Sweetest Taboo (12 page)

I'm driving to the studio where Joel keeps his production office when Dallas calls to tell me that all did not go well with our father. And though I can't help but be disappointed, I am not surprised. Rescinding the adoption would be the perfect solution for us, but for Eli Sykes, it would be admitting he'd made a bad decision.

And while my father is more than willing to change course when it comes to business, he's not so swift to own up to mistakes where his personal life is concerned.

I tell Dallas as much, and he reluctantly agrees, though there's no denying the disappointment that colors his voice.

I'm disappointed, too, of course, but I think I'm less surprised. I know Dallas believed that faced with the choice of being selfish or helping his children, Eli would come out on our side. But it's only been a day since I walked into my birth father's cell. A man who did the most heinous thing possible to his child, and for purely selfish reasons. So nothing much shocks me anymore.

“Do you want me to cancel my meeting? I can go back home and we can do whatever it takes to make you feel better.
Whatever
it takes,” I repeat, purposefully injecting a lascivious tone into my voice.

As I'd hoped, he laughs. “That sounds wonderful, but you need to see Joel. Besides, one of us needs to have a meeting today that doesn't go south.”

“Does that mean things with Damien went badly, too?”

“No, no. Everything is fine on that front. In fact we're thinking about flying out to Riverside to look at the actual production facility. They have a working prototype that I'm anxious to see. But that will put me home late. I hate to miss our dinner.”

“Don't be silly.” He'd suggested we go out tonight, but it's not as though the LA restaurants are going away any time soon. “We can have the champagne and caviar on the back patio, then maybe watch a romantic movie, and then who knows where the night will lead…”

“I like that plan,” he says. “I'll call when I'm getting close. Your day is going okay?”

“So far, it's perfect. Don't jinx me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he says. “I love you,” he says, and I'm amazed at how much depth and emotion can fill three little words.

I'm still smiling when I hand the security guard my ID and he lifts the gate to let me onto the lot. Joel's office is in the back, behind a section of false-front houses that represent a neighborhood I've seen on some television sitcom, but damned if I can remember which one.

I park, square my shoulders, and head inside.

Despite Dallas's prediction that my meeting will go better than his, I'm not holding my breath. On the contrary, I'm prepared for Joel to be overly conciliatory and Lyle to be full of excuses. I don't expect either one of them to actually call me a pariah, but I'm certain that's what they'll both be thinking. And I'll have to smile and nod and pretend like I'm doing just great despite the fact that this amazing career opportunity is crashing down around my ears because the press has decided to get all up in my personal life.

That's what I anticipate, and I'm even ready for it, so I march into Joel's office with my back straight and my loins girded, whatever the hell that means. Bottom line, I'm ready to take the punches and roll with them.

But the blows never come. On the contrary, we really do talk about the script, just like Joel had promised. Both men are friendly and businesslike. I take notes, we discuss changes, argue about character motivation, and ponder combining or cutting a few scenes to make the overall story flow better.

In other words, there's nothing personal or unprofessional at all—and I get no indication that Lyle is pulling out of the project.

I'm relieved, and also a little baffled. So baffled, in fact, that when Joel checks his watch and says that we have to wrap because he has a dinner meeting in Santa Monica, I blurt out, “But what about—”

I cut myself off, realizing that perhaps it's not the best strategy to remind Lyle he was supposedly pulling out.

For a moment, Joel actually looks blank. Then his eyes dart quickly to Lyle before he shakes his head and says, “Sweetheart, it's all good. You just go write. We got this shit covered.”

“Oh.” I'm surprised, but pleased. Mostly, I'm hoping this means that my stock on social media has fallen.

Lyle walks me out to my car. “I'm guessing Joel told you I might pull out of the picture?”

I glance sideways at him. “He might have mentioned something along those lines.”

Lyle laughs. “Yeah, well, I just want you to know it wasn't me. My publicist got all in my face about it, but I told her to drop it. I love the script, and I think this project has a lot of potential. I'm in it for the long haul.”

“Wow,” I say. “Thank you for telling me. That really does make me feel better.”

He shrugs, and for a moment I see the quiet Iowa boy the papers all say he was before his family moved to Hollywood when he was sixteen. “I thought you should know. Especially since Joel apparently would rather pretend none of the controversy even exists,” he adds with a wry smile. “And I also want to say that I'm sorry your personal life is being plastered everywhere. I know how hard that can be. I chose to live in the spotlight but you didn't, and it sucks that you have to deal with it.”

