Kitabı oku: «Cut To The Chase», sayfa 3

4

AS HE WATCHED HER walk away, Sean stayed where he was, juggling a mystifying mix of feelings. First was attraction. Which was really strange. He couldn’t remember ever being knocked back by this kind of steamy chemistry the first time he met someone. Especially not a furtive and secretive pregnant woman with a bad attitude and worst case of morning sickness. How could that be attractive? And yet on her it was. Amazingly so.

It was his job to notice things, and he definitely saw the same feelings staring back at him from her eyes. Sparks of excitement and awareness were there every time she glanced at him, in the way her gaze seemed to flicker up and down his body, in the way her pretty pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

In short, she kept looking at him like she wanted to eat him up with whipped cream and a cherry on top. And it made him want to find the spoons.

“She’s pregnant, you idiot. With someone else’s kid. You can’t be attracted to her.” Frustrated, he swore out loud. He had no clue how to handle that one.

But there was also relief. Yes, he was relieved she’d claimed never to have met his father, and yes, he believed her. He’d spent his adult life judging whether people were telling him the truth, plus there was that “uncanny knack” thing. Both common sense and intuition told him that her panic at having been found out was real, but so was her confusion when he’d mentioned his dad.

If he’d decided once upon a time that he was about eighty percent sure she was the tootsie Bebe had seen in the park, now, after talking to her, he was about ninety percent sure she wasn’t.

Okay, so if he analyzed his feelings, he found attraction and he found relief. But there was also frustration, not just the sexual part, but because he couldn’t figure her out. At all. And he found himself really, really needing to do just that.

“Thank God she’s not messing around with the old man,” he said out loud. “But then… Who the heck is she?”

She’d mentioned a fiancé in New York, but she had no rings. And what was she doing in downstate Illinois, pregnant and alone, with nothing better to do than hide behind a terrible disguise as she sat on the Quad and moped? He’d watched her long enough to be sure she wasn’t teaching or taking a class or even doing research at the university’s famous library. All she did was hang out under trees, eat junk food, stare into space, and go back home. So what did it get her to be in Champaign-Urbana instead of back in New York or wherever she lived? Why the obvious disguise? And why was she giving off sexual energy that knocked his socks off? As well as other, murkier vibes that made him think she was in trouble with a capital T?

“She’s got the vibes all right,” he muttered, trying to get his mind off the total package of curves and conundrums he found so fascinating. There was just something about this woman, something hungry, something haughty, something…hot.

He could feel the heat down to his bones.

She wasn’t blatant at all, but there was a major league come-on happening that he wasn’t sure she was even aware of. Provocative and innocent, all at the same time. It was a potent package.

Still letting the questions tumble around in his brain, Sean adjusted his position so he could keep her in view. She had the hat back on, but not the coat, and he had to say, now that he had the back view, that he could personally attest to the fact that she provided some very nice scenery. The swing of her hair, the frisky way she walked… And her butt. Sweet. It wasn’t polite, but he couldn’t take his eyes off that round bottom, temptingly displayed in some kind of shiny grayish pants that were cut just low enough and tight enough to display delicious curves.

She was in a hurry now, bending over to stuff things into her tote bag, offering him an even more tantalizing view. Sean groaned. He had a habit of sitting back, judging, sifting through the facts with all due deliberation, but this was one time he really wanted to just leap into action.

Whatever was going on with her, he liked what he saw. A lot. And every instinct he had was telling him to follow up, press on, keep this connection humming, even if it was strange and weird and convoluted. Let’s see, so far, he’d spied on her, practically leered at her, and mistaken her for what his mother had called a “cheap piece of Christmas trash,” while she’d made her way through forty-seven packets of saltines and then possibly thrown up on a tree.

He was in the wrong place with the wrong woman; she was pregnant and toting a whole lot of baggage. Not exactly an auspicious beginning.

Thankfully, she didn’t stay in that beautiful bottoms-up position long, hustling away from the Quad as if that reporter from the Enquirer she was afraid of were nipping at her heels. As she disappeared past the Foreign Language Building, down the campus street that he knew would lead her home, Sean set his jaw. Whoever she was, she was certainly a whole barrel of contradictions.

If her life was such a mess that she needed to sit under a tree and ponder it every day, why did she hand out advice to strangers with such practiced ease? When she’d whipped into guidance-counselor mode, all that Ann Landers-meets-Dr. Phil stuff about the Calhouns going in for family counseling and opening up lines of communication, she’d seemed like a whole different person.

