Читать книгу: «Obsession»

Obsession

Lisa Jackson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright

Prologue

Whispering Hills Hospital

The patient rocked slowly back and forth in his chair. His eyes, deep-set and pale blue, stared at the television screen, and though he didn’t speak, his lips moved, as if he were trying to say something to the woman on the small color screen, the cohost of West Coast Morning.

Kaylie, her name was. He had a picture of her. The one they hadn’t found. The one the orderlies had overlooked. It was old and faded, the slickness nearly worn off, but every night he stared at that picture and pretended she was there, with him, in his hospital bed.

She was so beautiful. Her long blond hair shimmered in soft curls around her face, and her eyes were green-blue—like the ocean. He’d seen her once, touched her, felt her quiver against him.

He sucked in his breath at the familiar thought. He could almost smell her perfume.

“Hey! Lee, ol’ buddy. How about some sound?” The orderly, the tall lanky one called Rick, walked to the television and fiddled with the controls. The volume roared, and the singsong jingle for cereal blared in a deafening roar to the patient’s ears.

“Noooo!” the patient cried, clapping his hands to the sides of his head, trying to block out the sound. “No, no, no!”

“Okay, okay. Hey, man, don’t get upset.” Rick held his palms outward before quickly turning down the volume. “Hey, Lee, ya gotta learn to chill out a little. Relax.”

“No noise!” the patient said with an effort, and Rick sighed loudly as he stripped the bed of soiled sheets.

“Yeah, I know, no noise. Just like every day at this time. I don’t get it, you know. All day long you’re fine, until the morning shows come on. Maybe you should watch something else—”

But the patient didn’t hear. The program had resumed, and Kaylie—his Kaylie—was staring into the camera again, smiling. For him. He felt suddenly near tears as her green eyes locked with his and her perfect lips moved in silent words of love. It won’t be long, he thought, his own lips twitching. Reaching deep into his pocket, he rubbed the worn picture between his thumb and forefinger.

Just wait for me. I’ll come to you. Soon.

Chapter One

“Who is this?” Zane Flannery demanded, his fingers clutching the phone’s receiver in a death grip.

“Ted.” The voice was barely audible; rough as a shark’s skin. Zane couldn’t identify the caller as a man or woman.

“Okay, Ted. So what is it?” Zane’s mouth had turned to cotton, and the numbing fear that had gripped him ever since “Ted’s” call the day before gnawed at his guts.

“It’s Kaylie. She’s not safe,” the voice grated out.

Kaylie. Oh, God. A knot of painful memories twisted his stomach. “Why not?”

“I told you. Lee Johnston’s about to be released.”

Zane managed to keep his voice steady. “I went to the hospital. No one there is saying anything about letting him out.” In fact, no one had said much of anything. Dr. Anthony Henshaw, Johnston’s doctor, had been particularly tight-lipped about his patient. Phrases like patient confidentiality and maintaining patient equilibrium, had kept spouting from the doctor’s mouth. He’d even had the gall to tell Zane point-blank that Zane wasn’t Kaylie’s husband any longer. That Zane had no right to be involved. Just because Zane was owner of the largest security firm on the West Coast didn’t give him the authority to turn the hospital upside down or “persecute” one of his patients. Zane liked that. “Persecute.” After what Johnston had attempted to do to Kaylie.

The man had nearly killed Kaylie, and now Zane was accused of “persecuting” the maniac. Figures.

In the well-modulated voice of one who weighs everything before he speaks, Henshaw had informed Zane that Johnston was still locked away and that Zane had nothing to worry about. As a patient of Whispering Hills hospital, Johnston was being observed constantly and there was nothing to fear. Though Lee was a model patient, Dr. Henshaw didn’t expect Johnston to be released in the very near future. He assumed Johnston would remain a patient for “the time being.”

Not good enough for Zane. He didn’t work well with words like expect or assume.

