Low Pressure (8 page)

She got up and went to a bar built into the opposite wall. “Water?”

“Sure.”

She carried a bottle to him and uncapped one for herself as she returned to her place on the sofa. Dent sat back down in the chair. “How long ago was this?”

“Three weeks, give or take. When I left New York, I thought I was leaving behind a stalker. For lack of a better word. Someone who bore a grudge, or someone I’d unintentionally slighted.”

When she paused, he leaned forward again. “But?”

She chafed her arms. “But I’ve often got the feeling that I’m being watched. Followed. At first I passed it off. The rat incident had put all these melodramatic scenarios in my head, made me jittery, paranoid. Then, about a week ago, someone broke into my car while I was in the supermarket. Nothing was taken, but I almost wish something had been.”

“Maybe the would-be thief was interrupted. He popped the door lock but got scared and ran off.”

She shook her head. “He got into the car. I sensed it immediately. The interior smelled like sweat. BO.” It made her nauseous to think about it even now.

Dent frowned. “He only wanted to violate your space. Spook you.”

“Which is more sinister than a theft.”

He sat back in the chair and took several swallows of water. As he replaced the bottle cap he asked, “No idea who this smelly creep is?”

“No. But as you said last night, it must be someone who dislikes my book. Intensely.” She looked away but was unable to hide her guilty expression.

“Oh, I get it now,” he said, drawing the words out. “You thought it was
me
. That’s why you booked the charter. All that bullshit about wanting to see how I had fared was just that. Bullshit. You wanted to see if I was your evil prankster.”

“Dent, I—”

“Save it,” he said angrily, coming out of the chair. “No wonder you fold up like a daylily every time I get too close. You’re afraid I’m about to pounce.” He gave her a scathing look. “Just for the record, I haven’t been to New York lately. I wouldn’t touch a rat, dead or alive. Most days I shower and use deodorant, and I sure as hell couldn’t have been in two places at once yesterday. I was in Houston with you, not back here in your bedroom. And if my hands are ever on your panties, believe me, it won’t be for painting.”

She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and cursed her tendency to blush.

A long silence ensued while waves of anger radiated off him. Finally she said quietly, “Are you finished?”

“More to the point, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Here.” He gestured to encompass the room. “Are you finished with what you came to do?”

“Yes,” she replied, somewhat warily. “Why?”

He reached down and encircled her biceps with his hand, pulling her up off the sofa. “The people who’d be upset over your book is a short list. I want to go back to your house, see it in daylight, see if we can pick up a clue to identify the villain.”

Bellamy put up token resistance, but actually that was what she had intended to do without him, so she let herself be propelled from the office. Once they were inside the elevator, he asked if she’d had an update from Houston and when she told him no, he said that was probably good news.

The banal conversation got them through the awkward confinement and to the ground level.

Outside, the sun was so bright it momentarily blinded her, so she didn’t see Rocky Van Durbin until he was standing directly in her path.

“Hello, Ms. Price. Long time no see.” He smirked at her, then gave Dent a slow once-over. Hitching his head toward him, he asked her, “Who’s the cowboy?”

“Who’s the asshole?”

T
here was barely a heartbeat between Van Durbin’s question and Dent’s comeback.

Bellamy answered neither of them and instead demanded of Van Durbin, “What are you doing here?”

“Free country.” He looked beyond them at the building’s glass facade. “So this is the family business’s headquarters.”

“Is that a question? If so, I believe you already know the answer.”

He flashed his smug grin. “What gave me away?”

Her repugnance plain, she sidestepped him. “Excuse us.”

But he was persistent. “I only need a moment of your time. Pretty please? It’s been a few weeks. We have a lot to catch up on.”

The night she’d fled New York, an international rock star had been found dead in his Manhattan hotel suite, the apparent victim of a drug overdose. Speculation over whether it had been a suicide or a tragic accident had dominated the scandal sheets like
EyeSpy
for days.

That story had shortly been followed by a supermodel’s claim that an “unnamed member” of the British royal family had fathered her twins. The allegation was exposed as a publicity stunt intended to jump-start her flagging career, but it had kept the Van Durbins of the world busily hopping between continents to hound their prey.

Bellamy had thought that while he was occupied covering these stories, his interest in her would have waned if not altogether died. His showing up here today demonstrated that he wasn’t finished with her yet.

Trying not to give away just how upsetting his reappearance was, she said coldly, “We have nothing to talk about,” and stalked past him.

Dent followed more slowly. He was eyeing Van Durbin with distrust and disdain, and Bellamy hoped he wouldn’t do or say anything to fan the columnist’s curiosity. She was relieved when he fell into step beside her without incident.

However, Van Durbin wasn’t about to give up that easily, especially not after tracking her all the way to Texas.

“There’s going to be an update about you and
Low Pressure
in my column tomorrow,” he said. “Despite your inexplicable shunning of publicity, the book is still topping the best-seller lists. Care to comment?”

Over her shoulder, she said, “You know my policy regarding your column. No comment.”

“You sure?”

The taunting note in his voice was enough to bring her around to face him. He was tapping a pencil against his notepad with an air of self-satisfaction.

“True or false?” he said. “You returned to Texas to nurse your father through his final days.”

She started to lash out at him for asking such an insensitive question. But she reconsidered, believing that if she gave him something, he might be satisfied enough to leave the subject alone.

“My father is undergoing treatment for a malignancy. That’s all I’m willing to say on the subject, except for this: While he’s ill, I hope you’ll respect my family’s privacy.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, making a notation on his pad.

