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Her skin was warm and soft, a perfect complement to the deep tan that naturally heightened the unusual shade of her eyes. And the way the sun shimmered off those long tresses of pale blond hair—he swallowed as he reluctantly dropped her hand.
“Do you have a name?” she asked, a teasing look in her eyes.
The fraction of a second it took him to recall his own name seemed to amuse her all the more.
“Wesley Porter,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks warm slightly as he ushered her inside the empty restaurant.
His palms were actually moist by the time they reached the bar, where his books were stacked high next to a mug of long-forgotten coffee.
“We weren’t expecting you until this afternoon,” he said.
Sliding onto one of the bar stools, Wesley battled to keep his eyes off the incredibly shapely legs peeking out from beneath her skirt.
“Spur-of-the-moment,” she explained. “When I saw the place, I just couldn’t resist taking a sneak peek.”
He felt one of his brows arch high on his forehead. “Do you always act on your impulses?”
She smiled again. “Is that a question? Or a really bad come-on line?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, studying the backs of his hands. “I guess it’s all this scholarly pursuit. I tend to ask questions a lot.”
“A bar-owning student?” Destiny asked after glancing at his textbooks.
“My mother owns the place. I’m just helping out while I study for my boards.”
“Rose,” she said, nodding. “David’s mentioned her.”
“David?”
“My manager,” she said as she boldly slid off the stool, went behind the bar and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Wes wasn’t sure what bothered him more, the fact that she seemed so at home in a strange environment, or that he’d been so enthralled with her legs that he hadn’t even thought to offer her the most basic of hospitalities.
“This is great,” she said, hugging the mug in both hands. “I should have been entitled to a refund from the airlines for that stuff they foisted off on Gina and me this morning.”
“Gina?”
“My personal assistant,” she said as she came back and took the seat next to his. He smelled the faint scent of her perfume, and the words “utterly feminine” floated through his thoughts as he watched her felinelike movements. No wonder she was a popular performer, he thought. As far as he was concerned, she didn’t have to tell the first joke. He’d probably pay good money just to watch her walk down the street.
“So,” she began with a wicked light in her violet eyes, “do you just ask questions, or do you occasionally talk all on your own?”
“Depends,” he returned, feeling the corners of his mouth respond to her ever-present smile. “I guess I’ve had my nose in these books for so long that I’m sort of out of practice.”
“You?” she scoffed.
His head fell slightly to one side and he regarded her for a protracted second. “Meaning?”
“Back up,” Destiny answered. “What exactly are you studying for?”
“Psychiatric boards.”
“You’re a shrink?”
“In training.”
“Lord,” she mumbled just before bringing the mug to her bow-shaped lips.
“I’ll take that to mean you aren’t fond of my profession?”
Her initial response was a small shrug of her shoulders. “Not my call,” she told him. “I just think there’s something perverse about delving into people’s private lives.”
He smiled at her. “This from a woman whose private life manages to grace the tabloids on occasion?”
“Point,” she conceded. “You read the tabloids?”
“Only when I’m standing in the checkout line at the store.”
“That’s what everybody says. Except that those rags have higher circulation numbers than the New York Times.”
A shrink, she thought to herself. Too bad. The first nice-looking doctor she ever meets turns out to be a psychiatrist. Heaven knew the very last thing she needed in her life was analysis.
Whoa! her brain screamed. This man wasn’t exactly “in her life.”
“Can I see the rest of the place?” she asked, wondering why she felt such an overwhelming sense of regret. It hardly made sense. She would be in Charleston all of six weeks. Then, hopefully, she’d be off to Los Angeles and her own television show.
“Sure thing,” Wesley answered, reaching into the front pocket of his jeans and producing a ring full of keys. “Follow me.”
Hopping off her stool and depositing her empty mug on the polished bar, Destiny silently admired the physique of the man ahead of her. His shoulders were broad beneath the preppy polo shirt. His waist and hips were trim, though he didn’t impress her as the type to spend hours working out. He did, however, impress her as one heck of a sexy man.
With the exception of David, her world was filled with overweight, cigar-chewing club owners. This dark-haired intellectual man, with bedroom blue eyes hidden behind tortoiseshell glasses, was refreshing. He had jump-started her hormones in ways she had long ago suppressed.
Wesley led her through an immaculately clean kitchen and out the back door. The aroma of wisteria competed with the less-than-pleasant odors coming from the Dumpster.
“It’s very deceptive from the street,” she said, quickening her step to keep pace with his long strides.
“Charleston Single Houses were built on these long, narrow lots in order to capture the breeze coming off the water. Think of it as eighteenth-century air-conditioning.”
“Good line.” She laughed. “Can I steal it for my routine?”
“Absolutely.”
Following him along the stone path, Destiny was immediately impressed by the condition of the long, rectangular sign hanging over the double doors. She was also vainly impressed by the large photograph of herself plastered above the door. After all this time, the words Appearing Nightly still gave Destiny a thrill.
The thrill faded quickly when she caught sight of the large box near the front door.
“Not again,” she groaned.
“Not again what?” Wesley asked her, genuine concern in his deep voice.
“I hope you have a girlfriend, Dr. Porter,” she said, trying to keep her tone light.
“Why?”
“Because,” she began as they reached the package covered by bright green floral wrap, “she’ll think you’re wonderful. But if I were you, I’d lose the card first.”