Pacing between his desk and window, stretching the phone cord taut, Zane felt as helpless as he had seven years ago when Lee Johnston had nearly taken Kaylie’s life.

“Why should I believe you?” Zane asked the caller, and there was a long silence. Ted was taking his time.

Zane waited him out.

“Because I care,” the raspy voice stated. The phone went dead.

“Son of a bitch!” Zane slammed down the receiver and rewound the tape he’d made of the call.

Startled, the dog lying beneath Zane’s desk barked, baring his teeth, dark eyes blinking open. Hairs bristled on the back of the brindled shepherd’s neck.

“Relax, Franklin,” Zane ordered, though his own skin prickled with dread and cold sweat collected on his forehead, underarms and hands. “Son of a damned—”

The door to his office burst open, and Brad Hastings, his second in command, strode in. A newspaper was tucked under his arm. “I called the police,” he said, obviously aggravated. His dark eyes were barely slits, his nostrils flared. Not more than five-eight, but all muscle, Brad had once been a welterweight boxer and had been with Flannery Security since day one. Hastings was a force to be reckoned with. “There’s nothing new on Johnston. He’s locked up all right, just like Henshaw told you. As for the doctor, he seems to be on the level. He’s been Johnston’s shrink for five years.”

And in those five years, Henshaw hadn’t told Zane anything about his patient. Zane had checked in every six months or so and been told curtly that Mr. Johnston was still a patient and not much more.

When Dr. Loyola had been at Whispering Hills, things had been different. Loyola had been the admitting doctor. He understood the terror his patient inspired and he’d kept Zane informed of Johnston’s progress or lack thereof. But Loyola was long gone, and no one now employed at the hospital considered Johnston a threat.

Except “Ted.” Whoever the hell he was. Zane tried to concentrate. “What about this Ted character?” Zane played back the tape, making a second copy as he did, and as Hastings listened, Zane tried to envision the man who was giving him the warning.

The tape ended. Zane rewound it again and took the copy from the recorder.

Hastings scratched the back of his balding head. “No Ted at Whispering Hills. No Ted listed as a friend or family member of Johnston.”

“You checked all the workers at the hospital? Cafeteria employees, nurses, orderlies, janitors, gardeners?”

“No one with the name Theodore or Ted. The last guy to work there named Ted left two and a half years ago. He lives in Mississippi now, doesn’t know a thing about what’s happening at Whispering Hills these days. I talked to him myself.”

Zane felt helpless, like a man struggling to desperately cling to a rope that was fraying bit by bit.

“What about a woman? Teddie, maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “or Theresa, Thea, something like that?”

“You think that—” Hastings motioned skeptically toward the tape “—is a woman?”

“I couldn’t tell, but I thought whoever called was disguising his or her voice…” He felt another wave of bone-chilling fear. What if the caller were Johnston himself? What if he’d had access to a phone and Bay Area phone book? What if that madman was calling Kaylie at the station?

Zane grabbed the phone again, punched out the number of the television station where she worked and drummed his fingers impatiently as the receptionist answered, then told him that Kaylie had left for the day.

Cursing under his breath, he hung up and dialed her apartment. A recorder answered. He didn’t bother to leave another message, but slammed the receiver down in frustration. Get a grip, Flannery, he ordered himself, but couldn’t quell the fright.

Why hadn’t Kaylie returned his calls? he wondered, panicking. Maybe it was already too late!

“Look, she’s all right,” Hastings said, as if reading his boss’s thoughts. “Otherwise you would’ve heard. Besides, she was on the show this morning, and you know for a fact that Johnston’s still at the hospital.”

“For now.”

Glancing surreptitiously at Zane, Hastings snorted. “I hate to bring up more bad news, but have you seen this?” He slapped the newspaper onto Zane’s desk. The paper opened, and Zane realized that he was staring at page four of The Insider, a tabloid known for its gossip-riddled press. A grainy picture of Kaylie and the cohost of West Coast Morning, Alan Bently, stared up at him. They were seated at a table, laughing and talking, and Alan’s arm was slung over Kaylie’s shoulders. The bold headlines read: Wedding Bells For San Francisco’s Number One Couple? And in smaller type: Is Kaylie Still His Number One OBSESSION?

