If I Can't Have You (4 page)

But it was the first time he’d tried killing himself, too.

What on earth had happened?

Pulling himself to a standing position, he tightly grasped the curving fin of a mermaid for balance.

Maybe it was for the best that his friends and acquaintances weren’t around. He could find his car, drive home, clean up, and no one would ever know what had occurred, what he had attempted to do. And then he wondered if the police would be waiting at his home when he returned. Would they take him to jail? Would he stand trial for murder?

“Dear God,” he prayed, even though he wasn’t sure he believed in God. “Let me remember what happened.”

Releasing the fin, he tested his balance by putting weight on his legs. He felt steady enough, although
the nausea hadn’t subsided, or the throbbing in his head. In spite of how he felt, he had to get away. He had to.

He started out slowly, edging his way around the po
ol, then willed himself to go fa
ster before anyone saw him. He took the stairs two and three at a time, ran across terraces, down rose-lined paths. Things seemed so different, lush, overgrown, not like they’d looked yesterday. But he’d consumed too much whiskey. Things were bound to look different.

When his breath came in short gasps, when he thought he could run no more, he found his car. At least he remembered where he’d left it. Thank God one thing in this crazy nightmare he was living through seemed familiar.

Reaching into his pockets for the key, he found a handful of loose change, his money clip with a dozen or so folded bills, and his cherished gold doubloon from Jack Warner. What had he done with the keys? He checked the ignition, hoping he’d left them in the car. But it was empty.

He had to get home. He could think better there, figure out what was going on.

He went to the other side of the vehicle and searched the glove box. An eyeglass case. A white handkerchief edged in lace. Things that did not belong to him. And no keys. Gripping the edge of the windshield, he pressed his forehead against the warm metal frame. He rested there for a moment, trying to think of something else to do, some other way of starting the car. But it was useless. All he could think of was the pain in his head and his desperation.

The sweet scent of a woman’s perfume wafted up from the car’s interior. He thought he might have found the wrong vehicle, but he tilted his head to the left and through blurry eyes he saw the gold nameplate in the middle of the Duesenberg SJ’s
dash:
Custom built for Trevor Montgomery
—
1932.
At last, something familiar, something that was his.

A woman’s scarf lay on the passenger seat. He lifted it, running the long length of black silk through his fingers. The perfume’s fragrance was stronger now. It permeated the scarf. Had a woman been with him on the drive north, a woman he couldn’t even remember? Was there anything else in the car he didn’t remember?

A yellow-and-green plaid blanket rested next to a tan leather briefcase on the backseat. Just like the scarf, they didn’t belong to him and didn’t look familiar. He’d brought nothing with him on this trip except the tuxedo he was wearing. There’d been no need for anything else—he hadn’t planned to stay
 
... or to leave.

A wave of nausea wove from his stomach to his throat to his temples. He rested hi
s head on the side of the car, t
elling himself if he got through this, he’d never drink again.

That was a lie, though. It would take more than this god-awful feeling to make him stop. He’d tried before, and failed. This time he had good reason to drink, and he wanted a bottle—now.

He wanted his keys, too, and suddenly he remembered that he’d kept a spare hidden under the rubber floor mat in the back

Climbing into the car, he sat on the edge of the seat and the heavy door swung shut behind him. He searched but found nothing. Kneeling on the floor, he looked further, running his fingers over and around each crack and crevice. Water still dripped about him. His head ached and his stomach lurched from looking down and being in a tight, confining space.

And then he heard voices and footsteps.

He was going to be seen. There might even be a photographer around who would relish catching
him this way. Louella claimed to be a friend, but she’d be in seventh heaven if she could catch the always-perfect Trevor Montgomery in such a vulnerable spot.

He wasn’t about to let that happen. Louella’s gossip column normally didn’t bother him, but today it did. His image could easily be ruined.

He crouched low on the floor and pulled the blanket he’d seen on the seat over his head and body. The driver’s door opened. He heard the distinct creak of leather as someone sat on the seat, heard a key grinding in the ignition and the roar of the engine.
His engine.
The engine of the car he’d driven yesterday from Santa Barbara to Sparta at well over eighty miles an hour on the winding coastal road. Why was someone else driving his car? Why did someone else have his key?

“I’m sorry I can’t stay, Elliott.”

It was a woman’s voice he heard. A soft, sweet, very feminine voice.

“Perhaps you could drive up one evening just for dinner.”

“I’d love to, but I’m so busy with work right now. Maybe I can make it in a few weeks.”

He heard a light sigh of frustration before the man spoke again. “That’s all I can hope for.”

They were quiet, too quiet, until Trevor heard the kiss and their good-byes. They weren’t lovers. He could tell the difference. He’d kissed many lovers, many friends, and many young stars who’d been both.

What the hell was he thinking about? He was hiding under a blanket on the floor of his very own car, strange things were going on around him, yet he was wondering if the woman sitting in the front seat might be worth kissing. The melodic lilt of her voice mesmerized him. The hint of her perfume filled his senses. Had she dabbed it just behind her ears, or
behind her knees and on the soft bend of her elbows, too? The fragrance he’d noticed on her scarf wafted throughout the car, drowning out the scent of tobacco he remembered from yesterday. Now there was only the sweetness of a woman. God, he must be crazy. He must be a lunatic. Instead of thinking about making love, he should be climbing out of the car and asking for an explanation, finding out what the hell was going on. But he didn’t want to be seen—not like this.

