Passion and Scandal Read online

  "There was some talk about him and his brother having a big argument that night but, hell, who knows? Could be true, I guess. The two of 'em were always arguing over something, and Jack Shannon did disappear right after the inquest, which kinda points to a guilty conscience, if you ask me. He ended up in 'Nam and then became one of them mercenaries you read about. Traveled all over the world, selling his services to the highest bidder. 'Course—" Mueller shrugged "—could be there wasn't no argument at all. Could be Eric Shannon was just so loaded he thought he could fly. It don't make any difference why, anyway. It had to happen."

  "Had to happen?" Steve said.

  "He saw the woman in the mirror."

  "The legend again," Steve said. "That's a load of crap and you know it."

  "The legend's true," Mueller said stubbornly. "Back in 1930 an actress named Jeannie Masters drowned in the swimming pool that used to be right here where we're standing. You can see the outline of it," he said, pointing. "It happened during a wild party, just like with the Shannon kid, and nobody saw a thing. Nobody knows whether it was an accident or suicide or murder."

  "Oh, for cryin' out loud," Steve said, all but throwing his hands up in exasperation. "That story is nothing but a bunch of superstitious mumbo jumbo dreamed up by somebody with more imagination than sense—probably in an effort to attract tenants to this place."

  "It's as true as I'm standing here," Mueller insisted. "The lady appears in the mirror in 1-G in a long white dress and smiles, sorta sadlike, and then you know something is gonna happen."

  "You're telling us that you've actually seen this mysterious ghost woman?"

  "I ain't saying I have and I ain't saying I haven't. I'm just saying I know what happens to people who do."

  "Yeah, right," Steve scoffed. "And the only ones who've ever seen her are a select group of stiffs and a sweet little old lady with romantic memories."

  "Madame ain't the only one who's seen her and lived to tell about it," Mueller said angrily. "Ethan Roberts saw her the same day he got his big break on the soap opera. And Jack Shannon's wife saw her, too, first time she was ever in the apartment."

  * * *

  "We're all set for tonight." Steve flipped his cell phone closed with a quick flick of his wrist and slid it into the inside pocket of his sport coat. "We're meeting Jack Shannon and his wife right over there—" he pointed at the brick-fronted building next to the Wilshire Arms "—at Flynn's." He reached for the key dangling in the ignition of the Mustang. "Six o'clock, or as soon after that as traffic permits."

  "Okay." Willow nodded her head in agreement. "Sounds good."

  But something in her voice didn't sound good at all. He released the key without firing the ignition. "You doin' okay over there, sweetheart?" he asked softly. He reached out to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "You look a little shell-shocked."

  Willow leaned into his touch, for just a second, as his fingers brushed the side of her face—and then tilted her head away, quickly, before she could give in to the urge to rub her cheek against his big, warm palm. "I'm fine," she said.

  Steve let his hand fall to the curve of her neck. "It's a big adjustment to go from having no idea who your father is to finding out there's a good chance he might be any one of three men, all in one morning," he said, kneading gently. "Nobody would blame you for feeling a little overwhelmed."

  "I'm fine," she said again, shooting him a wary glance. "Really. I'm not one of those delicate flowers who falls apart over the least little thing." At least, she hadn't been until this morning. "You don't need to worry that I'll start sniveling all over you again. I promise, I won't."

  The corner of Steve's beautifully chiseled mouth quirked up in an amused little grin. "No need to be embarrassed, sweetheart. You can snivel all over me anytime you need to. It's included in my hourly fee."

  "Does that hourly fee include stud service, too?" she snapped and then gasped at the look that crossed his face.

  She didn't know what had made her say it, she really didn't, except that if he didn't stop touching her neck like that she was going to climb over the gearshift and crawl into his lap.

  He dropped his hand from her neck. "If you're worried about what happened in my office this morning, don't be. It was a pathetic lack of control on my part," he admitted, "and I sincerely apologize for it."

