Illusions Page 2

  Delaney threw back the top sheet, untangled a leg and climbed out of bed, all five feet nine inches of her. She padded directly to the private bath off her bedroom.

  At the sink, she turned on the faucets and loaded her toothbrush with mint-flavored toothpaste. As she lifted the brush to her mouth, she looked at the mirror in front of her and paused, momentarily distracted by the reflected image of her square face angling to the point of her chin and framed by a mass of long, curly hair the color of dark European chocolate. Her eyes were equally dark and thickly lashed. At thirty-four, Delaney was a very attractive woman, but the overall impression was one of strength and confidence rather than beauty.

  Unbidden came the memory of a man quietly and astutely remarking, “I’ll bet you intimidate the hell out of most men you meet.”

  Just for a moment the pain returned, the twisting ache of remembered love and deception.

  With an effort, Delaney pushed the memory to the back of her mind and proceeded to vigorously brush her teeth. A quick shower followed. After toweling dry, Delaney donned a short terry robe and belted it before returning to the bedroom.

  Once there, Delaney went straight to the closet and retrieved the overnight bag that she kept—with typical organization—prepacked with toiletries and cosmetics, a kimono-style robe, and a complete change of clothes.

  Next she pushed aside the white jacket and loose-fitting trousers of her karate clothes and reached for the emergency medical kit, equipped with the usual assortment of bandages, sterile dressings, gauze, aspirins, universal poison antidotes, and surgical tape, as well as wire ladder-splints, an oropharyngeal airway set, and a refillable oxygen cylinder complete with regulator and mask.

  When the German shepherd heard the familiar thump of the bag hitting the floor, he lifted his head, then slowly got to his feet and climbed off the bed, taking a long stretch in the process. He ambled over to the edge of the Oriental rug and sat down to watch her pack.

  “It’s old hat to you, isn’t it, Ollie?” she said and turned back to the closet.

  Her clothes were grouped in coordinating outfits of three, complete with all accessories. Neatness and order had long been the rule in her life—with heavy emphasis on order.

  Delaney lifted the gray tweed overnight bag from its perch on the top shelf, unhooked the matching garment bag from the clothes rod, and spread both on the bed.

  From the closet, she selected a set of coordinating outfits with their accessories attached to the hangers, arranged them in the garment bag, and added a spare pair of flat shoes. A raincoat joined them before she zipped the bag shut. To the overnight bag, she included two more sets of lingerie, then walked back to the nightstand and opened its second drawer.

  There, snugly nestled in its high-ride, pancake-style hip holster, was her .38 Special with a three-inch barrel and fixed sights.

  She took the pair out of the drawer, removed the small handgun from its holster, and unloaded it. Delaney was careful not to recall the one and only time duty had forced her to fire it—or the look on the face of the fatally wounded man. Seven months and the images of that moment still sprang at her from out of the night.

  The incident had made her eighty times more wary, determined that never again would she find herself in a situation where circumstances demanded the use of a deadly weapon.

  After placing the bullets from the gun into an opened box of shells, Delaney took the gun, holster, and shell box and laid them all on top of the folded clothes in her overnight bag, then snapped the lid shut and locked it.

  Thirty minutes—and a phone call from Riley with the information on the airline and flight number—later, Delaney turned the German shepherd loose in his outdoor run and stowed her bags in the car.

  In L.A., you are what you drive. Delaney slid behind the wheel of her ten-year-old silver Mercedes, a present she’d bought herself six years ago when her morale had badly needed a boost. Far in the distance glittered the lights of the Malibu beach community, and farther still the halo of the City of Angels.

  Overhead the full moon reminded Delaney of a giant Klieg light in the sky, lighting up the night. She reversed the car out of the drive and headed toward the Pacific Coast Highway. From there, it was virtually a straight shot to the airport.

  Forty minutes before the flight’s scheduled departure time, Delaney walked into the terminal at LAX, carrying her overnight case and garment bag. Pausing, she scanned the handful of travelers lined up in front of the airline’s ticket counter. Riley Owens wasn’t among them.