“Now beat it.” Dent hooked his hand around Bellamy’s elbow and steered her toward the parking lot.

“Just one more question?”

They kept walking.

“Did they send the right guy to the pen for murdering your sister?”

Bellamy came around so quickly she stumbled against Dent.

Van Durbin leered. “I’m gonna pose that question in my column tomorrow. Care to comment?”

“Olivia?”

She disconnected her phone and turned toward Howard’s hospital bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was talking loud enough to wake you.”

“I wasn’t really asleep. Just resting.”

He fought sleep because he feared he would never wake up. He wanted to escape the pain and desert the body that was cannibalizing itself, but he wasn’t ready to die quite yet. Before he let go, there were troubling issues he wanted settled and disturbing questions he wanted answered.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Bellamy.”

“Was she at the office?”

“She’d finished there and said to tell you that everything is in order.” Taking his hand, she pressed it between hers. “I’m afraid she saw through your ruse.”

“I knew she would. But I also knew she would go along with it to spare me.”

“You’re trying to spare each other, and each of you knows it.”

“I don’t want her here, watching me die.” He squeezed her hand with as much strength as he could muster. “I don’t want to put you through that, either.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I’m not leaving you. Not for a second. And if I could fight this thing bare-handed, I gladly would.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

For a moment they were quiet, gazing into each other’s eyes and pretending that their tears weren’t tears of despair.

He didn’t doubt her absolute love and devotion. Not today, and not on the day they’d stood at the altar in the company of their children and recited their wedding vows. The day they’d united their families, their lives, had been one of the happiest of his life.

They had met a year earlier at a black-tie fund-raising event. He was a major donor who was being recognized that night for his generosity. She was a volunteer checking people in as they arrived.

As she’d passed him his table-assignment card, she’d remarked on his bow tie being askew.

He patted it awkwardly. “I don’t have a wife to check these things for me before I leave the house.”

“My late husband thought I was pretty good at straightening his tie. May I?” She hadn’t been flirtatious or inappropriate in any way as she came around to the other side of the table and efficiently adjusted his tie. Then she’d backed away and smiled up at him. “It wouldn’t do to have an honoree with a crooked bow tie.”

He would have enjoyed continuing their conversation, but he was summoned into the banquet hall, where the program was about to begin. He didn’t see her again that night.

It took him a week to work up the nerve to call the charity office and ask for her name. During the seven years since his wife had died, he’d dated occasionally. A few of the women he’d taken out he’d also slept with, although never at home, where Susan and Bellamy were under his roof.

But he hadn’t fallen in love until the night he met Olivia Maxey, and it had been an instantaneous and hard fall.

Later, she’d confessed that it had been the same for her. Referring to her husband as “late” had been calculated to let him know she was available. “The most courageous thing I ever did in my life was step around that table to straighten your tie. But I simply had to touch you, to see if you were real.”

After a year of courtship, they had married.

He didn’t fear death, especially. But he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her. He had to clear his throat before he was able to speak. “What else did you and Bellamy talk about?”

“Oh, she asked if I’d managed to get any rest last night. She wanted to know—”

“Olivia.” He spoke her name quietly, but in a way that chided her for attempting to keep something from him. “I’m not
that
drugged. I sensed your distress when you were talking to her. What’s happened?”

She sighed a concession and looked down at their tightly clasped hands. “That horrid reporter—”

“Rocky Van Durbin? He can’t be dignified with the title ‘reporter.’”

“He ambushed Bellamy as she left the offices.”

“He’s in Austin? I thought she’d outrun him, that we were through with all that.”

“Unfortunately, no. She’s still on his radar screen. In his column tomorrow, he’s going to pose a question to his readers. And to hers, in a sense.”

“What question?”

“Was the right man punished for killing Susan? Did they get the right guy? Words to that effect.”

He digested that, then sighed heavily. “God knows what kind of offshoots of discussion that will produce.”

“It was bad enough when Bellamy’s identity was revealed.” For weeks after the disclosure they’d been plagued by telephone calls asking them for comments and interviews. Several regional reporters had even shown up outside their estate and at their business offices. They’d declined all requests and eventually had handed the responsibility of fielding them over to their attorney.

“What I hate most,” she said, “is that our lives will once again be on review in that horrible tabloid.”

She left the bed and, clearly too agitated to sit down, paced the narrow space in front of the window. “Lyston Electronics was touted by the secretary of commerce as a model corporation. Where was Van Durbin then? Or when you instigated the profit-sharing program for every employee? None of that made headline news.”

“Because that’s not scintillating subject matter.”

“But the circumstances surrounding Susan’s killing are.”

“Tragically.”

“To us, yes. To everyone else, it’s entertainment. And from now on, the Lyston family will be remembered only for that salacious murder in Austin.” She began to cry in earnest. “I feel like the foundation of our life together is crumbling beneath me. It’s more than I can handle right now.”

He patted the side of the bed and coaxed her to come back to it. She went to him and leaned down to rest her head on his shoulder. “You can handle it,” he said gently. “You can handle anything. And what you’ll be remembered for is having been the most loving, wonderful, beautiful wife any man could have dreamed of. Making you my wife and mother to my girls was the smartest decision I ever made.” He turned his head and kissed her hair. “This will go away. I promise.”

For a time they clung to one another. He said all the things he knew she wanted to hear. He told her that Van Durbin and his ilk would soon be exploiting someone else’s personal tragedy, and that, until then, they would rely on each other for support as they always had.