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Authors: Nancy Bush

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BOOK: You Don't Know Me
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“I want my job, a raise, and an extension on my long-distance job situation.”
He harrumphed loudly.
“It doesn’t hurt you that I’m in California. It just bugs you that you can’t look over my shoulder.”
“Nice attitude.”
“I learned from the master.”
“You get nothing. You bailed out, and I don’t need the grief.”
Dinah knew he was bluffing. She was secure about her work, and she was syndicated by enough papers to have a career with or without the
Santa Fe Review.
“Are you making me move to Los Angeles permanently?”
That earned her an eyebrow twitch. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m getting acclimated. A little more smog. A little more traffic.” She shrugged her acceptance. “A few more natural disasters, but it’s a huge area. I’ve talked to several local papers and even the
Times.
I’m not an unknown, Flick.”
This was a bold lie. Okay, she was syndicated, sort of, and had a popular blog, but the papers that picked her up weren’t exactly the most well-known.
Flick stared at her, scrunched up his face, then slid his cigar thoughtfully from one side of his mouth to the other. He puffed hard, sending out a cloud of blue smoke and foul odor. “Nobody knows you.”
“We could argue all week. Do I or don’t I have a job?”
“You have a job if you stick around. No raise.”
“I’ve got unfinished business in L.A.”
“Shit.” He scowled.
“I should be back for good in a couple of weeks.”
They stared at each other for long moments. Flick finally broke the silence. “What’s the matter with you?”
Dinah reacted. “What do you mean?”
“You’re different. Less bitchy. Kind of distracted.”
“Thank you so much.”
The faintest smile glimmered in his eyes. Pulling the wet cigar from his mouth, he smashed the end in the nearest ashtray, then flicked the ugly remainder at the trash can. It hit the rim and flopped onto the balcony floor.
It was the first time Dinah had ever seen him miss.
Scowling, he muttered, “Two weeks! After that, forget showing your face around here ever again.”
“You’re a peach,” Dinah said, then beat a hasty retreat before he could change his mind.
She was halfway out the door when she remembered her favorite readers. Hurrying to her desk, she encountered a young—very young—woman with a pinched mouth and a surly stare.
“Kate Patton?” Dinah asked.
“Who’re you?”
“You’re at my desk,” Dinah told her, proprietarily yanking open the drawer and rummaging around until she found the glasses. “It’s a temporary assignment, so don’t screw anything up.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She yawned and walked toward the coffee machine. “Like anybody cares about this shitty newspaper.”
Infuriated, Dinah bit back a sharp retort.
She
cared. This job meant a lot to her, and it really ticked her off that someone as young and inexperienced as Kate could get away with that kind of attitude. Flick would have a fit.
Instantly, Dinah’s mood improved. Another couple weeks, maybe a month, Kate would be history anyway. Two weeks? Screw that. Dinah was safe until spring.
Well, at least her job was safe. Her heart—that was another matter.
 
 
The Corolla sat waiting patiently at LAX. Dinah paid the parking fee, offered up a prayer that the new clanging beneath the hood was something minor, then eased into traffic.
Driving was a disaster. A huge pileup with blaring horns and a carnival of flashing red and blue lights added an hour to her trip home. Nevertheless, her heart was light. She had her repaired laptop in hand, finally, and she was heading back to Malibu.
Careful,
she warned herself. But her fluttering heart refused to listen. She didn’t know whether John would be home or not, but the anticipation was a powerful elixir.
Her breath caught when she saw the gates were open. He was there. Waiting. Unless of course the house had been burglarized again.
But no. The Land Rover was parked in the driveway.
Be casual. No big deal. Act naturally.
As if gasping out its last breath, the Corolla died in the drive. Dinah coasted to a stop, yanked on the brake, then sat for a few moments inside the car, her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, her pulse in overdrive.
She was an idiot, a helpless teenager, a reckless lovesick patsy. But she couldn’t help it. Her whole being had been taken over by emotion, and her normally cool head, her most constant ally, had gone on vacation.
