You Don't Know Me (21 page)

“Oh, God,” she groaned, squeezing her eyes closed at the horrifying image.

Her protest caused one of his arms to hug her waist. His lips moved against her hair, kissing, nuzzling. He was half-asleep but unwilling to let her go.

And she
liked
it.

Regrets and barely leashed desire.

And Denise had called last night. She was sure about that. Her sister had called and then she’d gone to bed with her husband.

And it had been so
perfect!

She had to get out of here. Out of his room and out from under his spell. Glancing around, she caught sight of the picture of Denise and she fought back another groan.

His breath stirred her hair. She listened quietly. Her mind tiptoed through last night’s recent memories: a reprisal of lovemaking in this bed with its chocolate-colored sheets and musky scent. He, giving her unspeakable pleasure in unspeakable areas. She, returning in kind without turning a hair, without hesitation,
with
enjoyment.

She wanted to scream, seduced by images, sick at herself and her carnal enjoyment. With someone else, okay. She’d jump up and down in ecstasy and take out a billboard:
DINAH SCOTT HAD AN ORGASM AND IT WAS FABU-LICIOUS
!

But not with John Callahan. Not with His Highness, the King of Conquest, Chauvinism, and Casual Sex.

More nuzzling. He’d found the back of her neck and his mouth tasted, his tongue discovered. Shivers slid down her spine. Gooseflesh rose on her arm. His fingers splayed across her abdomen, slipped lower, encountering the triangle of hair before touching into her feminine sex.

He was curved around her, his hardening member pressed against her buttocks. It wouldn’t be long before his lovemaking would turn urgent and demanding. She could already feel her wetness as her body readied itself.

Pregnancy! Oh, God. Or worse!

She hadn’t used any protection.

She jerked bolt upright, shocked so deeply, she could do nothing, but whimper.

“What?” he asked, his voice husky with sleep. He lifted up on one elbow.

“Condoms,” she whispered. “We didn’t . . .”

That stopped him. He blinked several times. “Have you been tested recently?”

Her jaw dropped in indignation before she remembered who she was. “Like last week,” she snapped because
she
wasn’t the one who embarked in casual sex. “Don’t worry. It’s not me with the problem.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone in over a year,” he snapped right back. “And, as you well know, if I was stupid enough to have indiscriminate sex, it’d be with a condom.”

“Not last night,” she reminded him.

“You’re the one with the string of lovers. Goddammit.” He leaped out of bed and his male beauty momentarily distracted her. “You’re the one who always insisted
we
use a condom. What happened to that worry about having a baby? Change your mind?” A second later, he snarled, “Are you pregnant? Is that it? Some kind of trick to stick this on me, too?”

“Don’t throw this on me.” Dinah leaped to her feet as well, remembered her nakedness, and yanked one of those damned chocolate sheets off the bed, wrapping it around herself. “
You
made love to me. Not the other way around!”

“Oh, yeah?” He gazed at her in a way that made her blush. She wasn’t going to get into that fight.

“The good news is, that won’t happen again,” she said.

“You got that right.”

With that, he slammed into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Dinah collapsed back onto the bed, thoroughly stirred up.

At least she had the title for her next article: “What If You’re Sexually Attracted To Someone You Can’t Stand?”

 

 

The sun beat down like a hammer. Unseasonably hot. The breeze was just more hot air. Everything steamed and seared and blistered.

Denise rocked back and forth in the sliding lounge chair, drifting, drifting, slowly drifting. Her big toe gripped the concrete surrounding Lambert’s azure pool and she rocked and rocked.

Leo, that overrated shit, had not returned her calls. Oh, sure, his brain-dead receptionist assured her that he was out of town, but Denise knew better. Kissing someone else’s ass. Denise Scott was old news. Washed up. OUT.

Hazy, hazy days. All running into each other. Languidly, Denise reached for her iced grapefruit juice, her eyes encountering yesterday’s
Variety.
Yeah, like she cared what was going on in that world. Without a doubt she would read about the ever-popular John Callahan, superstud.

Which reminded her of Dinah.

She warbled softly, “Dinah, won’t you blow John’s horn?”

Jealousy ran like green poison through her veins, followed by a backwash of pain so great, she actually sobbed. She was glad she had the thunder egg. It was her little piece of John. The only one she might ever possess.

The grapefruit juice was in her hand. She gazed at it, slowly lifting it to her lips. Cold liquid ran down the front of her chest, pooling in her navel.