  "Apologize for what?" she asked, wondering what on earth he thought he had to apologize for. He had kissed her, that's all, offering comfort when she needed it.

  "For taking advantage of you when you were in an emotionally vulnerable state."

  "Taking advantage of me?" she said, insulted. Nobody took advantage of Willow Ryan. She didn't permit it.

  "As long as you're my client you don't have to worry about my intentions," he said, stating it as plainly as he knew how. If he was going to help her, she had to trust him. And she couldn't trust him if she was afraid he was going to jump her any second. "I don't have sex with my clients."

  Willow couldn't believe what she was hearing. "And just what makes you think you had the slightest chance of having sex with me?" she demanded acidly.

  "There was no thinking involved, sweetheart. Not by me and not by you. If I'd wanted to, I could have had you this morning, buck naked and screaming with pleasure on the couch in my office. And we both know it."

  Willow just stared at him with her mouth hanging inelegantly open, speechless in front of such unmitigated masculine arrogance.

  "And just for the record, sweetheart... When this is all over and we've found out who your daddy is, that's just what I'm going to do."

  Chapter 5

  Willow did something that afternoon that she'd never done before. She canceled two business appointments and went shopping instead. Steve was picking her up at her hotel at five-thirty to meet the Shannons at Flynn's by six and there was a lot to do before she would be ready for him.

  She still couldn't believe the unmitigated, colossal gall of the man. The sheer arrogance of his attitude.

  So, okay, she'd responded to his kisses with a certain amount of warmth. Big deal. She'd been upset, taken off guard; he'd been right about that. But it certainly didn't mean she wanted to go to bed with him. To lie down on that ratty leather sofa in his office "buck naked and screaming with pleasure," as he had so crudely put it.

  An image of that happening flickered through her mind. All those rippling muscles, taut and trembling under her caressing fingertips; those big warm hands on her thighs; his golden body all naked and aroused, slick with passion as he worked over her. In her. Heat flooded her body.

  Well, okay, maybe she wouldn't mind it all that much... under the right circumstances... if he asked nicely. But for him to say, flat out, that he could have her any time he wanted... that he intended to have her as soon as it suited some outdated, antiquated notions of his, and never mind what she thought about it...

  "We'll just see about that," she muttered, slamming the door to her hotel room as she headed out to hit the stores on Rodeo Drive. "By the time I get through with you, Steve Hart, you'll be on your knees, begging me to put you out of your misery."

  * * *

  She was dressed all in black when he picked her up at her hotel that evening. Black heels, black stockings, a snug little black dinner suit with a high, round collar and long, fitted jacket that showed off her slim figure.

  And she had a great little figure to show off, Steve thought appreciatively, eyeing her through the windshield as he pulled his Mustang into the porticoed driveway of the hotel. Her tailored business suit hadn't shown the half of it, which, he supposed, was the purpose of a business suit.

  He wondered why she was outside, chatting with the doorman, instead of waiting inside for him. It offended his sense of chivalry to see her standing there on the curb. He would have let the valet stand watch over his car while he went in and got her. As it was, she didn't even give him a chance to get out and open the door for her. She reached for it herself as soon as he pulled to
a stop, yanked it open, and slid into the front seat, waving a cheery goodbye to the doorman as they left.

  "So, what did you find out from your police buddy?" she asked, crossing her legs as she settled back against the white leather. Her black skirt slid halfway up her thighs with the movement, showing off a spectacular pair of legs.

  Steve glanced at her face, wondering if she'd exposed that silky length of stocking-covered thigh on purpose, as a way to get back at him for being, as she'd so delicately put it when she'd slammed his car door, "an arrogant ass."

  "Well?" Willow looked back at him with a bland smile, one eyebrow raised slightly, waiting for an answer to her question. "What did he say?" she asked again.

