You Don't Know Me Read online

  “Leo called me, y’know,” Callahan said accusingly. “Begged me. Tried to threaten me. And you know what that did? Forced me into an untenable position.”

  Leo? Dinah thought, the precariousness of her masquerade sending thrills of anxiety through her veins. Who was Leo?

  “I had to air a little dirty laundry to get him to back off.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dinah declared truthfully.

  “Yeah?” He wasn’t buying it. “I told him about good ol’ Derek and what I found you two doing on the last film set.” At Dinah’s stony look, he said, “Do I have to spell this, too?” Instead of words he gave a pretty accurate depiction with his index finger and loosely curled fingers of his other hand. “Leo got the picture a little quicker than you, but he didn’t care.” Callahan stopped, swayed on his feet. “Maybe I should have used four-letter words in describing your affair with Derek, but instead I went clinical on him. When you use words like penis and vagina and tongue all in the same sentence, people get squirmy. Good old Sandberg’s got the message now. Hopefully, he’ll be able to explain it to you.”

  Dinah was outraged. He really was scum. Her mind belatedly made the connection: Leo Sandberg. Denise’s agent.

  “I don’t want an audition,” Dinah said. “Just the house.” Her words rang with determination but inside, in her most protected self, a seed of doubt and suspicion had germinated. Denise hadn’t played fair. There was a lot more at stake than possession of the Malibu home. A hell of a lot more.

  His look was pitying. “You want an audition as much as you want to see me fail. But it’s too late, Denise. Eons too late.”

  Callahan examined her through eyes that had seen it all, where his wife was concerned. She felt naked. As if Denise’s transgressions had been visited on her. She felt soiled, too. And low. It was a distinctly unpleasant sensation, and though his words had reduced her rage to a low simmer—there was no hope in knowing which perception was correct, his or Denise’s—she fervently disliked him.

  From pure, selfish desire, Dinah wanted to metaphorically kick him in the balls.

  Metaphorically . . . and physically.

  He read her mind and quickly stepped forward, clasped her by the shoulders, and gave her one hard shake that set her teeth rattling. Memories danced like fireflies behind her eyelids. Memories of another man shaking her, slapping her.

  Dinah saw red. She swung with a closed fist, connected with a hard chest. Swearing, he pushed her up against the wall, holding her tautly, negating her violently struggling form by the sheer weight of his own.

  “God . . . damn . . . it,” he ground through clenched teeth.

  “You sick bastard,” she panted. “Let me go! Let me GO!”

  Crash! Beside them, the funky wrought-iron snake floor-lamp smashed onto the russet tiles.

  She was drowning, going under into a black, familiar, clammy numbness that caught at her heart. The fear inside her was so intense, she was a wild thing, inhuman, ready to inflict mortal damage.

  John Callahan had never seen this side to his ex-wife and frankly, her wriggling and near spasmodic squirming shocked and frightened him a little. She must have finally gone over the edge. Headfirst. Right down into the black hole she’d been aiming for since they first met.

  He let her go as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, his liquored senses clearing as if he’d taken an ammonia hit.

  “Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” she snarled past a heaving chest.

  John stared in amazement. Her eyes were wild with burning rage. Not acting, he realized with a faint jolt. This was real. His ex-wife meant to attack him.

  He was literally saved by the bell.

  Jarring chimes peeled loudly through the house, stilling both of them as if they’d been hit by a freeze ray. Denise pulled herself together with difficulty and John, eyeing her thoughtfully, yanked open the front doors to find a uniformed cop standing on the step.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said diffidently. “A neighbor reported screaming coming from these grounds and requested we check it out. Is everything all right?”

  “Minor domestic dispute,” John drawled, shooting a sideways glance at Denise. He expected her to toss out one of her dry, ironic zingers, those inappropriate and blackly humorous remarks that had made a fool of him on more than one occasion. But apparently she was in the throes of real emotion and for once in her life remained remarkably silent.

