But, of course, everyone always knew who the real culprit was.
Something cold touched her hand. He was standing over her with another beer. She smiled. She was tired and lethargic enough to do so.
“My turn,” she murmured huskily.
“Uh-uh. We’re not finished with you.”
He didn’t move, though. He was staring down at her head. If she’d had any energy left, she would have flinched when he touched her hair. “That’s the closest shade I’ve seen to real gold. How on earth do you do it?”
She knew she should be offended, but she laughed. “I grow it, idiot!”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. How do you get that color? Shoe polish?”
“No, idiot,” he said in turn, grinning. “I grow it.”
He returned to his chair and cast his leg easily over it to straddle it once again. “So let’s go on here. Why are you so afraid of John Vinto? What happened?”
“Nothing happened. We hit the finale. That was it.”
“That wasn’t it at all. You married him…what? About four years ago or so?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been divorced almost a year?”
“Yes,” Alexi said warily. “He, uh, was the photographer on some of the Helen of Troy stills,” she said after a moment. She shrugged. “The campaign ended—publicity about the breakup would have created havoc on the set.”
“You worked with him after.”
“Yes.”
“And you spent that year working—and being afraid of him.”
She lowered her head quickly. She hadn’t been afraid of him when there had been plenty of other people around. She’d taken great pains never to be alone with him after he…
She sighed softly. “No more, Mr. Morrow. Not tonight. Your turn.” She took a sip of her new beer. The second didn’t taste half as bitter as the first, and it was ice-cold and delicious. She mused that it was the first time she had let down her guard in—
Since John. She shivered at the thought and then opened her eyes wide, aware that Rex had seen her shiver. Something warned her that he missed little.
“You shouldn’t have to fear anyone, Alexi,” he told her softly.
“Really…” She suddenly sat bolt upright. “Rex, I don’t talk about this—no one knows anything at all.”
“I don’t really know anything,” he reminded her with a smile. There was a rueful, sensual curve to the corner of his lip that touched her heart and stirred some physical response in the pit of her abdomen.
“No one will ever know what I do know now,” he said. “On my honor, Ms. Jordan.”
“Thanks,” she murmured uneasily. “If we’re playing This Is Your Life, then you’ve got to give something.”
He shrugged, lifting his hands. “I married the girl next door. I tried to write at night while I edited the obituaries during the day for a small paper. You know the story—trial and error and rejections, and the girl next door left me. She didn’t sue for divorce, though—she waited until some of the money came in, created one of the finest performances I have ever seen in court and walked away with most of it. She was only allowed to live off me for seven years. I bought an old house in Temple Terrace that used to belong to a famous stripper. I raised horses and planted orange groves—and then went nuts because my address got out and every weirdo in the country would come by to look me up. They stole all the oranges—and one jerk even shot a horse for a souvenir. That’s when I moved out here. The sheriff up on the mainland is great, and it’s like a wonderful little conspiracy—the townspeople keep me safe, and I contribute heavily to all the community committees. Gene—when he was still here—was a neighbor I could abide. Then he decided he needed to be in a retirement cooperative. I tried to buy the house from him; he wasn’t ready to let go.” He stopped speaking, frowning as he looked at her.
“Have you eaten anything?”
“What? Uh, no. How—why did you ask that?”
He chuckled softly. “Because your eyes are rimmed with red, and it makes you look tired and hungry.
“Want me to call for a pizza?”
“You must be kidding. You can get a pizza all the way out here?”
“I have connections,” he promised her gravely. “What do you want on it?”
“Anything.”
Alexi leaned her head against the sofa again. She heard him stand and walk around to the phone and order a large pizza with peppers, onions, mushrooms and pepperoni from a man named Joe, with whom he chatted casually, saying that he was over at the Brandywine house and, yes, Gene’s great-granddaughter was in and, yes, she was fine—just hungry.
He hung up at last.
“So Joe will send a pizza?”
“Yep.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Hmm.”
She sat up, curling her toes beneath her again and smoothing her skirt.
“Hold still,” he commanded her suddenly.
Startled, she looked at him, amazed at the tension in his features. He moved toward her, and she almost jumped, but he spoke again, quietly but with an authority that made her catch her breath.
“Hold still!”
A second later he swept something off her shoulder, dashed it to the ground and stomped upon it.
Alexi felt a bit ill. She jumped to her feet, shaking out her hair. “What was it?”
“A brown widow.”
“A what?”
“A brown widow. A spider. It wouldn’t have killed you, but they hurt like hell and can make you sick.”
“Oh, God!”
“Hey—there are spiderwebs all over this place. You know that.”
Alexi stood still and swallowed. She lifted her hands calmly. “I can—I can handle spiders.”
“You can.”
“Certainly. Spiders and bugs and—even mice. And rats! I can handle it, really I can. Just so long as—”
“So long as what?”
She lowered her head and shook it, concealing her eyes from him. “Nothing.” Snakes. She hated snakes. She simply wasn’t about to tell him. “I’ll be okay.”