  He supposed it could have been unintentional. The skirt, unlike the gray pin-striped one she'd had on earlier, was quite narrow. There was no place for it to go but up when she crossed her legs. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  "Marty confirmed what Mueller told us. Eric Shannon jumped—or fell—to his death from the third-floor apartment of Donna Ryan and Christine Loudon, her roommate. No one saw him do it. No one knows why he did it. The closest anyone could come to a reason was the argument he'd had with his brother but even the cops thought that was pretty thin. He wasn't as loaded as Mueller implied, either. The autopsy revealed blood alcohol levels equivalent to a couple of beers, and there was some trace evidence of marijuana use. But nothing more than that. So it's highly unlikely he flung himself over the railing in some kind of drug-induced frenzy." He slanted a glance at her, wanting to see how she'd take the next bit of information. "It happened on June 28th, 1970. Almost eight months to the day from the date you were born."

  "Does that make it more or less likely that he's the one?"

  "It makes it possible," Steve said. "No more, no less."

  "So we still have three possibles, then." She sighed, loudly, her bottom lip pushed out in a disappointed little pout, and recrossed her legs. The skirt inched a few crucial inches higher. "Were you able to find out anything from anyone on that soap opera my mother was on?"

  "Nothing really helpful. You knew it was a long shot," he said, wondering when in hell she was going to pull that skirt down. She'd smoothed her other, longer skirt down over her thighs a half-dozen times earlier that day. "There aren't many of the same people working on a soap opera after twenty-five years but I was able to convince the secretary in the studio office to dig through some of their old records for me."

  I'll just bet you did, Willow fumed, and lifted her hand to her throat.

  "I was able to confirm the dates both Donna Ryan and Ethan Roberts worked there. They overlapped but we already knew they would. A couple of the older actors remembered working with her. One of them said he'd thought she'd had some real talent, and had always wondered why she'd left the show, especially when the writers were making plans to beef up her part. A makeup artist recognized her picture right off the bat, and for the same reason Madame Markova did," he said, sliding another glance at her out of the corner of his eye. "Superb bone struct—What are you doing?"

  "I shouldn't have worn such a heavy suit." Her long slim fingers were halfway down the front of her jacket, her shiny red fingertips sliding in and out of the hidden placket as she worked each button loose. "Especially not one with such a high, constricting collar."

  Steve found his eyes glued to those red nails. Had they been that color earlier today? And wouldn't he have noticed if they had been?

  "Look out for that car up ahead," Willow warned him. "The light's about to turn red."

  He jerked his gaze back to the road just in time to avoid plowing into the car in front of him. With the Mustang safely stopped at the light, he turned his head back toward Willow, his mouth half-open to continue his report—and almost swallowed his tongue.

  She was leaning forward in her seat, trying to shimmy out of the tight-fitting jacket. The creamy mounds of her breasts were practically spilling out over the low, square-cut bodice of the little black dress she wore under it.

  "Could you help me with this, please?" she asked, extending her left arm out to him so he could pull the cuff off over her hand.

  Speechless, his gaze glued to the quivering mounds of her breasts, he did as she asked.

  "Thank you." She gave him a polite little smile. "I didn't expect it to still be this warm in October," she said as she wriggled the rest of the way out of the jacket. "This is the only evening outfit I brought with me, so I didn't have a choice about what to wear."

  It was a blatant, bald-faced lie. She'd bought the outfit that afternoon at Gianni Versace's Rodeo Drive boutique, right after she'd gotten her hair and nails done at Vidal Sassoon.

  "The light's green," she said, hiding a satisfied smile as she carefully folded the jacket. Knowing he was watching out of the corner of his eye, she shifted around, wriggling a good bit more than necessary, and draped it over the back of her seat. Then, settling back down, she lifted both hands and ran her fingers up through the back of her hair to fluff it. The movement lifted her breasts even higher, threatening indecent exposure if she wasn't careful.

  Steve's hands began to sweat against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?" he growled through clenched teeth.

