Soft Focus

  She sensed Jack and turned to see him coming toward her. With his coat collar up and his face hidden, he looked like Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon.

  “Give up?” he asked.

  “Not yet. Maybe he decided to wait until the theater is empty. He could be hiding in the men’s room or a utility closet.” She took one hand out of her pocket and made a shooing motion. “Go back to your post.”

  “Face it, he didn’t show.”

  “I still think—” She broke off as the roar of a motorcycle engine split the darkness behind her.

  She and Jack both turned quickly toward the sound. A single headlight beam pierced the night. Elizabeth realized that the motorcycle was racing along a service road behind the theater. As they watched, it turned into the small parking lot where she and Jack stood.

  “What the hell?” Jack took her arm and hauled her deeper into the darkness near the wall. “Don’t move,” he said in her ear.

  She obeyed, standing very still in the circle of his arm.

  The motorcycle flashed past the pool of shadows where they waited. The driver did not appear to notice them. He drove down the narrow alley on the right side of the building toward the entrance of the theater. The vehicle was not moving at a great speed, but the engine was revved to a loud, full-throated roar.

  Once the motorcycle had gone safely past them, Elizabeth felt Jack release his hold on her. Together they stepped out into the alley to watch the bike zoom toward the street.

  When the cyclist passed beneath the yellow bulb above the exit door, Elizabeth caught her breath. The pale light glinted malevolently on a black helmet that effectively concealed the driver’s face. Metal studs gleamed on a black leather jacket and, very briefly, on the metal trim that decorated a familiar-looking black leather boot.

  “Jack.” She grabbed his arm and tugged him forward in the wake of the cycle. “It’s the other guy who tried to beat you up the other night. Ollie, the one that got away in the van.”

  “How do you know?”

  “His boots. Come on. Something’s going to happen, and I bet it’s going to involve Vicky.”

  He did not argue. Together they ran down the alley in pursuit of the motorcycle. Elizabeth silently cursed her high heels.

  The cycle had reached the brightly lit front entrance of the theater. It slowed. Elizabeth saw the driver raise one hand. He was holding something in his gloved fist. A cylinder-shaped object.

  At that moment Vicky Bellamy appeared. Her white and silver gown glowed in the brilliant marquee lights. Dawson was a short distance behind her, smiling proudly. He paused to speak to a man in a dark coat.

  The driver of the motorcycle made a throwing motion with his arm. A stream of liquid arced through the air.

  “Whore. Scarlet woman. Jezebel.”

  Vicky screamed, a high, cresting shriek of mingled anger and fear, as the red paint splashed across her gown.

  “For God’s sake, somebody stop him,” Dawson shouted.

  As if there were anything that anyone could do, Elizabeth thought. It had all happened too fast. The driver gunned the motorcycle’s engine and careened off into the night. The crowd of theatergoers gazed, dumbfounded, after him.

  Elizabeth limped to a halt beside Jack, breathing hard.

  Vicky’s voice rose to a theatrical wail above the murmurs and exclamations. “Dawson, look what he did. Why does he hate me? Why does he call me those terrible names?”

  Dawson put his arm around her shoulders in an unmistakable protective movement. “I’m going to talk to the police again, my dear. There must be something they can do. Whoever he is, he’s sick and he’s dangerous. I’m afraid he’s growing bolder.”

  JACK TOOK THE cognac bottle down out of the cupboard. He watched Elizabeth kick off her sadly scuffed high heels and flop lightly down on the sofa in front of the fire. The skirt of her slim black gown rode high on her thigh. It occurred to him that she had very pretty feet—elegantly arched and incredibly sexy, especially when sheathed in a pair of black hose.

  And to think he’d never considered himself a foot man.

  He heard a sharp clink and winced when he realized he’d struck the edge of one glass with the neck of the cognac bottle. Clumsy.

  Out of the unholy mix of murky emotions that had been screwing up his thought processes lately, at last emerged one he knew that he could comprehend. It glowed like a homing beacon. Bright, obvious, riveting. That was the nice thing about sex. It wasn’t complicated.

  He allowed his eye to follow the long line of Elizabeth’s neatly curved legs to the point where her thighs disappeared beneath the hem of her dress. He felt his blood heat.

  She scowled at him as he finished pouring the cognac into two glasses. He remembered that she had berated him earlier for being in a surly mood. So much for sex not being complicated. He groaned softly. With Elizabeth, everything was complicated.

  “There was something strange about what happened outside the theater tonight,” she announced.

  “There’s something strange about this whole damn setup.” He picked up the glasses and walked around the corner of the granite counter. “I feel like we’re in one of those films where everything keeps turning out wrong and the characters get sucked deeper and deeper into a quagmire of disaster.”

  “I know what you mean.” Her eyes traveled to the bound script lying on the coffee table. “Sort of like the plot for Fast Company. But I meant that there was something weird about Vicky’s reaction tonight.”

  He stopped beside the sofa and handed her one of the glasses. “Why do you say that? Looked like a pretty straightforward publicity gimmick to me. Beautiful star victim of crazed fan.”

