Darkling I Listen (12 page)

"Ah … well, Carlyle, this is a surprise. Gosh …
I'm glad you're okay. For what it's worth, I went back twice to look for you…
I guess you got a ride…
?"

Shouldering rain from his cheek, he took a deep breath and slowly released it. "About that book. I'll do it. But on my terms. Understand? We talk about what I want to talk about, and if you get pushy, I'll walk away."

"Right. Okay. Gosh, I'm just so shocked. After tonight I thought—"

He hit the End button, hanging up in her ear, then sat back in the swing and closed his fingers tight around the panties in his fist.

«
^
»

T
he Escort's heater didn't work, and for the third time in as
many minutes, Alyson was forced to roll down the window and punch the call button on the Carlyles' security gate, allowing cold, wet air to invade the car. Damn
Texas
weather. Hard to believe this time yesterday she'd been swearing at the heat and humidity. Hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours had passed since she'd first climbed a tree in order to invade Brandon Carlyle's privacy. She felt a decade older. Not having closed her eyes all night didn't help. Having to look into Brandon Carlyle's eyes again after what had transpired between them the night before didn't either. She didn't much want to try to convince herself that her body had not reacted to his kiss, or that the memory of his kiss had not kept her up all night, staring at television and entertaining fantasies involving a motel room. If she was smart, which she obviously wasn't, she would have taken off for the airport regardless of Carlyle's phone call hours earlier.

When she hit the security buzzer again, she held it a good ten seconds before releasing. Finally, the low, smoky voice came back, tweaking the same vague recognition that had unsettled her at two that morning.

"What?" it drawled.

She stared at the speaker while her cheeks grew colder and damper from the rain and her heart did a slow somersault in her chest. "Alyson James," she finally replied.

"Who?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she stuck her tongue out at the dripping black box. "Cute, Carlyle. I'm freezing my butt off out here, thank you very much."

"So? Nobody told you to show up here at the butt crack of dawn, did they?"

Sarcasm and derision again. God, she must be nuts to put herself through this. "Instead of hanging up in my ear last night, you might have given me a clue as to when to
come
calling. I'm not a mind reader."

Silence.

She rolled up the window and hugged herself to keep warm. To think that she could be home now, in bed, warm and dry. Why couldn't Sally have called one of the
Gazette's
competitors? Let them get verbally bashed by Hollyweird's bad boy.

Finally there came a hum, and the gate began to slide open. Alyson blew into her hands to warm them, then shifted into Drive and eased the car forward, up the crape myrtle-lined drive.

The day before, she had paid precious little attention to the house, much too busy focusing her telephoto lens on Carlyle. As the neat, white frame house with its blue shutters and wraparound porch materialized through the rain, she got the impression of permanence and warmth. "Charming" was the only word to describe the scene. There were flower beds with a splash of red roses—late stragglers that were bowing heavily from the bombardment of rain. There were other flower beds as well. Irises, by the looks of the brown spear-tip leaves clustered behind stone and railroad-tie borders. Giant azaleas and dogwood trees would no doubt give the grounds a parklike appearance during late spring.

Beyond the house were the outbuildings. A large, weathered barn looked like something out of a painting, slightly lopsided with a high-pitched roof and a hayloft. An ancient well house, once painted bright red, was now mostly hidden behind a hedge, and near it was a newer double garage painted to match the house. A beat-up Chevy truck circa 1975 was parked beside the house, as was a rust-colored sedan with a crunched fender and a
University
of
Texas
decal on the rear window.

Alyson parked the Escort behind the truck, collected her purse and camera bag,
checked
the side pocket to make certain she had not forgotten her microcassette recorder. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she slid out into the rain, catching her breath as the wind drove a cold fist into her face. She mounted the steps at a run, drew back her shoulders, and banged on the door with her fist. And waited.

A pair of muddy boots sat on the porch near the door.

