Once More With Feeling (19 page)

"I don't suppose."

"Then give me what you've got."

He did, although he added ice from the
bucket Gypsy had put there for that purpose. She filed his choice
in the swiftly widening Gypsy's preferences file.

She sipped, but the taste was surprisingly
familiar and smoother than she remembered whiskey could be. The
warm glow it left behind was the nicest feeling she'd had in a long
time. "You never answered my question."

"About security?"

"You got it."

He swished the contents of his glass and
stared at it as if he could find the answer in the mini-whirlpool.
"You're a celebrity," he said. "Certain things come along with it.
Des just wants to keep you safe."

"For the hottest reporter on a sleazeball
show, you don't lie so good."

"You cut deep."

She leaned against the hutch, a starkly
contemporary piece of amber-tinted glass and exotic wood that had
probably been the last tree of its kind in the rain forest. "Tell
me what's really going on."

"Do you remember Mark Santini?"

Gypsy searched her mind--or Elisabeth's
mind. The line between the two was growing increasingly murky. "He
was murdered."

"Good." He sounded genuinely enthusiastic.
"You actually remember?"

Gypsy imagined Elisabeth had read about the
murder in the newspaper or seen it on
The Whole Truth
. For
that matter, she'd seen the story on her own tapes. But mention of
it seemed to resonate in every cell of her body. Her breath came
quicker, and the glass in her hands grew slippery from more than
condensation. "Lord." She set the glass down. Her hands were
shaking.

"Are you okay?"

"I was with him, wasn't I?"

"Yes. He was murdered right in front of
you."

Gypsy shut her eyes. She could almost see
the scene. But was she imagining something that had really happened
or one of the show's spooky re-creations? "What does this have to
do with my ever-present security guard?"

"After the perp killed Mark, he turned the
gun on you."

"He did what?" Her eyelids flew open. "Are
you telling me I almost died that time, too?"

"Nobody's sure about that. But before the
accident you were perfectly certain he had intended to kill you.
You were less certain why he didn't. Maybe his gun jammed, or maybe
people were closing in on him too quickly and he had to get out of
there."

"What do you think?"

"I think he had plenty of time to get you,
and he didn't have anything to lose. He'd already killed a man in
plain sight of a dozen people. So I don't think he meant for you to
die. If he pointed the gun at you at all, it was a warning. Nothing
more."

"Why Mark?"

"Looks like some of his family had Mafia
ties."

"But I saw the gunman's face?"

"Four other people claimed to have seen him
clearly, too. But none of your descriptions really matched. It all
happened so fast, there wasn't time to make him."

"Then why the security? If I'm not really in
danger, why have me under lock and key?"

"You're too valuable to the show to take any
chances. And you were pretty insistent."

Gypsy picked up her glass again. She would
examine this surprising memory when she had some time alone. "What
did I do? Stamp my narrow little foot and raise my sexy little
voice?"

He finished his drink. "Something like
that."

"Am I a tyrant?"

"Sometimes."

"A coward?"

"No. You're the gutsiest lady I know. And
that was part of the reason for security. If you were worried, we
thought you might be right. Then, after the accident. . ."

"You don't think the accident was something
else, do you?"

"Probably not."

"Well, I can reassure you about that. It was
stupidity, pure and simple."

"I think you jumped in the limo and drove
off because you thought somebody had just killed your driver. You
probably thought you were next."

"Desmond says the poor guy was having an
insulin reaction."

"Yeah, he's fine and looking for a new line
of work."

"So I was paranoid then, and that's why I
took off. But I'm not paranoid now. The accident was my fault and
Elisabeth's and not part of some assassination plot." She looked at
Casey under her lashes. "Something tells me Elisabeth and I were
meant to end up this way."

"For you, that qualifies as deep thinking,
Gyps."

She couldn't help herself. She dimpled
despite her nervousness. "If you think that highly of my intellect,
what are you doing here?"