  A second later she spotted him lounging against a nearby wall. He saw her and picked up a travel-worn suitcase and a brown leather briefcase at his feet, then came to meet her.

  Dressed in a dark gray suit and paisley tie, Riley Owens looked like the average business traveler—except he was better-looking. His face was strong and lean, with skin bronzed by the sun and showing the attractive creases of maturity. He had thick chestnut hair that carelessly defied order and his eyes were that deep shade of cobalt blue—eyes that could glint with laughter one moment and turn to bits of sharp steel the next. The latter was the only thing about him that remotely suggested he had spent ten years in the Secret Service before the tedium of the job got to him.

  As Riley had once put it, he had grown tired of living a life of utter boredom waiting for that one instant of action. Riley Owens was definitely a man you wanted at your side in a tight situation, but he cloaked that intelligence and strength with a pose of indolence and humor.

  Watching his approach, Delaney considered all the roles Riley had filled in her life—client, mentor, big brother, and best friend. But never a lover. She suddenly wondered why.

  He stopped in front of her, his blue eyes nearly on the same level as her dark ones, assessing her in that same thorough way they always did—a way that was sometimes disconcerting. But not this time. “I didn’t bother to pick up the tickets.” His glance flicked to her overnight bag. “I assumed you’d be carrying.”

  “I am,” she replied, confirming the existence of the handgun in her suitcase.

  “Then let’s get in line so we can declare our weapons and check them through to New York with our bags.” He nodded his head at the queue of people at the ticket counter.

  “Right.” Delaney led the way.

  Fifteen minutes later, they proceeded through the security check with tickets and boarding passes in hand. Riley headed straight for their gate area.

  “Do you want to go over this info on Rina Cole before we board?” Riley set his briefcase on the floor.

  “No, we’ll do it in flight. I have to call Dad.” Delaney draped her garment bag over the back of a seat. “Watch this for me,” she said, and went to a nearby bank of pay phones.

  On the heels of the second ring, a magnificent male voice came on the line, booming a hearty, “Good morning.”

  Delaney instantly smiled, visualizing her father on the other end, a tall and tanned, vigorous man of seventy-seven, his dark hair now totally silver-white—except for the sides and his thick eyebrows that his hairdresser kept dyed a dark gray. She had inherited her height and strong, square features from her father; however, on him, the angles seemed much harsher. The effect was faintly forbidding, although a kinder, more compassionate man she’d never known.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “Delaney,” he responded with delight. “You’re up and about early this morning.”

  “So are you.”

  “I have an early call at the studio. Just a small role. Six lines. I play a drug lord in another one of those forgettable blood-and-guts movies they’re churning out these days. It’s typecasting, of course, but I’ve always been an actor people love to hate,” Gordon Wescott declared without a trace of regret at the fifty years he’d spent playing bad guys, most notably a nine-year stint as a villain on a daytime soap before his character was finally killed off—but not before he managed to get Delaney through law school. “I even persuaded the casting director to gi
ve Eddi a bit part, too.”

  “Eddi” was Edwina Taylor-Brown, the fifty-two-year-old actress he’d been—to use his phrase—keeping company with. “That’s good news, Dad.”

  “It certainly is. That gives Eddi another eighteen months of union health insurance coverage. It’s too damned hard for some of our older members to get a job acting. And too damned hard for them to get affordable coverage elsewhere.”

  “I know.” Delaney paused as the boarding call for her flight came over the public address system.

  “What was that, Delaney? Where are you?”

  “At the airport on my way to New York. I called to see if you would house-sit for me until I get back.”

  “Be glad to, but that dog is not sleeping in bed with me.”

  “Why?” She smiled. “Ollie doesn’t snore.”

  “Ollie.” He snorted. “What kind of name is that to give a dog? A German shepherd should be called King or Baron, something with dignity.”

  “Ollie suits him just fine.”

