Butterfly Tattoo (5 page)

So it’s a liquidity issue, not so much a bottom-line one, and that means I need to get that paycheck into the bank pronto. That’s what I tell myself, not that being alone scares the living shit out of me, or that I’d rather go tinker with something at my job than perform an electrician’s task back home. Not that the empty sounds of my own home, the way it groans and settles when no one else is around, spook the hell out of me these days.

No, it’s not any of that, I think, rumbling through the famed archway of my workplace, searching for a few hours of peace.

Being the lowly electrical staff member that I am, I’m supposed to park off studio premises in the massive parking deck. But I risk the illegality of swiping a reserved producer’s spot since it’s Saturday and I’m not here to stay. Still, I’d rather avoid pointless fines, so I give the parking-lot perimeter a cautious scan, and begin walking briskly toward the soundstage that I call home. I’m lost in thought, outlining plans for domestic progress back at the house, when something makes me look to the far right, across Chaplin Park. There’s a woman walking alone, golden ponytail swinging as she moves. Something about that single detail strikes me as graceful, beautiful.

I have to watch her move across the brightly lit lawn. She’s small with a killer figure, this woman, wearing loose khakis that can’t hide the curves. The clingy white T-shirt outlines a well-muscled body, and I know she may be delicate, but she’s not fragile. Tough and strong, that’s what she looks to be, with loads of power packed into that slender figure.

I keep walking behind her, slow, and feel guilty for the way I’m tracking her movements. I mean, so far stalking hasn’t appeared on my resume of failings, so I wouldn’t want to start now. Maybe I’m just puzzled to feel this kind of attraction at all, especially toward a woman. It’s been such a long damn time since my mind or body even went that way. Still, my fingers itch a little with the urge to touch that ponytail, imagining how silky it’d feel if I ran my fingers through it. My body itches a little, too, and I realize it’s not only her
hair
I’m dreaming of touching now.

Funny, but the thing I keep noticing is how small she is compared to me. Maybe because it’s been so many years since I’ve held anyone in my arms who didn’t actually stand taller than me. And maybe because it’s been just as many years since I made love to any woman at all.

When she darts up the narrow steps leading to her office building I let loose a quiet groan because I know exactly who that is, half-skipping her way up to the door, ponytail swinging down her back. It’s Rebecca O’Neill. And standing there, watching her open the door, I realize I’m in serious, deep, painful shit.

I sure hope Alex is watching over me now, because I may need all the help I can get.

Chapter Three: Rebecca

Stepping into the dark hallway of my building, I’m startled by the unusual Saturday silence. There’s an industrial hum from the computers and the copy machine, but otherwise it’s eerily peaceful. I’m used to endless chatter from the producers’ offices, banter from Trevor and the other assistants as they work the phones. Dead silence in this place is unfamiliar to me, and that probably explains the tight fear coiling suddenly around my heart.

Except this nagging anxiety began on the walk over from my car, when I had the definite sensation of being watched. Correction: of being
followed
. I spent far too long in my survivor support group not
to listen to my instincts, even if the warning signals strike a false note. All fear cues must be acknowledged, because if they aren’t, it could mean my life. I should have listened to them three years ago. If I had, then things might be very different today.

There’s the loud, comforting click of the lock as it fastens into place, and for a moment I stand at the door, practically pressing my nose against the glass pane so I can see the far corner of the building. Nothing’s out there—at least nobody threatening that I can see—only a few cars and a golf cart speeding past with a maintenance man behind the wheel. All seems safe, so after a tense moment I release the breath I’ve been holding inside my chest.

Still, the quiet here unsettles me, so I stride right to Trevor’s desk, positioned outside my own office door, because that’s where the manuscript I’ve come looking for should be. I turn on his lamp, thumbing through the orderly stack of envelopes in the center of his desk. These are our most recent submissions, and it only takes a moment to spot the one I’m looking for. Eagerly, I pull it from the pile—in fact, a bit
too
eagerly, because another packet dislodges and careens right to the floor. It must have been hidden on the bottom of the stack—I never saw the dang thing coming. Neither did my poor big toe, which smarts so painfully that I let loose with a few choice expletives, wiggling it inside my strappy sandal.

That’s when I spot the familiar logo of The Bourne Agency, and it’s no wonder I’m cursing. They’re a swanky London firm that boasts some of the U.K.’s best authors, including my
least
favorite English author ever, Julian Kingsley. Frankly, I don’t care if he’s the second coming of Shakespeare, I’ll never like him. Not considering how many times he’s hurt my best friend. The very same best friend who saved my life three years ago, so my protective loyalty toward him runs pretty darn deep.

The envelope’s already been opened, with a log number printed on the outside in Trevor’s proper handwriting.
So he’s already handled the materials.
Fresh warning bells sound in my head, this time of a different variety. They’re of the “my-friend-is-hiding-something-massive” kind, I think, tugging a thin sheaf of paper from within the packet’s confines. Imagine my surprise when I find a proposal emblazoned with none other than Julian Kingsley’s cocky-sounding name.