“How can they print this stuff?” Zane growled, more irritated by the story than he had any right to be. Half of anything The Insider printed was purely sensationalism—nothing more than rumors. Yet Zane was infuriated by the picture of Alan and Kaylie together, and he was sickened at the hint of their marriage. It had to be a rumor just to boost ratings. He was certain Kaylie would never fall for a clown like Bently.

Worst of all was the reference to Kaylie’s last movie, Obsession, a film that was, in Zane’s estimation, the beginning of the end of his short-lived but passionate marriage to Kaylie.

Tossing the paper into the trash, Zane didn’t comment, he just strode across the room and opened his closet door. He yanked his beat-up leather jacket from a hanger, and while shoving the copy of the anonymous caller’s warning into the pocket of his jacket, he pushed aside any lingering jealousy he felt for Alan Bently. Zane didn’t have time for emotion, especially not petty envy. Not until Kaylie was safe. A plan had been forming in his mind ever since the first chilling call from “Ted.” It was time to put it into action.

Kaylie wouldn’t like it. Hell, she’d fight him every step of the way. But that was just too damned bad. This time she was going to do things his way. He explained his plan to Hastings, instructed his right-hand man to take care of business and put Kaylie Melville’s safety at the top of the list. “And give a copy of the tape to the police!”

Satisfied that Hastings could handle the business, he said, “I want every available man on the case. I don’t give a damn about the costs. Just find out who this Ted is and what his connection is to Kaylie. And start tracing calls—calls that come in here, or to her house, or to the station where she works. I want to know where this nut case is!”

“Is that all?” Hastings mocked.

“It’s all that matters,” Zane muttered, shoving his fists into the pockets of his jacket. He whistled to the dog, and the sleek shepherd lifted one ear, then rose and padded after him.

Kaylie would kill him if she realized what he had planned but he didn’t care. He couldn’t. Her life was more important than her damned pride.

Outside, the morning air was warm. Only a few clouds were scattered over the San Francisco sky. Zane unlocked the door of his Jeep, and the dog hopped into the back. He had one more phone call to make, he thought, pulling into the clog of traffic.

He made the call from his cellular phone.

Once his plan was set, he went about finding his headstrong ex-wife.

* * *

Hours later, Zane had tracked her down. She hadn’t been at her apartment, nor had she gone back to the station, so he guessed she’d decided to spend the evening alone, at the house they’d shared in Carmel.

He parked in the familiar driveway and second-guessed himself. His plan was foolproof, but she would be furious. And she might end up hating him for the rest of her life.

But then, she didn’t much like him now. She’d made it all too clear that she didn’t want him in her life when she’d scribbled her signature across the divorce papers seven years before.

So why couldn’t he forget her? Leave her alone? Let her fend for herself as she claimed she wanted to do?

Because she was in his blood. Always had been. Always would be. His personal curse. And he was scared.

He let the dog out of the Jeep, and the shepherd began investigating the small yard, scaring a gray tabby cat and sniffing at the shrubs.

“Stay, Franklin,” Zane commanded when the dog attempted to wander too far.

Pressing on the doorbell, he waited, shifting from one foot to the other. The house was silent. No footsteps padded to the door. Leaning on the bell again, he heard the peal of chimes within. Still no response.

Don’t panic, he told himself, unnerved that he couldn’t find her. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a set of keys he hadn’t used in years and slid a key into the lock.

The lock clicked. The dead bolt slid easily.

So she hadn’t bothered to change the locks. Not smart, Kaylie.

With a grimace, Zane pocketed his key and shoved on the familiar front door. It swung open without the slightest resistance, and he stood staring at the interior of the house that had once been his.

