Читать книгу Undying Laughter - Kelsey Roberts - Страница 10

“See me naked?” Destiny repeated blankly, lowering her eyes to her partially covered body. “You pig,” she grumbled, adjusting the waterlogged robe to completely cover herself. “At best you got a cheap peek.”

“Really?” Wesley asked in a bland voice. Then he leaned closer and spoke into her ear. “There isn’t anything cheap about that cute little birthmark you have to the left of your navel. It’s about an inch or two below your brea—”

“That’s enough,” she interjected, shoving him before he could finish humiliating her.

Cursing, Wesley hit the water with a loud splash and an even louder expletive.

“Watch your language, Doctor,” she purred before making a mad dash toward the house.

“Don’t let Porter drip on the hardwood,” she instructed the stunned-looking Gina as she raced up the stairs. “Offer them a drink or something while I get dressed, please.”

“Whatever you say.”

Destiny had a limited selection in her closet. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford a decent-size wardrobe, it was simply a matter of practicality. Living for a week here, a month there wasn’t exactly conducive to becoming a clotheshorse.

“Please let them sell that pilot,” she prayed as she towel dried her body and pulled on a sweat suit in a muted shade of mauve. Glancing at her reflection, she knew she didn’t have time to do anything with her unruly mass of hair, so she simply left the pins in place and shoved any stray strands behind her ears.

She felt her cheeks warm as she remembered the deep, husky whisper of his voice when he’d commented on her birthmark. The memory alone was enough to make her body come to life with a series of electric pulsations that radiated from the core of her being outward to her fingertips.

“You’re being stupid,” she told herself as she hopped on one foot and forced the other into one tight espadrille. Wesley was definitely not her type. He was obviously a mamma’s boy. Why else would he still be hanging around The Rose Tattoo with his mother? And she wasn’t about to take on another needful man in her life.

She switched positions as she pulled on the other shoe. “For heaven’s sake!” she scolded herself. “Stop acting like the guy just proposed. You’ve known him all of fourteen hours. He’s hardly in your life.”

Destiny found Dylan and Wes seated on the comfortable living room furniture. Actually, Wesley was on a pile of beach towels, his black hair slicked off his forehead. Dylan was nursing a beer, while, she noted, the wet one had opted for a soft drink. Easy, girl, her conscious warned.

“Sorry we disturbed you,” Dylan said to her, though he was glaring at his companion. “But Wes led me to believe that this was something of an emergency.”

“Emergency?” she echoed.

Wes’s eyes darkened to an almost blackish blue as he gave her a reproachful look. “I saw your expression this afternoon when you got those flowers. It doesn’t exactly take a member of Mensa to see that you have a possible stalker on your hands.”

“Has someone been stalking you?” Dylan asked.

Destiny went to the bar and poured herself a glass of diet soda, wondering where Gina had disappeared to. “I have gotten a few strange notes and some flowers.” Offering them her best stage smile, she added, “Most girls dream of getting flowers on a regular basis.”

“You aren’t most girls,” Wesley said softly.

Destiny felt her face redden with warmth as his eyes lingered on her mouth.

“You look very nice when you aren’t all painted up,” he commented.

She let out a small laugh. “Obviously, you’ve never worked under the glare of footlights, Doctor,” she told him. “Without all that paint and glitter, I wash out like a ghost.”

Wes looked as if he wanted to say something more on the subject, when Dylan spoke up.

“Do these deliveries show up every place you appear?”

She nodded.

“For how long?” Dylan asked.

Gina appeared suddenly, dressed in a flowing skirt that almost masked her limp. “They started six months ago.”

“What?” Destiny gasped.

She watched as Gina lowered her gaze. “David and I thought it would be best if you didn’t know about them.”

“David’s your manager?” The question came from the agent.

She nodded. “But if I get this pilot, I won’t have to spend forty-five weeks a year traveling. Whoever’s sending these silly flowers and cryptic notes will probably lose interest when he doesn’t have to follow me all over hell’s creation and back.”

“Pilot?” Wesley asked.

“It could lead to some really terrific things for me, and David—”

“Wants to make sure he gets a financial piece of that action,” Wesley finished.