Sean knew very well it was none of his business if an unknown woman with a penchant for advising strangers decided to leave her fiancé and have her baby alone, wherever she chose, in whatever clothing and hair color she chose. But there were so many facets of this mystery he found fascinating. Like Julian, the missing fiancé.

“Julian,” Sean said derisively. “Who has a fiancé named Julian?”

But posing that question made him think about its implications. He narrowed his eyes. She had mentioned people named Julian and Shelby, as well as The National Enquirer. He was steps away from his hotel and his car. If he wanted to find out who the common denominator was between Julian, Shelby and the Enquirer, all he had to do was find the public library and a computer and run a quick Google search. What would it take, three seconds?

Making up his mind, Sean turned in the opposite direction, back toward the Union, keeping his hands in his pockets and his pace steady. No point in hurrying back and calling attention to himself. Julian, Shelby and The National Enquirer. Piece of cake. He liked having a path to follow, an investigation to begin. It made him feel a whole lot less unsettled. And he expected to have all the info he needed in no time at all.

SAFELY BACK AT THE sweet little house she was subletting, Abra was stewing. It wasn’t as if stewing were a new thing for her, just that she had a new subject to stew about. Instead of angsting over the baby and Julian and her career and where she could possibly go from here, now she was worried about one Sean Calhoun, how much he knew, and when he knew it. And where she could possibly go from here.

“Damn it, anyway,” she swore, getting up from the kitchen table to root in the fridge. She was starving again. She had a taste for ice cream, and nothing but Chunky Monkey, with the banana and the chocolate and the walnuts, would do. Of course she had none. She’d already eaten four pints of the stuff in two days, and she was going to have to make a run to the grocery store for more. But she didn’t have a car, so she was limited to what she could carry on foot or on the bus. At the moment, she was going through this particular ice cream faster than she could store it.

“I need Chunky Monkey!” she said angrily, slamming the freezer door, as if yelling and slamming would somehow mysteriously make her ice cream of choice appear. No such luck.

When had her life become so ridiculous? When had she slipped out of control, so that abusing the refrigerator seemed like a reasonable course of action?

“You need to get yourself in gear, girl,” she said out loud. “This is just sad. You are Abra Holloway. You tell other people what to do when they can’t handle their problems. You are smart, clear-headed, and an excellent problem-solver. It’s what you do for a living. You can cope. You have to cope.”

After that little pep talk, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Exhaling slowly, Abra resolutely resumed her place at the table. She picked up her pen and went back to the list she had been making before the Chunky Monkey panic hit.

Pros and cons: stay or go? was written neatly across the top of the page, with a line drawn down the middle to separate it into two columns. That was as far as she’d gotten.

She chewed on the pen and stared into space. Retreating to this quiet college town for the summer, with so few people around, she’d thought she would be safe. In New York, in Chicago, in L.A., people might notice famous Abra Holloway and ask what was up with her disappearance from the TV show. But in Champaign-Urbana, she’d figured she could find some peace and quiet.

Besides, this was where her life had started to go haywire so many years ago, and she’d had this crazy idea that she could come here and think, just think, about what she should do next, what kind of life she should carve out for her and her baby. As in, retrace her steps, go back to where it started to go wrong, and see if she couldn’t make smarter choices this time, to set forth on the rest of her life with a plan and a purpose and a clear sense of direction.

How mature and reasonable and so like the public persona of Abra Holloway, she thought bitterly. How in keeping with the much-vaunted “Ten Steps to Personal Growth.”

But now that Sean Calhoun had interrupted… She didn’t have the luxury of sitting around reflecting or planning. Even if he didn’t know who she was, he’d figure it out soon enough. And no doubt run right to the press.

How much time did she realistically have before the whole world came crashing in on her? How much time before Fox News and the Post and Entertainment Tonight were standing outside the door of her sweet little house, demanding answers?

Where have you been, Abra? Whose baby is it, Abra? How can you, of all people, have an unplanned pregnancy, Abra? Why should anyone respect a word you say when you haven’t followed your own advice, Abra?

“I have to get out of here,” she said savagely. Standing, she tore off the top sheet from the pad and wadded it into a ball, holding it fast inside her fist.

Once the world knew she was having a baby without a father, that her life was more of a disaster than anyone who asked for her advice, her career would be over. There would be no choice on how to announce the news, how to manage the fallout, how to keep her job as an advice-dispenser when she was a single mother with an ex-fiancé who hated her guts and planned to share that hate with the world if she kept the baby.

“Pregnant, alone, no money and no prospects,” she whispered. The worst of all possible worlds.

Making up her mind on the spur of the moment, Abra ran back to the bedroom and pulled all three suitcases out of the closet. She began to grab clothing off the hangers, tossing dresses and shirts carelessly onto the bed.

