Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (10 page)

I knew then that this wasn’t just any ordinary freeway nutcase. I knew then that this was personal.

Cameron kept trying to get out of our lane, but every time he sped up, the masked driver sped up, too, blocking him.

“Jesus,” Cameron muttered. “This guy’s crazy.”

Then suddenly, the other car lurched in front of us and slammed to a stop. I squeezed my eyes shut, certain we were going to plow right into him. But Cameron’s reflexes were quick. He jammed on the brakes and swerved onto the shoulder of the freeway, just missing the center divider.

Our attacker took off in a burst of burning rubber.

Extra credit for those of you who guessed:

The car was a black BMW.

C
ameron and I sat in the Jeep, waiting for our hearts to stop pounding.

“The guy was a maniac,” Cameron said, his hands still welded to the steering wheel.

“Or woman. It could have been a woman.”

“Whoever it was, that was no random act of violence.”

I watched the traffic whizzing past us on the freeway, a steady stream of carefree people who had no idea we’d come
thisclose
to a ghastly pileup.

“Wait a minute,” Cameron said, remembering. “Didn’t you say the car parked outside your house tonight was a black BMW?”

I nodded solemnly.

“I bet it was the same person. Jaine, I think someone is trying to scare the living daylights out of you.”

“Well, it’s working.”

“I told you this detective stuff was dangerous,” he said, gathering his strength and merging the Jeep back into traffic. “I don’t suppose you got the license plate number?”

“No, I was too busy begging God to let us live. Did you?”

He shook his head ruefully. “Do you think we should call the police?”

“What for? They can’t do anything without the license plate number.”

“I guess you’re right. But one thing’s for sure. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No, really. Why don’t you spend the night at my place?”

Needless to say, I didn’t need much convincing. Being chased at high speeds by an evil BMW had left me feeling pretty vulnerable. Besides, I didn’t feel like going home alone to my apartment for the 4,756
^th
night in a row. For once, I wanted to spend the night with a man, even if it was only platonic.

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“Of course not.”

We stopped at my place to pick up my toothbrush and pajamas, and to check on Prozac. I found her just where I’d left her, napping on my cashmere sweater. Her little pink mouth was open, exposing a gap where some teeth were missing. Lying there like that, mouth open and drooling, she brought back fond memories of The Blob.

I headed for the bedroom, where I grabbed my pajamas and splashed some cologne behind my ears. (Okay, if you must know, in my cleavage, too.)

As Cameron drove us over to his place, I half expected a return visit from the evil BMW. But fortunately, we made it to Bentley Gardens without incident.

Cameron insisted that I take his bedroom.

“I hate putting you out like this,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. The couch is really comfortable. Half the time I fall asleep there anyway.”

He ushered me into his bedroom, and the first thing I saw was a king-sized bed, swathed in a plush down comforter. I couldn’t help wondering if Cameron had been sharing it with anyone lately.

“The bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll put out some extra towels for you.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s some Excedrin PM in the medicine cabinet if you have trouble sleeping.”

“Okay.”

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Just you, naked on a plush down comforter.”

Of course, I didn’t say that. I said I was fine, thank you very much, and he said well, good night then, and the next thing I knew I was alone in his bedroom, staring at his king-sized bed. I fought back images of Cameron and his ex-girlfriend writhing around on it, having frantic sex in a tangle of long limbs and flat bellies.

Really, I told myself, I had to stop obsessing about Cameron and his old girlfriend. Instead, I decided to obsess about Cameron and any possible new girlfriends. I scooted over to his closet and checked to see if there were any women’s clothes hanging there. Thank goodness there weren’t.

I scouted the room for telltale photos of possible lovers, but all I found was a picture of a handsome older couple who I assumed were Cameron’s parents.

Having spent at least fifteen minutes snooping, I decided to give it a rest and get into my pajamas. I was halfway undressed when I caught a glimpse of myself in an antique gilt mirror hanging over Cameron’s dresser.

Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the wine I’d had at dinner. Or maybe it was being one thin wall away from Cameron. Whatever the reason, I looked sexy. True, my thighs and tush were a tad on the large size, but my waist was small and my boobs still relatively perky. Really, I wasn’t bad. I just had to remember to spend the rest of my life lit by a forty-watt bulb.