He set down his glass and put his arms
around her waist. He tugged her closer. "Do you know how sexy you
look in that outfit? The camisole's a nice touch. It sets my
imagination to work."

His arms were warm through the thin knit of
her leggings. She could feel the imprint of his fingers against her
back. She put her palms on his chest, but she didn't push him away.
"We ought to set some ground rules."

"Ought?"

"I'm not ready for anything big, Casey."

"Are you referring to a relationship or
something more anatomical?"

She couldn't seem to quit smiling at him. It
had been such a long time since a man had so obviously wanted her.
The experience was heady. "I want dinner and conversation." She
couldn't end it there. "And maybe . . . dessert. A little
dessert."

"Why settle for lemon ice when you can have
chocolate torte?"

"Sometimes lemon ice is all you can
handle."

One corner of his mouth turned up. "You can
have anything you're ready for. You just have to let me know."

She was surprised at his good grace, and
touched. He had been at her side since the day she woke up in a new
world, and he had persevered through tears and explosions. He
wasn't a patient man; he was egotistical and brash, and probably
used to having his own way most of the time. But he had cared
enough to put his own needs in storage. He still did.

She touched the cocky half-smile with a
fingertip. "Have I said thank you? For everything?"

"You've never said thank you in your life.
Are you going to start now?"

"I might just." She leaned forward and
brushed her lips across his. His hands slid lower and he tilted her
hips against him. There was a moment when she could withdraw, and
then it was gone.

He captured her lips and she didn't resist.
Desire tasted like whiskey, the same heady, seductive flavor, and
the warmth that had suffused her after her first sip returned. He
moved his hips against hers, not a relentless grind, but a
provocative sway, like some sensuous Latin dance with a name that
was a conjugation of the verb "to love." His body was warmer than
the air, and the heat drew her closer. She burrowed against him,
and the heat simmered inside her.

She didn't know she had issued an invitation
to delve deeper until he had. His hands slipped lower until they
cupped her buttocks; his tongue sought refuge and refuge was
granted. He was familiar and unfamiliar, a tempting and tempestuous
lover who knew her body's flashpoints, but didn't know her at
all.

"Casey. . ."

"Ah, I've missed this."

She, or a significant part of her that had
once partaken, had missed it, too. Her libido had gone from zero to
ninety miles an hour in record time. That significant part of her
wanted to forget the other part of her completely, the part that
was lost and shaken.

Sometime during their kiss her hands had
clasped the back of his neck. Now they settled at his shoulders and
pushed. Gently, but with conviction. He released her gradually
until she was standing apart from him. "We seem to be having
dessert before dinner," she said.

He didn't smile. "You're different."

Her heart nearly stopped--and she knew
exactly how that felt. "Am I?"

"Something's different."

She could tell him exactly what, but knew
there was no point. "How?"

"This whole experience has changed you."

"No question of that."

"You don't even kiss the same."

She supposed she was about to be rated by a
pro. "Better or worse?"

He shook his head. "What do you want from me
now, Gyps?"

Her body had a pretty good idea. The rest of
her wasn't at all sure. "I guess I want you to come in the kitchen
and help me get dinner on the table."

"You?"

She didn't understand.

"You don't cook," he said.

"Oh, it's all made. I only have to finish it
off."

"No, you don't cook. You don't even open the
little white cartons from Wong Chow. You've always claimed you
can't figure them out."

"And you believed that?"

"Just exactly what are you going to do?"

"Finish off the rice. Toss a salad. Heat up
the bread. Nothing spectacular. The entree's a surprise. Perry's
specialty."

"You don't do those things."

As she had recovered, Gypsy had realized
that moments like this would occur. Elisabeth knew things that
Gypsy didn't. At some point along the way she had decided that she
wouldn't pretend those parts of her didn't exist. She would do the
things she enjoyed, and if the people around her were perplexed,
that was fine. She would take a perverse pleasure in knowing that
everyone else was as confused about her new identity as she
was.

