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“Look, Margot, I know you think that Zane and I should reconcile and live this storybook existence, but it’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
Exasperated, Kaylie replied, “For one reason, he’s not Prince Charming and I’m not Snow White or Cinderella or whoever it was Prince Charming was linked up with.”
“Oh, Kaylie,” Margot said cryptically, “if you only knew.”
* * *
At eleven-thirty, Zane was finally caught up. His work, while he’d been off in the mountains with Kaylie, had piled up. He’d had to deal with a complaint about one of his men in the Beverly Hills office, double-check two new security systems in offices downtown, hire three more men as well as go over the books quickly to keep his accountant appeased.
And through it all, he’d thought of Kaylie, worried about her, wished to God that she was with him.
He reached for the phone, but decided not to call her. It was too late. She’d be exhausted. And he’d promised himself to let her live her own life.
Lifting his arms over his head, he felt his spine pop from hours of restless sitting. He stood, walked to the window, and stretching the muscles of his back and shoulders, caught a glimpse of the city at night. Cars rushed by, their headlights cutting into the semidarkness, their taillights small red beacons. A few pedestrians scurried along the sidewalks, black forms visible in the lamplight.
He’d called Whispering Hills earlier in the day and been assured by Dr. Henshaw that Johnston was going to stay locked up for a while. But, though the good doctor had been forthcoming, Zane had a feeling Henshaw wasn’t telling him everything.
It wasn’t anything Henshaw had said; it was the hesitation in his voice that had caused the hairs on the back of Zane’s neck to rise—it was as if the doctor were trying to hide information.
“But why?” Zane wondered aloud, rubbing the day’s growth of beard on his chin. Maybe Kaylie was right. Maybe, where her safety was concerned, he was paranoid.
Even the tape from Ted could be a hoax. But why? Why?
He’d had gut feelings before and he never second-guessed his instincts. Right or wrong, he had to be careful. This was Kaylie’s life—her life, damn it. He wasn’t about to fool around.
He rotated his neck, closing his eyes. She would be furious if she even guessed that he’d sent someone to watch her apartment, to follow her, to protect her when he wasn’t with her.
“You’re getting in deep, Flannery,” he told himself as he grabbed his keys and snapped off the lights. No, that was wrong. Where Kaylie was concerned, he’d always been in deep, so deep that he felt that sometimes he was drowning.
He wanted nothing more than to drive to her apartment and stay the night, make love to her and awake with her wrapped around him. But he couldn’t.
“Breathing room,” he muttered as he locked the door of the building behind him. “She wants breathing room.”
* * *
Alan Bently swirled his onion in his glass and stared broodingly at his drink. Seated at a private table in an expensive restaurant, he was alone with hi
s own bleak thoughts. He was past forty—pushing forty-five—and his hair was little more than a memory. Though he worked out every day, his physique was suffering and his career looked as if it was on hold. Or worse.
For a while, with all the hype and speculation about Kaylie and him being romantically involved, things had started to look up. His agent had talked about a possible part in a movie, and there was even a rumor that a big-name producer was interested in putting Kaylie and Alan back on the silver screen together—to do a sequel to Obsession. True it had been over seven years since the original movie had been released, but that didn’t matter. Sequels were the thing now.
But Zane Flannery seemed hell-bent on ruining everything. It didn’t matter that he and Kaylie had disappeared for a while, though Alan would have liked to milk that disappearance for a little publicity, and he’d enjoyed being the star of the show. Now she was back and definitely not interested in anything but Flannery. Again.
So all his dreams seemed to be slipping away. Like a ghost from his past, fame eluded him. Alan Bently wanted the big time and he’d tasted a little of it once. Not that his job with the station was anything to sneeze at. West Coast Morning was big—at least on the West Coast. But it wasn’t as glamorous as a successful movie. He wanted his name in the credits. He was still young enough to be a leading man, but he couldn’t wait much longer.
Alan tossed back his drink. He knew that his career was teetering on the brink. One wrong move and the fickle public would forget him. But, with the right amount of publicity and interest, he could reach the big time again.
Smiling as the liquor slid through his system, sending a cozy warmth through his bloodstream, he motioned to the mâitre d’ for a telephone and made the call that would ensure his fame again.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning Kaylie felt a pang of loneliness. Zane wasn’t lying in the sheets, nor was he winking at her, nor making jokes with her, nor, as she headed for the door, tossing off the blankets and, without a stitch on, chasing her down the hall.
“This is what you wanted,” she told herself as she grabbed a piece of toast, slapped some butter on it and munched as she locked the door behind her.
She felt restless and anxious. For seven years she’d lived without Zane, and now, she told herself as she drove toward the station, she couldn’t stand one night away from him.