Swearing under his breath, he ignored the haunting memories—memories of Kaylie. Always Kaylie. God, how could one woman be embedded so deeply in a man?

With another reminder to Franklin to stay, he closed the door behind him. Tossing his battle-worn leather jacket over the back of the couch, he surveyed the living room. Nothing much had changed. Except of course that he didn’t live here, and he hadn’t for a long, long time.

The same mauve carpet stretched through the house. The windows were spotless, the view of Carmel Bay as calming as he had always found it. And the furniture hadn’t been moved or added to. Familiar pieces covered in white and gray were grouped around glass-topped tables. Even the artwork, framed watercolors of dolphins, sailing ships and sea gulls, provided the same splashes of blue, magenta and yellow as they had when he and Kaylie had shared this seaside cottage.

But all of the memorabilia from their marriage—the pictures, tokens and mementos of their short life together—were gone. Well, most of them, he thought as he spied a single snapshot still sitting on the mantel.

The picture was of Kaylie and him, arms linked, standing ankle-deep in white, hot sand on their honeymoon in Mazatlán. He picked up the snapshot and scowled at the heady memories of hot sun, cold wine and Kaylie’s supple body yielding to his. The scent of the ocean and perfume mingled with the perfume of tropical flowers and a vision of a vast Mexican sky.

Dropping the photograph as if it suddenly seared his fingers, he snorted in disgust. No time to think about the past. It was over and done. Already, just being near Kaylie was making him crazy. Well, he’d better get used to it.

He crossed the room. Freshly cut flowers scented the air and reminded him of Kaylie. Always Kaylie. Despite the divorce and the past seven painful years alone, he’d never truly forgotten her, never been able to go to bed at night without feeling a hot pang of regret that she wasn’t beside him, that he wasn’t in her life any longer.

Shoving the sleeves of his pullover up his forearms, he walked to the recessed bar near a broad bank of windows. He leaned on one knee, dug through the cabinet and smiled faintly when he found his favorite brand of Scotch, the bottle dusty from neglect, the seal still unbroken. With a flick of his wrist he opened the bottle, just as, by confronting her, he was reopening all the old hurt and pain, the anger and fury, and the passion…. As damning as it was exciting. Closing his eyes, he reined in his runaway emotions—emotions over which he usually had tight control. Except where Kaylie was concerned.

“Fool.” Straightening, he poured himself a stiff shot. “Here’s to old times,” he muttered, then tossed back most of the drink, the warm, aged liquor hitting the back of his throat in a fiery splash.

Home at last, he thought ironically, topping off his glass again as he sauntered to the French doors.

Through the paned glass, he stared down the cliff to the beach below. Relief, in a wave, washed over him. There she was—safe! With no madman stalking her. She walked from the surf, wringing saltwater from her long, sun-streaked hair as if she hadn’t a care in the world. If she only knew.

Wearing only a white one-piece swimming suit that molded to her body, sculpting her breasts and exposing the tanned length of her slim legs, she tossed her thick, curly mane over her shoulders.

His gut tightened as he watched her bend over and scoop up a towel from the white sand. The next couple of weeks were going to be hell.

* * *

Kaylie shook the sand from her towel, then looped the terry cloth around her neck. The last few rays of sun dried the water on her back and warmed her shoulders as she slipped into her thongs and cast one last longing glance at the sea. Sailboats skimmed the horizon, dark silhouettes against a blaze of magenta and gold. Gulls wheeled high overhead, filling the air with their lonely cries.

The beach was nearly deserted as she climbed up the weathered staircase to the house. Leaving her thongs on the deck, she pushed open the back door, then tossed her towel into the hamper in the laundry room. Maybe she’d pour herself a glass of wine. Pulling down the strap of her bathing suit, she headed for the bedroom. First a long, hot shower and then—

“How’re you, Kaylie?” a familiar voice drawled.

