He smiled again, and she realized he knew she was staring at him and wondering about him. And of course, at the same time, she realized that he was watching her speculatively.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“So are you.”
He shrugged. “I’m curious.”
“About what?”
He laughed, and it was an easy sound, surprisingly pleasant. “Well, you are Alexi Jordan.”
She lifted her hands, eyeing him warily in return. “And you are Rex Morrow.”
“Hardly worthy of the gossip columns.”
“That’s because writers get to keep their privacy.”
“Only if they hole out in places like this.”
She didn’t say anything; she took a long sip of her beer, wrinkling her nose. She really didn’t like the brand; its taste was too bitter for her.
It was better than nothing.
“Well?” he said insinuatingly, arching a dark brow.
“Well, what?”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“About what?”
“The rich, lusty scandal involving the one and only Alexi Jordan.”
Only a writer could make it all sound so sordid, Alexi decided. But she couldn’t deny the scandal. “Why on earth should I?” she countered smoothly.
He lifted his hands, grinning. “Well, because I’m curious, I suppose.”
“Wonderful,” she said, nodding gravely. “I should spill my guts to a novelist. Great idea.”
He laughed. “I write horror and suspense, not soap operas. You’re safe with me.”
“Haven’t you read all about it in the rags?”
“I only read the front pages of those things when I’m waiting in line at the grocery store. One of them said you left him for another man. Another said John Vinto left you for another woman. Some say you hate each other. That there are deep, dark secrets hidden away in it all. Some claim that the world-famous photographer and his world-famous wife are still on good terms. The best of friends. So, what’s the real story?”
Alexi leaned back on the couch, closing her eyes. She was so tired of the whole thing, of being pursued. She still felt some of the pain—it was like being punch-drunk. The divorce had actually gone through almost a year ago.
“Who knows what is truth?” she said, not opening her eyes. She didn’t know why she should tell Rex Morrow—of all people—anything. But an intimacy had formed between them. Strange. They were both hostile; neither of them seemed to be overladen with trust for the opposite sex. Still, though he was blunt about wanting the peninsula to himself, she felt that she could trust him. With things that were personal—with things she might not say to anyone else.
“We’re definitely not friends,” she blurted out.
“Hurt to talk?” he asked quietly. She felt his voice, felt it wash over her, and she was surprised at the sensitivity in his tone.
She opened her eyes. A wary smile came to her lips. “I can’t tell you about it.”
“No?”
“No.” She kicked off her shoes and curled her stockinged toes under her, taking another long sip of the beer. She hadn’t eaten all day, and the few sips of the alcohol she had taken warmed her and eased her humor. “Suffice it to say that it was all over a long time ago. It wasn’t one woman—it was many. And it was more than that. John never felt that he had taken a wife; he considered himself to have acquired property. It doesn’t matter at all anymore.”
“You’re afraid of him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No! No! How did—?” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to admit anything about her relationship with John.
“You are,” he said softly. “And I’ve hit a sore spot. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not. Really.”
“You’re a liar, but we’ll let it go at that for the time being.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. Something happened that was a rough deal.”
“Ahh…” she murmured uneasily. “The plot thickens.”
He smiled at her. She felt the cadence of his voice wash over her, and it didn’t seem so terrible that he knew that much.
“You don’t need to be afraid now,” he said softly.
“Oh?”
She liked his smile. She liked the confidence in it. She even liked his macho masculine arrogance as he stated, “I’m very particular about the peninsula. You don’t want him around, he won’t be.”
Alexi laughed, honestly at first, then with a trace of unease. John could be dangerous when he chose.
“So that’s it!” Rex said suddenly.
“What?”
He watched her, nodding like a sage with a new piece of wisdom that helped explain the world. “Someone running after you on the sand, footsteps on the stairway, your blind panic last night. You think your ex is after you.”
“No! I really heard footsteps!”
“All right. You heard them.”
“You still don’t believe me!”
He sighed, and she realized that she was never going to convince him that the footsteps had been real. “You seem to have had it rough,” he said simply.
She wasn’t going to win an argument. And at the moment she was feeling a bit too languorous to care.
“Talk about rough!” Alexi laughed. She glanced at her beer bottle. “This thing is empty. Feel like getting me another? For a person who doesn’t like people, you certainly are curious—and good at making those people you don’t like talk.”
He stood up and took the bottle. “I never said that I don’t like people.”
She closed her eyes again and leaned back as he left her. She had to be insane. She was sitting here drinking beer and enjoying his company and nearly spilling out far too much truth about herself. Or was she spilling it out? He sensed too much. After one bottle of beer, she was smiling too easily. Trusting too quickly. If he did delve into all her secrets, it would serve her right if he displayed them to the world in print. He would change the names of the innocent or the not-so-innocent.