Yep. She was in serious trouble.
She walked quickly up the flagstone path to the doorway, her fingers clasping the door handle, her heart feeling like it would jump out of her chest. She had to press a hand to her breasts, then laughed shakily at the notion. God! She was nuts!
Inside, the house was quiet. She stood in the entryway, breathing shallowly. “John?” she called tentatively, hating the uncertain quality of her voice.
Her actions were so well scripted she could have been the star of a Denise Scott film. Life imitating art.
But he wasn’t anywhere around. At least he didn’t answer when she called. The Land Rover was a mystery, but it wasn’t impossible that he’d left with someone else.
Another woman?
Her heart leaped. She was instantly furious with herself. God! What a mind! Of all the things to think of.
“Don’t be so insecure,” she berated herself. He was probably with someone from his production company, or the studio, or
anybody.
The man had a job. A demanding career, as a matter of fact. And preproduction of
Blackbird
was behind schedule, shifting the whole thing forward and costing oodles of money. She knew that much.
Her pulse slowly recovering, she tossed her bag on the tile floor and walked toward John’s office, determined to think positively and not be such a dope. Weariness invaded every pore. This double life was killing her. Something had to give, and soon.
Lifting her arms, she closed her eyes and stretched, willing herself to relax. Time to forget everything. Time to unwind. Time for a hot shower and bed.
And maybe John?
Embarrassed, she muttered obscenities directed solely at herself, opened her eyes, and gasped. John Callahan himself stood in the doorway of the office, holding Bobo in his arms.
“Hi!” Dinah gulped on a squeak. “I—I didn’t know you were here. Didn’t you hear me call? God, you scared me . . .” Her voice trailed into oblivion at the look on his face. Iron fury locked his jaw and turned his blue eyes to narrow angry beams. Bobo squirmed, squeaked, and wriggled from his arms.
Dinah watched the kitten scurry away, then glanced back fearfully at John. “What? What is it?”
“Get out of my house.”
The words were quiet, but each syllable was a hammer. Dinah flinched. “What?” she asked dazedly.
“You don’t remember the phone call?”
She slowly shook her head, a bad feeling stealing over her.
“Well, I’m not surprised. I’m not even going to ask how, why, or who. Just get the hell out of my life. I’m not your enabler anymore.”
She could only stand there, shaking her head. Everything seemed to stop.
Denise had called, she realized.
No . . . oh, no . . .
“I don’t want to see you anymore,” he uttered slowly, as if she might have trouble hearing. And she
was
having trouble. Lights danced inside her head. So many things could have been said to him. So many terrible things.
It’s not your problem. It’s not you!
But I love him.
Guilt gnawed at her stomach, burned her cheeks. She glanced away, mortified.
You have to tell him the truth.
“You are the weakest, most sorry excuse for a human being I’ve ever met.” Anger burned in his voice, but there was something else, too. Regret. Maybe hurt. Dinah’s head throbbed. She ached—ached with a pain so huge, she wanted to die.
“Get your adulterous ass off my property and out of my life.”
She caught the faint smell of scotch. He’d been drinking. Dinah knew there was no way to talk to him. What in God’s name would she say anyway? But she couldn’t stop herself from trying. “It’s not what you think.”
He actually laughed, the painful sound reverberating throughout the room.
“I need to talk to you . . . when you’re sober.”
“I will never be sober for you again,” he said, shaking his head.
“John, listen, I’ve been trying to keep my life together even though it’s out of control. You don’t understand. You can’t understand.” The words sprang out, faster and faster. “I was working. I wasn’t with anyone. I—”
Another burst of explosive laughter. He began pushing her toward the front door. There wasn’t a lot she could do to stop him, but she tried every trick. At the hall aperture she dug her fingers into the molding and hung on for dear life.
John pushed inexorably forward. Dinah’s temper rose in response. “You can’t throw me out.”
“Watch me.”