Kaylie gasped, stopping dead in her tracks. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she spun around quickly, drops from her hair spraying against the wall. Zane? Here? Now? Why?

Draped over the couch, long jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, he looked as damnably masculine as he ever had. His ankles were crossed, his expression bland, except for the lifting of one dark brow. However, she knew him too well and expected his pose of studied relaxation was all for show.

His steely gray gaze touched hers, and his lips quirked. For a few seconds she remembered how much she had loved him, how much she had wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. With an effort, she closed her mind to such traitorous thoughts. Her throat worked, and slowly she became conscious that one strap of her swimsuit dangled over her forearm, leaving the swell of her breast exposed.

“W-what the devil are you doing here—trying to scare me to death?” she finally sputtered, adjusting the strap back over her shoulder. But before he could respond, she changed her mind and shook her head. She wasn’t up to talking to Zane—not now, probably not ever. “No, wait, don’t answer that, I don’t think I want to know.”

He didn’t budge, damn him, just lounged there, on her couch, drinking her Scotch, stretched out and making himself comfortable. His nerve was unbelievable, and yet there was something about him, something restless and dangerous that still touched a forbidden part of her heart. And she knew he wouldn’t have shown up without a reason.

His scuffed running shoes dropped to the floor. “You didn’t call me back.”

She felt a jab of guilt. She’d gotten his messages, but hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him. “And that’s why you’re here?”

“I was worried about you.”

“Oh, please, don’t start with this,” she said, reminded of the reasons she’d divorced him, his all-consuming need to protect her. “You don’t have to worry about me or even be concerned that—”

“Lee Johnston’s going to be released.”

The words were like frigid water poured over her, stopping her cold. Zane’s feigned casualness disappeared.

“He’s what?” she whispered. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Lee Johnston, a short, burly man with flaming red hair and lifeless blue eyes. And she remembered the knife—oh, God, the long-bladed knife that he’d pressed to her throat.

“Y-you’re sure about this?” Oh, Lord, how could she keep her voice from quavering? The look on his face convinced her that he believed she was in grave danger, and yet she didn’t want to believe it. Not entirely. There were too many dimensions to Zane to take anything he said at face value. Although she’d never known him to lie.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Someone called me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Someone who called himself ‘Ted.’”

“Ted? Ted who?” she asked.

“I wish I knew. I thought maybe you could help me figure it out,” he admitted, launching into his short tale and starting with the first nerve-jangling call from “Ted,” and ending with his gut feeling that Dr. Henshaw was holding out on him. “Do you have a recorder—a tape player?”

She nodded mutely, then retrieved the portable player from her bedroom. Zane picked up his jacket and took out a small tape, which he snapped into the machine. A few seconds later, “Ted’s” warning echoed through the room.

“Oh, my God,” Kaylie whispered, her hand to her mouth. She listened to the tape twice, her insides wrenching as the warning was repeated. Zane, though he attempted to appear calm, was coiled tightly, his features tense, his eyes flicking from her to the corners of the room, as if he half expected someone to jump out and attack her.

Why now? she wondered frantically. Why ever?

She bit her lower lip, then thinking it a sign of weakness, stopped just as the tape clicked off. “Why did this ‘Ted’ guy call you? Why not me?”

“Beats me,” Zane admitted, sipping amber liquor from a short glass, his jaw sliding pensively to the side. “None of this is official. At least not yet.” Zane’s features were hard, and a quiet fury burned in his eyes. “So far we’ve only got this guy’s—whoever he is—word for it. I talked with Johnston’s psychiatrist and I didn’t like what he said.”

“But he didn’t say Johnston would be released.” She turned pleading eyes up at him.

“No, but I’ve got a gut feeling on this one. Henshaw was being too careful. My bet is that the man’s going to walk, Kaylie. Whoever called me had a reason.”

