Darkling I Listen (19 page)

"Why do you cry in your sleep?" she asked softly behind him.

He shrugged, but didn't look at her. "Hang around awhile longer, and you might find out."

"You think?"

Finally, he turned his eyes back to hers. "No promises. You'll have to take your chances."

She moved away, putting space between them. "Good news about
Charlotte
."

"Relieved that I'm not an assailant after all?"

"If I thought you were guilty of beating up a teenager, I wouldn't have offered you an alibi."

His eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. "By now everyone in town thinks you and I are sleeping together."

She backed against the dresser, sending a stack of video boxes tumbling to the floor, scattering around her feet. Images of himself stared up at him.

"Why are you here?" she asked, bending to collect the tapes and replace them on the dresser.

Ignoring the question, he picked up the remote from the bed, aimed it at the television, clicked, and watched as, naked and sweating, he made frantic love to a woman whose gasps and whimpers of ecstasy filled the sudden silence in the hot motel room. A grin curled his mouth as he shifted his gaze back to her red face, which had begun to shimmer with moisture and complete humiliation. Yet she didn't so much as blink, just raised one eyebrow and said, "Research."

"Research for what?"

"
Your
…
growth as an actor."

"Sweetheart, acting isn't the 'growth' you're interested in here." He hit the Fast Forward, to the point he rolled out of bed and walked, stark naked, toward the camera. He hit the Pause button, freezing the image, his grin stretching. "If it's really research you're after, why sweat over a videotape when you've got the real thing right here? I'll be more than happy to oblige any way I can."

Irritation flashed in her eyes. "You're bullying me again."

"No, I'm not. I'm just wondering why you'll work yourself up over a stupid movie when I'm more than willing to give you the real thing."

Looking at her feet, she shook her head. "I'm not interested in you that way, Carlyle."

Tossing the remote onto the bed, he moved toward her. "You're lying, Aly. A man knows when a woman wants him. Right now you're aching so badly that I could breathe on you and you'd come."

"God." She moved away, toward the kitchenette, one long sock creeping down her leg to bunch around her ankle. "Do you always have to be so crude?"

"I'm not crude. I'm honest.
Which is more than you're being with me and yourself right now.
"

"I'm trying to avoid complications, Carlyle. Mixing business and pleasure doesn't work."

"So we'll forget about the business aspect and focus totally on the pleasure."

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she continued to back toward the kitchenette, the other sock now halfway down her calf. "You're incorrigible."

"Thank you."

"And you're too damn used to getting your way with women."

He laughed and shrugged. "You're right. I can't recall a time since I was fourteen that I've had to pursue a woman."

"Yeah?" She backed against the kitchenette counter and stopped. "Is that when you lost your virginity?"

"That's when my mother invited a friend of hers into my bed to initiate me in the fine art of pleasing women. As I recall, the lady was forty-five, had memorized the
Kama Sutra,
was double-jointed, and could unhinge her lower jaw in a way that would make Linda Lovelace of
Deep Throat
envious."

Her eyes widened, and for an instant her nervousness was replaced by angry disbelief. "My God, that's horrible. How could a mother do such a thing?"

The memories tumbled in on him, suddenly, igniting the old fury and the almost suffocating desperation that made the walls close in. A long time had passed since he'd last visited that dark place of images that popped like flashbulbs before his mind's eye. What the hell was it about Alyson James that made him want to go there, to dig up the skeletons and rattle them before the entire world—no, not the entire world, just her?

He tried to swallow the tightness in his throat. Impossible. As impossible as willing back the rush of heat through his body that made him sweat as he heard himself explain. "I soon became the party favor. If there was anyone left standing after a night of boozing and snorting at my mother's drug and orgy fests, and the lady was still capable of clawing her way up the stairs to my bedroom, I was expected to amuse her. Of course, by then I was plastered myself, so any normal hesitance I might have had while sober was lost in a fog of Chivas."

Oh, my God,
her lips formed silently, and for an instant she appeared to struggle not to reach out.