“I let you toss me onto the beach. I’m not letting you now!”
“Let me?” His hand came over hers, clawing at her fingers. Dinah struggled in earnest. John yanked one arm free and pinned it behind her back. She wrapped a leg around his knee and jerked hard. He swayed but didn’t fall, then pulled on her arm again, wrenching it. Dinah gasped in pain.
“You son of a bitch!” she bit out.
“Now there’s the Denise we all know and love.”
She wanted to hit and kick and gouge. Surprised by her own passion, Dinah settled for an icy glare that didn’t do jack shit where His Highness, John Callahan, was concerned. “You’re just like all the rest,” she accused acidly.
Blue eyes raked her with disgust.
Disgust.
That was it. That was the emotion. Angry words started to fill her head.
You silly, high-falutin’ bitch. Think your shit doesn’t smell? C’mere. C’mere . . .
She’d stayed where she was, balanced on the balls of her feet like a fighter. If Thomas Daniels so much as feinted in her direction, she’d go straight for his balls. One swift kick.
He’d sneered: superior, cruel, his lip curling with disgust. Disgust that she was a woman and therefore weak. Weak in strength, weak in spirit. Like he was such an icon of respectability and moral fiber.
He’d never touched her. Never hurt her. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. Oh, no. It wasn’t for lack of trying.
“You can’t make me do something I don’t want to do,” she warned John Callahan.
For an answer he grabbed her arms and swung her over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, his favorite mode of transportation. This time she didn’t kick and pound. She waited, counting the footsteps, eyes bouncing with each step until she heard him open the front door. With one easy move, he dropped her on her feet.
And she hauled back and slapped his arrogant, smug, too handsome face.
“Come back and I’ll call the police,” he snarled, the mark on his face changing from white to a livid red.
“I’m going to make your life a living hell!”
“You already have. I hope the bastard was worth it.”
“You don’t know anything about me!”
“You’re a lying, conniving, sick piece of meat.”
Dinah was so enraged, she was shaking. Her lips quivered and tears flashed in the corners of her eyes.
He lifted his hands. “Oh, no. I’ve played that game before. You want to get laid, go find somebody else. I know how you like it. Hard, fast, mean. Total domination. Well, here’s a newsflash. It turns my stomach.”
Words failed her. He was a thousand times worse than Denise had said. A million.
“I don’t know how this ever happened,” he added flatly. “I’m sick of you and your problems.”
“Yeah?” Dinah finally discovered her voice. “You’re not exactly the model of morality and restraint.”
“I’ve been too damn good. A fact I’m going to rectify right now.”
He disappeared back in the house. Dinah marched after him, spoiling for a fight. He grabbed a lightweight jacket from the back of a kitchen chair and headed for the garage. “Where are you going?” she demanded.
“
I’m
going to get laid,” he announced grandly as he pushed the button for the garage door and staggered through the empty room and outdoors to the Land Rover.
“You’ll get pulled over for drunk driving,” she yelled, following after him.
“Too damn bad!”
“I’m calling the police. I’ll give them your license number. I’ll make sure they pick you up!”
“What the hell do you want?” he roared, dropping the keys in his fury. They fell to the cement drive and bounced into the surrounding lawn.
She glared at him, fists clenched. He glared right back, so undeniably handsome that something uncoiled inside Dinah. Something rich and dangerous and totally wanton. It must have shown on her face because he sensed it. His eyes narrowed, but he shook his head. Muttering obscenities beneath his breath, he bent down for the keys.
Then he was upright again, his gaze hot and electric. “Go away, Denise. Just . . . go away.”
He swayed. She moved forward instinctively. His gaze dropped to the swing of her hips and he groaned like a condemned man.
“I think I hate you,” she told him through her teeth.
His answer was to drag her close, smash his lips on hers, mold her body to his own hard contours, his own inflamed senses pushing hers sky high, until she clung to him for dear life.
BOOK: You Don't Know Me
4.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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