“Shit!” she shrieked, shocked that she’d missed her mouth. Setting the glass back down on the frosted glass tabletop, she saw a series of white caplets lined up like little soldiers. Lambert’s gift. He was good at gifts.

Popping two in her mouth, she reminded herself that she didn’t do drugs. Uh-uh. No way. They weren’t for her. She was Denise Scott and she didn’t do drugs.

Time floated. Powder blue sky. Cottony clouds. Blinding, starry brilliance bouncing off the pool and into her eyes.

She felt fabulous. No need to push the poisons out, so fuck you, Dr. Hayden Stone, and the horse you rode in on. And fuck you, John Callahan. And Dinah, too!

Hours later she realized she was holding a phone in her hand, standing in the middle of Lambert’s bedroom. She wasn’t alone. Lina was making the bed.

A voice on the phone. “Denise? Denise, is that you?”

Dinah! Sounding frantic. “Dinah?”

“Where
are
you? I’ve been going nuts worrying about you!” Dinah fairly shrieked.

“I’m fine.” Her tongue was thick and woolly. Licking her lips, she said again, “I’m fine.”

“Are you drunk? Are you listening to me? Get a cell phone, for God’s sake. What’s your phone number there? Are you at a hotel?”

Lina’s dark eyes assessed coolly. Denise thought about flipping her off, except she remembered she liked Lina. “Do you know Lambert Wallace?”

“Hell, no.” Dinah sounded irritable.

“I’m at his place.”

“In L.A.?”

“Yeah, well, Beverly Hills. You know us movie stars.” She winked at Lina, lost her balance, and fell to the floor. A glass dish tumbled off the table, broke into pieces, one shard hitting her leg and leaving a nasty red gash. “Ooops . . .” Denise reached for the cut. Her fingers came away smeared with blood.

“Denise? Denise?”

Dinah’s voice was tinny and small. Lina bent down and replaced the phone in its cradle, cutting Dinah off in mid-protest. “You’re hurt, ma’am,” she murmured.

“I need a Band-Aid,” Denise told her.

She suddenly awakened, unaware she’d fallen asleep until she realized she was in Lambert’s bed, and she wasn’t alone.

“Who are you?” she asked thickly. Her eyes widened. “My God!” It was Dr. Stoner. Her old shrink!

No. No, it wasn’t. It was Lambert and something about the look on his face made her shrink inside in terror. He was going to hurt her. She braced herself for the first hit.

Hours, maybe days later she awakened again. Senses still swathed in cotton refused to register her surroundings. Dully, she listened to the labor of her own breathing.

With a whimper she fell back into fitful slumber.

 

 

Dinah sat on the deck and contemplated the rolling waves, dark and menacing in the midnight gloom. Bobo curled around her legs and purred, back and forth. She absentmindedly stroked the kitten’s ears, her gaze on the exterior lights strung from the eaves, which sent feeble fingers of illumination toward the ocean, adding to the sensation of darkness and mystery.

Her sister was in trouble. As bad as ever, if Dinah read the signals right and they were pretty hard to miss. Who was Lambert Wallace of Beverly Hills? She didn’t want to know. Yes, she did. She wanted to know so she could ring his doorbell, wait for the bastard to appear, then smack him right between his eyes.

God, how she hated men who treated women badly. She could sense it in the air, a telepathic message so intense she could taste its bitterness, smell its foul decay. The bastard was hurting her sister.

Not this time.

Conscience pricked up its ears.
You hurt her. You hurt her big-time. You made love to her husband.

Ex-husband, she reminded herself defensively.

She sucked in air between her teeth. She’d made a mistake. A stupid, damn near unforgivable, and potentially fatal, mistake. Yeah, right. Like His Highness hadn’t sampled the side dishes around the set. What man wouldn’t? And she knew from Denise that John Callahan was not above adultery—although, you had to consider the source, she reminded herself with a grimace. Oh, how she’d like to believe Denise was wrong! She wanted Callahan to be better than he was.

But maybe he’s telling the truth,
her naive, little-girl-self suggested.
Maybe he’s one of the good guys.

“Shut up,” she told herself.

Well, at least he was gone. Busy on post-production of
Borrowed Time
(yeah, like he was really handing the reins over to Frankie) and preproduction of that other one,
Blackbird.
Dinah didn’t care much one way or another about the acting biz. She had to admit, she was pretty happy with her own career.

Longing filled her suddenly and unexpectedly. She had to go home to Santa Fe and Flick with his obdurate ways and crude manners. She was tired of L.A. and Hollywood.

“Yep,” she muttered aloud, grabbing for her half-empty glass of white wine.

