Drop Dead Gorgeous (4 page)

They were alone, surrounded by darkness. Fool! she charged herself. Don’t panic!

A deep male voice startled her. “Hey, are you all right? Damn, lady, what’s the rush, where’s the fire?”

The man was both honestly concerned—and irritated. Rightly so, she decided. His grip on her was very firm and steadying. He hadn’t
accosted her; she had plowed into him. Maternal instinct had sent her running like a maniac.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. My fault. I’m really sorry.” He was still holding her. “Excuse me. My son—never mind, I’m sorry, if you’ll just excuse me, I—”

She broke off, feeling herself break into a cold sweat. She knew him. Shock made her shake. She wondered why her reflexes had taken so long to warn her that she recognized his voice. It had changed. A little. Not much.

Naturally, the brief blackout chose that moment to come to an end. The lights in Coconut Grove s
uddenly came back on—
brilliantly so.

Yes, it was him.

He had changed.

Of course he had changed. She hadn’t seen him in nearly fifteen years.

A little. Not much. His shoulders had broadened; his physique had filled out. His dark hair was a little longer, and the character lines on his face were definitely etched in more deeply. He was tall, lithe, well muscled, ruggedly attractive. All the promise in the boy had been fulfilled in the man.

The darkness, the impact, had blinded her at first. And still, for some reason she didn’t trust her eyes. He had gone away. Fifteen years ago. She hadn’t known that he had come back. No one had warned her, no one had told her.

“Sean?” she said, sounding as if she were
strangling over the name. She cleared her throat. “Sean?”

“Lori…
”

He was taken every bit as much by surprise. His eyes were naked, startled. Alive with dark emotion.

Then they narrowed.

And his husky, masculine voice grew harsh. “What the hell are you doing back here?” Startled by the hostility in his voice, she stared at him mutely, aware that he honestly seemed more surprised to see her than even she was to see him. His eyes were so dark in the shadows that they appeared black rather than blue, ebony hued with anger. His hands were still gripping her shoulders, and his fingers were tense, biting into her flesh. “I asked you what the hell you were doing back here?”

“I—”

“Ah, hell! Visiting the family?
Now?”

She realized later that she should have told him then and there to go to hell—her whereabouts were none of his concern. But she was still so disarmed simply to see him, and so taken aback by his animosity, that she snapped out a reply instead. “I’m not visiting. I’ve moved back.”

“Moved back!” he exclaimed. The words were close to a roar. “Moved back—
now
? Oh, God—that’s rich. That’s just—that’s just fucking perfect!”

He stared at her, realized he was holding her, and not gently. He released her abruptly.

“Sorry,” he said coolly, stepping back. She watched his striking features as he fought for control and gained it. His face was completely impassive as he stared at her then. “Sorry,” he repeated.

He stepped around her, as if she were a total stranger he had just bumped into, and his long strides quickly took him away from her, down the street, and into the crowd.

3

S
ean. Oh, great. Just what she needed.

She was shaking! As if fifteen years hadn’t gone by. As if she hadn’t gotten herself a life.

Get a grip! she warned herself.

But she was still standing there. Just standing. And despite herself, she kept standing there, as a wave of memory that seemed as fresh as the night breeze swept over her.

She had met him way back in junior high. He’d walked into her life when she’d been just thirteen, and she hadn’t forgotten him since. Thirteen. She’d been a year younger than Brendan when she’d met Sean, a tou
gh age. She’d already been five-
eight, slim—but maturing. She’d had breasts. Most of the boys in school then were gawky, pimplefaced, and squeaky-voiced. Trying to appear mature but not quite there. Her first day of eighth
grade, a group of boys had been
torturing her. Ricky Garcia and Ted Neeson had been the worst.

“Hey, new girl, want to come to a meeting of our four Fs club?”

“Four Fs—what’s that?” she’d naively asked. Ricky had looked at Ted. He’d moved closer to her. “Find ’em, feel ’em, fuck ’em, and forget ’em!” he’d told her, bursting into gales of laughter.

At the time his use of the four-letter word had stunned her. Her cheeks had gone crimson. She’d been absolutely humiliated. “Come on, wanna play?” Ted had urged. They were both pressing her closer and closer to the lockers, and she didn’t want to be scared, unnerved by these creeps. Jan Hunt, in second period, had told her that Ricky and Ted were popular guys, in the right crowd. Now they were doing this to her, and if she freaked out, she’d be the laughingstock of the school for the rest of her life. She was trying to say something smart and strong, but no words would come to her lips. Then Sean arrived.