Wesley had begun to reach inside the paper when Destiny automatically grabbed for his hand. His skin was heated beneath her palm, momentarily distracting her.
“Don’t bother,” she said.
But apparently this man had a mind of his own. Destiny’s hand fell away as he gently removed the envelope and pulled the card from inside.
His brows drew together as he read what she knew was the neatly typed message: SOME DIE LAUGHING.
Chapter Two
“What the hell does this mean?” Wesley demanded, waving the small card in his hand.
“It means I have an admirer with an even sicker sense of humor than my own,” she answered, trying to make light of the situation. “If I ever find out who has been sending these to me, I’ll refer them to you for professional help.”
It was obvious from the ominous expression in his blue eyes that Dr. Porter shared Gina’s concern over the succession of notes.
“How long has this been going on?”
Averting her eyes from the potted blossoms, Destiny answered, “About three months.”
“Have you contacted the authorities?”
She met his gaze. “Do you have any idea how many cities I’ve been in during that time?”
Wesley shook his head.
“My manager did hire a private detective,” she began, unable to keep the disgust out of her voice. “He proved himself completely inept, to the point of not even bothering to show up last night. Instead, I received a crumpled bill from his office, along with a poorly typed memo indicating that Greg Miller, private investigator, hadn’t uncovered squat.”
“Then maybe you should hire someone here.”
“And waste more money?” she scoffed. “No, thanks. I’m sure whoever is sending these things will eventually get the hint. Or,” she added as she leaned closer, “the florists will run out of gardenias, and he’ll be out of luck.”
“This note doesn’t give me the impression that we’re dealing with an admirer,” Wesley told her. “It’s too threatening. Too indicative that he is not overly fond of you.”
Destiny rolled her eyes. “Fond?” she repeated with a throaty laugh. “Live dangerously, Dr. Porter. This bozo obviously hates me. But that’s okay, I hate gardenias. So I guess he and I are running about even.”
She watched as deep lines appeared at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
“Lighten up, Doctor. I’m not saying I’m thrilled by his persistence, but he’s hardly overtly threatening. He hasn’t come near me.”
“Why are you so convinced it’s a man?”
“Gina’s picked him out of the audience. Wait until tomorrow night. If he comes, which he always does, I’ll have Gina point him out to you.”
“Did your assistant have a vision, or is there something in particular about this man that makes you believe he’s your morbid admirer?”
“Can we get out of the sun?” she asked, not really interested in discussing the matter any further. Lord knew, it was a topic both Gina and David had beaten into the ground during the past several months.
“Sorry,” she heard him mumble as he slipped a key into the ornate lock and opened the door.
It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior, even after he’d flipped a switch to turn on dim, period chandeliers.
“Wow,” she said as she admired the long, rectangular room. Tables were arranged with wide aisles leading up to a small, but certainly sufficient, stage. The lighting she saw at the base of the stage was fine upon inspection. All in all, The Rose Tattoo promised to be a fairly decent engagement. “When David told me I’d be playing in an outbuilding, I sure wasn’t expecting anything like this.”
“That’s because my oldest boy and his wife did the renovations.”
Destiny twirled around at the sound of the female voice echoing through the room. A woman she placed somewhere in her early fifties sashayed toward them. Her outfit was outrageous—animal-print, skintight pants, a form-fitting blouse and bleached hair that nearly touched the ceiling. Garish clothing aside, Destiny was drawn to the woman’s warm, welcoming smile.
“I’m Rose Porter,” she said, extending her hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
She turned to Wesley and said, “I saw the flowers outside. Your idea?”
Wesley shook his head. “I’m afraid they came with Miss Talbott,” he answered dryly.
“Maybe we should make it a practice to send all our performers a little something,” Rose said thoughtfully. “Maybe an Elvis tape.”
Destiny watched as Wesley tried to hide a cringe behind square-tipped fingers. “We’ll think about it.”
“Anything you need,” Rose began, “just let us know.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Destiny answered. Especially if I get to catch the occasional glimpse of Dr. Porter while I’m here.
* * *
“I‘VE CALLED THE STATION house,” Gina was saying, her words running together in an agitated string.
Destiny had barely time to deposit her purse on the rattan sofa before her friend had launched into a long, involved explanation for her failure to show up at The Rose Tattoo. Destiny had stayed through dinner, at Rose’s insistence. Unfortunately, Dr. Porter had disappeared before the lunch crush.
“I can call Western Union and make an immediate cash transfer. I think they said five hundred dollars for the bond.”
“Don’t bother,” Destiny said with a sad sigh.
Gina’s faced wrinkled in astonishment. “What do you mean?”
“He can spend the night in jail. God knows he’s done it often enough before.”
She walked over to the refrigerator and rummaged around until she found a diet soda, then lifted one of the leaded glasses from a neatly arranged tray. Each ice cube made a pleasant sound as she dropped it into the glass. She retrieved the bottle of soda and poured herself a generous portion.
Gina stood a few feet away, her hands resting on her nonexistent hips. Destiny never ceased to be amazed by the slenderness of the woman. She often remarked that even during the throes of PMS, Gina never managed to balloon above a size three. The fact that she was five-eight in her stocking feet mattered little, or that she still carried herself like the famous cover model she had once been.
“C’mon Destiny, Carl’s your father. And your mother was really adamant when she called.”