  The cop turned to her. John steeled himself. In the face of the authorities, one of Denise’s most-sought-after audiences, she tended to come alive. She could be teary-eyed and weak, or sweet and kittenish, or a blisteringly cold bitch. God, how she loved a stage of any kind.

  The cop’s eyes widened as he recognized her. Inwardly sighing, John waited for a spate of overdramatized histrionics. Denise was in her element.

  But Denise didn’t respond to the cue. Instead, she collected herself with an effort and asked, “Which neighbor complained?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “The people on the left or the people on the right? I want to know who’s watching me.”

  John’s head swiveled in surprise. What the hell was going on here?

  The cop hesitated and Denise pressed, “Don’t I have a right to know? Or is that privileged information? Do you even know?” she finished, before she gave him a chance to answer, gazing at the cop with such microscopic intensity that the young man shifted uncomfortably, as if he were involved in some transgression, not Denise. Good God, the kid was green.

  Either that or he’d succumbed to Denise’s charms in less than five minutes. John inwardly snorted. It happened.

  “Looks like everything’s okay here,” he mumbled, beating a hasty retreat.

  “Nothing that can’t be worked out,” John agreed, closing the door behind him.

  As soon as they were alone, he turned his attention back to Denise. Premonition crept over his skin. Something wasn’t right. He’d seen a lot of sides to his ex-wife, but this was a new one. Her interests were always self-involved and generally self-destructive. Why did she give a damn about the neighbors? She adored a scene.

  “Did I, or did I not, obtain this house in the divorce settlement?” she asked, confounding him again because she sounded so serious.

  “You did not,” he stated.

  She blinked. “The house was awarded to you?”

  “What is this? Sudden amnesia? You know goddamn well what the settlement was.”

  She gazed off into space, totally perplexed. It was an incredible performance even for Denise.

  “I had every right to throw you out,” he added, “and you’re lucky I didn’t turn you in just now for trespassing. Our deal was you stay away from me, and I stay away from you. And Blackbird doesn’t fit in there anywhere.”

  She didn’t answer. She was absorbed in thought. John watched the play of emotions across her mobile face and thought with a jarring shock, She’s changed. Her hair was different. Less blond and a bit longer. Straighter than he’d ever seen it. And her face was rounder, fuller. And her skin was whiter—as if she didn’t spend hours sunning or spray-tanning, which he knew she did.

  But the change was deeper than cosmetic. Something different. Something indefinable and curiously magnetic that reminded John what had attracted him to Denise in the first place.

  Something he didn’t want to be reminded of at any cost.

  “What’s with the questions about the neighbors? You know how nosy they are,” he accused.

  “I just want to make sure I apologize for tonight’s disturbance,” she stated flatly.

  “Oh, sure.” He laughed. “You hate them all. Every one of ’em wants to write a book about your sordid sex life—and mine, too, as far as that goes.”

  “It goes pretty far,” she reminded him.

  “Paranoia on your part,” he said with a disinterested shrug. “You’re the one with the indiscriminate hormones.”

  Denise bristled but bit back a
hot retort.

  He lifted a brow at her silence. “You’re—different,” he said, thoughtfully.

  She visibly jerked, as if he’d touched some secret part of her not open to the public. And then, wonder of wonders, a scarlet tide of embarrassment swept up her neck and flooded her cheeks.

  Denise Scott blushing like a schoolgirl?

  John’s bafflement increased. He’d seen Denise cry, and act coy, and feign hurt, and feel true emotional pain. He’d seen her faint, and had been the recipient of her infantile fury more times than he’d like to remember. He’d tried to save her when she’d been going down for the third time in a mire of low self-esteem and destructive behavior. He’d witnessed the brilliance of her acting skills, been awed by the depth of her perception, been disgusted by her selfishness, humbled by her unexpected tenderness.

  But he had never, ever seen her blush. Not this guileless kind of embarrassment over her actions. Not this awareness of her own humanity, her own simple mistakes.