"I never knew whose face would be beside mine on the pillow when I woke up in the morning. Sometimes there wasn't a face. Sometimes there was just money." Narrowing his eyes and curling his lips, he stepped closer. "Are you shocked yet, Aly? Are you taking notes? Will the readers who buy my autobiography throw the book in the trash because I've shocked their sensibilities? After all, everyone wants to believe in the fairy tale, don't they? My fairy tale was a little like Hansel and Gretel. Only forget Gretel. Hansel was kept captive in a pretty gingerbread mansion by a witch who threatened to eat him if he wasn't a good little boy."

He took a deep, steadying breath. His eyes held hers, which were wide and distressed and as red as when she first opened the door. "I didn't keep the money, of course. Hell, I was the highest-paid young actor in
Hollywood
. I flushed the money. Literally. Down the toilet. By the time I moved out of my mother's house at eighteen, there was probably enough money in the sewer system to pay off the
United States
debt."

Cupping her cheek, he gently stroked the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "So you see, Aly, I've known for a very long time exactly what I'm good for, and good at. What intrigues me is why you aren't interested."

For a moment she didn't reply, obviously too shocked to respond. Or perhaps she was simply disgusted. Her skin felt warm and moist against his palm, and smelled like the soap she'd bathed with earlier. He wanted to draw her close and hold her. Just hold her. Maybe then the memories would go back into the dark, closeted places in his mind and stay there until they could squirm their way back out into his dreams—when he was helpless to stop them.

Finally, with an effort, she stepped away, her voice thick when she spoke. "Believe it or not, Carlyle, I'm interested in what's in your head and heart, not what's in your pants. Besides, I don't care much for recreational sex. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to think I mean more to a man than a way to alleviate years of repressed sexual urges."

She sidestepped around him, leaving him staring down at the microwave oven.

"Let's try this again,"
came
her unsteady voice as she turned off the television. "Why are you here?"

With a sigh of resignation, he returned to the main room and sat on the bed by her suitcase. He pulled Anticipating's letter from his pocket. "This came this afternoon."

She took it and read it. Her brows drew together, and her gaze came back to his. "What's she talking about? What does she mean by
punishing again?"

"Hell if I know."

Sitting beside him, she continued to read and reread the message. "She's very angry. Why?"

"Obviously I've done something to piss her
off."

"Obviously she's watching every move you make."

He left the bed, walked to the window, and nudged aside the drawn curtain. The wet parking lot glistened under the burning streetlights. His car was the only one in sight.

"How long have you been getting letters from Anticipating? And have they always been so threatening?"

"Five, six
years
maybe. I got a great many letters, Aly, from different nuts. Most of them my employees screened. If the letters were too crazy, I'd hear about it. Advice mostly to watch my back. Eventually I was forced to hire bodyguards when I went out in public. Nothing ever happened. Then letters from Anticipating began coming directly to my house, sometimes with no postmark. At first they were never directly threatening or sexual. Just the typical
I love you, I love your work, blah blah.
Then it became apparent that she was watching me whenever I left the house. Annoying, but such is the life of a celebrity, right? We're going to be watched."

Returning to the bed, he sat beside Alyson again, his thigh pressing against hers, took the letter from her, and reread it before continuing. "Once I came home from a shoot in
Wyoming
—I'd been on location for six weeks—and discovered someone had been living in my house, sleeping in my bed. Personal belongings were missing: clothes, jewelry, photographs. I had a girlfriend at the time and kept her framed picture on my bedside table. The photograph had been destroyed and a note left on my pillow:
Leave her alone, if you know what's good for you.
The police dusted for prints, but there were only the prints of regular visitors that would naturally be found in my house. There was nothing the police could do unless she presented herself. Then I could have put a restraining order on her, for whatever good that does."

"Do you still have the letters?"

"Most of them. Once they became threatening, I decided to save them. I expected they'd stop when I went to prison. They didn't. I expected they'd stop when I came home to Ticky Creek. I've never, in any interview, mentioned Ticky Creek, so how the hell did she find me?"

"What about Cara? Perhaps something she's said—"

He shook his head. "Cara would never admit to coming from some small
East Texas
town, Aly. God forbid the world should know she was nothing more than poor white trash
who
didn't finish high school because she got pregnant. As far as the world knows, Cara was born and raised in
Dallas
."

Brandon
folded the letter and returned it to his shirt pocket. "Henry doesn't know about this. He's not ever to know about it."