I stare at the cover sheet for twenty, maybe thirty seconds in disbelief. Finally, I reach for the phone, ready to call Trevor and issue stern lectures about the danger of flirting with an ex-boyfriend’s latest book. Only I think better of it, wondering if I shouldn’t wait and see what he’s up to. After all, Julian is Trevor’s Achilles heel, the one wound that never fully mends. Something tells me that confronting him head-on about this newfound secret isn’t such a good idea. There must be a reason he didn’t mention Julian’s proposal. Probably because he knows just how worried any of his communications with his former lover always leave me.

Like last summer when I found out they’d been e-mailing sporadically for a few months. Trevor and I got into a screaming match over it, and I wound up crying in the middle of the bar where we’d set up for the night. I knew their past and had reason to be afraid.

“Sweet girl, sweet girl,” Trevor shushed me, pulling me into his arms protectively. I don’t think any man has ever hated to see me cry like he does. “I’m not doing anything with Julian except trading a few e-mails.”

“I don’t want him to hurt you anymore,” I blubbered loudly, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Not again.”

“He won’t, all right?” He slipped a soft handkerchief into my hand. “He’s sober now, and so far, behaving like a perfect gentleman.”

“But you might trust him again,” I wailed plaintively, burying my face against his strong shoulder. I was tipsy enough to be oblivious to anyone else, especially those who might be eavesdropping on our conversation. Thank God we were off in Sherman Oaks, away from our usual gossipy Hollywood crowd. “What if you get back together with him?”

“I won’t do,” he reassured me firmly. “Rebecca, dear, I won’t do.”

That was last summer, and sitting in the dark now, staring at this mint proposal in my hand—one reported in publishing trades only a few days ago—I can’t help but feel the hackles of my old suspicions rising once again. Trevor wouldn’t lie to me, not him of all people. Would he?

***

I despise Julian Kingsley. With the fire of ten blazing furnaces, I truly hate the guy. I’m sitting at my desk, reading the last of his ten-page story synopsis, and it infuriates me that he’s this talented. I contemplate phoning Trevor and owning up to my small act of espionage, admitting that his ex-boyfriend is brilliant. But I can’t shake the fact that he kept this from me, and for some reason I want to play along for a bit. See if he’ll confess that he pulled the materials in-house; see if he passes them to another creative executive here. To Ed Bardock himself, maybe, without giving me a look. What will Trevor do, that is my question.

I can’t stand distrusting him like this; he’s my rock, the one person besides my mother and father who I would trust with my life. It’s like this tiny fissure of suspicion has opened between us, and I already feel it trying to swallow our friendship whole.

But the proposal
is
truly amazing, and I’m actually toying with pursuing the project. Which could theoretically put Julian stateside, right here in Los Angeles, and that scares me on principle. No, I have to be truthful with Trevor, tell him about finding the proposal on his desk, so I reach for my phone receiver.

That’s when a loud banging sound jars me right out of my seat. For a moment I do nothing, remembering the earlier sensation of someone following me. My heart thunders, causing my chest to rise in quick panting breaths of fear. Nobody should be knocking on the bungalow door on a Saturday. Nobody.

Carefully, I step away from my desk and into the hallway, and glimpse a large stranger there at the door. He’s leaning close, shielding his eyes to look inside; I swallow hard to calm the fear, walking toward the intercom with cautious determination.

“Yes?” I say into the speaker, and the man steps back. He sees me and gives an uncertain wave, then hits the exterior intercom button. I don’t recognize him, and that he looks a little rough and slouchy only unsettles me all the more.

“Ms. O’Neill?”

“Yes?” I repeat, more firmly this time.
Who is this man? How does he know me?

“Um, it’s Michael Warner.” He sounds vaguely apologetic as he removes a baseball cap and mops his brow. “Sorry to bother you.” That’s when I recognize him as the electrician from yesterday. I sigh in relief, and open the door a crack, though not all the way. Although he’s not a stranger, I’m still jumpy from the adrenaline rush.

“Sorry, I didn’t really think about how much of an intrusion this might be.” He gives me a slight smile. God, he may be slouchy today, but he’s even more beautiful in the shocking daylight, especially his eyes, which are an unusual golden brown color. He has the kind of intense gaze that penetrates you on the molecular level, and I blink beneath it.

“No problem.” I swallow hard. “What’s up?”

“Just wondering if the power is working okay? Any more trouble?” Now this seems like a thinly veiled excuse to me. All the feelings from yesterday, the sense that some kind of connection was forming between us, well it all comes rushing back, as I lean my head sideways against the doorframe. Maybe that way he won’t notice the scars so much.

“You know, it’s going great,” I answer brightly, forcing myself
not
to smile at him. Instead I hope he’ll see enthusiasm flickering in my eyes, even as I wrap my arms around myself protectively.

“You mind?” He gestures over my shoulder, toward the interior of the building. “You know, if I come in? Just for a second.”

