Undercover Mistress

Chapter 8

Roy stood where he was and swore until he ran out of words. Then he figured the problem was he needed some air. He’d been laid up in bed, cooped up in a strange house with strange people, way too long.

How else could he explain the antsy way he felt, watching a woman he barely knew smile at his friend and handler that way. She was a star, for God’s sake! Must have smiled like that at thousands of men. Probably didn’t think twice about it.

He made it down the hallway and into the living room before he started to feel light-headed and woozy and had to stop and hang on to the back of a cream suede sofa until his ears stopped ringing. Amazing, he thought, what being a few pints low on vital body fluids could do to a man.

Damn, but he hated the weakness. And he was going to have to get over it. Fast. Because Max was right about one thing-they were running out of time.

Just thinking about that gave Roy a queasy feeling in his stomach, as if he were in some kind of vehicle moving way too fast and beyond his control. And Max. What the hell was he thinking? He had to be really feeling the pressure, too, if he was giving serious thought to Celia’s hare-brained idea.

When Roy thought about that-when he thought about the man he’d come face-to-face with on the Bibi Lilith, the man who’d interrogated him, the man who’d shot him…touching Celia…smiling at her in that cruel way, looking at her with those dead eyes…

No. No way. He straightened himself up, gritted his teeth and fought off the dizziness with sheer willpower. He had to get his strength back. Had to get back in the game before that crazy woman convinced his boss to do something incredibly stupid.

Weaving like a 2 a.m. drunk, he made his way through the living room and out onto the deck, which was where Celia found him a few minutes later.

When he heard the sliding glass door open, he turned away from the view of sky and sea that was so different from the one he knew. Turned away, too, from the homesickness that had come upon him unexpectedly, along with thoughts of the beach house he’d left behind…gray-shingled siding with white porches, sitting tall on its stilts among gentle dunes tufted with sea grass…looking out upon endless sugar-sand beaches and sunny blue waters. Here, the beach houses of the rich and famous crowded close to the sand, yuppies jogged along the water’s edge and teenagers threw Frisbees to one another, while surfers sat patiently on their boards beyond the breakers. But he knew those undulating, coppery swells hid dangerous rip tides, forests of kelp and jagged volcanic rocks, and the ever-hovering fog shrouded the horizon in a sinister curtain. The Pacific, he had reason to know, was anything but peaceful. It was cold, and vast, and lethal…

Suppressing a shiver, he braced his backside and his hands on the deck railing to steady himself and watched Celia come toward him, smiling, positively glowing with satisfaction, like a cat fresh from dining on a canary.

“You might as well wipe that smirk off your face,” he said in a gravelly voice, “because you are not doing this. It’s just a plumb crazy idea.”

“Well, now,” she said sweetly as she joined him, leaning her hands on the railing and lifting her face to the reddening sun and the chilling breeze, “it’s really not up to you, is it? It’s up to Max-and the director, whoever he is. And Max seems to think it’s a good idea. Seems to think the director will, too.”

“Seems to me,” Roy said, scowling, “Max is way more susceptible to the influence and charm of a beautiful woman than a married man ought to be.”

Her laughter seemed to sparkle like the sun out there on the water. She looked at him along her shoulder. “Seems to me,” she countered in a husky voice, “you were pretty susceptible yourself not so long ago.”

“That was before I knew what a devious woman you are,” he muttered. “Before I knew you had an ulterior motive for kissing me.”

She jerked as if he’d startled her, and an emotion he couldn’t identify flashed like a seagull’s shadow across her face. “I don’t have any…ulterior motives, as you put it. It’s like I told you-I just want to help. I want-” her breath caught and she turned back to the water, her blue eyes for a moment eerily reflecting its coppery glow “-I want to do something I can take credit for. Something…important. Something-okay, this is going to sound corny-something meaningful.”

“Fine,” Roy said savagely. “Why don’t you go volunteer at an old folks’ home? Adopt an orphan from Bolivia? Why do you have to do something that could get you killed?”

