Читать книгу The Wild Side - Isabel Sharpe, Isabel Sharpe - Страница 8

ROSE BLEW HER NOSE, then added the tissue to the pile on her pink-and-white rose-print bedspread. She glanced at the clock and collapsed into another spasm of sobbing. It was 9:00 a.m. Half an hour since the tears had started. This bout should be wrapping up pretty soon.

She’d finally gotten to where she could view her crying fits philosophically. Months could go by without them, but sooner or later, one would catch up with her. Put them down to exhaustion, maybe mild depression, hormones…whatever.

At first she’d thought she was going crazy. Now she considered the tears a harmless and probably healthy form of stress relief. Since her apartment had been broken into, the crying jags had been coming more frequently. Little wonder. That sense of unease, of her privacy being violated, had lingered, as if the intruder were still hiding in her home.

Ten minutes later, the sobs subsided into shuddering sighs, then hiccups. Rose blew her nose again and gathered up the tissues to take to the trash, giving one last sigh—of relief this time. She crossed to the window, over the colorful rugs strewn on her hardwood floor, wincing when she put weight on the foot His Royal Majesty, Prince Rajid of Saudi Arabia, had stepped on last night. Sweet guy. Rotten dancer.

But then they all had some flaw, fatal or otherwise—not that she had perfection sewn up by any means. Deep down she suspected the man didn’t exist who could make her fall so far in love she’d forsake all others. Though on some level, however shallow, she did love all the men she dated, from the bottoms of their feet to the tops of their enormous, fragile egos. She loved how they looked at her, how they made her feel. Loved the power she had to entice or amuse or excite them. The only thing she’d ever really been good at. Like an alcoholic or a smoker, she was addicted. To men.

But real take-over-your-soul love? She doubted she was capable of it. Her personal fatal flaw, perhaps.

Rose wiped away the last tear from her cheek and drew aside the white lace curtain to see if the van across the street was still parked there. Before the break-in and before that horrible threatening letter, her addiction had seemed harmless. She got everything she wanted. The men got most of what they wanted. Now someone wanted more from her than a good time. And she hadn’t a clue who it was or what it was all about. Someone stalking her? An angry ex-beau? A few men had protested when she’d ended their relationship, but most had parted on friendly terms and gone off on their next hunt.

Maybe it was something in the apartment. She’d gotten plenty of gifts over the years. Maybe some guy had given her heirloom jewelry by mistake and Mama wanted it back.

She could only hope it was that easy.

The van sat across Garden Street, as usual. Ted’s TV Repair. She shivered and swallowed more threatening tears. Call her paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her from that van. She ought to call the police and ask them to check it out. Of course, it could be the police, keeping close tabs since the break-in. Either way, police or criminal, Rose felt threatened, claustrophobic.

So much for her Total Relaxation Saturdays.

Her phone rang; she jumped and pulled her bathrobe more tightly around her. People she loved knew Saturday was her no-phone, vegging day. The day she always refused invitations, in some perverse homage to the dateless Saturdays she’d suffered in high school. It was her day to sit home in her pajamas with the frogs on them, watch bad TV, eat chocolate, write letters the nurses could read to her mom…. Her day of regression. No social responsibilities. No cleaning. No makeup. No men.

The machine picked up the call. Clicked. Clicked again. Senator Alvin Mason’s patrician voice played on the tape. “Come on, Rose. I know you’re there. Pick up. It’s important.”

Rose’s brows drew down. He sounded strange…strained. Unusual for Mr. Hearty-Sound-Bite. They’d dated for a few months, a year or so ago, before he decided he’d have more political success as a married man, and had gone hunting for a suitable wife.

She picked up. “I’m here.”

“How are you, Rose?”

Rose frowned. He didn’t sound like he gave a rat’s ass how she felt. And she could have sworn she heard a truck go by in the background. Was one of Massachusetts’s most illustrious politicians calling from a pay phone? “I’m okay. You sound horrible. Where are you calling fr—”

“I heard about the break-in.” He nearly shouted to be heard over another engine. “They didn’t take anything.”

“No.” She wrapped the phone cord around a tight fist. How did he know that? “I got a letter, too, two days ago. Telling me to watch out.” Massachusetts’s Senator-for-the-Wholesome-Family swore obscenely. For one sweet moment, Rose allowed herself to feel pleasure at his protectiveness. Then scoffed at her own Cinderella-bullcrap mentality.

“This wasn’t supposed to—” He swore again.

Rose held absolutely still. The phone cord swayed gently against the wooden end table her great-great-grandmother had brought over from England. Oh, God. He was part of it. “You know something about this?”

She barely recognized her own voice. Not the sweet, sexy girl everyone thought she was, but harsh, hard-edged. A grown woman afraid for her life.

The senator took a deep breath, audible even over the traffic noise. “Rose…”

She closed her eyes; her body began to shake.

“Rose…” His voice was quiet, calm, deadly serious. “I think you should go away for a while.”