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe you forgot who the neighbors are, and that I own this house?” he asked.

  “No.” Her voice was taut and faraway. “Maybe I just . . . hoped and wanted . . . things to be different.”

  “They’re exactly the same as they’ve always been.”

  Nodding, she inhaled through her teeth, shaking her head. “Everything I own is here.”

  “Everything you own is packed up in storage or at Derek’s place or somewhere else. It’s not here.”

  Her mouth twisted. “It is now.”

  He honestly didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t want her here. She’d caused too much destruction and pain already, and his patience was all used up. But he had crucified her during the divorce and some twisted chivalrous part of himself still smarted with guilt at cutting her down so thoroughly—a knife through butter.

  “You can stay the night,” he said brusquely, moving away from her to right the lamp and put some distance between them. His jaw was hard as he gazed down at the bits of broken glass. “But you’re out of here tomorrow.” Turning, he met her lovely, now narrowed, aquamarine eyes. “That’s the final word on it.”

  Oh, yeah? Dinah thought as His Highness bent down to pick up the larger pieces of glass. His denim shirt strained against his back and nearly separated from his low-riding, dusty blue jeans. Urban cowboy. Dirt-bag. Slimy Hollywood ass-kisser. All producers were ass-kissers and John Callahan was no exception.

  In measured silence, she waited until he’d turned on one booted heel and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Then she exhaled a short, angry sigh. A detached part of her mind seemed fixated on those dangerously low blue jeans, the “cowboy” sway of his hips, his long legs. The man dressed as if he’d stepped out of a western film himself, a look he clearly cultivated.

  He was so damnably cool, whereas she was shaken to the core.

  Could he be telling the truth? Did he own this house? His certainty had knocked her sideways, and she still felt unsteady.

  Could it just be an elaborate lie on his part? Because he sensed how off balance she was?

  No. There was no point. What was the truth?

  “Arrogant ass,” she muttered under her breath, furious with herself for being such a coward. Where was her anger now? Where was that wave of indignation she’d been riding? How had he turned his own actions into a dissection of hers?

  She heard him rummaging in a cupboard and then the clink of glassware. That’s right. Pour yourself another drink. Drink every last drop of liquor in the world and die of cirrhosis of the liver, you slimy, shit-kicking bastard.

  Dinah drew a breath. She had to talk to Denise. Immediately. She needed answers. She needed help. She was running blind and it was a distinctly disadvantageous position to be in with the likes of John Callahan.

  But she had a terrible feeling this was exactly the kind of pickle Denise had envisioned. That’s why Denise had lied. That’s why she’d deliberately left her cell phone behind. To get her sister to commit to all this because there was no way Dinah would have allowed herself into this position if she’d dreamed for one second that John Callahan would show up and demand possession.

  And Denise had wanted Dinah to fix everything for her. Again. Just like always.

  With a supreme effort of will, Dinah swallowed back her emotions, tiptoed around the remainder of the broken glass, and headed for the sanctity of her bedroom.

  Scottsdale, Arizona. Hot, ugly—unless you were into saguaro cacti, which she definitely was not—and full of resorts and scattered housing developments. The landscape was so barren, it could have been on the moon. Hell, even the saguaros looked otherworldly. It once was the chi-chi thing to buy a clay replica of one and top it with a little western hat and sling a scarf around its center finger, but now Denise found them slightly obscene. If one were into phallic symbols, the way these guys thrust their stuff skyward, prickly with thorns or no, you couldn’t hope to miss the open come-on.

  The Mercedes slid to a halt in the circular brown-tile drive beneath the hotel entry awning. Two attendants rushed out to help her. Denise slid out, touched one attendant’s waiting hand, and was jolted with enough static electricity to stand her hair on end.

  “Electrifying,” she muttered ironically as the attendant’s eyes widened in recognition.

  “Denise Scott!” he exclaimed.

  His thrill at meeting her was just the medicine Denise needed right now. No tricks. No guile. Just honest excitement at meeting a film star.