Hearing an engine, she sat straight up. John? Instantly, she was mad at herself. So what if it was? So what? No more fooling around just because it felt good. She wasn’t
that
stupid.

Footsteps. His footsteps. Entering the house. Then strong and purposeful and heading her way. Dinah sank back into the chair, heart pounding so hard it liked to deafen her. She started to sweat.

He stopped at the open French doors. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Every nerve tingled with anticipation.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, walking up behind her.

“Not a good idea, thinking. Too dangerous.” She buried her nose in her wineglass.

His lips kissed her nape. A shudder swept through her, impossible to hide.

“I brought you a present,” he murmured huskily.

“A present?”

He handed her a small box. Dinah glanced down at it. A box of condoms with stars and stripes in red, white, and blue Technicolor.

“Couldn’t resist,” he added, turning her chair around, his mouth possessing hers. Dinah was torn between ecstasy and being greatly offended. “Seemed so patriotic.”

“There are those who would disagree.”

“The military should hand them out. Protect, serve, and all that.”

“Who says we’re going to need one?”

“We’re going to need more than one,” he countered. “No more Russian roulette.”

“Just American apple pie?”

“Fast learner.”

“I’m not going to go to bed with you,” Dinah blurted out quickly. His lips, his hands, his body were making it hard to think.

His hand caressed her breast. He made a slight sound of pleasure in her ear. For the first time in her life she tried to conjure up images of Thomas Daniels—the coldest, harshest douse of ice water available to her—and for the first time in her life she couldn’t. Her body responded as if primed, her hands reaching for him anxiously.

Bobo mewed out a sound of protest but neither John nor Dinah heard. Gathering her close, John carried her upstairs to the joys and intimacies of his bedroom, and Dinah lost the last vestiges of her will to resist as his body collapsed on hers and her body wrapped possessively around him.

 

It had cost a pretty penny but been worth it in the end.

Hayley sat on the edge of her twin bed, fingernails clamped between her teeth as she viewed her audition video. Okay, the guy with her—a friend from an acting class whose major talent was flipping a cigarette into his mouth from arm’s length—was a waste, but who cared? He only made her look that much better.

Of course, the video was homegrown, courtesy of another acting class buddy, Ted Neusmith, who had better equipment than a cell phone, but who thought payment for services rendered ought to be negotiated while she was spread-eagle on her back. Yeah, right.

Hayley had paid him a hundred bucks plus the cost of the DVDs. She’d given her costar another hundred.

But she, Hayley, came alive as Isabella, the down-on-her-luck prostitute whose lifestyle affects everyone close to her until she’s alone with nothing but emptiness. Tonja Terkell had been wrong. A comedy, it wasn’t. Oscar material. Damn straight!

Okay, she knew every actress in Hollywood would be after this role. It was too plum, too juicy, for anyone to leave alone. Hayley wasn’t naive enough to believe she could be the star, but there were other, lesser roles tailor-made for someone with her ambition and talent.

Now her primary concern was getting John Callahan to view the video. She had no agent. More scuz. When she finally got a role,
then
she’d hire an agent. Oh, yeah, sure. She knew the drill. Nobody, but nobody, will touch you unless you’re agented.

But not everyone’s brother-in-law was John Callahan, Super Producer.

If only he knew it.

Sighing, she slipped the DVD out of the recorder and stuffed it into her purse. Tonja was working for Callahan again. For inexplicable reasons, he’d taken an interest in her, hiring her as assistant, assistant, assistant producer for
Blackbird.

Hayley planned to push one of the DVDs on Tonja this morning. It was early. Damn early. Five o’clock in the morning early. She could catch Tonja before she left for Callahan’s building on the Strip and slip her the DVD. Of course Tonja would protest. She viewed her job with Callahan as sacred, not to be defiled by clamoring friends.

This was new for Tonja—forgetting her friends—but Hayley wasn’t going to let her get away with it. Tonja owed her and Hayley intended to collect.

As a last resort Hayley planned on approaching Callahan himself, but it would be ever so nice if he’d at least viewed her acting skills first.

Buoyed by this small success, Hayley jumped in the Rent-A-Wreck she’d splurged for. She was nearly out of cash, but who cared? She felt energized and eager. And nothing, not Jason, the boss from hell, not Tonja and her insecurities, and not Connor Jackley, late of the L.A.P.D., was going to stop her from reaching her goal.

A tickle in her brain. Memories. Clamping her jaw, Hayley shoved the rental into gear, the tired vehicle grinding and chugging in protest, and flashed beneath the streetlights in the early-morning grimness of tawdry Hollywood, U.S.A.

