Obsession Read online

  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 purpose, she continued her quick search. In the pantry she found a flashlight and an old army jacket—not the most elegant or comfortable, but something to protect her from the elements, should she have to walk any distance. But taking off in the woods alone at night was too intimidating, even though it would serve Zane right to discover her gone come morning.

  Leaving the jacket and flashlight untouched, she padded upstairs and noted that the lamp in Zane’s room was still burning—a sliver of light showed beneath his closed door. She didn’t bother knocking, but twisted the knob and found Zane, wearing only the worn Levi’s, leaning back on the bed, almost as if he were waiting for her.

  His head was supported by two pillows, and his eyes were the color of slate. His chest was covered with a mat of dark, swirling hair that covered a tanned skin and a washboard of rigid abdominal muscles before disappearing enticingly beneath his waistband.

  The back of Kaylie’s throat went dry. She forced her gaze back to his face. His lazy smile flashed white against a day’s growth of beard.

  “Your room’s to the right, remember?” His lips curved speculatively. “Unless of course you want to stay with me.”

  The shepherd, lying on the floor near the foot of the bed, lifted his head and cocked it to one side, as if he were sizing up Kaylie.

  Kaylie turned her attention back to Zane. “I just want control of my life again.”

  Reaching over to the lamp, his shoulder muscles gliding with easy, corded strength, he clicked off the light. “Your choice,” he said in the darkness. “Here—” he thumped on the bed “—or down the hall.”

  “I have a job to get to—”

  “Forget it.”

  “They’ll miss me.”

  He chuckled, as if he knew something she didn’t. “Alan will be thrilled to have a chance to show the whole world he doesn’t need you.”

  “You’ll regret this, Zane,” she muttered as she fumbled in the dark, then finding the door, walked quickly out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  What had she been thinking of? She’d been out of her mind to walk into his room and see him half-naked on the bed. A warmth in the pit of her stomach curled invitingly, and she remembered how lying next to him had been safe, secure, loving. The scent of his body lingering on the bedsheets, the feel of a strong arm wrapped around her waist.

  “Stop it,” she told herself as she marched to the room designated as hers and closed the door behind her. She surveyed her surroundings with a critical eye. The bedside lamps were lit, and golden light glowed warmly against the pine-paneled walls. The hand-stitched quilt on the double bed had been turned down. “How thoughtful,” she grumbled, as if he could hear her as she stared at the plumped pillows. “But you forgot the mints!” She kicked off her sandals and padded barefoot against the smooth floor. The room was inviting, in an elemental sort of way, but she couldn’t forget that she had been shanghaied here against her will, even if, as Zane so emphatically insisted, her life were in danger.

  She groaned at the thought of what would happen tomorrow morning when she didn’t arrive on the set of West Coast Morning. There would be chaos; her boss would be furious, and the phones at her apartment in San Francisco as well as at the beach house, would be ringing off the hook. Someone would call her sister, and Margot would worry herself sick.

  “Oh, Lord, what a mess!” She grabbed a handful of hair and flung it over her shoulders as she padded to the closet and, out of curiosity, opened the door. An array of clothes—women’s clothes—filled every available space. Skirts, sweaters, jeans and slacks were draped on hangers or folded neatly on the shelves. So she hadn’t been the first, she thought cynically. Disappointment welled up in her, and she slammed the door shut. No time for sentimentality.

  So Zane had a woman—or women. So what? She didn’t really believe that he’d lived the life of a monk, did she? It was only surprising that he would expect her to buy that whacked-out story, what with this closet chock-full of women’s things.

  Flopping onto the mattress, she tossed one arm over her eyes, trying to relieve the headache that was pounding at her temples. Too much wine, too much fear and way too much Zane Flannery, she thought. But tomorrow she’d find a way to force him to take her back to Carmel or straight to San Francisco, back to her home, her job, her life without him.

  She only had to get through one night of sleeping under the same roof with him. One night with him lying, stripped bare to the waist, on a king-size bed only a dozen feet away.

  Stop it! she thought, squeezing her eyes shut against the pure, sensual vision of him sprawled lazily across the smooth eiderdown quilt.

  She didn’t want him! She didn’t! And yet there was something so provocatively male and charming about him, that she wondered, just for a fleeting moment, what it would be like to love Zane again.

  Tossing the quilt over her shoulders, she started counting slowly, hoping that sleep would envelop her and that by morning Zane would come to his senses!

  * * *

  Zane climbed out of bed and stared out the window. He wondered if he’d made a big mistake. He’d known she’d be angry, of course, even expected her temper to boil. But he hadn’t been prepared for her accusations cutting so close to the bone. Nor had he expected to want her so badly. Already he ached for her, and the thought of a night alone in the bed, with Kaylie only a few steps down the hall, would be torture.

  From the foot of the bed, Franklin whined.