  “Her initial scream sounded genuine.”

  “She’s an actress, remember?”

  Elizabeth turned the glass of cognac in her hands, studying it. “The scream sounded for real. But a few seconds later, she sounded like an actress again. Why does he hate me? Why does he do these things to me? Kind of phony. And Dawson sounded even phonier when he talked about going to the cops again because the stalker was getting bolder.”

  Jack snorted. “I think it’s a good bet that Holland has not gone to the police about the so-called stalker. If he had, good old Ollie would have been out of a job by now. He’s not smart enough or fast enough to avoid getting caught.”

  “And if everyone’s right about the stalker incidents being a publicity gimmick, Dawson wouldn’t want to have the police looking too closely into the incidents anyway. But that’s not my point.”

  Jack noticed that her brows were etched in a frown of deep concern. “You’re worried that the stalker thing is part of Dawson’s plan to get rid of a third wife, aren’t you?”

  Elizabeth twisted restlessly on the sofa. “It’s just that I got the impression that Vicky wasn’t expecting to have red paint thrown at her tonight. I wonder why not. After all, she must be involved in the planning of the stalker incidents. They’d have to be choreographed ahead of time, wouldn’t they?”

  “If you were after maximum publicity, yes.”

  “You know what?” She met his eyes across the top of the cognac glass. “I think something went wrong tonight. Vicky recovered fast, but I’d be willing to bet that she didn’t expect the stalker to strike.”

  Jack thought back to the scene at the theater entrance. Holland folded protectively around his wife, warning everyone in earshot that the stalker was getting bolder. “Dawson expected it.”

  “Yes.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Jack exhaled slowly.

  “You’ve warned Vicky. There’s nothing more that you can do. And we could be wrong about Holland.”

  “I know.” She sat up on the edge of the sofa and put the cognac glass down on the table. “There’s something else that’s worrying me. I still think that Tyler Page is madly, passionately in love with his femme fatale. What’s going to happen when he discovers that Vicky doesn’t intend to run off with him after t
he auction of Soft Focus? Because I sure can’t see her throwing away everything for poor Dr. Page.”

  Jack groaned. “Please don’t tell me that you’re starting to worry about that little bastard. He’s the one who created this mess, remember?”

  Elizabeth’s expression grew more troubled. “He’s obviously a man of intense passions. Something tells me that he won’t take Vicky’s rejection well. Not after he’s sacrificed so much for her. He could make himself . . . difficult.”

  “How?” Jack asked dryly. “By going to the cops? Not a chance. Like everyone else involved in this thing, he’s not about to drag the police into it. He could end up in jail if this deal goes public.”

  “I can’t help but think of Page as a victim of passion.”

  “Victim? The little shit stole Soft Focus.” Jack set his glass down very forcefully on the mantel and left it there. He started across the room toward Elizabeth. “If you’re going to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for us. If we don’t find him and that damned crystal, Excalibur will go out of business, my professional reputation will be in the toilet, and the Aurora Fund will lose a hell of a lot of money.”

  “I’m very aware of the business and financial implications,” she said stiffly. “That’s not the issue.”

  “The hell it’s not.” He reached down, closed his hands around her shoulders, and pulled her to her feet. “This is no time to lose sight of the main objective.”

  “I know.”

  The anxiety in her eyes irritated him. “Do me a favor. Don’t go all soft and sentimental about Tyler Page—or Vicky Bellamy, either, for that matter. Both of them can take care of themselves. They don’t deserve your sympathy. You know something?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a bad habit of feeling sorry for people. Page, Vicky, your brother-in-law, Camille Galloway. Hayden. Hell, yesterday afternoon in the parking lot you felt sorry for me. Where does the list stop?”

  Her chin came up fast. “It stops with you.” She turned away from him with a sharp, angry movement. “I can see where you got the idea that I’m the world’s easiest pushover. After all, I’m sleeping with you, aren’t I?”

  He stiffened. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “It has everything to do with it.” She spun around, eyes alight with anger. “You think I’m a wimp or an idiot, or both.”

  “Damn it to hell, that’s not true and you know it. I just don’t want to be on your feel-sorry-for list.”

  She blinked. For an instant he thought she was going to throw something at him. Then, quite suddenly, the fires of battle faded. He was not sure he liked the closed, speculative expression that took their place any better. Fires of battle he understood. This look was much more complicated and therefore much more dangerous.

  She folded her arms. “If you don’t think I’m a wimp or an idiot, what do you think?”

  His blood chilled. What had gone wrong? He was losing control of the situation again. Why in hell did this kind of thing always happen whenever he tried to talk to her about something other than business? He groped for a way to get the conversation back on track.

  “You once asked me what I would do if I failed to recover the crystal for Excalibur,” he said.

  “You told me that you would liquidate the company for the Ingersolls and track down Tyler Page.”

  “Right. I’m real clear on those two points. But what about us?”

  She went very still in front of the fire. “Are you asking me if I’m interested in continuing our affair after whatever happens”—she waved a hand—“happens?”

  “Yes.” He watched her, aware that inside he was coiled so tightly he was afraid he might snap. “That’s what I’m asking.”