He was tall and lanky, dark hair parted at the side, a little shaggy, falling over one eye. He stepped right up to Ricky, caught hold of his shirt at the shoulder, and pulled him firmly away from Lori. “Give the girl a break, you asses. She’s new here—she’ll think we’re all a bunch of delinquents.”

“Ah, come on, Sean, we’re just trying to see if she has a sense of humor.”

“She’s laughing on the inside. Now, leave her the hell alone. Get going, both of you.” And they did. They turned around like two chastised puppies and slunk away down the
hall. “They’re really not so bad. They’re just jerks at times,” Sean told her, smiling ruefully. And at that moment, that precise moment, she’d fallen in love. He had a little dimple in his chin. His eyes were a devastating deep blue.

His voice had already changed—no squeaking out of him.

“Thanks,” she told him.

He walked her home.

And he’d made her laugh, and he’d been devastatingly g
ood-looking to a thirteen-year-
old girl, but beyond that, she had just
liked
him, his casual, natural ability to be warm, decent, friendly, funny
…
strong on the inside.

Her parents had hated him. Not
personally
, of course. But they’d said right away that he just wasn’t the right kind of kid for her to be hanging around with. He was the wrong-side-of-the-tracks kind of a kid, even if there were no “tracks” dividing them. Her parents had simply rejected him as no good, even before the awful day at the rock pit.

Maybe, in a way, they’d all been destroyed that day. No matter what games they were playing at life now.

Life and death. Ellie was dead now as well.

But Sean was here. And after all these years she’d never really gotten him out of her heart. Her soul. No, her mind. God, no, her conscience. He’d always been there in the deep, dark corners where she knew she’d been wrong, a coward—where she hadn’t tried hard enough, done enough, protested enough
…

Told the whole truth
…

“Mom?”

Lori started, realizing at last that she’d been just standing on the sidewalk like a zombie. Frozen. Embarrassingly gaping. For how long?

Long enough. Brendan—the precious child whom she’d all but forgotten—was standing on the sidewalk in front
of
her, Tina at his side. The two had
left
the bookstore to come looking for her.
She
gave herself a mental shake.

“Are you all right, Mom? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost or something,” Brendan said.

She shook her head. She tried to smile. Her teeth felt brittle, her smile even more so. Ghost. Yeah, a ghost from the past. Haunting her.

“No, no
…
” she began and broke off. “Sorry, kids. The blackout scared me. Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Tina assured her, smiling patiently.

“Good
…
good. Did you two get your books?”

“Mom, that blackout was no big deal, and the bookstore dealt with it just fine. They must have some kind of emergency system because it was only dark in the store for a half a second. Oh—and yeah!” Brendan said enthusiastically. “We both got books. Tina has a friend who was holding
signed
Michael Shaynes for us, first printing. Isn’t it great, look!”

She looked, reminding herself that she was a parent, supposedly a good parent, and she
needed to show interest in something that was so important to her son. She didn’t really see the cover, or the title, but she nodded, still smiling stupidly, trying to share Brendan’s pleasure with his acquisition. Then Brendan turned the book over, and she went into shock all over again. The author’s picture was on the back of the book.

It was him.
Him.

Michael Shayne was Sean Black. Or Sean Black was Michael Shayne. Jesus.

“Mom?” Brendan said worriedly.

“You’re awfully white, Mrs. Corcoran,” Tina murmured, and she glanced at Brendan. “Are you sick? I can beep my mom—”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Lori said. “Fine!” she added cheerfully. “Let me get you two home. It’s late. And, Tina, you’ve got a busy day
coming up, huh? Cheerleading…
school, all that stuff. Come on.”

She turned and headed for the parking garage, aware that the kids were staring at one another, wondering about her mental health.

She was glad she didn’t have far to go. Jan’s house was in the Gables as well, so it was easy to drop Tina off. Lori continued to feel as if she’d been doused with a pail of numbing ice water as she watched her son walk Tina to her door. Tina went inside, waved, and then locked up.

Lori felt Brendan watching her as they drove. And once they got home, Brendan hovered around her, perplexed, convinced that something was wrong, no matter how
she protested. She finally convinced him that she was just overly tired, and that he needed to get some sleep as well.

She knew her son.
He
wasn’t convinced. He went to
bed,
but
he
went to
bed
worried.

Well, what
had she expected?
She’d nearly passed out
cold when she’d seen
the new book by
Michael Shayne and realized
that her son’s
favorite author was really
Sean Black.

Lori
walked
into the coolness of the tiled kitchen.
She
stood still for a moment, then walked to the refrigerator. Milk, orange juice, soda. And thank God. A bottle of chablis— Jan’s welcoming gift.

