Seduced and Betrayed (15 page)

She kissed him back, dammit. She'd wound her arms around him and held on tight, and kissed him back. He hadn't forced her or coerced her. She'd been as hungry, as avid, as eager as he was. And he'd thought, foolishly, that her desire matched his and that, maybe, this time it would be different, that she would trust herself to him completely this time...

And then she'd gone cold and distant, throwing up a wall he didn't know how to get through, throwing their past in his face with glacial scorn.

"That was before I found the man who professed to love me in bed with another woman."

He hadn't been in bed with that woman, not the way Ariel meant. He'd gone to bed alone, falling down drunk but alone. To this day, he still didn't know who the woman was or when or how she ended up in his bed. But he knew without a doubt that he hadn't had sex with her. Hell, he'd been in no condition to have sex with anyone, even if Ariel herself had slipped naked and willing into bed beside him....

* * *

"Jeez, Blackstone, if you plan to hang around here all night looking like that, you're gonna ruin the party."

"What party is that?" Zeke asked as he stood, barefoot and unshaven, in front of the refrigerator, trying to decide whether a six-pack of beer or one of the half gallon jugs of Gallo rosé would send him to oblivion more quickly. He thought a pint of hard liquor would accomplish the task in less time than either the beer or the wine, but they didn't have any in the apartment and he didn't feel like going out and getting it.

"It's sort of a double celebration," Eric Shannon informed him. "Ethan's gig on
As Time Goes By
is permanent as of this morning—the dashing and debonair Dr. Brick Merriweather is officially on staff at daytime TV's Meadowland General. And Alan Boyd has made a firm offer on
Lovers And Strangers,"
he said, referring to the screenplay he and his younger brother Jack had been working on for the last six months. "As soon as we sign on the dotted line, Jack and I are outta here and headed for easy street."

"No kidding?" Zeke said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice over his roommates' good luck. "That's great."

"Yeah," Eric said. "Try not to get too excited."

"No, really, man, I mean it," Zeke said. "That's great news. I'm happy for you guys."

"Happy for who?" Ethan asked as he came strolling into the tiny kitchen.

"Eric was just telling me your gig on
As Time Goes By
has been made permanent. Congratulations."

Ethan shrugged. "For two years, anyway," he said, reaching around Zeke to snag a beer out of the refrigerator. "You going to hang around for the party? Or do you have another secret assignation with America's sweetheart tonight?"

Zeke shook his head and reached for one of the six-packs of beer. "It's over between me and Ariel," he said flatly.

"Since when?"

"Since she showed up at the wrap party last night without the engagement ring I gave her."

"You gave her a ring?" Eric scoffed. "Blackstone the chick magnet and prissy little Chrissy Fortune engaged?"

"No,
not
engaged," Zeke said.

After a moment of silence, Ethan asked, "Does that mean she's on the open market again? Free game?"

Zeke shot him a killing look and stalked out of the kitchen without bothering to answer.

"Jeez, Roberts," he heard Eric say. "Can't you even wait 'til the body's cold?"

Zeke was halfway through his second beer when he heard the music crank up to its usual ear-splitting party volume. "Crimson and Clover" by Tommy James and the Shondells. That meant Eric's ditzy red-headed girlfriend was probably in charge of the music. "Crimson and Clover" was her favorite song; she'd play it over and over if no one objected. After some deliberation, Zeke decided he could stand hearing it three times before he'd be driven to get up off his bed and object. Hopefully, before that happened, someone else would have taken over as DJ for the evening.

He'd just popped the top on his fourth beer when he heard Jack and Eric Shannon arguing in the other bedroom. Something about the option Alan Boyd had offered on their script. Zeke couldn't hear all the words or even most of them, but the tones were crystal clear; the two brothers weren't at all happy with each other. He thought briefly of pounding on the wall to quiet them down but they suddenly stopped on their own, without his interference. Zeke heard the slamming of a door, and then their voices again, still arguing as they went down the hall toward the living room.