  “Shh.” Zane patted the big dog’s head, then resumed his stance at the window, his thoughts drawn, as ever, to the only woman he’d ever loved.

  She’d changed in the past seven years, he realized, placing one hand high on the window casing and leaning the side of his head against his arm. She’d grown up.

  Gone was any trace of the naive young woman he’d married—the teenager who had made a string of semi-successful movies before Obsession.

  No, this new woman was strong, forceful and well able to control her own life. He’d have to be on his toes, he thought as he stared moodily into the dense, inky forest, because if he let down his guard for a second, she’d find a way to escape and throw her life in jeopardy. She didn’t really believe that Johnston would be set free soon.

  But Zane did.

  He knew what it was like to have death take those he loved, and he was bound and determined that this time he’d thwart the grim reaper. Even if he had to keep Kaylie locked away for the next six months!

  Chapter Four

  The first few streaks of dawn crept across the bed. Groaning, Kaylie roused herself.

  She was in an isolated cabin. With Zane.

  God, what a mess!

  Climbing out of be
d, she stretched and looked out the window. The sun was rising behind a wall of sharply spired mountains. Golden light shone through the stands of pine, glittering in the dewdrops. What was she doing here?

  “Oh, Zane,” she murmured, grabbing the quilt and wrapping it around her. What was she going to do? Zane had always been an enigma of sorts, and she’d never learned how to handle him—just, she supposed, as he thought he’d never learned to handle her.

  Smiling at the thought, she sat on the window seat and drew her knees under her chin. She remembered the first time she’d seen Zane and the tiny knot of apprehension that had coiled in her stomach, the same warm knot she felt now as she thought about him in the next room. She should be angry with him and she was, but the morning took the edge off her anger.

  Had it been ten years ago when she’d first laid eyes on Zane Flannery? She’d only been seventeen at the time, and yet, the first time she’d seen him seemed as though it had occurred only yesterday….

  * * *

  A bodyguard! She, Kaylie Melville, with a bodyguard! She almost laughed at the thought. Just because she’d made a couple of pictures and she’d been receiving fan mail—some of it not so nice—didn’t mean she needed a bodyguard!

  “It’s a bodyguard or nothing,” her father warned her. “We can’t be following you off to God-only-knows where every time you make a movie. So, you tell that producer of yours that you get your own personal bodyguard or you won’t be making any more films for him!”

  Her father, a short, wiry man with a temper that could skyrocket, wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

  “That’s right,” her mother had agreed, as she did with any of Dad’s rules. “You listen to your father.” Her mother had winked broadly. “No reason to give up your career. Just have the studio hire a guard. I’ll talk to them myself.”

  Kaylie didn’t argue. She loved making films. Her first picture had been mildly successful—a teen horror flick that made the studio more money than had been expected. Her second film was meatier, as she played a teenager who fell for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks and had to deal with unsupportive parents and pregnancy. Her third movie, Carefree, was a teen comedy that surprised the critics and earned the director, as well as Kaylie, glowing reviews. The film had grossed over a hundred million. Triumph Studios was ecstatic. Barely sixteen, Kaylie had become a household word, a budding star who received fan mail and was asked to do interview upon interview to promote her forthcoming projects. She was compared to other young actresses of the time. People sought her autograph. And the fan mail kept pouring in. Letters of undying love, proposals of marriage, and a few not-so-kind missives from a few tortured fans.

  Soon the powers-that-be at Triumph Studios agreed with her father and insisted she retain a bodyguard.

  But, at seventeen, she hadn’t expected anything like Zane Flannery to walk into the offices of Triumph Pictures and announce that he would be looking after her. Not by a long shot! She had thought she’d be protected by some husky ex-football player with a couple of teeth missing. Or by some man with a huge belly and unshaven jaw who had once been the bouncer at a bar. But, oh no, Flannery was nothing like either man she’d envisioned.

  He was younger than she’d expected—in his early twenties, by the looks of him, and much cuter—well, more handsome than any of her costars. His hair was longer than stylish and sable brown, curling over his collar and falling over his forehead in shiny, windblown waves. His face, though rough-hewn, took on a boyish quality whenever he flashed a rakish, devil-may-care smile that turned her inside out.

  “Miss Melville,” he said, extending a work-roughened palm. They were seated in the cluttered office of Martin York, the producer of her latest film, Someone to Love.

  Flannery’s large palm dwarfed hers as he shook her hand, then released her fingers. Wearing only a leather jacket, jeans and a T-shirt, he looked as if he were one of the stagehands or construction workers on the set, but his eyes gave him away. Gray and penetrating, they seemed to take in all of the office at once as he turned back to the producer.

  Martin tossed his Dodgers baseball cap onto a chair behind him. Grinning beneath his beard, he reached over a desk piled high with scripts, reels of film and overflowing ashtrays, and clasped Zane’s outstretched hand. “How the hell are you?”