The breeze blew her hair across her face when she turned it toward him. She lifted her chin as she fingered her hair back, revealing a sardonic smile. “You’re being a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“Melodramatic?” His voice cracked on the word. “Lady, you tell me you listened to my nightmare ravings, heard every word. You’ve seen me-living, breathing proof of how rough these people play. And you think I’m being melodramatic?”

“You were caught trespassing,” Celia pointed out with airy confidence. “Obviously up to no good. I, on the other hand, will be Abby’s invited guest. What danger can there be in that?”

Roy couldn’t argue with her logic, and he couldn’t find a way to explain his to her, either. Maybe he didn’t have any. He just knew he didn’t want Celia Cross-or any woman, he told himself-getting anywhere near the Bibi Lilith, Prince Abdul al-Fayad, or the thugs who’d tried their level best to put an end to Betty Starr’s little boy Roy.

Finally, after working his jaw on it for a couple of minutes, he stuck his chin out in her direction and said, “Fine. Get me an invitation. That’s if the director gives the okay. I’ll take it from there.”

Celia shook her head. “Oh, no. Not without me, you won’t. I’m in on it, or no deal.”

Roy felt his body go tense and still. He drew himself in around a humming core of anger and, with ominous calm, said, “What do you mean, ‘No deal’?”

“I mean,” she said, not the least bit impressed or intimidated, locking eyes with him, “you’ll have to find another way to get on board Abby’s yacht. You should also think about the fact,” she added, leaning closer to him and dropping her voice to a seductive whisper, “that I know things you wish I didn’t know. And I have mainline access to the media.”

Roy’s breath hissed between his teeth. “You wouldn’t.”

Again her smoky blue gaze didn’t waver. “Don’t bet on it.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring down into those eyes, with his heart banging against the walls of his chest and his belly quivering with a hellish combination of physical weakness and cold fury. Dammit, she was so close…too close…and vibrant and sweet-smelling and beautiful and warm. Kissin’-close, if he’d been of such a mind.

Which he sure as hell wasn’t. Right then, he’d have been more likely to strangle her.

Then, as abruptly as if someone had flipped a light switch, a smile burst over her face, dispelling the tension the way light eliminates darkness and causing a queer little kick in Roy’s chest. “But why are we even talking about such things? It’s not ever going to come to that. You’ll see. Max is a smart man-he knows a good thing when he sees it.”

She clapped her hands together, reminding him of nothing so much as somebody trying to distract a difficult child. “So-what would you like for dinner? That was it for the pot roast, but I’ve got…let’s see…meat loaf, lasagna, and…oh yeah, chicken cordon bleu.”

“I just ate,” Roy reminded her, scowling. He was still smarting and the last thing he wanted to do was play her game, but, damnation, it was hard to resist that smile.

“Oh, I know,” she said gaily, “but I’m planning ahead. It’s all frozen, you see. I have to get something out to thaw.” She paused for a moment to cock her head as if replaying that inside her head, then gave him an impish version of the smile. “I can’t believe I thought of it, actually. Wow-I’m better at this domestic stuff than I thought.”

He snorted-he’d be damned if he was going to let her make him laugh. If she wanted to declare a truce for the time being, fine, that was all right with him. But this war wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. There was just no way he was going on an undercover mission with thousands-maybe millions-of lives at stake, with a soap opera star as his partner. No way.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “you’re a regular Julia Child.” He didn’t tell her he was surprised a TV actress would even eat, much less cook.

If possible, her smile grew even more dazzling. “Thank you.” Then she added, in a chummy, conversational way, “I actually knew her, you know. She and my parents were good friends.” She stuck out her lower lip in a regretful pout. “It’s a pity, I suppose, they never asked Julia to teach me to cook. The truth is-” now the lower lip was captured by perfectly even white teeth “-I can’t boil water. But-” and like the sun playing peekaboo with clouds, the smile reappeared “-I nuke fairly well.”