Without meaning to, I stare back at him. Maybe because I’m surprised at how direct he’s being, or even more likely because I’m getting a really strange vibe from him. Like he’s interested in me, but not quite sure how to go about it. I wish I’d gotten a clearer answer about his marital status from Andrea yesterday. As sexy as he is, I’m not down with seeing a married man, and if he
is
married, I’m feeling way too much attraction flickering between us.

“Ms. O’Neill?” The brown eyes narrow a bit, as uncertainty flashes across his face.

“Sure, sure, come on in,” I rush to say, opening the door wide. “Where’s my southern hospitality when I need it most?”

“Back in Georgia?” he says, shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets as I fasten the lock back in place.

“Let’s hope not.” I break into a true smile, and I feel the way the muscles pull at the corners of my mouth. God, why does he light me up this way? And he gives me such a glorious smile in return, one that fills his whole face.

“Sorry for being a little cautious,” I say in embarrassment. “It kind of weirds me out being here alone on the weekends, that’s all. It’s creepy quiet.”

“You didn’t recognize me?” He seems genuinely surprised, and I don’t want to admit that he looks a little more ragged than I pictured him being, wearing old jeans and a faded Harley Davidson shirt. Still, he’s undeniably handsome, with those keen brown eyes that transmit so much energy.

“Well, it was dark yesterday, you know.” I lead him into my office.

His voice gets softer, fuller. “But I recognized
you
.” I don’t know how to respond to that, so I nod, my ponytail bobbing rhythmically. I feel him behind me, his presence; am aware of his body and how tall he is, as he shadows me all the way into my office.

“Please, sit down.” I make my way to the other side of my desk. Maybe if I stick to my usual professional role, I can regain my composure here. I run a smoothing palm down the front of my khakis as I primly take my seat. Then, folding my hands in front of me, sitting very upright, I meet his magnetic, golden-eyed gaze. Oh, yes, he’s too beautiful for me—by many long miles. Plus, he’s got to be married.

Surreptitiously, I glance at his hand, but it’s obscured behind the stack of manuscripts on my desk. Okay, no answer to the Big Question yet.

“So.” I clear my throat. “What’re you doing here on a Saturday? Don’t tell me you’re this dedicated to keeping my lights on.” As soon as the double entendre is out of my mouth, I regret its accidental escape. Thank God Michael doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Oh,” is all he says, like he hadn’t thought about it before now. “Just forgot my paycheck, that’s all.”

He reaches absently for a paperweight on the corner of my desk, moving it from hand to hand, which is when I begin to wonder precisely why he’s come to visit me. He looks down at the domed glass, studying the picture within. “Your family?”

I wince because it’s an old picture of me, one that predates my attack. No scars, just me—as beautiful, I suppose, as I once used to be. “Yeah, me and my parents.”

He squints down at the magnified image, studying it intently. I notice the way the edges of his eyes crinkle into smile lines.

“Horse farm?” He turns the picture toward me, although I know the image by heart.

“I was raised on one, yes.” I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to reveal anything personal—at least not anything more than he’s already gotten out of me. Certainly not that my retired parents live just a few miles away, over in Santa Monica, or that they came here three years ago to nurse me back from the brink.

He returns my paperweight to my desk guiltily, giving it a reassuring pat. Again, I wonder precisely why Michael Warner has come to see me, why he keeps fidgeting this way. I try a new tack. “Andrea is a precious girl. We had a really good time yesterday.”

“That’s what I heard. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you did.”

“It was nothing.”

He looks intensely at me. “No, that’s not true. It was really important to her.” His voice grows quieter. “And me.”

“Well, your stepdaughter was an angel.”

“My stepdaughter,” he repeats, frowning.

“Well isn’t she? That’s what she told me.”

His whole expression darkens like a storm cloud. “Actually Andrea’s why I wanted to see you today. Don’t know how to ask this, so I’ll just do it.” Those words always seem to pave the way for bad news, and I tense immediately. “Did Andie mention her scar?”

I relax again, relieved to know what’s on his mind. “A little, yeah.”

“What about the accident? Did she talk any about that?”

I shake my head no, and it hurts me the way his face kind of falls. “Oh, okay.” He nods thoughtfully, the thick dark brows knitting together into a melancholy scowl. “I had hoped maybe so.”

“What happened to her?”

His gaze tracks back to me. “She was in a bad car accident. Something she doesn’t talk about much,” he admits. “Hasn’t talked to anyone about it, honestly. It was pretty traumatic.”

“I see.” I’m starting to understand now. I’m also starting to understand why it was so hard for him to come to me, the awkwardness in his approach. Without even trying, I apparently did what nobody else has been able to do. “You wanted to know what she said to me.”

“That’s right, Ms. O’Neill.”

“Rebecca.”

I see him studying my scars: it’s in the slight, unobtrusive way the eyes shift sideways, then dart back again. I see it every day, especially around here. Nobody has the courage to ask, yet they all wonder what happened to leave me looking this way.