"What are you going to do now?"

"What can I do?" He grinned at her. "You ever eat anything besides Twinkies?"

"Occasionally." She grinned back.

"You like greasy hamburgers, cold beer, and loud music?"

"Are you asking me out on a date, Carlyle?"

"Nope. This is strictly business, Miz James. I'll even let you bring your recorder, as long as you keep it turned off and in your purse."

She chewed her lower lip in contemplation, an action that he had come to recognize as part shyness, part nervousness, thoroughly sensual, as was the way she looked up at him from under her lashes. Not for the first time he felt a surge of need rush through him, razor-sharp and painful, made all the more fierce by her earlier rejection. An ache deep inside pressed against his ribs as he waited for her response. Christ, he needed to be with her tonight.

Finally she shrugged and nodded, her sensual mouth curling up ever so slightly. "Why not?"

«
^
»

A
lan Jackson's "Don't Rock the Jukebox" blasted from the
megaspeakers that hung from the old pine beams overhead; each twang of the steel guitars and bump of the drums vibrated Alyson's inner ear. Communication with Carlyle was next to impossible, but she got the impression that he hadn't brought her here to communicate. What communication he'd shared with her at the motel had come to a complete stop the instant they'd settled into his Jaguar and headed down Highway
59
.
She'd read about his love of fast, expensive cars. Obviously his years spent in prison hadn't dampened his enthusiasm.

Throughout the drive her mind had drifted to Anticipating's letter. What was it Alan had said about such letters? Most of them were harmless, but
a very small fraction were
not, and one of the first indications of big trouble was threats.

Occasionally she'd glanced toward Carlyle, doing her best to ignore the sudden jump in her heartbeat and idiotic giddiness. Since her up close and personal nightmare of life and marriage to a Romeo actor who thought he was God's gift to women, she had believed she was immune to men like Carlyle—all looks and no conscience, and no feelings in their hearts for anyone but themselves. Then she'd reminded herself that Mother Teresa would have had a hard time looking at the man and not appreciating him for what he was—even now; no
Gentleman's Quarterly
model in a Versace suit tonight, but a pair of thin, faded jeans that accentuated his privates, scuffed Roper boots, and a blue and green plaid flannel shirt with sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows. He might have been one of the good old boys down at Red Neck Feed if not for the stainless steel Rolex on his left wrist and the eighty-thousand-dollar machine wrapped around her. And God Almighty, he smelled good. That, and the hint of rich leather from the car seats, had made her dizzy and invited video images of him buck naked with his tight butt driving like a well-oiled piston between a woman's legs.

These last days, while waiting for his call, she'd fantasized every time she hit the Rewind button on the VCR that the woman spread across the red satin sheets was her. She'd closed her eyes and imagined that the dirty words he whispered in the actress's ear, he was whispering to her. She'd imagined the hand between her legs was his
…
and not hers. Then she'd lain aching and throbbing with her legs wrapped around a pillow and cried a little because she was falling for him, just like the other hundred million women in the world whose reality became confused by the fantasy that he could somehow turn their staid and boring lives into a fairy tale with one kiss of his sensual mouth. Damn it, she hadn't come to Ticky Creek to get sucked into that delusional vortex of fantasy.

Damn it, until Brandon showed up at her motel door tonight, she'd had every intention of leaving Ticky Creek at first light because, once again, her conscience was getting in the way of her goal—to get the scandalous goods on Carlyle and beat it back to San Francisco; to break the gossip story of the year so every respectable magazine on the planet would scramble to hire her. Only now, she wasn't simply dealing with guilt over deceiving
Brandon
, but over breaking an old man's heart that was already so crippled it could physically shatter with the least provocation. Dear God, she adored Henry Carlyle.

And what, she wondered, was she feeling for
Brandon
?

The River Road Honky-Tonk was twelve miles out of Ticky Creek, perched on a dogleg of the creek itself, raised high on piers in case the creek rose—which it inevitably did once a year, during spring rains, according to
Brandon
. The building was massive, built out of pine logs. The vast parking lot could accommodate five hundred cars and ten eighteen-wheelers.