“Oh, God.” Her whole body shook. Stark moments of terror returned—memories of a deranged man who’d sworn he’d kill for her. “They can’t let him go. He’s sick! Beyond sick!”

Zane lifted a shoulder. “He’s been locked up a long time. Model patient. It wouldn’t surprise me if the courts decide he got better.”

Her world spun back to that horrible night when Johnston had threatened her, waved a knife in front of her eyes, his other arm hard against her stomach as he’d dragged her from the theater. He’d sworn then that he would kill for her and he wanted her to witness the sacrifice….

In her mind’s eye, she could still see his crazed smile, feel him tremble excitedly against her, smell the scent of his stale breath.

She sagged against the wall and felt the rough texture of plaster against her bare back. Think, Kaylie, she told herself, refusing to appear weak. Swallowing back her fear, she straightened and squared her shoulders. She couldn’t fall apart—she wouldn’t! Forcing her gaze to Zane’s, she silently prayed she didn’t betray any of the panic surging through her veins. “I think I’d better talk to Henshaw myself.”

“Be my guest.”

On weak legs she walked into the kitchen, looked up the number of the mental hospital, and dialed with shaky fingers. A receptionist answered on the fourth ring. “Whispering Hills.”

“Yes, oh, I’d like to talk to Dr. Henshaw, please. This is Kaylie Melville—I, um, I know one of his patients.”

“Oh, Miss Melville! Of course. I see you on television every morning,” the voice exclaimed excitedly. “But I’m sorry, Dr. Henshaw isn’t in right now.”

“Then maybe I could speak to someone else.” Kaylie tried to explain her predicament, but she couldn’t get past square one with the cheery voice on the other end of the line. No other doctor would talk to her, nor a nurse for that matter. On impulse she asked to talk to Ted and was informed that no one named Ted was employed by the hospital. Before the receptionist could hang up, Kaylie asked, “Please, just tell me, is Mr. Lee Johnston still a patient there?”

“Yes, he is,” she said, whispering a little. “But I really can’t tell you anything else. I’m sorry, but we have rules about discussing patients, you know. If you’ll leave your number, I’ll ask Dr. Henshaw to call you.”

“Thanks,” Kaylie whispered, replacing the receiver. She poured herself a glass of water and tried to quiet the raging fear. Think, Kaylie, think! Don’t fall apart! She drank the water, then made fists of her hands, willing herself to be calm.

When she walked back into the living room, Zane still sat on the couch, his elbows propped on his knees, his silvery eyes dark with concern. A part of her loved him for the fact that he cared, another part despised him for shoving his way back into her life when she’d just about convinced herself that she was over him.

“Well?”

“I didn’t get very far. Henshaw’s out. He’ll call back.”

The furrow in Zane’s brow deepened.

Kaylie, trying to take control of the situation, said, “I’ll—I’ll talk to my lawyer.”

“I already did.”

“You what?” she demanded, surprised that Zane would call her attorney, the very man who had drawn up the papers for their divorce.

“I called Blake. His hands are tied.”

She was already ahead of him. “Then I’ll talk to Detective Montello. He was the arresting officer. Surely he’d…” Her voice faded as she saw him shake his head, his dark hair rubbing across the back of his collar. “Unless you’ve already called him, too.”

“Montello’s not with the force any longer. The guy who took his place says he’ll look into it.”

“But you don’t believe him,” she said, guessing, her heart beginning to pound at the thought of Lee Johnston on the loose. Icy sweat collected between her shoulder blades.

“I just don’t want to take any chances.”

For the first time, she thought about him being in the house—waiting for her when she finished her swim. “Wait a minute, how did you get in here?”

Zane glanced away, avoiding her eyes. “I still have my keys.”

“You what?” she demanded, astounded at his audacity. He hadn’t seemed to age in the past seven years. His hair was still a rich, coffee brown, his features rough hewn and handsome. His eyes, erotic gray, were set deep behind thick black brows and long, spiky lashes. “But you gave them to me,” she said.