The car jolted to a start, and he felt the rumbling of the wheels as the Duesenberg moved over the cobblestones. He had no idea where he was going, no idea who was driving, no idea why queer things were happening, but none of that mattered. Not at the moment. His eyelids had grown heavy, and the warmth and darkness under the blanket, along with the gentle rock and sway of the car and too much whiskey were lulling him to sleep. Maybe when he woke he’d be at home again. Maybe the nightmare would have ended.

He prayed for both those things. And slowly, with the sweetness of her perfume and the soft music on the radio easing the pain in his head, he slept.

oOo

Trevor woke when the engine stopped. He heard the driver’s door open and the sound of a woman’s high heels clipping on pavement, moving away from the car. He waited until the footsteps silenced, then shoved aside the blanket and cautiously peered over the door of the convertible.

Thank God! He was parked in his own driveway, right next to the small, Spanish-style ranch house he’d bought in 1931. Two bedrooms, two baths, nestled in the middle of one acre overlooking the Pacific. Just big enough for one person, maybe two, if he’d ever cared enough to find someone to share it.

He’d probably never share it with anyone now.
Once the police showed up, he’d be locked away for good.

That didn’t matter now, though. He was at home, and an odd, clenching sensation caught in his throat. His eyes burned. In spite of what had happened with Carole, in spite of all the crazy things he’d heard around the Poseidon Pool, in spite of some stranger driving his car, and the fact that he might soon be in prison, he was home, and once again on familiar ground.

In the moon’s glow, he could easily make out the features of the tall, willowy woman who’d been driving his car and now stood at his kitchen door. Her hair was the color of corn silk. Parted at the side, it waved softly about her face and caressed the tops of her shoulders. She wore black high heels and a jumpsuit that looked like a sleeveless black-and-white tuxedo, the pant legs billowing slightly in the evening breeze. The black scarf he’d touched earlier trailed from her fingers. She was absolutely beautiful. Everything about her matched the sweet, feminine warmth of her voice.

Was she some starlet he’d picked up? Had he drunk so much that he couldn’t remember her?

She stepped into the house, turned on the light, and disappeared from view. Trevor hopped over the side of
the
convertible and hid behind the hedges, watching, listening, waiting for a chance to get into the house.

He laughed at himself. Hell, this was his home. He should walk right in. But the stranger might see him. He’d rather wait until he could clean up, make himself presentable, and look like the Trevor Montgomery the world was used to seeing.

He peered around the edge of the open door. The woman was nowhere in sight, but just as he started to step inside, he heard her footsteps on the red terra-cotta tile. Again, he crouched between a hedge
and the white adobe wall, and watched her walk to the car.

Tall, leggy, and blond. Three of his favorite things in a woman. Of course, he liked them short, too. Plump hadn’t mattered either, and he’d never been averse to redheads or brunettes. He liked the way this one walked, with a little sway to her hips, a slight swing to her arms. She climbed into the car once again, started the engine, and he watched in amazement as the garage door opened of its own free will and she drove the Duesey inside, right next to his cherry red ’32 Auburn Speedster. The cars were in the right places, but how had she opened the door?

And who did that strange-looking green vehicle belong to that was parked alongside the garage?

He couldn’t think about those things now, though. He had to get into the house while she was still in the car.

Except for the kitchen, all was dark inside. He longed to get to his closet, to get out of the tuxedo that had shrunk on his body and now felt tight, confining, and damp. Quietly, he maneuvered through darkened rooms, bumping into a living-room sofa that had been moved since yesterday morning. He didn’t want to think about who had moved it or why. Instead, he rushed down the hallway and into his bedroom.

He tried to ignore the fluffy white bedspread and ruffled pillows he could see in the moonlight shining through the window. They weren’t the least bit masculine. They weren’t anything close to what he’d had on the bed the last time he slept there. Had his housekeeper decided to make changes without consulting him first? He had so many questions, but none of them mattered. Not now.

He opened the closet, pulled the string to turn on the overhead bulb inside, and gripped the edge of
the door, feeling the nausea once again. There wasn’t anything masculine in sight. No tuxedos, no top hat. He rummaged through the garments hanging on the rod. Long silk and satin gowns. Colorful blouses and skirts. High-heeled shoes, low heels, sandals. An assortment of purses on a vertical shelf next to the shoe rack.

Where were his things? The handmade loafers he’d bought in Italy? The leather jacket he’d bought in Spain? Where were the cashmere suits, the starched white shirts, the dozens of silk ties?

His breathing grew deep and rapid. What was happening?

Again he heard her distinctive footsteps on the tiles.

Quickly he grabbed the ring at the end of the pull string, accidentally ripping it from the short chain near the bulb. He balled up the string in his hand, pulled the chain to rid the closet of light, and closed the door. Without making a sound, he pushed to the back of the tightly stuffed closet. Hidden in the
dark, he saw nothing, and smell
ed only the sweet perfume that had filled his senses since he’d entered his car.

He stayed out of sight while the woman moved around his bedroom. When it appeared she wasn’t going to open the door, he pushed aside the hanging garments just enough so he could peer through the louvers.

Light shone from an overhead fixture and from a small Tiffany lamp next to the bed. The slats in the door made it difficult to see her clearly, but he watched her step out of her heels and unbutton the collar that fastened at the back of her neck. He thought he should close his eyes, that voyeurism wasn’t right, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Her arms were long, her back slender. She unfastened the button at the back of her waist and let the outfit slip to the floor. She was wearing the skimpiest
panties he’d ever seen, nothing more than a few little straps across the back. He couldn’t see the front of her, but his imagination ran wild. She bent over the bed, picked up a silky white negligee, and slid it over her head before she turned around.

He ran his fingers through his hair, frustration more than evident in the depth of his breathing, in the way his body was reacting of its own accord.