Roy stared at her through the whole amazing display, and when she turned with a flirty little flounce to go back into the house, it was a beat or two before he could find his voice, to ask her the question that had come to him, whether he wanted it to or not.

“What was it like?” He knew his voice sounded harsh but didn’t do anything to fix it. He waited while she paused to look back at him, then continued on the same gravelly way. “Growing up like that, I mean-in a Bel Air mansion, with famous movie stars for parents?”

She came back to him slowly, like a prowling cat, measuring him with her eyes. He watched her with a sardonic smile on his lips, fortified against her, now, expecting another performance. “Poor Little Rich Girl,” maybe? But as she came closer, her smile seemed to grow wistful…then sad. And there was something in her eyes that made him think this time it-the smile and the sadness-might be real.

“It was…wonderful,” she said softly. “More wonderful than you can possibly imagine. It was like…not even a fairy tale, because there was nothing evil or scary or bad. Ever. My life was always filled with laughter and love and music and…and the most amazing people. Everyone I knew was either beautiful or brilliantly talented or funny-sometimes all three-and it seemed as though everyone adored me. Everyone was always kind…”

She was beside him again, hands resting on the deck railing, gazing out at the water, but closer than before. He jerked as her shoulder brushed against his arm; though it seemed accidental, it sent a shock wave through him and set off a thrumming beat low-down in his belly.

He looked over at her. The setting sun lent her skin and hair a summery warmth that contradicted a damp and chilly wind that was sharp enough now to redden her nose and spark tears in her eyes. At least, that was what he told himself was responsible for that display of apparent vulnerability. He didn’t want to believe it was real. Didn’t want to feel sympathy for the likes of Celia Cross. He didn’t want to feel anything for her-to be truthful, not for any woman, right at the moment, but especially not a woman like this one. A woman as devious, as manipulative, as skilled an actress as this one.

“What about your parents?” he asked gruffly. “I’d think they’d have had to be gone quite a bit.”

“They were.” Since he wasn’t looking at her, he felt rather than saw her nod. Heard the little catch of her breath. “When they could, they took me along. I loved that-I got to have a tutor, and when my parents weren’t busy on the set, we had the most marvelous adventures.” She flashed him a wind-whipped smile. “I’ve ridden on elephants and camels. And once, even in a rickshaw.” She looked away again, across the water. “When they couldn’t take me, they’d bring me back things…marvelous things from faraway places. You saw some of them-in the bookcase in my…in your room.”

“It must have been hard,” he prompted when she didn’t go on. He didn’t know why. Maybe he was thinking about his own daddy again. “To have all that end.”

She flashed him a look. “Oh, it didn’t end. I mean-there was a lot in my life that didn’t change at all when my parents died. I’d always had an army of people looking after me-nannies, housekeepers, maids, cooks, gardeners, lawyers, business managers, music teachers, dance teachers…you name it. That went on the same as before, paid for by the trust my parents had set up for me. I went to the same school-private, but not boarding.” Her smile was wry now. “I was driven to school every day in a limo and picked up afterward the same way. Which wasn’t unusual for the school I went to, actually.”

“So, you mean to tell me everything went on just the same? You didn’t miss your parents at all?”

She flashed him another look, one that stung like a slap. “Of course I miss them. They were the only people in this world who loved me unconditionally. I miss them every day of my life.”

Something tightened inside his chest, and he turned restlessly to face the water. “You don’t have any other family?”

“Nobody.” She shook her head, at the same time lifting her face to the wind and the dying light, as if, he thought, she were shaking off a cloak or a veil. Then she turned toward him and propped one elbow on the railing. “What about you? Are your parents alive?”

Distracted, he shook his head, then amended it with a shrug. “Well-my daddy died when I was just a kid. Momma’s still goin’ strong, though.” He purposely said it in the accents of Oglethorp County, Georgia, where he’d been born and raised, and she smiled in appreciation.

“Any brothers and sisters?”

Grinning, he drawled, “A whole bunch. Three of each.”