That's better,
Zeke thought,
now I can hear the music again.

Steppenwolf's "Born To Be Wild" was shaking the walls now. He liked Steppenwolf.

Somewhere in the middle of his sixth beer, he decided the music was giving him a headache. He got up and stumbled out of his room toward the bathroom, looking for a bottle of aspirin. Somehow, he made a wrong turn and ended up in the kitchen.

"Hey, Zeke, you look like hell, man," Ethan said.

"Feel like hell," Zeke mumbled. "Damn music. Need some aspirin."

"How 'bout a hit instead?" Ethan offered the butt end of a joint between the pinchers of a beaded metal roach clip. "It'll make you forget all about your head."

"No, thanks." Zeke waved the joint away. "I'm too wasted already."

And being wasted wasn't helping in the least. All he could think about was Ariel. She'd been unreasonable, sure. But, hell, he'd been pretty unreasonable too. Maybe, if he thought about it real hard, he could think of a way to patch things up with her. Except, dammit, thinking made his head hurt even worse. What he needed was sleep, he decided. A good night's sleep and then he could tackle the problem of Ariel in the morning with a clear head.

"Goin' to bed," he mumbled and headed back down the hall to his bedroom.

He stopped in the bathroom first—for the aspirin—pausing long enough to empty his overfull bladder and get a drink of water. Then, after stripping down to his skin, he crawled into bed, turned out the light, and passed out cold.

It wasn't until somebody shook him—hard—that he woke up. His mouth tasted like a swamp and his head ached like a son of a bitch but his thought processes were mostly clear. Clear enough, anyway, so he knew "Crimson and Clover" was playing again and there was a woman lying next to him in bed. He'd had one brief moment of intense pleasure, thinking it was Ariel; and then another moment of confusion because the scent and the feel of her was all wrong. And then a light came on, practically blinding him. When his vision cleared, so did the rest of his senses.

It wasn't Ariel in bed with him—he had no idea
who
the naked woman was—but it sure as hell was Ariel standing facing him, looking as if she'd seen a ghost. He'd known, in that split second, that she'd gotten entirely the wrong idea about what was going on. And he knew he had to straighten things out. Immediately.

He vaulted out of the bed.

"This isn't what it looks like," he said, grabbing his pants up off the floor. "Just let me get my jeans on and-"

But Ariel was in no mood to listen to any explanations. She had the bedroom door open before he even got one leg into his jeans.

"Dammit, Ariel, wait a minute. Don't go. I—"

But she was gone.

He hopped around, swearing a blue streak as he yanked his jeans up, leaving them half-unzipped as he went flying out the door after her. Cursing his aching head, cursing the woman in his bed, cursing himself for being so stupid as to have actually tried to drown his sorrows in beer, he chased her down the hall and out into the night. She was as fleet as a damn deer, staying just ahead of him until, suddenly, she stumbled against a chaise longue in the middle of the shadowed courtyard. He thought he might catch her then, but she righted herself in an instant, ignoring the disgruntled comments of the amorous couple who sat up to glare at her, and kept on running.

"Dammit, Ariel. Wait. Please. I can explain, I—" he went down like the proverbial ton of bricks, sprawling over whatever—
whoever
—it was who had tripped him. Some drunk had passed out in the courtyard, he thought as he pushed himself up to his hands and knees.

It was then that he realized he'd landed in something wet and sticky, with an unpleasant smell.

Ah, jeez,
he thought in disgust,
the guy's puked all over himself and I fell in it.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep down the contents of his own abused stomach, and lifted his palms, intending to wipe them off on the drunk's shirtfront. But the stuff on his hands wasn't vomit, it was blood.

He looked down at the man lying sprawled out on the concrete, trying to see his features in the gloom. "Oh, my God," he breathed, his words barely audible over the sudden roaring in his brain.

It was Eric Shannon. Unconscious. Bleeding.