I suddenly remembered an old movie I’d seen with Robert Montgomery and Carole Lombard. Robert and Carole are staying in a quaint old inn, in separate bedrooms. They’re madly attracted to each other. They’re both lying in bed, thinking about each other, wishing they were in each other’s arms, until finally at the end of the movie, unable to control his raging hormones, Robert throws open the door to Carole’s room and climbs in bed with her. Of course, you don’t actually see him getting into bed with her because the movie was made back in the forties when that sort of stuff was
verboten,
at least on camera. But you know they’re definitely going to be boinking each other that night.

As I put on my pajamas I thought of that movie, wishing that Cameron would be like Robert Montgomery and come bursting through the bedroom door. Just in case, I left the top button of my pajamas unbuttoned.

Then, just as I was climbing into bed, I heard a soft knock on the door.

“Can I come in?”

Who says life isn’t like the movies?

“Sure.”

I unbuttoned another button on my pajamas.

The door opened, and Cameron popped his head in.

“You want to watch Leno together?”

“Great.”

“I’m afraid I’ve only got one TV, and it’s here in the bedroom.”

Thank God for single-television households.

“No problem,” I said. “I love Leno.”

“How about I go make us some cocoa?”

“I love cocoa, too.”

I wasn’t
too
eager, was I?

He went off to make the cocoa, and I settled down in bed, convinced that this whole cocoa-Leno thing was a prelude to whoopee. We’d be lying together, side by side, bodies practically touching, sensing each other’s warmth. We’d both pretend to listen to Jay’s monologue, but we wouldn’t hear a word he was saying. Then Cameron would make the first move. Gently, he’d pull me toward him, stroking my hair, pulling me closer and closer until finally his lips met mine, and—Good Lord! Where the heck did I think I was, anyway? In some cheesy romance novel?

Suddenly I was scared. Was I crazy, leaping into bed with someone I barely knew?

But that wasn’t true, I reminded myself. Technically, this was our third date. Plenty of people go to bed on the third date.

But if we had sex, would he think I was too easy? If we didn’t have sex, would he think I was a pill? And most important, if we had sex, would I remember how?

“Jaine? Are you okay?”

Cameron was standing over me, with two mugs of cocoa.

“I’m fine.”

“You look sort of funny.”

“No, no,” I said, buttoning my pajamas clear up to my neck, “I’m fine.”

“Well, here’s your cocoa.”

He climbed onto the bed next to me and switched on the TV. We spent the next hour actually watching Jay Leno. (Well, Cameron was watching; I was too busy wondering when and if Cameron was going to reach over gently, and pull me toward him, closer and closer, etc.) When the show was over, Cameron ruffled my hair, gave me his crinkly-eyed grin, and told me to get a good night’s sleep.

Then he walked out into the living room, shutting the door firmly behind him. So much for whoopee.

I lay back on Cameron’s bed, smelling the faint scent of his aftershave in the pillows. I couldn’t figure out whether I was relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t tried anything. A little of both, I decided.

Then I burrowed my head in his pillow and drifted off to sleep.

It was nice waking up the next morning in Cameron’s bed. Even if he wasn’t in it. I was just happy to be in an apartment with another human being for a change.

I got out of bed and checked myself out in the mirror. The good news: no unsightly sheet wrinkles on my face. The bad news: Somehow in the harsh glare of the morning sun, I’d metamorphosed back into Cinderella’s chunky stepsister. Like I said, lighting is everything.

I considered snooping in Cameron’s drawers, looking for more clues to his love life, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Just my luck, he’d come barging in and find me fondling his jock strap. So I curbed my snooping instincts and padded out to the living room, where I found Cameron reading the morning paper, looking rather delicious in shorts and an undershirt.

“Hi,” he grinned. “You sleep okay?”

“Great,” I said. “How about you?”

“Fine.”

“It was awfully nice of you to give up your bed.”

“No problem,” he said, stretching lazily and giving me a lovely view of his thighs. “What can I get you for breakfast?”

“Oh, no. Let me cook you breakfast. It’s the least I can do.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Help yourself.” He pointed me in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ve got eggs and bacon and English muffins and oatmeal and bananas.” I couldn’t help but be impressed. My breakfast menu back home consisted of Cheerios and Pop-Tarts.

“What would you like?” I asked him.

“Surprise me.”

I headed for the kitchen, suddenly panicked. Had I lost my mind, offering to actually cook something that couldn’t be heated up in the microwave? Oh, well, I told myself, I’d just fry up some eggs. How bad could they be?