She seemed to absorb that for a moment, head canted as if she were listening to voices from far away. She straightened up and pushed away from the railing. “I hope you know how lucky you are,” she said softly.

She left him standing there, alone, listening to the whisper and sigh of surf in the dusk. Muttering swearwords under his breath and wondering why it was he always seemed to feel off balance and uncertain about things after conversations with this woman. Particularly since the words off balance and uncertain weren’t ones he’d ever felt obliged to apply to himself before now.

He didn’t know how he felt about her, for one thing. Though he knew for sure how he didn’t want to feel. Grateful to her, for one thing-although he was; he valued his life a great deal, and was more than glad she’d saved it for him. What he didn’t like was being beholden-feeling as if he owed her something, and her being manipulative enough to hold that over him to get her way. Even if, in a way, he could understand why she wanted it…

Well, he for damned sure didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. He didn’t want to like her, either, not even a little bit, and he didn’t want to fall for the charm and sex appeal she undoubtedly had-in spades. Especially the sex appeal. It was so damned blatant-and still he couldn’t seem to help but respond to it. How stupid was that? Like seeing the damn pit trap right there in front of him and tumbling into it anyway.

The coastal evening chill was beginning to seep into his bones-something that seemed to happen to him a whole lot easier since his brush with near fatal hypothermia. He was about to abandon the uneasy solitude of the deck and head for the warmth of the house and more of Celia’s company, aggravating as it was, when a light came on, illuminating the deck next door. That was followed by the sandy scrape of a sliding glass door.

“Well, I must say, you’re looking a bit more chipper.” The sardonic, English-accented voice drifted across from the neighboring deck as the man Roy had last seen bending over him with a stethoscope moved into the light. He was wearing what appeared to be a purple jogging suit that made him resemble a slightly wrinkled grape, which seemed appropriate, since he had a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Some advertisement for a doctor, Roy thought.

“Yeah,” he drawled with a half grin as he ambled over to the side of the deck that was closest to its neighbor, “I think maybe I’ll live. I’d like to thank you, by the way.”

Doc waved the cigarette in a dismissive way. “I didn’t do much, I’m afraid. Not much I could do, under the circumstances-I’m sure Celia’s told you. She’s the one you should thank.”

“Yeah,” said Roy morosely, “so I’ve been told.”

Doc chuckled and started to say something, then drank wine instead. Holding up the glass in a “Wait one moment” gesture, he made his way without haste down the wooden stairs to the sand. Roy waited for the other man to join him, then they both sat down in adjoining deck chairs.

“So,” Doc said, leaning closer and lowering his voice, “I take it our Celia has been working her wiles on you.”

“Wiles?” Smiling without humor, Roy shook his head. “I guess that’s a pretty good word for it.”

Doc drank wine, then settled back comfortably in the deck chair, seemingly impervious to the increasing chill. “I had a visitor a short while ago,” he remarked, apparently changing the subject. “Fellow by the name of Max.” He paused to take a puff from the cigarette, then added dryly as he exhaled, “I assured him I have no desire to become involved in anything, which might threaten the peace and solitude to which I’ve grown accustomed. He seemed to take me at my word-although by this time, I suspect he knows more about me than my mum and my ex-wife combined.”

Roy carefully folded his arms across himself and leaned forward, trying to conserve what body heat he could. “Celia said you lost your license to practice medicine. How come?”

“Bad choices, my boy, bad choices.” After looking in vain for an ashtray, Doc flicked the cigarette over the side of the deck onto the sand. “I lost a great deal by them, and have only myself to blame. But I have ‘paid my debt to society,’ as they say, and consider myself fortunate to have such a place in which to spend my exile.” He waved the wineglass, taking in the deck and the dark ocean and sky beyond, then nodded his head toward the lighted square of window behind him. “Not to mention such charming company with which to share it. Although,” he added enigmatically, draining the last of the wine and placing the glass carefully on the floor of the deck beside his chair, “it appears that may be about to come to an end. Ah, well-I always knew that, unlike mine, Celia’s exile was only temporary.”