"Oh, my God!" His voice was louder this time. "Call an ambulance," he shouted at the couple on the chaise longue. "Somebody call a damn ambulance!"

* * *

The ambulance finally arrived what seemed like hours later, Zeke remembered, along with the police, but neither of them were able to do Eric any good. He was already dead and had been for quite some time. The police had been relentless in their questioning, but that didn't do Eric any good, either.

Several witnesses said they'd seen or heard Eric arguing with his brother earlier that evening but, then, Eric was always arguing with his brother. Besides, those same witnesses had seen Eric hale and hearty, well
after
Jack
had stormed out of the apartment. Other party-goers remembered seeing Eric leave the party in 1-G with his girlfriend, presumably to go upstairs to the apartment she shared with two other girls, but no one could remember the time. The distraught girlfriend confirmed that she and Eric had gone upstairs to be alone but she swore she hadn't seen him take a header over the balcony railing. No one had seen that. At least, no one who was talking.

Through it all, Zeke sat on the chaise longue, bare-chested and bare-footed, smeared with blood and suffering from a mild case of shock. Though required to repeat his story to several different officers—what had he been doing and why was he in the courtyard—Zeke gallantly didn't mention that he'd stumbled over the body while chasing Ariel Cameron as she fled from the party.

That particular piece of information wouldn't have helped the investigation, he thought, because she didn't have anything to do with what had happened. And it wouldn't have been good for Ariel's image to have it known that the darling of
Family Fortune
had been at a loud, boisterous party where alcohol and drugs may have been a major contributing factor in the apparent suicide of one of the young hosts. Unfortunately, several of the other guests saw fit to mention that a major television star was seen running away from the scene of the crime....

* * *

"Look, Mrs. Cameron, I know you don't like me. Hell—" Zeke ran his hand through his hair "—I know you hate my guts. But if I could see Ariel, just for a minute," he pleaded. "I could explain the whole thing. I just need to see her."

"My daughter has no desire to see you," Constance Cameron informed him. "She's sick about all of this. Sick and shocked and thoroughly disgusted. Her name in the papers, connected with a sleazy drug party." She shivered with distaste. "Police asking her questions about why she was there. Reporters making nasty insinuations." She fixed him with a malevolent stare. "We both realize, of course, that this sort of sordid publicity is just what you were hoping for all along, from the minute you began your campaign to seduce my daughter."

"No, that's not true, I—"

"Oh, yes, it's very true. I've been onto you from the beginning, Mr. Blackstone. And now Ariel finally sees you for what you are. She's well aware that your image as Hollywood's newest bad boy can only prosper from an incident such as this one. But hers is going to suffer. Maybe quite badly. I've already had a call from one of the network lawyers. He wasn't calling to offer assistance in our time of need," she said. "He was calling to tell me they're seriously thinking about canceling
Family Fortune
for next season." The look she gave Zeke was venomous. "If that happens, my daughter will have you to thank for the ruin of her career."

"I didn't tell the police Ariel was there last night," Zeke said. "I never even mentioned her name. I swear to you, I had nothing to do with the story ending up on the front page of this morning's paper."

"You had everything to do with it," Constance snapped, her voice icy with anger and disgust. "It was your fault she was there at all. Your fault she's been so sickened and shocked by what happened that all she can do is lie in bed and cry."

Zeke felt his heart clench in his chest at the thought of Ariel in tears. Tears
he
had caused. He'd never meant to make her cry. "Let me go up and see her," he begged desperately. "Just for a minute. I promise, I—"

Constance moved in front of him, cutting him off as he started for the stairs. "You won't get around me as easily as you did my daughter," she warned him. "And if you try, if you lay so much as a finger on me in your attempt to invade my home, I'll call the police and have you arrested for trespass and assault."

Zeke hesitated, clearly weighing the consequences of being arrested against the chance of seeing Ariel for a few moments. It would take the police at least five minutes, maybe more, to get there. He could do a lot of explaining in five minutes.