"I do now," she said. "Look, I'll tell you
what. I stuck a tape in the answering machine that I want you to
listen to. Go punch the button, then come back in and tell me what
you think. Meanwhile I'll do all the things you say I can't, then
we can eat."

He looked confused, with just a touch of
suspicion. "You're not some sort of plant, are you? Somebody that
Fox News hired to learn all the show's secrets?"

"What do you think? I was recovering from
plastic surgery all that time in the hospital?"

"I don't know. I've never heard of a bump on
the head changing the way a woman kisses."

She put her hand on his arm. "Did you like
it?"

"Yeah. A lot."

A warm glow spread through her again. She
had liked it, too. "Go listen to that tape."

She thought about the kiss as she finished
dinner preparations. Not tonight, but soon, she was going to have
to decide how willing she was to really live as Gypsy Dugan. She
could not assume her life as Elisabeth again, nor did she really
want to. That life had ended before the accident. Even if Owen
wasn't having an affair with Anna, their marriage had been on the
rocks. They had become strangers, and she'd been helpless to turn
it around.

Abandonment might be grounds for a divorce,
but to Gypsy's knowledge, no husband had ever claimed abandonment
by a spouse who had moved lock, stock, and ghostly spirit into a
convenient vacant body. There was no piece of paper to declare that
the marriage between Owen and Elisabeth Whitfield was over. But she
had to accept the fact that it was, just as Owen would have to
accept the fact that Elisabeth was never going to recover from her
coma.

If she didn't.

That thought was disturbing. Her existence
as Gypsy seemed precarious. There were no rules to govern it. If
Elisabeth's heart stopped beating one day, what about Gypsy's? Were
the two women physically linked? If Owen someday commanded hospital
personnel to quit sending nourishment through Elisabeth's I.V.,
would Gypsy starve to death, too?

"You look way too serious. Burn the
rice?"

She looked up to see Casey lounging in the
kitchen doorway. And what if she began a relationship with him, or
rather continued one, what then? By throwing herself into her new
life, was she severing all ties with her old? Would she really
become Gypsy Dugan and all that entailed? Had she already? No
matter what she did?

"Need some help?" he asked.

"No. Everything's just about ready."

"You really do look like you know what
you're doing. Is this what they taught you in occupational
therapy?"

"No. I cut out snowflakes and made trivets
from colored tiles."

"I listened to the tape."

She scraped the rice into a white pottery
serving bowl and handed it to him to put on the table. When he
returned she handed him the salad, and last of all, the covered
tureen with Perry's shrimp creole.

She carried chilled chardonnay into the
dining room and poured them each a glass to go with the shrimp.
Then she seated herself, and Casey sat, too. He began scooping out
the salad, and she started on the rice. "So what did you
think?"

"I recognized the voice. Did you?"

"Nope. But then most of the time I hardly
recognize my own."

"The Rev. George Bordmann. Ring a bell?"

The name sounded familiar. She took the
salad and passed the rice to Casey. "Something to do with . . ."
She shook her head, then she remembered. "I know, he's that
right-wing minister who organizes all the letter-writing campaigns
against the television networks."

"Bingo."

"I gather George isn't fond of me."

"
The Whole Truth
has been one of his
biggest targets. And you've caught most of his public wrath."

She took the lid off the tureen and sniffed.
Garlic and peppers scented the room along with the half dozen fresh
herbs Perry had added to the pot. "Perry is a gourmet cook. This is
spectacular."

"What is it?"

"Try it and see." She gestured for him to
pass his plate, and after he did, she ladled the shrimp creole on
top of his rice. After he took it, she served herself.

Casey waited patiently for her to finish.
Then he raised his glass to her. "To George and all the other
bigots out there who want to control the airwaves."

She reached across the plate to clink her
glass against his. "Is Georgie boy dangerous?"

"Georgie boy's got the hots for you."