“Exile? Celia?”

Doc’s eyes widened. “She didn’t tell you?”

“She said she had an accident. Somebody was killed?”

“Killed? Oh, yes.” Doc sat up and shifted around in the chair to face him. “It was a terrible tragedy, really. And Celia very nearly died herself, you know. Broke both her legs…massive internal injuries-to put it in non-medical terms. She’s not been back on her feet more than a few months, actually. But-well, the physical injuries weren’t the worst of it. What really destroyed her was the way the media-and the public, goaded on by the media, no doubt-treated her. Attacked like a pack of wild dogs. There were rumors-and outright accusations, not just in the tabloids, but in the mainstream media-of drug use, alcohol abuse…all sorts of things. Absolutely none of which were true, of course.” He made a disgusted noise. “It was a case of exhaustion, pure and simple. She’d been pushing herself to finish a guest shot on a prime-time show, at the same time her character on the soap opera was involved in a very demanding story line. She fell asleep at the wheel driving home from the set late one night. In itself a tragic mistake, obviously.

“But as for the other…Celia was totally unprepared for it. She’d always had it easy, you know, as things go in this business. She was charming, beautiful, talented and of royal blood-as you Americans consider royalty. Success and adoration came almost as her due. To lose it all, so suddenly…”

“She seems to have recovered pretty well,” Roy said dryly.

Doc grunted as he pushed himself out of the chair. “Don’t let her fool you. The lady is more fragile than she appears. Picture her stamped with the warning-” on his feet, now, and towering above Roy, he waved the wineglass to paint his next words in the air “-Handle With Care.”

“Oh, I mean to do that,” Roy said, mostly to himself as he watched Doc weave his way across the deck and start down the stairs, holding the empty wineglass aloft in a farewell salute.

Of course, he was pretty sure the way he meant it wasn’t exactly what the doctor had had in mind…

“Oh-didn’t I just see Doc out here?”

The melodic, slightly husky voice sent a shock through him, making him jump and setting off seismic waves of pain in his chest and side. Folding one arm across his waist to hold himself together, he pushed himself to his feet and carefully turned. “He was. Just left.”

“Oh.” Celia’s lips formed a disappointed pout. “I was going to ask him to stay for dinner.” The pout dissolved into an impish grin.

Watching her…the mouth, the pout, the grin…the smoky eyes, Roy was thinking, Fragile? Would that be the same Celia I know?

As far as Roy could see, the only likely application for the word fragile where Celia was concerned would be the way he felt when he was around her.

No-the doc had to be way off on that diagnosis. But even if-just supposing-what he’d said about her were true, it seemed to Roy it was just all the more reason why he wouldn’t want the woman watching his back.

“Isn’t it getting kind of chilly out here?” Celia said after an awkward little pause, studying him with a concerned frown. “Wouldn’t you like to come inside, where it’s warm?” A smile flickered across her face with convincing uncertainty. “I’m sorry-I don’t mean to smother you. It’s just that I keep remembering how cold you were.”

“Yeah,” said Roy, smiling crookedly, “me, too.” In truth, what his mind was full of right then was a memory he hadn’t even known he had until then. It was a memory of himself, cold…cold as ice…shivering. And her warm, warm body pressed against his…arms and legs wrapped around him…naked…warm.

Funny-right now he didn’t feel the chill at all anymore.

He followed her into the house and made his way to one of the cream-colored suede sofas while she was drawing curtains across the expanse of dark glass.

“So,” Celia said, turning from the windows with a bright, hostess smile on her lips, “would you like something to drink? Some…coffee, maybe? Or broth?”

Broth. That kicked in another memory, new and hazy like the last one. His head pillowed against something soft…firm…warm…and a heartbeat knocking against his ear. Breasts. Celia’s breasts. Something hard pressed against his lips…salty liquid, warm on his tongue. A voice…Celia’s voice…cracked and breaking. It’s all right…you’re safe, now.

“Coffee’s fine,” he said, his own voice dry and gritty as the sand he remembered chafing and burning his skin. “Black.”