She gave Wesley a reproachful look, then turned to the obviously less hostile Dylan. “David knows how hard I’ve worked for this.”

“How long have you known him?”

Destiny did a mental tally before she answered. “Almost ten years. He owned a small comedy club in Maryland.” Noting the skeptical expression on the agent’s face, she formed the letter T with her hands. “Time out here,” she said. “David has done nothing but wonderful things for me. He gave me a shot when I was only eighteen. He arranged for financial backing so that I could go out on the road to build a reputation. He—”

“Also wanted to be a comic, isn’t that right?” Wes said.

Sighing, Destiny said, “That was years ago. David gave up on performing when he realized he didn’t have the timing to do stand-up.”

“So now he’s living his dreams vicariously through your career?”

Glaring at Wesley now, she felt her blood pressure begin to rise. “As soon as you pass your boards, Dr. Porter, feel free to diagnose at will. Until then, I’d be grateful if you’d keep your Psych 101 diagnoses to yourself.”

“It is a possibility,” Dylan said, breaking the string of tension connecting Destiny to the handsome doctor.

“No,” she said, without even a trace of the venom she’d spewed at Wesley. “The worst thing I can say about David Crane is that he can, on occasion, be overbearing.”

“What about the other people you’re close to?” Dylan queried.

“There’s only Gina and Walter.”

“Gina’s the one with the gun,” Dylan surmised, smiling at the now-demure Gina. “Who’s this Walter person?”

“Walter Sommerfield,” Destiny answered. “He lives in Potomac, Maryland. He and his daughter, Samantha, used to come to every one of my shows when I was working at David’s place.” Sadness settled over her as she remembered the bright-eyed young woman with so much promise. “After Samantha died, Walter sort of latched on to me and gave me the backing I needed to hit the road.”

“What happened to the daughter?” Wesley asked.

“She died in a car accident two days after she was accepted at Harvard Law School. Walter had already lost his wife. Losing Samantha nearly killed him.”

Wesley nodded. From anyone else, it would have been a comforting gesture. From Wesley, though, she interpreted it in a completely different way.

“Is Walter’s pain psychologically significant?” she asked. Why, she wondered, did everything this man say or do annoy her so much? It was like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life. Destiny walked over to the phone, lifted it from the cradle and held it near Wes. “Maybe you can have a session over the phone. Maybe you’d find it fascinating to discuss the story of his only child’s death?”

Calmly, Wesley took the phone from her hand and replaced it. In the process, his knuckles brushed against her skin, causing an immediate and involuntary reaction. It was a tingle that warmed her blood and quickened her pulse for just an instant.

“I have no intention of causing anyone any pain,” he said softly.

When he spoke in that deep, velvety voice, Destiny was quite certain that she would do anything he asked. Hell, she thought, if he used that voice to tell her to take a leap into Charleston Harbor, she’d be smelling like fish and diesel fuel in no time flat.

“Tell me about the first delivery,” Dylan said to Gina.

“She was onstage,” Gina began. “I thought they might have been from her father, so I took a peek at the card. When I saw it—” Gina paused as a chill shook her body “—David and I decided to toss them. They’ve been coming like clockwork for the past six months.”

“What’s your first recollection?” Dylan asked Destiny.

Taking a seat across from the two men, Destiny didn’t hesitate with her answer. “I received a pot of gardenias with the note when I was appearing in the Bahamas about three months ago.”

“And you hired a detective to try and trace the deliveries?” Dylan continued.

Destiny met Dylan’s concerned eyes and said, “Miller. Gina can give you his number.”

“Why did you think the flowers were from her father?” Wes asked.

“Carl’s like that. The pot was huge, you know. Destiny’s father never does things in half measure.”

Wesley’s dark brows drew together. “And I guess you’re sure he’s not behind this? Meaning it as a joke,” he added quickly.

“My father’s an alcoholic who spends more time in detox than he does at home,” she answered. “So even though he does have a slightly off-center sense of humor, he couldn’t afford to do something like this, nor would he ever do anything remotely threatening to me.”