She got a water glass from a cabinet and filled it with the white wine, slammed the refrigerator door shut, and walked back to the living room. She pressed the cold glass to her forehead.

She should be glad. He’d been maligned, abused, and all but nailed to a cross. He deserved success.

But he was here. Who in God’s name would have imagined he might ever come back here?

Who in God’s name would have ever thought that he’d become a writer under the pseudonym of Michael Shayne? Or that the city of Miami would embrace him with such love and enthusiasm. But then, Miami had often been described as a whore of a city, falling in love with any entertainer, sports figure, or personality that happened to pass through.

Sean Black.

She hadn’t seen him in nearly fifteen years.

Fifteen years!
What difference could any of this make to her now?

It made a difference because she’d never been able to forget. All of their lives had been changed forever.

She’d been seventeen that day
…

God help her; she could remember it just as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

She stood up, swallowing down her wine. She walked back into the kitchen, poured herself another glass, and swallowed it down like water. Wine would help her sleep, and she was going to sleep, and sleep well.

You won’t think about him, she told herself. You won’t, you won’t, you won’t
…

So determined, she started up the stairs. Then she remembered that Ellie had been murdered, and that some kind of a psycho was running around the city.

Lots of psychos were probably running around the city. It was a big place.

But she needed to forget Sean and be a responsible adult. Make sure that her new home was secure. She resolutely checked her doors and windows, went upstairs, changed into a tailored cotton nightgown, and lay down.

Poor Ellie.

Sean
…

She could remember Ellie’s face that day at the rock pit when Mandy
…

When Mandy had died.

When Mandy had been murdered.

Now Ellie was dead, too. Murdered.

And Sean was back in town
…

Jesus, no, dear God, what was she thinking?

No, Sean wasn’t responsible.

Go to sleep!
she raged silently to herself.
Forget it, don’t think, don’t dream.

And for God’s sake
…

Don’t remember.

S
ean sat
in his hotel room,
staring blankly at the
television. The news reporter
was rehashing
the
information about Eleanor Metz.

Hell. Ellie was dead. Even though the pretty young reporter was far more dramatic than a newswoman should be, her description of the death Ellie had faced didn’t begin to come up to the horror he’d realized seeing the body. He hadn’t seen Ellie in fifteen years, but time had eroded painfully for him as he had stood there, seeing her as she lay naked, cold, brutalized. He shuddered, stared at the glass of scotch in his hands, and swallowed down two inches of the stuff. Then a fearful, creeping feeling came over him, and he remembered why he’d poured the drink in the first place. Memories. Ellie made him think of Mandy.

And Lori Kelly. Corcoran. She’d married; his brother had told him about it years back, but the husband had died long ago as well, and she’d been living in New York with her little boy. And he’d thought, good for her, God bless her! With so many assholes in the world, there had also been a few Lori Kellys. She’d been a cherished friend.

Except that for some reason after that day at the rock pit, his bitterness against her had been, in a way, greater than that he’d felt toward the others. The assholes were just assholes. Lori should have
…

Should have what?

She’d testified at his trial. Soft-spoken, determined. She’d been loyal, trying to defend his character. But the lawyer from the D.A.’s office had grilled her as if she were on trial, and she hadn’t been able to lie on the stand. She had admitted that Mandy had been acting wildly and that it would have been natural if he’d been in a jealous rage. When it had been over, her parents had all but jerked her away from any contact with him as if he were diseased—or as if they were afraid that he was a homicidal maniac and would make her pay for her words—and he hadn’t spoken with her since.

So long ago now. So fucking long ago.

She didn’t look any different. Tall, slim, still classically beautiful with her huge hazel eyes and the long reddish blond hair that still waved down her back. She had a way about her, a way of listening, or responding, or really hearing, of looking beyond the obvious, of seeing
…
even what he hadn’t wanted seen. She’d always been his friend, since that first day. Even if she’d dated ye olde preppy boyfriend of yacht club status, while Sean had sown wild oats with Mandy. He found himself thinking of the cartoon character Jessica Rabbit. Mandy hadn’t been bad; she’d just drawn herself that way. She’d wanted so
much, and she’d been in such a hurry to get it—a Madonna ahead of her time. He’d cared about Mandy, but they never would have made it. And he hadn’t been angry with her— things between them had died long before Mandy had lost her life that day.

Mandy had needed a ladder, a guy to crawl up. She wanted everything the world had to offer, and she didn’t care who she teased or slept with to get it.