“I really appreciate that,” I say, meaning every word. “It's been hard, but we're getting through it.”

We chat politely for a few more minutes, and by the time I get to my car, I'm actually smiling. I have yet to be accosted by rabid reporters, my colleagues are understanding, and I'm still glowing from last night under the stars with Dallas. Our dad may not be on board with our plan, but that's okay. Today, I'm swimming in optimism.

I decide to hit the gym before grabbing the food, and not only is my trainer actually free, but we get in a kick-ass workout that leaves me feeling completely recharged. I may not be able to deflect Tasers like the one that took me down in New York, but just knowing that I've got a seriously mean kick makes me that much more self-confident.

We still have caviar and champagne in the house, but I pop into Whole Foods to get some brie, and although a few people do a double take when they see me, I'm hardly big news today. Apparently Garreth Todd, Hollywood A-lister and a fan favorite, was spotted in the produce section. The girl who checks me out tries to act like this is old hat, but I can't help but notice the way she keeps twisting around, as if hoping to catch a glimpse as he moves through the aisles.

Even my house is paparazzi free, and I can only guess that's because no one knows I'm in town. My neighbors are far enough away that they may not have noticed when the taxi dropped us off yesterday, and since I keep my car in the garage and the lights are on a timer, from the outside the house looks the same whether I'm living in it or not.

And, of course, even if the neighbors do know I'm here, it's not like they're going to call TMZ. All that would do is clog their street and front yards, too.

Which means Dallas and I may actually have privacy for a few more days.

I like to think this means the universe is rooting for us.

Dallas texts me that he's about to board Stark's helicopter to return from Riverside to downtown LA. He has a rental car at Stark Tower, so he promises to text me again once he's about ten minutes away.

No problem,
I text back
. But I'll be starving. Guess that means you miss out on my pre-champagne sexy dance.

If I beg?

Try it,
I tell him.
I do love it when you're on your knees.

Since I'm alone, I open a bottle of wine, then kick back and watch two episodes of reality TV—the kind of stuff Dallas knows I watch, but I absolutely won't admit to. I also shower and wash my hair, change into a short skirt and sheer blouse, and take extra care with my makeup. When I'm dressed and feeling girly and sexy, I head to the kitchen to pull out my best dishes and crystal.

I've just put the champagne in a bucket of ice when Dallas calls. “I'm at the bottom of the hill. I should be there in ten minutes. If you're naked, I can think of some very intriguing ways to enjoy caviar.”

I laugh. “I'll take it under advisement. And I should warn you—I've already had a glass of wine. Sort of an appetizer for the champagne,” I say, and he laughs.

“Apparently, I have some catching up to do.”

“Definitely.”

I refill my glass and then pour one for him. Then take them both out with me to the front porch. And then, when I see his headlights at the far end of the street, I leave his glass on the railing and step off the porch to meet him.

At first, I don't even notice the dark lump in the middle of my driveway. When I do, my first reaction is irritation that one of my neighbors left their trash so unsecured that a trash bag blew over onto my property.

But then Dallas turns into the driveway.

His headlights illuminate the lump.

I see tangled flesh.

I see blood.

And then, of course, I scream.

Dallas was out of the car within seconds, pulling Jane into his embrace and blocking her view of the poor, brutalized dog that someone had viciously murdered and left in the driveway. “You're okay. You're okay.”

“Someone d-did that. I saw its throat. Someone did that and brought it here. For us.” She tilted her head back, looking at him, her eyes so large and scared that Dallas was certain he would have put his fist right through the heart of whoever did this. Whoever hurt that poor animal. Whoever scared Jane.

“I know, baby. I know. Let's get you inside.”

She let him lead her toward the patio, her body frail against his, as if this new assault had knocked the foundation out from under her, and if she wasn't careful she would tumble and shatter.

No.

No way was he letting that happen. She was too strong, and she'd already survived so much. She'd get past this. They both would.

They'd survive.

They'd do more than survive.

And they'd make whoever did this pay.

“The Woman did this,” Jane said. “She attacked me in New York, and now she's taunting me here.”

“Maybe.” Dallas raked his fingers through his hair. “Probably. But I didn't expect her reach to be quite this long. We didn't exactly make it public knowledge that we were coming to LA.”

She said nothing as he pushed the front door open for her. She shook her head. “No. I want to stay with you.”