  “What’s taking you to New York?” he asked, then guessed, “You were called on this Lucas Wayne thing.”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “I heard about it on the radio while I was shaving,” he answered. “So you’re going to be protecting Lucas Wayne. You know, there’s a horde of women who wouldn’t mind guarding his body—or jumping his bones, for that matter,” he added, and chuckled. “Eddi tells me he’s irresistible to the opposite sex.”

  “He’s a client, Dad. There’s no way I’m going to get personally involved with him. I made that mistake once and look what happened.” Her hand tightened its grip on the receiver, her eyes closing on the old memory resurrected by his inadvertent remark.

  “Delaney, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  He sighed into the phone. “I really put my foot in my mouth with that one. I guess I was just trying to sound like a father and wish you could meet Mr. Right.”

  “I know,” Delaney replied with forced lightness. “Unfortunately, so far I’ve managed to meet only Mr. Rude, Mr. Cheap, and Mr. Married.”

  “Yes.” There was something sad and thoughtful in his tone. “It was too bad about Mr. Married. I liked him.”

  Delaney deliberately changed the subject. “Look, Dad, if you’re going to invite your cronies over for one of your infamous poker games, tell them not to put their cigars out in my houseplants. The African violets are still trying to recover from the last one.”

  “I promise I’ll have plenty of ashtrays on the table.”

  The airport’s public address system carried the boarding announcement again. “They’re calling my flight, Dad. I have to go. Remember—if you forget your key, there’s a spare one in Ollie’s doghouse.”

  “I’ll remember. Fly safe.”

  “I will. Love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too, precious.”

  She hung up and let her hand linger an instant longer on the phone, almost in a caress, then headed back to the gate area.

  Riley saw her coming and stood up, noting a dozen details about her—everything from the cool, competent image she projected to the soft, full curve of her lips that made him think of other things. The slash of her cheekbones was strong, reminding him of an Irish maiden.

  As always, he experienced that familiar jolt of desire when he saw her. He had known Delaney for somewhere around seven years now—and had been in love with her for six of them. Problem was, she had no clue how he felt. It had been a case of bad timing. Right about when he had realized he’d fallen in love with her, Delaney had been falling for someone else.

  Her affair had ended abruptly, leaving her with a broken heart and a lot of scars. Riley had been waiting ever since for them to heal.

  Patience had always been one of his strong suits. He needed it in his line of work. But Delaney was testing it.

  Not a sign of it showed when Delaney reached him.

  “How’s your dad?” he asked.

  “Fine.” She scooped her garment bag off the chair back. “Ready to board?”

  Riley reached inside his jacket and pulled out his boarding pass and ticket. “New York here we come.”

  TWO

  DELANEY PROCEEDED DOWN THE plane’s aisle until she reached their seats. “You can have the window, Riley.” She stepped out of the way to let him in first, set her purse on the aisle seat and shoved her garment bag in the overhead rack, then took off the jacket to her pinstriped jumpsuit and laid it on top.

  “I like the jumpsuit,” he remarked when she sat down.

  She gave him a sidelong look of surprise. “A compliment from you? That’s rare.”

  He grinned. “I know. I amaze myself sometimes.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She opened her purse and took out her ringed notebook.

  “But I still like the jumpsuit.”

  “With the long flight, it seemed a good choice for traveling,” Delaney said absently. She noticed one of the flight attendants coming down the aisle toward them. “Excuse me. Is there a phone up front I can use when we’re airborne?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thanks.”

  Riley frowned. “Who do you have to call now?”

  “Glenda. But not until she gets into the office at nine. I need to let her know where we’ll be—and have her cancel any appointments for the next few days.” Delaney took out her pen and started jotting reminders down in the notebook. “I need to talk to Frank, too. He’ll have to handle the Margo Connors obscene phone calls.”

  “His wife will love you,” Riley murmured.

  “She already does,” Delaney countered.

  “Ha,” he replied.

