Obsession. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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