On the far end of the porch a bench swing with peeling paint shifted with each gust of wind, as if occupied by ghosts.

Finally, the door slowly opened and Carlyle filled the threshold, staring at her through the screen door with a smug curl to his mouth. His hair was shaggy and mussed. He wore baggy jeans and a Hard Rock Café sweatshirt, socked feet, no shoes. Warmth and light rushed over her, as did the smell of frying sausage and coffee, a cup of which he held in his left hand. The heat of it rose from the hot liquid in a gray curl of humidity.

"Cold?" His mouth curved with spitefulness.

"Carlyle, you have a mean streak a mile wide in you."

"I wasn't expecting you so early."

"This is what you get for calling at two in the morning."

"You weren't asleep. You told
Alan
that you were just leaving the motel." He nudged the screen door open with his fingertips and stepped aside, allowing her to enter. She was forced to brush against him as she stepped into the warm, fragrant house. "So who is Alan?" he asked in a flat tone, and closed the door against the cold and rain.

"My best friend." As she did her best to ignore the heat and smell of him standing so close behind her, her eyes scanned the rooms to her right and left: homey, nineteenth-century antiques—no knockoffs here. There was a fortune tied up in furniture and lamps, not to mention rugs.

He caught her arm and directed her down the long hall, toward the smell of food and coffee. "I'd invite you to breakfast, but I'm afraid we're all out of Twinkies."

"Not to worry." She patted her purse. "I brought my own." Frowning, she risked a glance at him, noting the glint of amusement in his eyes. "How do you know I eat Twinkies?"

"There are no secrets in Ticky Creek, Miz James."

"I beg to differ. The CIA could take lessons from Ticky Creek residents on how to keep a secret—at least where you're concerned."

"Mind divulging how you found me?"

"My cousin Sally saw you at the Dime
A
Cup."

"Figured as much. How did you find the farm?"

"It's called ears. These folks might not blab about you to outsiders, but they flap to one another ninety to nothing. I just dropped into Redneck Feed. You know no one likes to talk like men at the feed store—those bubbas put gossiping women to shame. They know everybody's business in three counties. While Bubba Junior was helping Modeen load feed into the back of her truck, I flipped through the card file to find your uncle's address."

His blue eyes fixed on hers and his eyebrows lowered. "That kind of nosiness can get you in trouble around here. People's privacy is just short of sacrosanct in Ticky Creek."

"
Which is why you've lived here for months without the rest of the world finding out.
"

"People here like to feel they've got one up on the world. If they blow my cover, then I have to go away and maybe not come back. Besides, most people don't really think of me as Brandon Carlyle the movie star. Hell, most of the people here probably have never even seen my movies. I'm just John Carlyle's boy and Henry's nephew, who drops into Ticky Creek occasionally to spend a little downtime from his West Coast job."

She flashed him a skeptical smile. "You're joking, right?"

"I'm just a country boy, Miz James, whether you want to believe it or not."

Right,
and Queen Elizabeth was formerly a Rockette at
Radio
City
Music Hall
.

She stopped abruptly as they reached the kitchen threshold. The large room glowed with warm yellow walls and white woodwork. Here, too, antiques filled the room with character. A sideboard displayed blue and white dishes and jars of pickles, relishes, and fruit. A massive harvest table sat in the middle of the room. A realistically painted, life-size cast iron rooster served as a centerpiece surrounded by clusters of oat straw and miniature gourds.

A man she assumed was Carlyle's uncle sat at one end of the table, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he read the morning paper. A red-haired woman in black slacks and a tight black turtleneck sweater stood at the stove, pouring Egg Beaters into a skillet. They each looked at Alyson as she stepped into the room.

"Don't be shy,"
Brandon
said quietly but firmly.

"I—I don't like to intrude," she replied as quietly.

"Since when?" He directed her toward the table. "Henry, I believe you recall Miz James from yesterday?"

