The Dark Horse - lanyon Josh - Страница 17

Changing the subject, I said, «I don't know what to do about tomorrow night. I can't show up with a bodyguard. It'll confirm everything Lenny Norman thinks about me.»

«I don't give a damn about what Lenny Norman thinks,» Dan said. «Until we've figured out who's harassing you, I don't want you out there on your own.»

Once again I felt a flare of antagonism at what was, after all, pretty much common sense. I guess it was the authority – verging on arrogance – in Dan's voice. Like there was no room for discussion. What was especially unreasonable was that I'd been resentful before because he hadn't seemed to take my fears seriously, and now that he was taking them very seriously, I was equally offended. What did I want?

«Yeah, well, I care what Lenny Norman thinks,» I said. «I want this role and I don't want to do anything that confirms his image of me as some stereotypical Hollywood himbo.» «A stereotypical Hollywood himbo wouldn't want that role,» Dan pointed out.

Somehow everything he was saying tonight irritated me. I said shortly, «He thinks I'm gutless, personally and professionally, and showing up with a cop escort tends to reinforce that idea.» «When is the dinner?» Dan asked. «I'll get off early and drive you.» «It's the same thing!»

I heard the hostility in my voice before it registered in Dan's eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence – long enough for me to try and take the words back, but I didn't. Steve was right. I was getting way too dependent on Dan. I needed to set a few boundaries.

After a moment Dan said, «I wasn't inviting myself to dinner. I'll drop you off and you can ring me when you're ready to go.»

I almost couldn't stop myself from saying, «How is that going to look?» but sanity prevailed – a limited engagement. I said, «I'm supposed to be there at seven.» «I'll be home by five.»

«Great. Thanks.» If my tone had been any chillier we'd have had to throw another log on the fire.

Later that evening I stood in front of the bathroom mirror frowning at my reflection, trying to decide if there was anything I could do that might make me look more like whatever Lenny Norman imagined Laurie Odell looked like. I could skip shaving. Would chic-scruffy be more appropriate for an invalided soldier? Probably not for a guy in a World War II military hospital. Being tanned wasn't a good idea either. I was probably too tall as well – although Peter Grady and I looked pretty good on screen together.

Davie Cort was shorter than me and a bit stockier. And a lot paler. Better shoulders. He had one of those appealing boney intelligent English faces – saved from effeteness by a broken nose. And he had that damned accent.

Not that I couldn't do an English accent. I was pretty good at accents, actually. «I say, old chap,» I said to my mirrored self.

There was a quiet laugh behind me. I turned. Dan stood in the doorway, smiling. Our eyes met in the glass. He unbuttoned his collar. «What number were you again?»

It took me a second to remember People magazine. I bit back a laugh, although I wished he hadn't reminded me of that. «Go to hell.» He chuckled. «You look more like a movie star than me.» «No need to be nasty.»

It was true, though. For old fashioned good looks, Dan was the guy. My face was all bones, sharps and angles. I photographed well, but in real life there was nothing remarkable about me. Tall and lanky, brown hair, brown eyes (okay, «sherry-colored eyes» and «sun-kissed chestnut hair» if you wanted to quote People magazine). «You'll do fine, Laurie,» he said, turning away.

I caught my own wide-eyed look in the glass. It occurred to me that one of the things irritating me tonight was the very thing that bothered Laurie about Ralph: his take-charge attitude when no one was asking him to take charge; the protectiveness that verged on domineering; the assumption that, because he didn't see a problem, it didn't exist. The funny thing was that Laurie's attitude in the book had always bothered me. He didn't seem to fully appreciate Ralph. Now I sort of understood his point.

By lunchtime on Tuesday I was getting a little tired of Sergeant Markowitz. He had all the personality of one of those Easter Island statues. He ate about as much, too. Maybe he thought I'd sprinkled gay powder in the roast beef sandwiches. The only time he livened up was when he went out on the deck and checked out the beach bunnies – and the beach

bunnies were few and far between now that the weather had turned. He even made Maria nervous – not an easy thing to do.

It was obvious he felt like he was wasting his time, and maybe he was right. There were no more postcards, no phone calls, nothing but the horrible memory of the dead dog. Maybe someone else had disliked that damned dog and got rid of it thinking it was mine. It spent so much time at my cottage I could see how the mistake might be made.

The morning dragged. The afternoon wasn't much better. I was freaking myself out thinking about dinner that evening, wondering what I could say or do to convince Lenny Norman that I was the right guy for the job.

About two o'clock I worked out in the weight room, showered and came downstairs for a snack. As I reached the ground floor I could hear Steve's excited and tinny voice echoing through the dining room. «Sean. Fuck. Sean, pick up. Fuck, pick up!»

Through the glass door I could see Markowitz and Maria out on the deck in deep discussion. About what? I stretched across the counter for the phone. «What's up?» «Sean! Someone shot Lenny Norman!» I said stupidly, «When?» «I don't know. His gardener found him this morning.» «Is he –?»

«Yes, he's dead! He was shot to death. Somebody blew a couple of holes through his chest.»

Behind me I heard a key in the front door. Too early for Dan. I turned, automatically dropping the handset into the cradle, cutting Steve's shocked voice off.

I stared across the wasteland of counter and table tops, the stretch of carpet and wooden floor. The sunlight lancing through the blinds and bouncing off the wooden floor was so bright it hurt my eyes. Hurt my head …

The front door opened and Dan stepped in, his face hard and unfamiliar behind dark sunglasses. He looked like a movie hit man, well-dressed and ruthless. I said, «Lenny Norman's dead. Hammond shot him.»

My voice was quiet and tired in the big empty rooms. Not strong enough to carry through the rush of noisy sunshine, but maybe he already knew what I was going to say.

I couldn't read his face behind those dark glasses, but his mouth opened. From a long way away he said, «Sean …»

Chapter Six

I opened my eyes.

I was lying on the sofa. The ceiling fan whispered above me, the blades swirling in a hypnotic blur. It threw a black shadow flower against the plaster, the petals whirring into a smear.

«Hey, sweetheart.» Dan leaned over me, his face white. Even his lips looked pale. There were little lines around his eyes I didn't remember seeing before. Poor Dan. Just what he needed after a hard day of chasing bad guys: scraping his crazy boyfriend off the carpet. I whispered, «Sorry about that.» He stroked my hair back from my forehead. «There's nothing to be sorry for.» There was, though. Lenny Norman. I covered my eyes with my arm. «Don't, Sean. It's not your fault.» Funny how easily he could read my mind. «No?» «Christ, no.» «He thinks he's helping me.»

But how could Hammond possibly know that I was trying for a role in The Charioteer? How could he know that Lenny Norman stood in the way of what I wanted? «Whoever is behind this doesn't think he's helping you.»

I lowered my arm. «We know who's behind it. Jesus, tell me we aren't going to go through this again. You know Hammond did this. He killed the dog and now –«

«Listen to me,» he said, and something in his tone caught my attention. «They found Hammond's body.» «They …» I felt winded, like he'd punched me. «There's no mistake. Paul Hammond is dead.» I blinked. I had been so sure.