Then he put his head back against the sofa cushions and closed his eyes. Max, where in the hell are you? What are you doing to me, Max? You’ve gotta get me out of here.

“Are you okay?” She was back, standing beside him holding a steaming mug and looking concerned. “Shall I go get Doc?”

“Nah, I’m okay-just…tired, is all.” He sat up and took the mug from her, sipped, grimaced, then said, “What’s the story, there, anyway? You said the doc lost his license to practice medicine. So, what’d he do, exactly? I asked him, and he just said, ‘Bad choices.’” He paused to put the mug down on a glass-topped coffee table in front of him. “I kinda think I have a right to know, don’t you? I mean, if I’m putting my life in the hands of some quack who’s committed malpractice-”

“Oh, no-it’s nothing like that. Doc’s a good doctor-really.” She sat on the sofa that matched his, opposite him, the shaggy tumble of blond hair feathering around her face as she leaned forward. “It was…” she closed her eyes for a moment, then said it: “Drugs.”

“Drugs?” Roy stared at her. “You mean the guy’s a drug-”

“No, no-he didn’t take drugs. Just…dispensed them. A bit too generously, it turned out.” She let out a breath and sat back against the cushions, casually pulling one leg under her. “It was a few years ago. Doc had been prescribing painkillers for some very famous people who happened to be addicted to them. When those people went public with their addictions…” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged. “What he did was wrong, but he’s paid a very high price.”

“Yeah,” Roy said, “he told me.”

“Anyway,” Celia said, “he’s a good doctor, and a good man. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. Well-obviously, I’d have had to call somebody else for help-like the paramedics, for instance. And you’d be in a hospital right now, and the story would be in all the newspapers-Man Found Near Death On Malibu-”

“All right, all right, I get it.” He held up a hand to stop the tumble of words. “I’m grateful, okay? I am. I swear.”

She gazed at him, the fierce expression turning slowly to a smile. “His main concern was that he couldn’t give you antibiotics,” she said softly. “He was so afraid of infection. And when you turned feverish…”

“I did?” He felt feverish now.

She nodded, gazing into his eyes. “Yes. And Doc said if you weren’t better by morning, we’d have to take you to a hospital. So I sat up all night and put cold towels on you.”

“You did that?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Well…thanks.” His tongue felt thick, his lips were tingling. He felt light-headed.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered.

And then there was stillness. Not silence, because he could hear his nerves humming and his heart beating and the waves thumping the beach outside. But everything seemed muffled and far away, as if he’d been closed up in a box…a box filled with soft golden light, cream-colored suede…and Celia. And it didn’t matter that there were a couple of yards of space separating him from her, because a part of him-the essential part-seemed to have lifted out of his body and was floating across that space to where she was. He could feel her breath on his face…the soft caress of her skin…smell her light, sweet scent. He could see her eyes widen, her breath catch and her lips part. And in his mind-that essential part of him-he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, her mouth opening under his, hot and hungry…

The doorbell rang.

Roy felt himself blow apart, then reassemble, all the essential pieces settling back into their customary places. Except he felt as if someone had set off a firecracker two feet from his head.

Celia said, “Maybe that’s Max,” and got up to answer the door.

Roy picked up the coffee mug, grimacing involuntarily as he took a sip of what had to be the worst coffee he’d ever tasted, and tried to figure out what in the hell had just happened to him.

He was a plain, down-home Southern boy. He wasn’t a fantasy kind of guy. Or he never had been, before now.

Behind him, somewhere not far off, he heard an unfamiliar voice say, “I’m Doctor Chan. Max sent me.”

And Celia’s voice replying, inviting him in-ordinary words…everyday words that in her voice sounded like musical notes from some exotic instrument-a wooden flute, maybe.

It had to be her, dammit. Celia. Something about her wild imagination, and the make-believe world she lived in. If he wasn’t careful, with all that beauty and charisma, the sheer power of her personality, she could very well suck him right into that world with her.