  She did not take her eyes off the flames. “Don’t you think it’s a little too soon to be making any long-range decisions in that direction?”

  Shit. Now what the hell was he supposed to say? He tried to plow forward, afraid that he was sinking deeper with each step. “What I think is that we’re both attracted to each other. We’ve fought it for six months.”

  Her mouth twitched. “We haven’t exactly been fighting it this past week.”

  “You’ve got to admit that what we’ve been doing for the past few days is pretty convincing evidence that we wasted a hell of a lot of time during the past six months.”

  She put one hand on the mantel. Her lipstick-red nails glowed like rubies in the flickering light. “You know something? I’ve been thinking about what’s been happening between us since Soft Focus disappeared.”

  Hope ignited in him. He took a step toward her and then stopped. “Me too.”

  She contemplated him thoughtfully. “We’ve been thrown together under a highly abnormal set of circumstances. We’re both under a lot of stress this week. We’re two single, healthy people forced to share the same space. We’re united in a mutual goal.”

  “I’m probably going to hate myself for asking, but just where are you going with this?”

  She began to tap her nails against the mantel. “I’m saying that, what with everything that’s happened during the past few days, it’s quite possible that we have both experienced an artificial sense of bonding.”

  “Is that what you call it? Bonding?”

  She pursed her lips. “It seems obvious to me that sex may be our bodies’ natural way of relieving the tension in what is, after all, a highly unnatural situation.”

  “There is nothing unnatural about it.” His jaw tensed. “Or artificial, either, for that matter.”

  “I don’t think we should read too much into what’s been going on between us during the past few days.”

  “You’re calling this a one-week stand?”

  “What else can we call it?” She swung around to face him. “Don’t you understand? We won’t really know how we feel about each other until we’re back in Seattle. We need to try having a normal relationship before we can decide what this is all about. It’s possible that what’s happened between us here in Mirror Springs is just one of those things.”

  The fierceness that had been gnawing at his insides all evening welled up once more. He took another step toward her. “I already know that I want us to continue sleeping together after we return to whatever passes for a normal life back in Seattle.”

  “I think we should go very slowly here. Neither of us should put pressure on the other.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  She eyed him with an unreadable expression. “Well, for one thing, I’ve got a rather poor track record when it comes to choosing the right man.”

  “I knew it. You don’t trust your feelings for me.” He smiled slowly. “Who would have thought that the Ice Princess would be such a coward?”

  Anger flared in her eyes. “Don’t you dare call me a coward just because I want to make sure that this whole affair amounts to something more than a one-week stand.”

  He gathered her into his arms. “What are you afraid of, Elizabeth?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.” She put her hands on his shoulders, holding herself away from him. “I just don’t intend to make any more mistakes where you’re concerned.”

  “For six months we’ve been stuck together like a couple of staples in a jammed stapler.”

  “Oh, that’s a romantic image.”

  He ignored her. “Now we’re sleeping together, which, for my money, is a lot more comfortable. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “Nothing, as far as this week goes,” she shot back. “It’s comfortable, all right. But I refuse to be pushed into making a sweeping decision about what will happen when this business with Soft Focus is finished. I don’t want to go too far out on a limb.”

  “When are you going to realize that we’ve already gone too far out on this branch? You can’t turn back now any more than I can.”

  She opened her mouth. He realized she was going to continue to argue. He also knew that he was out of words. He kissed her quickly, swallowi
ng her indignant protest with a kiss.

  She made a muffled, exasperated sound.

  “Okay, okay,” he muttered against her mouth. “No commitments beyond this week. I’ll take what I can get and shut up.”

  She tilted her head back against his arm. “Will you really? Shut up about it, I mean?”

  “It might be a one-week stand, but it’s the best week I’ve had in six months, even if I have lost my client’s only tangible business asset and very possibly my own career.” He lowered the zipper of her gown to her waist. “Which only goes to show how miserable the last six months have been.”

  “A COUPLE OF jammed staples?” she mumbled a long time later.

  “I’m a CEO, not a scriptwriter.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  * * *

  SHE STILL DIDN’T TRUST HIM. OR MAYBE SHE just didn’t trust herself. Either way, the result was the same. He had a problem.

  Jack punched up the pillow behind his head so that he could study the dull glow of a cloudy mountain dawn. Beside him, Elizabeth slept soundly, the sweet, lush curve of her derriere settled against his hip. He had called her a coward, but he knew the truth. The tension between them was all his fault, not hers. He had really pissed in his chili six months ago.

  The bottom line was that he’d gotten exactly what he’d told himself he wanted: a second chance with Elizabeth in his bed.

  Be careful what you wish for . . .

  She was willing to have an affair, or at least a one-week fling, but she was not about to commit to anything more. Not yet, at any rate. He had a sudden vision of finding himself back in Seattle and discovering that she intended to see other men while she waited to find out exactly how she felt about him.

  The bleak mood that had crowded in on him during those rare hours when he had not been working during the past six months threatened to settle on him again. But this time he could not escape to the dojo. This time his problem was lying right here beside him.