for some reason, though they weren’t anything alike in appearance.

“I almost called nine-one-one,” he said, “but you—”

“No!” she declared.

“—told me . . . that.”

She had to see John, she realized. Right away.

“Do you remember anything I told you earlier?” Connor Jackley asked, eyeing her closely.

“Uh . . . no.”

“About finding the remains of your stepfather?”

Denise blinked. Her eyelids felt weighted down by the proverbial bricks. She blinked again. “What?”

“I’m investigating the murder of Thomas Daniels, and I need your help.”

Footsteps sounded, soft, pantherlike. Lambert appeared in the doorway and gazed in a bored manner at the attractive Mr. Jackley.

“You’re here?” she asked, confused.

“Oh, yes. When I came home, your friend was watching over you and nothing I could say would get him to leave.” Lambert’s lip curled. Denise realized she’d seen him look at her that same way.

“I called the police,” Lambert went on, “but it turns out, this man practically
is
the police.” With that same predatory tread, he came to sit on the edge of the couch. He handed her a glass of water and a pill. “Don’t talk,” he added, pressing a finger to her lips. “Just relax.”

Denise couldn’t help picking up the vibes of distrust and macho injury radiating from Lambert. Connor Jackley had rubbed Lambert Wallace the wrong way with a steel rake.

“What was it you wanted again?” she asked, ignoring the pill.

“Thomas Daniels,” Connor reminded her. “Your stepfather.”

“I’m not from Indiana?” she asked, arching a brow.

That scared a smile out of him. “No.”

“Okay, okay. You seem to have done your homework. Thomas Daniels was my stepfather,” she admitted, the words so difficult, they felt rusty inside her mouth.

“I need to know a little about him.”

She shook her head. “Does the word
vile
mean anything to you?”

“Vile in what way?”

“Am I under investigation?” she asked, fear shooting through her on the heels of sudden understanding.

“I’m not with the police any longer.”

Lambert snorted as if he didn’t believe that for a second. Connor Jackley did seem to have
LAW ENFORCEMENT
stamped all over him—good looks, or no.

“You don’t have to answer anything,” Lambert advised.

“No, no.” Denise struggled to sit up. She was more than willing to set the record straight. “You said he was
murdered?
Are you sure?”