As it turned out, astoundingly bad. Think Chernoble.

I just assumed that Cameron’s fry pan was non-stick, but it wasn’t, and before I knew it the eggs were permanently bonded to the pan. In a panic I hacked away at them, scraping off as much as I could, and tossing the blackened remains down the garbage disposal.

“How’s everything going in there?” Cameron called from the living room.

“Fine, just fine.”

At which point, my English muffins popped up out of the toaster, two charred lumps of coal.

I mashed them down the garbage disposal, too.

“By the way, don’t use the garbage disposal. It’s broken.”

Oh, Christ.

Suddenly Cameron was standing there in the doorway. Staring at the clouds of smoke hovering over the kitchen.

“Having trouble?” he asked with a glint of a smile.

“I’m sorry,” I confessed. “I burnt the eggs. And the English muffins. And I put them down the garbage disposal.”

He sat me down at the kitchen table before I could do any more damage, and then proceeded to whip up bacon and eggs with consummate ease. He was going to make some lucky woman a wonderful wife.

Due to the massive clouds of smoke in the kitchen, we decided to eat our breakfast in the living room. We settled down on the sofa, balancing our plates on our laps.

The bacon and eggs were deelish. At first I tried to peck at them daintily, like a skinny Audrey Hepburnish dancer. But after about three bites, I gave up and wolfed everything down, like a hungry truck driver.

I was just sopping up the last of my eggs with my English muffin when I looked up and saw Cameron watching me intently. Oh, God. What was wrong? Did I have a glob of yolk on my chest?

“I love the way you eat,” he said. “With such gusto.”

Translation: Gad, what a pig.

“Most women I know just pick at their food. I hate that. Here, finish my bacon.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Go ahead.”

“No, really. I’m stuffed. Okay, maybe just a bite.”

I popped the bacon in my mouth, and grinned. I couldn’t help feeling—in spite of evil BMWs and dyslexic warning notes—that all was right with the world. That all couldn’t, in fact, be any righter.

Which was, of course, God’s cue to send in the shit. Which She did, right on schedule.

Just as I was finishing the last of Cameron’s English muffin, the doorbell rang. Cameron disappeared down the hall to get it. I heard him open the door, and then a woman’s voice, soft and sexy.

The next thing I knew, a willowy brunette in tight jeans and a halter top came floating into the room.

I wiped the bacon grease from my mouth, hoping I didn’t look as houseboatish as I felt.

“Hey, Jaine,” Cameron said, “I’d like you to meet a close friend of mine, Asa Morgen.”

I smiled woodenly, wondering just how “close” they were.

“Asa, this is Jaine Austen.”

She smiled at me, taking in my pajamas and tousled hair. I could see the look of surprise in her eyes. What, she seemed to be wondering, is Cameron doing with
her?

As if in answer to her unspoken question, Cameron piped up quickly, “Jaine’s a good buddy of mine.”

“I knew you couldn’t possibly be dating her. Not with those thighs.” Okay, she didn’t really say that, but I could tell she was thinking it.

“Jaine, Asa is Marian Hamilton’s granddaughter.”

It was then that I noticed her wedding ring and breathed a sigh of relief. She was married! And, I assumed, out of circulation.

“So nice to meet you,” I cooed.

“Can I get you some coffee, Asa?” Cameron asked.

“No, thanks. I just stopped by to give you something.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a package wrapped in tissue paper. “Grandma left this to you in her will.” Cameron took the package from her hands and gently removed the tissue paper. “It’s a picture of her when she was under contract at RKO.”

“I always loved this picture,” Cameron said. Then he reached over and hugged her. She hugged him back, with just a little too much enthusiasm, if you ask me.

Finally she broke her grip on him and made some noises about having to get to the gym. Cameron walked her to the door.

I picked up the photo of Marian, framed in a lovely silver art deco frame. It was a studio publicity still from the forties. Marian was wearing a two-piece swimsuit and leaning up against a fake palm tree, fake clouds in the sky behind her. Her blond hair sprayed out onto her shoulders, her full lips parted. It was clearly meant to be a sexy pose. But there was something about her, maybe the freckles that weren’t quite airbrushed out, or the slightly startled look in her eyes, that made her seem vulnerable and achingly innocent. I could see why Cameron was so fond of the picture.