Obsession. Lisa Jackson
into hers. “I care more about you than anyone else on this planet—even more than your precious Alan Bently. If you haven’t figured it out yet, that man’s a leech. He only cares about you because he thinks a public romance with you will further his career.”
“Oh, save me—”
“It’s true.”
“How do you know? Have you ever talked to Alan?”
He snorted derisively. “Of course not.”
“Well, if you had, you might have found out that I’ve never been involved with him.”
“That’s not what the tabloids say.”
“You read the tabloids?” she repeated, amused.
“No, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“And you care?”
His lips twisted downward. “I told you—I care about you. As for Bently, the man’s the worst kind of opportunist. All those rumors that link you to Alan, I can just imagine what they do to the ratings.”
“Wh-what?” she demanded, getting a glimmer of what he was alluding to.
“It’s a ratings thing, isn’t it? Your morning talk show is pitted against a couple of other shows, isn’t it? I’ll bet your network thought it would boost viewership if you and Alan got married.”
“That’s absurd!” she gasped.
“Is it?” He opened a cupboard and found a brand-new bottle of Scotch. With a hard twist of his wrist, he snapped open the cap, breaking the label, and after locating a small glass, poured himself a stiff shot.
He took a slow swallow, and her gaze traveled from his firm chin to the silky way his Adam’s apple moved in his neck. God, he could reach her as no other man could. There was an irresistible male force surrounding him, and she was oh, so susceptible. She dragged her gaze away.
“I know you never believed it, Kaylie, but I loved you. More than any man should love a woman. I was the one who was obsessed.”
“And now?” she asked, her voice trembling. They were wading in hazardous water. “Did you bring me up here because of Johnston? Or was there another reason?”
His gaze locked with hers for a second. Then he tossed back his drink. “And now I’m protecting you. Period. If you think this is some kind of exotic seduction, guess again. I don’t have to go to so much trouble.”
“I’d hope not,” she said evenly, though emotions were tearing through her, “because if you did, you would’ve lived a very celibate life in the past seven years!”
“Maybe I have,” he said, but he had to have been joking. Dear Lord, when she thought of his passion, his wild lovemaking, his wanton sense of adventure in the bedroom, delicious chills still skittered down her spine. No, Zane Flannery might have gone seven days without a woman, possibly even a month or two, but seven years—never! His sexual appetite was too primal, too instinctive. She studied the rock-hard jut of his chin, the angle of his cheeks, the authority in the curve of his thin lips.
He eyed her just as speculatively. “And what about you, Kaylie?” he asked suddenly, his eyes darkening to the color of a winter storm. “What about your sex life?”
She hadn’t blushed in years, but now a red heat stole steadily up her neck and face, stinging her cheeks. “I don’t think we should be discussing this!”
“It’s just one question. A pretty straightforward question.”
She swallowed back the urge to lie and tell him that she’d had a dozen or so lovers. “My work keeps me pretty busy,” she hedged. “I haven’t had time for too many relationships.”
“Neither have I,” he replied, his gaze finding hers. The silent seconds stretched between them. Kaylie heard only the rapid cadence of her heartbeat, the air whispering through his lungs. “I wasn’t lying when I said I loved you, Kaylie,” he added, staring into the amber depths of his glass. “You can deny it all you want, you can even pretend that you didn’t love me, but there it is. I handled it badly, I admit. But I just loved you too much.” Drawing in a deep breath, he finished his drink, dropped his empty glass into the sink, then started out of the room. “Your bedroom is upstairs to the right. I’m next door. But don’t worry about your virtue tonight. I’m just too damned tired from arguing with you to do anything about it.”
Her throat closed in on itself as she watched him saunter out of the room, the dog at his heels. The faded fabric of Zane’s jeans clung to his hips, and his buttocks moved fluidly, though his shoulders and back were ramrod stiff.
“Good night, Kaylie,” he called over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs. “Turn out the lights when you go to bed.”
“And what makes you think I’ll stay here?” she replied, following him to the stairs, but remaining at the bottom of the steps.
He paused at the landing, one hand resting on the banister. Turning, he towered over her, and again she noticed the torment in his eyes. “It’s dark, and the nearest house is over ten miles away. The main road is even farther. Now, if you want to start making tracks through the wilderness, there’s nothing I can do to stop you, but I will catch up to you.”
“You have no right to do this! No right!” she screamed.
He suddenly looked tired. “That’s a difference of opinion,” he said, then mounted the rest of the steps, leaving her, fists clenched in fury, to stare after him. She felt a twinge of regret for the fleeting, giddy love they’d shared, but she shoved those old emotions into a shadowy corner of her heart. Loving Zane had been a mistake; marrying him had nearly stripped her of her own personality, and she wasn’t about to fall into that trap again.
She glanced down at her hands and slowly uncoiled her fingers. Though she remembered her love with Zane as being unique, it was based on all the wrong emotions.
And now she was scared—frightened that the ominous warning on the tape was true. If only she could call someone—anyone—and find out the truth about Lee Johnston. Once she knew where she stood, she could face the rage of emotions Zane provoked in her.
Shivering, she walked outside and made her way to the Jeep. It was locked; the keys were not in the ignition and, of course, there was no mobile phone. Though she suspected he had a phone somewhere. But where? Miserably, she stared at the darkened dashboard. She didn’t know the first thing about hot-wiring a Jeep—or any other car for that matter. Hot-wiring, as well as breaking into a car were among those valuable high school lessons she’d missed while growing up on a Hollywood back lot.
She kicked at the gravel in disgust and felt the breath of a mountain breeze touch her bare shoulders. Rubbing her arms, she stared dismally at the black woods looming all around her. If she left now, she wouldn’t get far in sandals and a thin cotton dress. Nope. Zane had made sure escape was impossible. At least for tonight.
Turning on her heel, she started back up the steps. There had to be a way, she thought, refusing to give up. If she couldn’t leave tonight, she’d find a way tomorrow.
Back in the house, she searched all the downstairs’ rooms for a telephone, but though she found phone jacks, there wasn’t one telephone in sight. She clenched her teeth in frustration. Damn the man. He’d made sure to thwart her. In the living room, hidden behind panels, she discovered a television, and she worried about her job. What would happen when she didn’t show up tomorrow morning?
She turned on the power to the set but nothing happened. Then she noticed that the connecting cables swung free. Obviously the cable had been switched off.
She tried not to think of her position as cohostess of West Coast Morning. There was time enough to worry later. First she had to find a means of escape. And then, once back in the city, she’d check out Ted’s warning personally, even drive to Whispering Hills to see Dr. Henshaw in person. With renewed