Darkling I Listen (15 page)

"Maybe this book will be good for him, now that I think about it." Henry's gaze skipped to her briefly before focusing again on the fire. "Maybe you'll be good for him, Al. He's had no social life since he's been home. Hibernatin' with a couple of sick old folks isn't good for a man his age. He needs a life. He needs a friend. He used to have a lot of friends, before the Marcella thing." He sank deeper into the chair. "Something just wasn't right about that accident. Just didn't make sense."

Alyson glanced toward the door, where the rain continued to slash against the panes.
Opportunity
screamed at her. Obviously Henry needed to confide. Her reporter's instinct wanted to dash for the recorder in her camera bag and get every relevant tidbit on tape. A thousand questions burned the tip of her tongue, but Carlyle had warned her. If he were to walk in now and see her with Henry, he'd throw another of his infamous Carlyle fits. He'd personally repack her bags and punt her all the way back to
San Francisco
, where she'd spend the rest of her life interviewing women who claimed their children
were
sired by Elvis.

"I'm a good listener," she heard herself encourage him. Standing, she walked to the fire and stared into it, her hands planted on her hips, her heartbeat pumping in her ears. Guilt rapped at her conscience.

She tried to recall the facts of the incident. At the time of Emerald Marcella's death, she'd been bogged down in her own personal tragedy—divorcing a man who'd burned up her savings on self-promotion and wining and dining his bevy of starlet lovers.

According to Carlyle, he and Marcella left a party, where they had met for the first time. He'd been drinking, his blood alcohol level above the legal limit at the time of the crash
…
barely.

They drove to a secluded area. Marcella, who'd been drinking and snorting, got kinky and abusive, and Carlyle didn't like it. They argued, and he decided to take her back to the party. The weather turned bad, and so did Marcella—coke and booze made her crazy. She jumped him while he was driving, which caused him to lose control of his Ferrari. Some time later, he was found beside the road, unconscious.
Brandon
knew nothing until he woke up in a hospital with no memory of anything beyond his car spinning like a top on the wet road.

"The entire rape issue was beyond idiotic," Henry said in a weary Voice. "Hell, the man's had to fight women off since his voice changed. Why the devil would he try to do it with a porn queen if she didn't want it?"

"He admitted they'd had rough sex," she pointed out, still staring into the fire.

"Consensual, Al. And she was the one who instigated the rough stuff. When it got out of hand, he stopped it, which is what pissed her off." Henry shook his head. "That damned district attorney wanted blood. He thought he had himself another Simpson case.
Brandon
's defense was if the car goin' through that guardrail was premeditated to shut her up about a supposed rape, wouldn't he have made damn sure the woman was dressed before doing it? Hell, she had on panties and a blouse. Regardless that the D.A.'s case was damn weak, the grand jury gave the nod to indict—the D.A. knew well enough that his case for murder wasn't strong enough, so he went the manslaughter route.

"Bernie and I wanted him to fight it. But he didn't. Although he didn't come right out and admit it, I think he decided to plead because he wanted to save us the heartbreak of a trial. And if there's one thing
Brandon
'll do without fail,
it's accept
responsibility for his actions. He
don't
make any excuses, Al. In his mind, he'd been drinkin' and shouldn't have been behind the wheel of a car. A woman was dead. He couldn't prove that Marcella caused the accident any more than he could explain how the hell he got out of that car before it went over the cliff."

"He could have been thrown from the car—"

"No way."

She looked at Henry.

"He had bruises across his chest and hips from the seat belt when the car hit the guardrail, and there were considerable facial abrasions from the air bag. Investigators said if he'd somehow been thrown from the car going at any rate of speed, there'd have been extensive injuries from his hitting the asphalt. There weren't."

"So somehow, between the time the car hit the guardrail and then went rolling end over end down that hundred-foot embankment,
Brandon
got himself out of his seat belt, and out of the car, all of this with extensive injuries. That's impossible, Henry."

Lowering his eyes, Henry ran one hand over his mouth, and said in a voice barely above a whisper, "Impossible."

*

Brandon
slumped in a chair near the fire, his legs stretched
out, socked feet propped on the hearth, one hand wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate as he watched Alyson sleep. He felt hot with fever. His throat hurt like hell. He wanted to climb into bed
…
and take her with him.

He'd come to that aggravating realization at approximately one that morning, somewhere in the dark on a back road between Highway
59
and home, thunder rumbling overhead and rain pounding his shoulders. The taste and smell of her wouldn't leave him alone. The angrier he'd become, the more he wanted her. He'd hurt with wanting her.

Maybe next time he'd kiss her with tenderness. And maybe not. He hadn't so much as touched a woman in four years before last night, so she was lucky to have gotten off with nothing more than a kiss that was—how had she phrased it?—rough enough to remove vinyl from siding. Hell, he'd endured an hour of Charlotte Minger's all but raping him. He could still feel the heat and dampness between her legs burning into his crotch as she straddled him. So maybe he wasn't Don Juan when he kissed Alyson.

Maybe you're losing your touch, lover boy.

He should choke her for leaving him on the side of the highway in the dark. For invading his privacy. For stirring up a hornet's nest of lust that even now made him feel borderline psychotic. He wanted to stretch her out on his uncle's sofa, rip the clothes off her, and bury himself inside her, make love to her luscious mouth, and look into her incredible eyes as she squirmed and bucked beneath him and screamed in pleasure. She would, too. Scream in pleasure. Love him hard. He knew a hot number when he saw one; there was enough smolder behind those sultry eyes, he suspected, that she'd combust the first time he slid his tongue inside her.