Time to pack. Time to move on. Again.

SEAN STARED DOWN at the computer screen. “Well, well,” he said under his breath. No wonder she’d been so eager to dispense advice. “She’s Abra freakin’ Holloway.”

He didn’t watch daytime TV and wasn’t much for pop culture in general, so he wasn’t surprised not to recognize her. Still, even he had heard the name. She was a bona fide celeb. A hotshot. The kind of woman with fan clubs and endorsements and interviews and press conferences. Not to mention limousines, dinners at the White House, and the cover of People magazine.

Gazing back at him from the monitor, cover-girl Abra Holloway looked serene, lovely, elegant, and smart. She had longer, lighter hair that was styled a lot better in the picture than it had been on the Quad, plus she was wearing some kind of expensive, clingy white dress with diamond earrings instead of a bulky coat and a baseball cap. But it was absolutely her. Eyes, lips, nose, even the way she threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin like she could face down anyone and win… Absolutely her.

Just to make sure he wasn’t crazy, he pulled out one of Bebe’s photos and set it on the desk next to the computer. Glancing back and forth between the photos, he could see now why he’d made the mistake, because there were some similarities in face shape and superficial things like her jawline and cheekbones. But such a difference in level of class. The woman in the photo looked like a hooker, and the one on the screen was a total princess. How could he not have known that at first glance? So much for his uncanny instincts.

“Abra Freakin’ Hotshot Holloway,” he muttered, unable to take his eyes off her. “Who’d a thunk that?”

Taking his time, Sean methodically browsed through the articles his search had yielded, printing a few good ones, slowly letting it sink in that the woman on the Quad was a celebrity, not at all who he’d thought, and a rare bird indeed. Lots of intriguing info, even if it still didn’t add up to enough to satisfy him. And oddly enough, very little about how she got to be the woman with all the answers.

Still under thirty, still single, Abra Holloway has lived all over the country, among many different kinds of people, experiencing jobs in academia, human resources and counseling. In her career as a lifestyle expert, she has helped everyone from tots to senior citizens, from homemakers to tycoons, people hailing from Maine to Hawaii. “Abra has warmth, energy and a real sparkle,” raves People magazine. “She has that special something that jumps off the screen and into your living room like she’s your new best friend.” Abra Holloway is here for you, every Thursday on The Shelby Show.

That was it. Her whole bio. Even the profile and the cover story in People were all about who she was now, not where she came from. It was as if she’d burst onto The Shelby Show as one complete counselor package, a real pro who could tell people how to organize their closets or make business meetings more productive or plan amazing family vacations just by clipping coupons, as well as how to get their husbands more interested in sex or win over their mothers-in-law or stop obsessing on their breast size.

But where did she come from? Not a licensed psychologist, it warned repeatedly on The Shelby Show Web site. Just everyone’s wise sister, aunt, girlfriend, the one who could patiently help you sort things through and come up with the answers that were right for you. She had appeared as if by magic, and her life seemed to be magic, too. No wonder they called her “Abra Cadabra.”

Until she suddenly vanished. From what he read in newer stories, it seemed that Ms Holloway had left her perfect fiancé, her cushy job as an expert on absolutely everything, and her wonderful New York lifestyle to disappear off The Shelby Show and leave everybody hanging. Fans, media, rivals—everyone wanted to know what had become of her.

“If she had such a perfect life, why did she up and disappear like that?” Sean mused, browsing through the extensive clippings on yet another Abra fan Web site. “And how does the baby figure into all this?”

Did it belong to the smug blond guy with his arm draped around her in several of the photos?

“‘Abra at the daytime Emmys, accompanied by fiancé Julian Wheelwright, millionaire business mogul and owner of the company that produces The Shelby Show,’” Sean read aloud from under the picture. He sneered at the computer image. “Well, isn’t that handy? Her fiancé and her boss, all rolled into one.”

He scanned the first paragraph that accompanied the photo. “‘Abra is sporting a three-carat pink diamond, a gift from Wheelwright, and she assures fans that she has definitely found the perfect man for her. But no wedding date has been set, and tongues continue to wag that any couple who’s been engaged this long will never make it to the altar. Oprah and Steadman have nothing on Abra and Julian.’”

He shook his head. “Good for you for not marrying him, Abra.” He could tell from the guy’s self-satisfied smirk he was no good for her. So was the baby his? Or was it the fact that it didn’t belong to Julian the Jerk that had sent Abra running into the night?

