The Truth About Elyssa. Lorna MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
you then…grudgingly.” His lips curved in a half smile. “But don’t make me wait too long.”
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure how much time would be long enough.
“One more kiss,” he said and pulled her close again.
When they drew apart, his eyes were as dazed as hers.
Brett kept strictly to the speed limit as he drove home. He didn’t trust himself to drive too fast; his blood still pounded from Elyssa’s kisses. They’d packed a punch he’d never expected.
“Whoa,” he told himself. This didn’t feel like the lighthearted affair he had in mind. This felt…serious.
But he knew his limitations. He couldn’t let this relationship become anything but casual. “Back off, Cameron,” he ordered himself. “She’s right. You’re moving way too fast.”
Still under the spell of Brett’s kisses, Elyssa wandered through the house. She measured coffee into the coffeemaker for tomorrow, turned off the downstairs lights and slipped off her sandals. Dangling them by the straps, she climbed the stairs.
In her room she glanced at the bed. If she hadn’t stopped Brett—stopped herself—they’d be there now. She’d done the right thing, she told herself firmly, as she ran her hand over the pillow. She needed to probe her heart and mind before she took the next step.
She went into the bathroom and slowly undressed. How would it have been to undress for Brett? To watch him undress? To feel flesh against flesh?
Her lips still tingled from his kisses. Her skin was still warm. She looked in the mirror. Dreamy, half-closed eyes gazed back. She touched her lips. How long since someone had kissed her like that? Never before, she thought. Never.
She slipped into a nightgown and was strolling back into the bedroom when the telephone rang. She jumped, then laughed. Probably Cassie, dying to hear all the details of her evening. Or maybe Brett was calling to say good-night.
She picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Elyssa Jarmon?” The male voice sounded faraway, disembodied.
“Yes.”
“This is a warning.”
Her hand tightened on the receiver. She checked her caller ID. “Anonymous.” Nervously she glanced out the window. The blinds were open, and she stood in a revealing gown, exposed to any eyes that cared to look. Hand trembling, she reached over and shut the blinds.
“Stick to clowning.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
He laughed. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. You keep following in Randy Barber’s footsteps, you’re in trouble.” The line went dead.
Her legs shook as she sank down on the bed. She sat for a few moments, taking deep breaths, then when she was sure she could stand, she raced downstairs. She peered outside but saw no one. No strange cars, either. Then she checked all the doors and windows and made sure her alarm system was turned on.
Upstairs again, she tried to calm herself by considering what she should do. Be logical. Make a list.
She grabbed a pencil and wrote “call the police,” then crossed it out. She doubted she’d get much response by reporting one phone call. She’d done a story once on a woman who’d received dozens of calls from a stalker before the police paid attention to her plight. And in this case, what could they do when Elyssa couldn’t tell them who the caller was?
The pencil dropped from her nervous hands. Logic and planning hadn’t calmed her yet. Think.
She could call the telephone company and put a block on anonymous calls. Or tape the next call—if another one came—and try to figure out who was on the line. Yes, that made sense.
Frowning, she stared at the phone. That voice. She’d heard it before, she was certain. But where?
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