  Yesterday’s film star . . .

  With an effort she ignored her own nasty conscience. Gesturing to the landscape, she asked, “Is this place really as ugly as it seems?”

  “You don’t like the desert?” He looked stricken.

  “I don’t like anything,” she admitted, her lips twisting to take the sting out of it.

  The other attendant was searching vainly in the backseat for some sign of luggage.

  “I travel light,” Denise added, handing over the keys. She was wrinkled and sore, and longed for a shower, or better yet, a thick bubble bath surrounded by candles.

  She strode inside the hotel, hit by air-conditioning so cold, it felt like it would freeze her in midstride. She made a minor sensation at the check-in desk when spied by the obviously new girl on duty. The more seasoned employees were discreet to the point of absurdity, acting as if she were a longtime customer but trying their damnedest not to seem too interested in her.

  Denise was used to it, but her internal radar for fakery, always on high alert, picked up every nuance, every sidelong look, and overly disinterested attitude. Only people who truly didn’t recognize her acted normally. Perversely, upon encountering them, Denise wanted to shout: Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you recognize me? I’m Denise Scott, you uninformed shit!

  “The California Suite is one of our nicest.” The clerk smiled, handing her a key. She was young and possessed of curly, black hair and a practiced smile and even more practiced self-possession.

  Denise sized her up. “But it’s not the nicest.”

  “Pardon?”

  “What’s the nicest suite? The best?”

  “Our Presidential, ma’am. But it sleeps twelve. There’s a center suite with four bedrooms, one on each—”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Feeling bitchy all over, Denise sighed and said, “You have nothing to be sorry about. Just put me in the Presidential Suite and all will be well.”

  Now all the employees were listening. Hands stilled over keyboards. Conversation ended. Denise fantasized ears growing huger and huger as they all sought to eavesdrop. She made it easy for them. “Is there a problem with that?”

  “I’m afraid it’s been booked,” the girl said in a chastised voice. “For over a month.”

  “Is it occupied at this moment?”

  “The guests are arriving late this evening.”

  “Then they’ll have to go som
eplace else.”

  Silence. Utter silence except for the soft gurgle of water from the circular fountain in the center of the foyer. Why are you doing this? she asked herself, panic starting to itch beneath her skin again. Why?

  “Could I help you, Miss Scott?” a friendly male voice asked from behind her left shoulder.

  Turning slowly, Denise encountered a serious-eyed man in a green golf shirt that sported the Desert Paradise Hotel logo: a saguaro blooming with tiny white flowers.

  “I’m Brent McCaffey, general manager of Desert Paradise.” He introduced himself, offering his hand, which she accepted warily. “The party in the Presidential Suite paid in advance. It’s a fiftieth wedding anniversary and they’ve also booked several other suites and a dozen or so hotel rooms. Actually, they also wanted the California Suite, but Maggie”—he pointed to the girl Denise had argued with—“thought we should keep at least one suite open, if possible, in case someone important stopped in at the last moment.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Would you like the California Suite?”

  Suddenly, Denise was weary. Bone weary. Soul weary. She’d driven straight from Houston without sleep. She didn’t even know what day it was. “Why is it called the California Suite?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, holding out a hand to Maggie for the key as he sensed victory. “Let me show it to you.”

  She had no extra clothes or shoes or cell phone or toiletries. The events of the past few days blurred into a dusty gray haze. Brent McCaffey was speaking as he opened the door to the suite but the words were indistinguishable to Denise. She answered him but knew not what she said.

  Fifteen minutes after leaving her alone, McCaffey knocked on the door again. Denise could barely find the energy to slide off the chain lock, then was pleased and touched to realize he’d brought her several votive candles from the gift shop. She’d made her wishes known, apparently, and McCaffey had appointed himself her personal gofer.

  The bath was glorious. Hot and seductive and surrounded by flickering light that danced shadows on her sleek, wet skin. Denise’s mind was numb. Too filled with torment to be anything but a gauzy mist right now.