 

 

He closed his eyes and counted to fifty, a practice he’d begun as a kid when his hormones were careening out of control and girls’ tight skirts and lush, bouncing breasts occupied his entire mind. Now it was merely a stress reducer. Other people might use cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, or exercise. Dr. Hayden Stone employed a common practice of elementary teachers: time out.

It had served him well. He’d passed through puberty and early adulthood with no serious mishaps, made his way through U.C.L.A. and medical school, internship, residency, and ten years of psychiatric practice before walking away from it all one bright, slightly smoggy Los Angeles morning.

Everyone thought he needed therapy. What? They cried. Give up his wife, Leesa, and a flourishing career making an indecent amount of money? Was he crazy? Certifiable? Too many years curing the nut cases. That’s what it was. Take a vacation, they advised. It’ll all be okay.

He possessed a license to practice in two states, California and Texas. When one of his patients made a halfhearted attempt to seduce him—a normal routine for Carolyn Lenton—he’d gently turned her down, but did not immediately brush aside her offer to move with her to Houston.

She had friends. A whole barrelful of crazies, to hear her talk, who needed professional help.

“Come on,” she’d wheedled, crossing and uncrossing her legs, tugging ineffectively at her short red skirt. “I’m heading home for a visit and I think you oughtta come with me.”

To her amazement, and a certain amount of surprise on his own part, he’d accepted. Not for a stay at her opulent home, however. He’d rented a one-room apartment, a complete change from his well-tended Bel-Air manor and the parade of housemaids and gardeners and workmen Leesa employed.

Leesa had filed for divorce. He’d read the terms—exorbitant—and complied. She immediately backed down, begging him to come home. Leesa was a wonderful woman, but there was something missing.

How incredibly bland. Leesa deserved better than that from him.

Opening his eyes, Dr. Hayden Stone crossed to the window of his new offices. Ground level of an English cottage-style building not too many blocks off Sunset. Big comedown. Very homey. Un-chic enough to cause embarrassment at parties.

Perfect.

He’d filed for divorce then. Generous terms, not exorbitant. Leesa had signed, the document crumpled and bumpy from the tears she shed. Real tears that had ripped at his heart and he’d nearly reconsidered.

Except Leesa got married the Saturday after their divorce was final to a twenty-seven-year-old surfer. And she’d been two months pregnant.

Now
that
had hurt. He wanted children. Somehow he and Leesa had just never managed it.

Returning to L.A. had been a growth experience. Growth experience, he thought again, wincing a bit.

His clients were waiting for him, anxious to fill him in on the last screwed-up year of their life, ready for new advice, new tricks, new something.

He settled in as if there’d been no break. So here he was, unhappy, unfulfilled, and roaring down the lucrative road of success to some distant horizon he didn’t care if he ever reached.

One regret. Denise. He shouldn’t have left her. Huge blue eyes filled with hurt and fear and guilt. Pain so enormous, it reached out and touched him. A crying, dying soul protected only by clever words and a sense of humor.

Why hadn’t she called him?

Not true. He’d phoned Carolyn several times. His interest in Denise seemed to irritate her, however, because she refused to tell him anything about her, only playing word games. All he knew was that Denise had left Houston with a man. If he wanted any further information he was going to have to confront Carolyn and find a way past her obstacle course of verbal weaponry to learn the plain truth.

Maybe he should fly to Houston.

His line beeped and the speakerphone came on. “Dr. Stone?” His receptionist’s voice filled the room. “That woman’s called again. She’s on the line.”

He frowned. “What woman?”

“The incoherent one. Since you weren’t in conference I thought maybe you’d like to talk to her . . . ?”

Hayden suspected it was Angela Mercer. She habitually called whenever she was strung out, thinking he wouldn’t charge her for his time if she phoned it in. And every month when he billed her for her two-hour crying-jag calls, she refused to pay.

“Put her through,” he said with a sigh.

A weighty pause while Angela breathed noisily. Hayden waited, then encouraged, “Angela? Was there something you wanted to say?”

“Stoner?” the familiar voice wobbled.

He snapped to attention. “Denise?”

“Where’ve you been? You son of a bitch!”

The line went dead.

With more control than he felt, Hayden pressed the button for his receptionist. “When that woman calls again, interrupt me.”

“Even if you’re in conference with someone important?”

“Even if you have to put the President of the United States on hold.”

Disapproval.

Hayden reminded himself to fire the receptionist and hire someone with more heart than secretarial skills.