“I need to call the cops and wait out here for them. I don't want anyone tampering with the scene.”

“Who—”

“I don't know. Maybe no one. But there are coyotes in these hills, too, and buzzards. I need to stay out here.”

“Then I'm staying with you.”

“Jane, I don't know. You—”

“Can handle it,” she said firmly. “I'm scared, sure. Because honestly, I'd be an idiot not to be. But this is my house, and that bitch came onto my property. So I'm pissed, too. And pissed trumps scared.”

He studied her and saw the fight under the fear, and for just a moment he felt like an ass for even trying to coddle her. She was a survivor. He should know; he was a survivor, too.

“All right,” he said, then dialed 911.

To the department's credit, two officers arrived within ten minutes, and Dallas joined them when they examined the dog. For that, Jane opted to wait on the porch. Dallas half-considered doing the same—someone had used barbed wire to strangle the poor collie—but he didn't trust the police to not overlook something important. As it was, both Dallas and the officers zeroed in on the collar and dog-tag.

The older cop—Sergeant Fielding—held it out while his partner took a picture of the owner information, and Dallas used the opportunity to memorize the name and phone number.
Carol Lucas
.

“Know her?” Fielding asked.

“Not that I recall,” Dallas said. “But the name's vaguely familiar. I know a lot of women,” he added, and saw Fielding's partner smirk. “Give me a second,” he added as he pulled out his phone.

“Do you know the owner?” Jane walked over to join them. At the same time, two cars pulled up and parked on the opposite side of the road. The drivers' windows came down, and cameras started flashing.

“Dammit,” Dallas said, pulling Jane with him as he turned around and hurried back to the house. “Tabloid chasers. They must listen to the police band. Come on.” He urged her inside the house, and then stood just inside with the door half-open so that they could hear the police outside, urging the men to move along.

Dallas was barely paying attention to that, though. Instead, he was following a trail from Carol Lucas's Facebook account and then to her Twitter and Instagram profiles. He remembered her vaguely—a pretty blonde he'd slept with twice when he'd been in Los Angeles a year or so ago. He'd blocked her on Twitter after their second date when she developed the annoying habit of sending him tweets every five minutes on the nose.

Now he saw what he'd been missing. A tirade about what an asshole player he was. How he fucked her and dumped her. How he deserved to have his heart yanked out and stomped on. Those started about eight months ago, and the general theme had continued periodically until recently.

But in the last few weeks, she'd started posting about him and Jane. Words like “
perverted”
and “
sick fuck”
and “
skanky bitch”
showed up with alarming regularity.

He'd never thought she was violent. Never even gotten a hint of a vibe.

He damn sure had a vibe now.

But was that because Carol Lucas was the real sick fuck? Or because somebody wanted him to think so?

“Do you really think it's her?” Jane asked later, once the officers and the crime scene unit had cleared the scene.

“Honestly? No.” He'd told the police everything he could remember about Lucas, and they promised to keep him in the loop. He had no intention of waiting for them to report back, though, and he'd already texted Liam with the relevant details and instructions to dig into Lucas.

“Me neither,” Jane said. “She's too young to be the Woman. And even though my stalker might be some deranged former fuck of yours, I don't really think so.”

“We also have to factor in that the attack on you in New York was planned. That van was ready to whisk you away. Unless Lucas is bi-coastal—and I don't think she is—that would be a hard job for her to coordinate.”

Jane nodded. “Which means the Woman is using Lucas's crazy tweets as camouflage.”

“Exactly.” They were inside on the sofa, the bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of them, and the caviar and champagne forgotten. He topped off Jane's glass and handed it to her. She took a gulp instead of a sip, the only outward sign that she was still shaken.

“That means she followed us to LA,” Jane said. She shuddered, then took a smaller drink of wine. “That means she's watching us. Always watching us. That completely freaks me out.”

“I know.”

His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. An incoming call from Adele. He switched it to silent.

“You should answer it,” Jane said. “Those reporters. She probably caught our act on the Internet and is calling to make sure we're okay. For that matter, I should call Mom, too.”

He wasn't in the mood for Adele, but he also knew Jane was right. So while she took her phone into the kitchen to call their mother, he answered Adele right before the call rolled to voicemail.

“Are you both okay?” was the first thing she said. The second was, “Between you and Colin, my hair's going to turn completely gray before the week is out.”