  “She does. She brings homemade chocolate chip cookies for me all the time.”

  “She’s only doing it to fatten you up. Not that I blame her,” he added slyly. “You could stand a little meat on those bones.”

  Delaney looked up from her notebook. “I should have accepted the compliment on the jumpsuit and kept my mouth shut, shouldn’t I?”

  “Probably.” He grinned.

  “I don’t know why I get myself into these conversations with you.” She shook her head and closed the notebook. “Let’s go over that information you brought on Rina Cole.”

  Still smiling, Riley opened his briefcase and handed her a folder from it. Delaney flipped it open. “A glossy?” She stared in surprise at the publicity photo on top. “How did you get your hands on this?” When she picked it up, she noticed the barely legible handwriting in silver ink near the bottom left-hand corner. She held it closer, trying to decipher what it said. “‘To Riley.’” She turned to him. “This is your photo of her.”

  “I went to one of her concerts a few years back. She autographed it for me.” When Delaney continued to regard him with curious surprise, he reminded her, “I told you I was a fan.”

  “I know, but I’m having trouble picturing you asking for an autograph.” She looked back at the photo and deciphered the rest of the writing. “‘To Riley, Love, Rina Cole.’” She looked at him askance. “I hope you told her not to use the word ‘love’ when she signed her pictures.”

  It was one of the first things they told celebrity clients, to forestall the possibility that some mentally ill fan might take the message literally.

  “Actually—no.”

  “Riley,” she said in disbelief.

  “Why should I? She signed the photo to me.”

  “That doesn’t matter. She—”

  “But I did tell her road manager,” Riley added, then chided when she failed to smile. “Lighten up, Delaney. You’re getting too serious.”

  “I have a feeling one of us better be.” She directed her attention again to the photo.

  “Have it your way,” Riley said and began briefing her on Rina Cole. “There seems to be some dispute about her age. One source says thirty-eight, another that she’s forty-three. My money’s on the forty-three. But
whatever she is, she’s still one sexy, bodacious woman.”

  Delaney noticed he didn’t say beautiful. But then, the face in the glossy photograph wasn’t beautiful. Her nose was too long and her gray-green eyes were set too close together. Her lips were wide and full, almost obscenely so, and her wild mane of frosted hair was moussed into an exaggerated wind-blown style. No, Rina Cole wasn’t beautiful. She was the personification of sex. She exuded it, flaunted it—openly, outrageously.

  The impact was powerful. Delaney could feel her own skin heating just looking at the photo. She remembered watching Rina Cole’s performance on a television special a few years ago—the way she’d strutted across the stage, dressed in an outfit that was more bare than there, and the stance she’d assumed, her hips thrust forward and her shoulders thrown back, her legs spread in a blatant invitation, her breasts pushed out. Sweat had poured down her face, but it had only made her look hot—in the sexual sense of the word. And there’d been a knowing look in her eyes that said, Anything goes, and a taunting smile on her lips—the tip of her tongue just out of sight—that added, What are you waiting for? Let’s do it.

  Rina Cole wasn’t like any other female star, past or present. She didn’t have the voluptuousness and sly insinuation of Mae West, the mocking raunchiness of Cher, the blonde naughty-girl coolness of Madonna, or the mischievous abandon of Tina Turner. She wasn’t any of those…or even all of those. She was only sex, in its most unadulterated form.

  Yet there was no sense of something bad or evil. Delaney frowned at the discovery, realizing she’d expected to feel that. But sex was part of the natural order of things, and Nature was amoral. There was no good or bad, merely the laws of survival, and sex was essential for the survival of any species.

  “Well preserved, isn’t she?” Riley remarked.

  She replied, without thinking, “Sex is ageless.”

  Before Riley could comment, a flight attendant came by and reminded them to fasten their seat belts. Delaney glanced out the window and saw that the airliner had already pushed back from the jetway. She set the folder aside long enough to buckle up, then opened it again, this time shifting the photo to the back of the bio material.