  Willow dropped her arms. "Doing?" she said innocently, turning her head to look him full in the face.

  "Don't bothering giving me that wide-eyed look," he warned her. "I know when a woman's up to no good."

  She hooked a sheaf of hair behind her ear with one long red fingernail. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  He had to admire her nerve; most people backed down when he growled at them like that. She just shrugged and gave him her shoulder. Her soft, bare, creamy, sexy shoulder.

  "Isn't that Flynn's?" she said, pointing as they passed it.

  Steve swore and made an illegal U-turn, causing her to reach out and brace herself against the dashboard.

  "That wasn't very nice," she said, shooting him a pouty look as she straightened. "I could have broken a nail."

  "Keep it up and it might be your neck," he warned as he nosed the car into a parking space in front of Flynn's.

  He cut the engine and then sat there a minute, his hands on the steering wheel as he struggled to get control of his rampaging libido. Why did women always use sex when they wanted to get even with a man? Didn't they know the kind of trouble it could get them into? He was as hard as a rock, and about two seconds away from dragging her into the back seat and peeling her out of that dress. Only the fact that she was his client kept him from acting on the impulse.

  He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and turned to face her, prepared to calmly, concisely and in terms guaranteed to blister her pretty little ears, tell her exactly what he thought of the ridiculous game she was playing. "Do you have any idea how close you came?"

  "Hmm?" she murmured absently, unconcernedly rummaging through a tiny, beaded black evening bag.

  She extracted a tube of lipstick and reached for the rearview mirror. "Do you mind?" she said, twisting it around to face her without waiting for his consent.

  "Willow," he said, his voice low and threatening, and laced with willing laughter. He was having a hard time maintaining any kind of righteous male anger in the face of her determined indifference to it.

  "Yes, go ahead. I'm listening," she said, as she began carefully applying a fresh coat of red lipstick. She made a production of it, parting her lips in a sexy pout, slowly drawing the tube of color over them. "I have no idea how close I came to...?" she prompted, urging him to complete the thought.

  Steve couldn't help it. He laughed. "Are you trying to drive me completely around the bend?"

  "Yes." She gave him a saucy smile as she put the lid back on her lipstick. "How am I doing?"

  "I'm halfway there already," he admitted. "I was halfway there when you crossed your legs. And you know it, you heartless little witch."

  "Good." She dropped the
lipstick in her purse and snapped the tiny bag shut. "You deserved it."

  Steve shook his head in exasperation. Only a woman would punish a man for trying to save her from his baser instincts. The whole female sex was crazy, and men were crazy for putting up with their nonsense—and coming back for more with their tongues hanging out.

  "You stay right there until I come around and open that door," he said as she reached for the car's door handle. "The pavement in this parking lot is full of potholes. You could break your neck."

  "Before you could break it for me, you mean?"

  "You've got a real sassy mouth on you," he said as he opened the car door. "I don't know why I didn't notice it before."

  "Probably because you were staring at my chest."

  He gave her a narrowed look as he extended his hand to her. "Sooner or later," he warned her, "that mouth's gonna get you in a whole lot of trouble."

  She pursed her shiny red lips at him in an exaggerated kissing motion. "Promises, promises," she taunted and, placing her hand in his, swung her legs out of the car, giving him plenty of time to ogle them while she did so.

  And he did, blatantly, letting his gaze travel from the thigh-high hem of her dress to the impossibly high heels on her feet. The muscles in his stomach tensed as if he'd just taken a punch to the gut. How the hell had she known?

  Her damned shoes were straight out of his fantasies, made of narrow black velvet straps and black satin ribbons that tied in neat little bows around her slender ankles. Steve took a deep breath and decided, then and there, that the first time he made love to her she was going to be wearing those shoes—and nothing else.

  "Oh, grab my jacket for me, will you?" she said, brushing past him while he stood there, thinking about all the things he meant to do to her when he got her in his bed. "Sometimes the air-conditioning can be a bit chilly."