  “’Bout the same,” Zane drawled, dropping into the chair next to hers and slouching low, his jean-encased legs stretched out in front of him.

  “That bad, eh?”

  Both men laughed, and Kaylie repressed the urge to giggle. Their easy camaraderie caused her to feel like an outsider, and when she was nervous, she often giggled. But she didn’t want Zane to see her as the least bit girlish. He looked like the kind of person who wouldn’t easily suffer fools, and she didn’t want to get on his bad side.

  “I’ve known Flannery here for more than a few years,” Martin said, looking at her as if suddenly remembering she was in the room. “We knew each other in the navy. So don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s the best in the business.”

  Kaylie trained her gaze on the man who was to be her protector. The best in the business? So young?

  “Zane’s worked on some top-secret stuff for the armed services, then he landed a job at Gemini Security. Now he’s starting his own company—right?”

  “That’s the rumor,” Zane replied lazily. He glanced at Kaylie again, and his smile faded. “I’ll take care of you, Miss Melville. You can count on it.”

  “Kaylie,” she replied with a shrug. “And I’ll call you Zane. Okay?”

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  She looked from Zane to Martin, but Martin, too, lifted a shoulder. “Whatever works.”

  Kaylie grinned and tried not to be lost in the power of Zane’s gaze. But she felt giddy and conspicuous and—What was wrong with her? He was just her bodyguard. No big deal. Or was it? This man—well, he looked as if one hot look from him could melt a glacier.

  “Okay, okay,” Martin said, handing Zane an address book. “Now, here’s Kaylie’s address. She still lives with her folks and her sister, and she’ll be working here as well as on location in Mexico and Australia. Her folks won’t be going along, so Kaylie will be your responsibility. She’s been getting a few crank letters….” He tossed a stack of mail, bound by a rubber band, to Flannery just as he finished copying her address into his own book. “I want you to check them all out—”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Kaylie cut in, surprised. “That’s my mail, right?”

  Martin nodded, his expression growing peevish.

  Objecting, Kaylie reached for the small bundle. “Don’t I get to read it?”

  Martin waved off her request. “Don’t worry about it. The secretary will respond.”

  “No way. I always read—”

  “You don’t have time,” Martin said, obviously irritated. “You’ve got a plane to catch in three days and—”

  “And it’s mine,” Kaylie said, hoping not to sound too petulant. But she wasn’t going to let this new guy think he could boss her around. She’d agreed to the bodyguard but that was all. To Zane, she said, “If there’s something else you want to know about me, just ask.”

  He arched one dark brow, and a smile tugged at the corners of Flannery’s lips, though he tried to keep his expression grave as he slapped the stack of envelopes into her hand. “When you’re done with them, I’d like to see them again.”

  Martin was fit to be tied. “We don’t have time—”

  “It’s cool,” Kaylie assured him, and Martin rolled his eyes.

  “Women,” Martin muttered under his breath, but Kaylie, cheeks burning, jaw tight, refused to rise to the bait. She just wanted this bodyguard to understand that she wouldn’t be treated like a little kid. As for Martin’s bad mood, he’d get over it.

  From that point on, Zane was all business. He was with her constantly, but never obtrusively, and she began to relax around him. He helped her with her studies and t
aught her card games and even ran through her lines with her. Once in a while he’d show her a different side to him—a side that proved he did have a sense of humor. While going over her lines, he’d ad-lib, all very seriously, and she’d foul up her lines and they’d both end up laughing. Once in a while she’d catch him looking at her intensely, his eyes darkening, and she’d feel a tightening in her stomach, a warmth that seeped through her whole body.

  When they were together, she felt secure. Even when they went out at night, he was cool and calm, almost relaxed. But at the slightest hint of danger, if any fan got too close and he sensed her unease, every muscle would flex and his eyes would glint with warning.

  Being so close to him, closer than she was to any other male, she began to rely on him and fantasize about him. He was as handsome as any of her costars and seemed much more virile and worldly. He didn’t party, nor try to impress the stars. He was just there—steady as a rock—with his sexy smile that turned her insides to jelly. They spent month after month together.

  In Australia, after grueling hours on the set, he’d swim with her in the ocean, and walk with her as the warm sand squished between her toes. He never touched her, though she’d caught his gaze drifting over her body as the wind teased the hem of her dress or the drops of saltwater dried on her skin.

  Once, she caught him staring at the dusky hollow between her breasts. She couldn’t breathe for a second. Instinctively she placed her hand over the halter of her swimsuit and his gaze moved, but not before she saw the flame in his eyes. Without a word, he tossed her a beach towel and kept his distance from her for the rest of the day.

  It wasn’t until the next year, after the success of Someone to Love, when they were filming in Victoria, British Columbia, that their relationship changed. Her parents had stayed with her on the set for two weeks, then flown back to California.