Oh, yes, she was going to enjoy it
…
and so was he.

She stirred and opened drowsy eyes; her face was painted gold by the firelight. She raised her head and swung her gaze around to his. She grinned as she ran one hand back through her hair.

"Hi," she said sleepily.

"Hi."

"Guess I fell asleep."

"Soundly."

Sitting up, she knuckled one eye and yawned. "Gosh."

"Gosh what?" He sipped his chocolate, watching her over the rim of his cup. The ache was returning, clenching in his groin, again sending hot shivers to his brain. Apparently barn chores and slugging a hay bale with his fists for over half an hour hadn't remedied them.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"An hour."

Frowning, she regarded him intently. "You sound awful. Are you sick?"

"Getting there." He drank again, the heat intensifying.

She stretched her legs, pointing her toes, bowing her back, thrusting her breasts forward so the jersey molded against them. The shirt had worked up around her waist, exposing a line of skin that looked creamy, soft, yet firm. Tossing aside the blanket, she stood, scratched her head, and started toward the door. "I'll get my equipment and we'll get started. I hope you're not recorder phobic. Are you?"

"No." He watched her butt as she left the room.

In a moment she came back, dropped onto the sofa, and began to extract the camera from the bag.

"No photographs."

She stared at him with annoyance. "We need photographs."

"No."

Alyson shoved the camera back into the bag,
then
withdrew the recorder, which she placed on the end table. Next
came
a spiral notebook and a pen. Once settled comfortably, she pointed the recorder toward him, punched buttons. She sat back, yawned again, and said, "We record everything that's discussed between us. I'll supply you with a copy for your records. Agreed?"

He focused on the small machine. "Agreed."

"I've made some notes here; an outline to follow, mostly addressing the issues mentioned in the biography—which your uncle knows about, by the way." She smiled as he frowned. "You don't give him enough credit. He knows it's all a lot of bunk.

"Let's discuss the years you worked on
Those Foster Kids."

"No."

She raised her eyebrows, shrugged, then looked again at her notes. "Okay, we'll come back to that later. Let's address the comments your mother made regarding your relationship—"

"No."

"Then what about the incident with Emerald Marcella?"

"Forget it."

Biting her lower lip in an obvious attempt to control her mounting irritation, Alyson tapped the notebook with her pen before bringing her gaze back to his. "Fine. You tell me where you want to start."

He narrowed his eyes and curled his mouth. "We'll discuss my sex life."

Not so much as blinking, the woman fixed him with a look that was totally blank. But her body language screamed something different. She sat on the sofa edge as if she were preparing for a hundred-yard sprint. Finally, she took a deep breath and sat back, smoothed the paper on her lap, and clicked her pen. "Okay, Carlyle. Ready when you are."

"I like sex. A lot. I think about the women I've made love to through the years, and of the women to whom I'd like to make love in the future."

"Care to elaborate?" She doodled on her notepad, swirls in dark red ink.

"I don't kiss and tell, Miz James."

"The biography claimed you're into kinky."

He laughed softly and reached for a cigarette in his pocket. "Define kinky."

"Threesomes. Bondage. Voyeurism." She licked her lips, drew a question mark and three exclamation points.

"I wouldn't exactly say I was 'into' threesomes, bondage, and voyeurism."

"Then you're guilty—"

"You make it sound like a crime." Flicking his lighter, he held it to the tip of the cigarette, and watched as she did her best to keep her expression as neutral as possible.

"You acknowledge that you've participated—"

"Yes." He took a drag on his cigarette and put the lighter aside. "I've been to bed with two women. Several times. Did I like myself in the morning? Not particularly, but I won't deny I enjoyed it. I had a girlfriend who demanded to be tied up when I made love to her. It wasn't my thing, it was hers. And as far as the voyeurism
…
I enjoy watching people make love. I don't hide behind walls and peek through keyholes. If I'm invited to watch, I watch. Hell, millions of people a year used to pay money to go to movies to see me lay women. The more munch, the higher the ticket sales. I did a total frontal nude scene in
Hot Property,
and the movie was number one at the box office for five months, made billions worldwide. It was borderline X-rated because of the love scenes—so don't try and convince me people were interested in the acting or the plot. Let's face it, Miz James, sex sells."

She laughed nervously and averted her eyes. "Yes, but in the movies, you aren't really doing it."

He watched her through a thin curl of smoke. "Surely you're not that naive. Look at me, Alyson."

Slowly, very slowly, she raised her eyes to his.

"Have you seen my movies, Aly?"

She nodded.

"Did you enjoy watching me make love to those women?"

She nodded.

"Did it turn you on?"

She swallowed.

"Did it?" he repeated, his gaze never releasing hers.

She nodded, her lips parting.

"Then I guess that makes you a voyeur, too, doesn't it?"

No response. She just continued staring into his eyes as if hypnotized, her face flushed with color.

"I enjoy oral sex. Getting it, and giving it. I enjoy watching a woman masturbate. I love seeing a beautiful woman in the throes of excitement and ecstasy. A woman's face as she's experiencing orgasm is the most fulfilling part of sex for me. She's vulnerable. Oblivious. In those few seconds I could do anything to her I wanted, and she'd be helpless to stop me."

He inhaled again,
then
tapped the ashes into a bowl on the table by his chair. His eyes continued to hold hers. He could hear her breathing.

"I like rough sex to a point. I'm not into pain. I'm into passion. I don't normally go to bed with women I don't know, although doing so allows one a certain freedom, I suppose. There's no need to pretend it actually means something other than what it is. You don't wake up in the morning worried that while in the throes of ecstasy you've made promises you don't intend to keep.