Henry had twinkling blue eyes—the color not
so
intense as his nephew's, but certainly friendlier. There was a depth of compassion there as well; humor, kindness, understanding. He had bright pink cheeks that turned redder as he tossed down his paper, smiled, and, rising partially from his chair, extended his hand.

"You're just in time for coffee and breakfast, Miss James. Please, sit down and join us."

As Alyson put her hand in his, big and rough as old leather, she felt those blue eyes drive right through her. Compassionate as they were, they were also shrewd. She suddenly felt as if he were staring right into her soul.

He gave her hand a quick shake and turned to the cook. "Betty, you remember Miss James?"

Betty glanced over her shoulder, striking Alyson with her intensely green eyes that weren't nearly so welcoming as Henry' s. "I remember. The young woman with the camera.
That
camera, I presume." She pointed a plastic spatula toward the bag hanging from Alyson's shoulder.

Alyson took a deep breath and forced a smile. "I owe you an apology for yesterday. I appreciate your not pressing charges, Mr. Carlyle. You had every right, of course."

"Water under the bridge, dear. Betty, get Miss James a coffee. Will you join us for breakfast? There's plenty. Betty always cooks enough for an army." Henry slapped his round stomach and chuckled. "And I eat enough for an army."

As Alyson sat in a chair,
Brandon
moved around the table to take a chair next to Henry's. "You're supposed to be dieting. Doctor's orders. Take off twenty pounds or else."

Henry grunted and reached for his coffee. "Hell, Betty's got me on those damn fake eggs in a box, not to mention fake bacon and sausage. I don't care if it
is
spiced to heaven and back, you're never going to convince me that turkey sausage tastes the same as a good thick patty of fried pork."

Alyson smiled her thanks as Betty plunked a mug of black coffee in front of her. Betty raised one eyebrow in response and turned back to the stove.

"My nephew tells me you want to help him write his autobiography, Miss James."

As she reached for a creamer that looked like a miniature black and white spotted cow, Alyson glanced toward
Brandon
. His eyes narrowed, and he gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head. So, he hadn't told Henry about the unauthorized biography yet.

"There are a great many people who'd like to read
Brandon
's life story—straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak. There's been so much
…
speculation, of course, about his career, not to mention his personal life."

"Mostly a lot of hogwash," Henry declared with a frown, his face turning dark. He reached over and slapped one hand on
Brandon
's shoulder, gave it a squeeze. His voice grew heavy with emotion. "I couldn't love
Brandon
any more if he were my own son. But that doesn't color my perception of his character. He's made a few life choices that weren't particularly bright—but don't we all, occasionally? Hell, nobody's perfect. But the important thing is, Miss James, he never set out to hurt anyone. Sometimes fate deals us a lousy hand, is all. We deal with it.
Brandon
's dealt with it the best he can, and he's bounced back stronger than ever. We believe he's on the right track now. All the garbage of the past is exactly that. The past."

Alyson smiled and stirred sugar into her coffee. Her gaze slid to
Brandon
, whose face had colored slightly with Henry's words. Keeping his eyes downcast,
Brandon
raised his coffee to his lips. Perhaps he felt a little embarrassed that his uncle would be so straightforward with a stranger. Or maybe the flush on his cheeks was due to raw emotion. Whatever, he looked like a kid who had been both praised and chastised in one breath.

As Betty sat a plate of turkey sausage and scrambled Egg Beaters in front of Henry, she looked at Alyson. "There's plenty if you want some, Miss James."

Odd woman. Blunt features, not totally unattractive. Her voice sounded as if she were struggling with a throat infection—a bit scratchy and breathy. It made Alyson want to clear her own throat. "No, thank you. I have something in my purse. I'm really not much on breakfast, actually. Just makes me want to go back to bed—especially on a morning like this."

Henry reached for his fork and knife, eyes fixed on his plate of steaming food. "So what's your slant on his story, Miss James? A positive one, I hope. God knows we've had enough of that tabloid trash to last us a lifetime."