Groups of mill workers, still wearing their sweat-stained khaki uniforms, clustered around the half dozen pool tables, and like jackdaws on a high wire, young men wearing too-tight Wranglers and oversized cowboy hats, elbows planted on the bar, perused every female in the joint with hungry, hunting eyes. Waitresses, trays balanced on their hands, hurried to refresh drinks and deliver plates heaped high with burgers and ribs—the
River Road
specialties.

Alyson tapped one foot in time to the music as a skinny waitress with orange hair in pigtails, and wearing a cowgirl waitress uniform—denim blouse emblazoned with lone stars over her breasts, a red handkerchief skirt, and boots that nearly reached her knobby knees, plunked a platter on the table in front of her. The Texas-shaped name tag pinned to her shirt declared:
Howdy, I'm Ruth.

Ruth bent toward Alyson and shouted over the music, "There you go, hon. Hamburger nekkid and still mooin'. Mayo only. One cold long-neck Budweiser. I got it from back of the cooler, so it's a little frosty." She then gave Carlyle a platter heaped with barbecued brisket, potato salad, and a massive stack of battered onion rings. Then
came
a tall iced tea. Then a glass of Chivas.

Tucking the tray under one arm, she grinned at Carlyle. "You got this whole damn honky-tonk buzzin',
Brandon
.
This the
new girlfriend I've been hearin' so much about?" She turned her smile toward Alyson before waiting for Carlyle's response. "'Bout time he got himself a girlfriend. Nice lookin' one, too. Welcome to Ticky Creek, hon. Name's Ruth Threadgill." She extended her hand to Alyson, her smile stretching as Alison took it thinking she should nip the rumor of her and Carlyle's relationship in the bud. So why didn't she?

Giving
Brandon
a sideways nod, Ruth said, "'Course
there's
gonna be a lotta heartbroken women 'round here.
Me
included. But I'll say
this,
the two of you look damn good together. First time I've seen Mr.
Hollywood
smile since he come back to Ticky Creek.
Clyde
, he's the owner of this joint, says to tell you dessert is on the house. We got
Mount
Fudgiama
tonight." She winked at Alyson. "Enjoy your meal." Turning on her boot heels, Ruth dissolved into the crowd.

Alyson studied the two-inch-thick meat patty on her plate before looking at
Brandon
. He regarded her with a half-grin on his lips. "Good thing I got it nekkid," she yelled. "I'd never get my mouth over it."

He said nothing, just continued to grin, his eyes holding hers.

She glanced at the glass of Chivas, then back at him. As she focused intently on his blue eyes, suddenly the din didn't seem so loud and his grin didn't reflect as much flirtation as it did strain. Forcing a lightness that she didn't feel into her voice, she joked, "You're not headed for another of your infamous Chivas fogs, are you?"

"Relax. I don't drink it. But I could if I wanted to. Not that I don't want to. I'm an alcoholic, and have been since I was thirteen. I'm going to want it for the rest of my life. But trying to ignore the need is harder than confronting it and conquering it. Every time I walk away from it, I feel a little stronger. Each time walking away gets a little easier."

She wondered just how easy the walking away had really become for him. She suspected it wasn't as easy as he pretended, even to himself. As he turned his attention to his food, his gaze slid frequently to the glass of Chivas. Occasionally, it drifted to her beer. More often, his gaze lifted toward the bar, where men sucked beer from frosty mugs or tossed back straight shots of tequila and lime. Neither did she miss the sheen of perspiration that came and went on his brow or the sudden trembling of his hand that forced him to put down his fork and concentrate on the couples line-dancing across the floor.

As she studied his profile, his earlier confessions came back to her. Thirteen and an alcoholic. Fourteen and a boy toy for his mother's friends. She got the gut feeling that there was more, so much more, darker and more disturbing lurking under the surface.

So much for fairy tales.

That old, annoying need to comfort and protect roused in her again, making her reach for her long-neck bottle and force her attention on the River Road patrons and not on Carlyle. But even as her gaze shifted from one face to the other, mounting suspicion scratched at her. Behind every glance and smile hid a possible threat—and if she sensed it, imagine what Carlyle must be feeling.