Something had to be wrong with her perfect fairytale life with the perfect man or she would’ve stayed and married him and kept the gravy train going. But he knew from busting enough wealthy guys with major dirty laundry that “perfect” outward appearances could be deceptive. Millionaires and society types could be just as abusive, dishonest and downright creepy as anyone else.

Not that it was any of Sean’s business. “Turn off the laptop, walk away, be done with it,” he told himself. “Now you know who she is, and that ought to be the end of it.”

Shoving his chair away from the computer, Sean ran a careless hand through his hair, feeling downright annoyed. He was a detective, damn it, and a good one. He didn’t just start a puzzle and then walk away before it was finished.

It may not have been what he was sent to do, it may not have been smart or even sane, but he felt the need to help Abra Holloway through whatever it was that was making her so unhappy. He wanted answers.

And he knew exactly where to get them.

ABRA WAS DITHERING AGAIN. She hated herself when she dithered. All packed, all ready to go, she was also starving, and she wondered whether she had time to order a pizza before she called a cab to take her to the bus station. She hated to get off-course or to hang around too long, but once she got on the bus out of town, all bets were off foodwise. She might as well stick around long enough to eat here in private rather than out in public at the station.

“Sean Calhoun may have X-ray vision, but he isn’t psychic,” she grumbled, reaching for the magnet on the fridge with the name and number for the pizza place the previous owner of this house had liked.

No matter how smart, Sean Calhoun could hardly predict that she was going to blow town right this minute. Even if he put two and two together and figured out who she was or called the papers to spill the story, she would already be gone, whether she took the time to order pizza or not.

She dialed Papa Del’s and put her order in before she could change her mind again. Decisions were made—leaving in a few hours, hopping the next bus headed out of Champaign, wherever it went, eating pizza in the meantime—and all she had to do was sit and wait.

Quickly bored, she turned on the television. Interestingly enough, she didn’t much like TV, even if she herself was on it. Thank goodness it wasn’t the right time of day for The Shelby Show or she might’ve felt like another crying jag because she felt terrible about leaving her friend and mentor Shelby in the lurch. As she flipped channels, she resolutely steered away from any news shows which might mention her. That left her a variety of gardening and home decorating programs, talk shows, or reruns of old movies and sitcoms.

It was all depressing, considering she should’ve been knee-deep in prep for her own show by now. A brand-new, spiffy show, each and every day of the week, with amazingly insightful and interesting guests, where regular old people with problems asked for her advice and she provided answers.

She could’ve had it all. Fame, fortune, respect, adulation… Not to mention a fabulous designer wardrobe.

Abra shook her head. Wardrobe and adulation were not things she had ever imagined herself wanting. When had she turned into that person, the one who wanted to sit back and bask in the glory of fame and fortune?

“Are you who I really want to be?” she asked out loud, staring at the beautifully dressed, smarmy host babbling on about the glory of sponge painting on the decorating show in front of her. And if so… Why?

“That is not fair,” she argued with herself. “I wasn’t going to be like her. My advice actually helps people. That’s all I wanted. Not the money or the clothes or even the respect. Just to help.”

She was thrilled when the doorbell rang, both because she was hungry for that pizza and because it meant she didn’t have to look at all the other TV hosts with their silly shows and start these arguments with herself over what might have been, what should have been, what still might be.

“Coming,” she called out, looking for her wallet, suddenly off on a new mental tangent. “Hmmmm… Am I going to need more cash before I leave this town?”

Once she was gone, who cared if they spotted her trail and knew she’d used her cash card in Illinois? She would be gone, and that was all that mattered, right? Or would they put a little pin in a map over Champaign, Illinois, and start plotting routes from there to track her? Abra sighed. This “on the lam” stuff was complicated.

Distracted, she swung open the front door wide, fumbling with a few bills of various denominations. “Was it fourteen or fifteen?” she asked, wondering what you were supposed to tip delivery people in Illinois and if she had any ones in her purse.

“Hi,” the man at the door said in a low, vibrant voice that made her toes tingle. “How are you feeling?”

That was no pizza man. Heart pounding, she glanced up.

Sean. Of course. Time seemed to stand still for one dizzying moment. With one whoosh, she felt a rush of joy just to see him again, that big, sizzling zing of attraction and awareness, and a curious need to throw herself into his strong, strong arms and let him decide the wisdom of using ATM’s while on the lam. And she felt fear.

“Abra?” he asked softly. “Are you okay?”

With everything else going on in her mind, she wasn’t sure she’d heard what she just heard.

“Abra?” he repeated, leaning closer, reaching for her as if he thought she might faint right there in the doorway.

A graceful faint might have come in handy right now. Anything to distract him and give her time to think.

Sean had definitely whispered her name. And she was so busted.