“We're fine,” Dallas said. “Shaken up, but fine. But what's going on with Colin?” He kept the words casual. Surely she didn't suspect that he'd been snatched. They'd deal with it if some sort of official investigation had begun surrounding Colin's disappearance, but it was much neater if the world simply presumed that he was off on a jaunt, as a man of some wealth and a spurious background might be inclined to do.

“What's going on is I still haven't heard from him. I'm starting to get worried, Dallas. It isn't like him to stay out of touch for so long.”

“Have you been to his house? Anything look out of place?”

“I went two days ago before I headed out of town myself. All locked up nice and tight, but of course I have the key. His passport's not in his safe—”

“You have access to his safe?”

“Well, not officially, but we were married for years, and he never did bother to change passcodes. I used the old combination, and it worked.”

“But that's the answer, then. He went overseas on a whim. He's probably in Aruba soaking up the sun.”

She made a disbelieving noise.

“Fine,” he said placatingly. “I'll be back in a day or so. We'll go to his house, check his calendar, his financial records. We'll make a plan, and if he hasn't turned up by the weekend, we'll go to the authorities.”

“You don't think I should call the police now?”

“I think it would be premature, but if it would make you feel better…” He said the latter because it seemed like the reasonable thing to say, but he kept his fingers crossed in the hopes that she wouldn't take the suggestion.

After a moment, she sighed. “Perhaps you're right. I'll see you soon?”

“I'll call you when we get back.”

“And Jane is doing well? The horror of that poor animal after her own attack—she may look like she's coping, darling, but you need to keep an eye on her. That girl has been through a lot.”

“I know. You're right. And we appreciate the concern, but I promise I'm taking good care of her.”

Her laughter was like the trill of bells, and actually made him smile. “Yes, I imagine you are. Well good night, pet. Kiss kiss.” She clicked off before he could say goodbye, and he tossed his phone on the table, then reached for his wine, realizing that just talking to Adele had been an emotional workout.

“She okay?” Jane asked, returning from the kitchen.

“Worried about us and Colin. But she's fine.”

Jane's frown was mostly hidden behind her wineglass as she took another sip, her hand shaking just enough to make the wine slosh.

“Hey,” he said, taking the glass and setting it on the table. “What are you thinking?”

“Everything. Today. Just all of it.” She shifted on the couch when he held out his hand for her, then scooted over to settle between his legs, her back to his chest. “I want to cry for that poor dog.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to her hair. “I know.” He tightened his grip, unconsciously pulling her closer, keeping her safe against him.

“This day started out so perfect. I kept expecting Joel or Lyle to say something stupid. Or someone to recognize and harass me. But nothing. The day was so smooth. So easy. And I want to kick myself now because I feel like I let my guard down. Like
we
let our guards down.”

“Maybe we did a little, but I don't think either one of us would have expected this.”

“No, I don't think so, either. But, Dallas, we shouldn't have to keep our guards up all the time. I don't want to live like that. No, I
can't
live like that. Feeling like we can never relax. Never just be ourselves.”

“Oh, baby.” He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but how could he argue with what she was saying when she was so plainly right? They were trapped, lodged in on one side by a psychopath and on the other by the reality of their own relationship. A relationship that by its nature kept them both in the spotlight and subject to constant criticism and comment.

“He has to tell us.” Her words were barely a whisper, so low Dallas wasn't entirely sure he'd heard her right. “Somehow, we have to make him tell us.”

His chest tightened. She hadn't once asked about Quince's progress with Colin since they'd left for LA. He closed his eyes, measuring his words, then said slowly, “There are ways. More extreme methods that Quince hasn't turned to yet.”

A shiver ripped through her, so intense he felt the ripples in his own body. “Whatever the ways are, you have to use them. Because I think she's been watching you all along—on and off for the last seventeen years.”

What she was saying wasn't a revelation. “And now she's gone off the rails because we're back together.” It wasn't a question. He knew that was where she was going with this train of thought.

“Exactly. She thought she'd broken you back then. Thought that you were her little toy that she'd played with and put away in the closet. Maybe she didn't like the way you had all those women, but she could handle it. It was detached. A distraction.”

“But you're not,” he finished. “And she can't stand that.”

“Exactly.” She sighed. “That's why we need to talk to him. We need to let him know we don't believe his bullshit that she's dead. And honestly, even if
he
believes it, he still needs to tell us what he knows. Maybe she faked her death. Maybe she let him believe she was gone. But he knows something, and we need to find out what.”