Yet, as the evening progressed, there was no doubt in Alyson's mind that Carlyle was much adored by the River Road regulars, who made their way over to chat with Carlyle and introduce themselves to her. The men flirted outrageously. The women smiled at her with a ghost of envy in their expressions. And as Alyson knocked back her third long-neck, she decided to relax and allow herself to go along with the crowd's assumption that she and Carlyle
were
an item. She began to feel a little like Cinderella at the ball, and her prince was, or had been, the most eligible and desirable bachelor in the world. Now, however, he didn't look much different from the good old boys with whom he played pool, arm wrestled, and exchanged bawdy jokes. They talked about guns and the local drag races, and debated over the best fishing holes. Occasionally, a woman would work up the courage to ask him to dance, careful first to ask Alyson if she 'mind' to share her boyfriend for a spell."

Alyson, with one ear barely listening to the chatter around her, followed Carlyle with her eyes, watched the women's faces as they danced, and wondered if her own face glowed in such a way when he smiled at her. Maybe it was the sensual backbeat of the music, or maybe it was the beer sluicing through her system, but she was beginning to feel as giddy as a groupie, and if she didn't knock off the Budweiser, she was liable to do something for which she'd hate herself in the morning.

"I'm just wondering why you'll work yourself up over a stupid movie when I'm more than willing to give you the real thing."

Carlyle moved up behind her, slid one arm around her waist, and eased his body against hers. He whispered in her ear, "I think I've danced with every woman in this place but you. People are gonna start thinking that maybe we're not as hot together as they'd like us to be. How many more of those beers am I gonna have to buy before you relax and let me get to first base?"

As he nuzzled her neck, her eyes drifted closed and her lips curled. "I guess that depends on what you're expecting to find at first base."

"Hell, at this point I'll take what I can get."

"Carlyle, there isn't a woman in this joint who wouldn't provide you with all the companionship you could handle every night for the next century."

"I don't want them. I want you."

"Only because I'm a challenge."

"Because you're the most beautiful woman in this place. Because your mouth makes me hurt like hell. And I like you. A lot. I think you like me, too, Aly. You're just too damn stubborn to admit it."

He turned her to face him, took the bottle from her hand, and set it on the bar. "You gonna slap me again if I kiss you?"

She tried to pull away. He clamped his arm more tightly around her back and drew her close, against his body that felt hard and hot, and smelled of arousing cologne and sweat. Oh, but she wanted him to kiss her, right there in a crowded room with several hundred pairs of eyes watching them, with a sensual drumbeat in the background vibrating every nerve in her body and the heat of his gaze making her liquid inside.

He lowered his mouth to hers—lightly brushed her lips with his, testing more than tasting, then drew back, settled against the bar as his eyes held hers and his mouth curled in that way that made women the world over ache to hold him. Her heart swelled with the ache. Damn the music and damn the beer and damn his blue eyes that made her feel as if she were drowning.

"No slap yet," he said, his grin growing. "Guess I'm making progress."

"I figure I'm safe enough with two, three hundred people watching us."

"Since when have I been bashful about making love in front of a few hundred people?"

She laughed. "Good point, Carlyle. I'm starting to think there's a little bit of the exhibitionist in you. Come to think about it, I recall that you and some actress were videoed making love on a beach in broad daylight."

"It was a private beach on a private island."

"As I recall, that honey of a video made Pam and Tommy Lee's home flick pale in comparison. There hasn't been a website hit that hard and fast since the Monica Lewinski deposition was released on-line."

"Judging by your taste in movies, you visited the site a few times yourself."

"Unfortunately I was never able to get on before your actress friend put the kibosh on it. She sued the dude who made the video, didn't she? They settled out of court, and she walked away with a few million in her pocket. I'm just curious why you didn't sue."

"One thing I'm not, sweetheart, is a hypocrite. I could hardly plead humiliation when I've dropped my pants in every movie I've made since I turned eighteen." He looked away, his expression sobering. "I eventually learned it was all an elaborate scheme to get much-needed publicity. She and the photographer were in it together. They split the profits from the website, and she got the notice she needed to move onto the A list. Glad I could help the slut with her career. Every time she has a movie premier, I send her three dozen roses and sign the card
Fuck You. Love,
Brandon
."