 

 

Denise dropped the phone and it clattered on the table, knocking over an ivory figurine. Vaguely, Denise realized she might have made a bit of a mistake there. Lambert wouldn’t like it.

Lambert didn’t like a lot of things, she’d learned. But Lambert liked to hit. He hit Lina a lot. She made a lot of money off him because he assuaged his guilt with money and trinkets. Lina was saving up. And what he didn’t pay her, she stole from his pockets. Lina had a lot of advice for Denise.

“Take the money and get out, madam,” Lina whispered conspiratorially. “You don’t have to stay.
I do.
For now. But I’m getting out, too. Very, very soon.”

“Where will you go?” Denise asked.

“I have family. They don’t know.” She glanced over her shoulder, face full of fear, worried sick that Lambert Wallace might magically appear.

“Why don’t you leave now?”

“Need references. He won’t give ’em. Gotta take what I can.”

“I’ll give you a reference,” Denise offered magnanimously.

Lina gazed at her through dark, liquid eyes. “You might be dead soon,” was the disturbing answer.

Well. That had certainly sobered her up. What a thing to say! Lambert might have his quirks, but Denise knew there were a lot of worse sickos in the world.

Her head ached. There was no story. What the hell was the matter with her?

“Bipolar shit,” she muttered, staggering around the bedroom. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, her hand flew to her mouth. She drew closer, awed and alarmed. That was her? That wild-haired, scatty, old woman. Jeezus, she looked like poor white trash.

That’s what he’d called her, she realized with stunning clarity. Along with bitch, slut, whore, and numerous other one-word insults.

Thomas Daniels. He seemed to occupy her thoughts these days. Since Connor Jackley had appeared on Lambert’s doorstep and asked her all those questions, she’d thought about Daniels every waking moment. He was dead. Murdered. Denise shook her head, bemused. He couldn’t be dead. He was too dirt ornery to be dead. He was too vile.

Homespun advice from her mother, but she believed in it. Thomas Daniels wasn’t dead. He was out there, ready to jump her. When she thought she was alone and safe. When she was most vulnerable.

Denise gazed at her reflection unseeingly. She was lost in thought, swaying on her feet. When hands clamped on her shoulders she thought she was dreaming again, but then Lambert spun her around so quickly, she nearly lost her balance.

“You went out today,” he accused, his voice sharp, staccato bursts of fury.

“I wanted to see someone.” She cowered.

“Who?”

“A friend.”

“My therapist,” she admitted, drawing away. His fingers dug into her shoulders until she winced. “I didn’t see him. I just drove by his offices.”

“In
my
car.”

“Well, Lambert, you’ve got four. I just took the Ford.”

“I didn’t give you permission. You should have asked.”

His anger was a living thing, well hidden only when others were present. There was a big difference between the public Lambert Wallace and the private one. But wasn’t that always the way?

“Nothing happened,” she murmured.

“Is that right?”

“
Nothing
happened.”

“You’d better be telling me the truth.”

“Lambert, I’ve got to go back to work. I’ve called my agent and he’s looking into something for me.”

“You screwed up your career, Denise. It’s over.”

Pleasure in his voice. Sadistic enjoyment. Through the mirror she caught sight of his reflection. The self-satisfied smile as he gazed possessively down at her crown. How had she ever thought him attractive?

“I’ve got to call my sister. That detective . . .”

“A has-been.” He sneered. “I’ve got friends in important places. That guy’s career is dead. That’s why he’s a P.I. now.”

“I can’t stay here forever.”

“C’mere . . .” He dragged her toward the bed. Denise reluctantly followed, mind numb, filled with sudden hate toward Dr. Hayden Stone and his bland disinterest.

Lambert started removing her clothes. She stood silently, watching the pieces fall: her silk blouse, tan slacks, thong underwear, and black lace bra. She saw his long, strong fingers squeeze her breast, felt the sting of several sharp slaps against her nipples.

“You like that?” he asked.

She didn’t respond. The next slap was across the face.

“Like that?” he demanded, his breath quickening.

“No.”

“Yes, you do.” His sharp, even teeth bit at her lip until she tasted her own blood.

Pushing her down he spread her legs, then those sharp teeth worked hard there, too. Denise jerked spasmodically until he mounted her, then she lay still, scarcely daring to breathe.

“C’mon, baby. C’mon.” He pumped hard but true to form, his slack penis didn’t respond. Denise stirred, aware that if she didn’t help, she’d bear the brunt of his sexual frustration another way.