There was something about the understanding she saw in Wesley’s expression that made her feel suddenly less hostile and more willing to share with this man. Still, she wasn’t yet able to let down the barrier of her stage persona. Donning a huge smile, she said, “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s politically correct and quite in vogue to come from a dysfunctional family.” She leaned across the coffee table, her glass cupped between her hands. “My father’s binges are well documented, and I even make references to them in my routines. It happens to be common knowledge. But this, this is another matter altogether.”

Gina abruptly excused herself from the room.

A small alarm went off in Destiny’s head. The two women were as close as sisters. It was very much out of character for Gina to run off like that. Then again, her little voice of reason argued, maybe Gina was hiding in case the matter of her father’s current residence became a part of the conversation.

“And this Miller person you hired never found anything?”

“Nothing,” she admitted, feeling silly for even paying his bill in light of his complete and total lack of results.

“Did anyone know you were coming into Charleston a day early?” Dylan asked.

“I think I said something about it when I was onstage the other night—in front of about two hundred and fifty people. Something about a one-day vacation.”

“That narrows it down,” Wesley said with a resigned sigh.

“Do you get these flowers every night? Opening night?”

“It varies,” she told Dylan. “Sometimes I get four or five in a week. Other times I only get them on opening night. Once it was the last performance.”

“No pattern,” Wesley said to Dylan.

“They scare the bejesus out of me every time,” Destiny said. “That’s a pattern.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you?” Dylan asked. “Maybe you’ve gotten some weird mail, something like that?”

“You would have to ask Gina for—”

“What in the hell are you two doing here?”

Startled, Destiny turned toward the angry voice. She actually jumped when David slammed the door with enough force to rattle the watercolor prints on the walls.

Dylan and Wesley rose in unison, both men appearing unfazed by David’s display of ire.

Wesley spoke first. “I’m Rose’s son, Wesley, and this is Dylan Tanner. We dropped by to discuss the threats against Ms. Talbott.”

David cast her an irritated look before turning his furious brown eyes on Wesley. “Anything even remotely connected to Destiny is my business. I’ll handle everything—without interference from some bar hand and his buddy.”

Dylan wasted no time producing his official identification. David visibly blanched.

“As far as I can tell,” Wesley began, “you’ve done very little to protect Destiny from the individual who seems to be quite aware of her every move.”

“I hired a detective!” David wailed in his own defense. “And he’s never gotten close to her. He only leaves her notes and flowers.”

“He got pretty close to her today,” Wesley said. For the first time Destiny heard the faint trace of an actual, honest emotion in his tone. It could only be described as annoyance. For some reason, that pleased her. It also disturbed her.

“What are you talking about?” David thundered as he stomped over to her side.

“He left her a welcoming pot of gardenias at the Tattoo,” Dylan stated.

“How in the world would he know you were arriving today?” David asked

David was her manager, accustomed to orchestrating every aspect of her professional life. She could tell by his narrowed eyes that he was struggling to control his fury. Apparently he wasn’t too thrilled to have this Ivy League poster boy basically tell him to go to blazes.

“Destiny, baby, I’m sorry,” David soothed. “We’ll find out who’s pulling this garbage. I know it scares you, but I’m sure it’s just some sicko getting his jollies.”

“Do we need your permission to look into all this?” Wes asked.

“Hang on,” Destiny said to Wesley. “I’m the one who makes that decision. Try asking me.” She stepped away from her manager.

“Fine.” Wesley shrugged as he spoke. “Dylan has already done some preliminary work, which is why we came by at this late hour.”

“Preliminary work?” she repeated. “What kind of preliminary work?”

“He made a few calls about Greg Miller, your detective.”

Destiny met Wesley’s eyes. “I wish I had known that. I’d like to ask that incompetent for my money back.”

“That would be rather difficult,” Wesley said.

“Bankrupt?” Destiny sighed as she lowered her gaze. Lord knew she’d watched her father file under one chapter or another through the years.

“Not exactly,” Wes said as he moved to stand directly in front of her.

His tall body blocked her view of the others in the room. Gently he placed his thumb under her chin and applied just enough pressure to force her to meet his eyes. For what felt like an eternity, Wesley searched her face, his eyes roaming over every feature. She held her breath, somehow sensing that whatever he was about to say wasn’t going to be good news. She was right.

“Greg Miller was found shot to death two weeks before you received that invoice.”