Night Hunter (7 page)

“
Seventy models are signed, and a handful more are interested. We’ve got IBM and Coca-Cola as corporate clients, not to mention the dozen or so smaller companies that have agreed to contract with us.”

With a thin smile, Amelia nodded.

Fletcher tucked his chin in the indentation of her collarbone. “I wish you could divorce that asshole now and marry me. I get sick just thinking about the two of you together, his slimy hands on you.

“
That makes two of us.”

“
How do you stay?”

“
I have no choice. Not yet, anyway. Until the business starts making money and I can stand on my own, I’m stuck with him. I can’t live long on eighty thousand dollars. And that’s all there would be since I signed a premarital agreement.”

“
You get nothing? This is a community property state. Fifty-fifty split.”

“
He has it all tied up in ‘sole and separate’ property. Believe me, he knew what he was doing, after all, he was an attorney before becoming a superior judge. I’m entitled to ten thousand dollars, my car, clothes, furs, and any jewelry he bought me, that’s it.”

“
Jewelry?”

“
I’ve long ago had the real stones replaced with glass and converted into cash.”

“
You’re a shrewd woman.”

“
Survival.” She smiled, running a fingernail along his jaw line.

“
Can you get away this weekend? Let’s take off Friday afternoon and tour the wine country.”

“
Ummm, sounds good —oh, damn, I can’t. I just remembered I’m scheduled to go on ‘City Gallery.’ The taping is Friday afternoon. I had hoped to use that spot for free advertising, but since they moved the show up nearly a month, it’s impossible now. I don’t want Matthew to have even a hint that I’m going into business. He’ll do something to spoil it, to make me totally dependent on him again. If that happens, I might as well be dead.”

“
Talk to your friend on Friday. If she can get us on a future show, we’ll plug the hell out of the business and the Honorable Corde can take a flying leap.”

The real estate agent stuck her head in the doorway. “Need more time?”

“
Give us another minute,” Fletcher said to the agent. He turned back to Amelia. “Well?”

She smiled up at him. “You know what’s best.”

“
You won’t be sorry,” he said.

I better not be,
she wanted to say. “I sold the stock last week. I pick up the check tomorrow.”

Fletcher kissed her. “Good. Then I’ll open the escrow account. But for now I’ll go with the agent back to her office and sign the lease papers. I’ll take care of the deposit. You go back to my place and get ready for me.”

“
I like this business arrangement already,” she said in a low voice.

They walked toward the door. Amelia stopped, looking around the room. “When the money starts to pour in, I want to redecorate. I have the most wonderful ideas for this suite.”

They parted in front of the building. Amelia walked the three blocks to Drumm, where the Mercedes was parked at a meter. She lit one of her long, slim cigarettes, started the car and pulled out quickly amid a barrage of honking, and merged into the traffic.

As she drove toward the marina, she thought about a weekend with her lover. If they left immediately after the taping on Friday afternoon, they could be across the Golden Gate Bridge and be on their way to the wine country within minutes. Getting away from her husband was no problem. All she had to do was invite Matthew to go to Napa for a visit with her parents. He loathed her parents and he was certain to refuse.

Thinking of her parents made her think of how she had met Matthew Corde. He was one of five judges for the Miss Classic Pageant, and although twenty-year-old Amelia seduced him, as well as the other male judge, she had failed to win the title. Had only gotten as close as second runner-up. After Corinne’s tragic incident, the crown and title were passed on to the first runner-up, who, fortunately for Amelia, declined the honor.

The top prizes of wardrobe, fur, cash, and new car had already been awarded to Corinne and, in all good conscience, could not be taken away. This Amelia understood with complete agreement. She would never take anything second-hand. She insisted upon, and was granted, duplicates of all the prizes befitting the queen of the pageant.

The most coveted prize had been a screen test at a major studio in Hollywood. Amelia had taken the test, and been told she showed great promise, but before the contract could be drawn up, the financially faltering studio was swallowed up by a larger, more prosperous one. Her numerous calls went unreturned. In the twelve-month reign, stigmatized by the attack on Corinne, Amelia had been called upon to appear at only a handful of inconsequential functions. Seeing only one way out of her barren, small-town existence, she married the wealthy attorney, Matthew Corde, and moved into his opulent estate in Pacific Heights. She had agreed to the premarital condition because, eventually, she always got her way. “Manipulation” and “persuasion” were words designed for her. There was not a doubt in her mind that once she got Matthew to say “I do,” she could get him to say and do anything. On her wedding day she vowed that before their first anniversary he would void that ridiculous agreement.

In less than a week, she realized with utter disbelief as she sped toward the marina, they would celebrate their nineteenth anniversary.

Amelia left her car in the basement of Fletcher’s building and walked to the elevator, her heels echoing hollowly on the concrete. As she stood waiting for the elevator, she shivered from the cold.

“
Come on, you damn elevator,” she whispered under her breath, looking up at the lights above the doors. She hated these dark parking garages. She jabbed impatiently at the button, shifting from one foot to another. Taking her clutch purse from under her arm, she opened it and took out her keys, finding the one to Fletcher’s apartment.

A scraping sound, soles on concrete echoing eerily in the garage, alerted her that she was not alone. She whirled around, and suddenly someone was there, a terrifying figure in black. She got little more than a glimpse of him as his arm swung out from behind his back, coming toward her. She cried out, pulling back, and instinctively thrust her clutch bag in front of her face. The sound of something wet splashed against the leather. A scream, nearly inaudible, escaped from her throat. At her back the elevator door opened and she stumbled inside. The man in black reached out.
He wants the purse,
she told herself, fighting the terror.
Don’t be stupid. Let him have it.

Amelia threw the purse out into the garage and slapped at the elevator buttons. The man in black twisted around at the sound of the leather bag hitting the concrete floor, then turned back to her. The doors were closing as Amelia backed into the corner, one hand striking out blindly with the keys, the other hand over her face. When she had the nerve to look, the doors had closed and she was alone.

Over the clamoring of her heart, she felt the elevator moving. Would he be waiting for her when it stopped on the second floor? He had her purse, but when he saw there was no money or credit cards inside, would he come after her jewelry? She looked down at her wedding ring, a massive tangle of gold and glittering diamonds, and her emerald-cut ruby
ring —no
longer real stones in either, but the mugger couldn’t know that. She moaned, trying to catch her breath. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, the movement visible beneath the soft knit of her dress. The elevator stopped. When the door opened a moment later, Amelia was rigidly poised, both rings in the palm of one hand —to be given over readily if need be. In the other hand she gripped a sharp key tightly for protection should he want more than the rings.

The man in black was nowhere to be seen.

She rushed from the elevator and down the corridor to Fletcher’s apartment. An instant later, she was inside, slamming the door and locking it. Her mind raced. A mugger. She had actually been accosted by a mugger and her purse stolen. She had to report it to the police, she thought, slipping her rings back on. Oh God, no, she couldn’t. She would have to tell them where it had happened and Matthew would want to know what she was doing, who she was seeing, at this apartment building. Besides, what would she gain by reporting it? There was little of value in her handbag. Makeup, cigarettes and lighter, and driver’s license.

She saw traces of something wet on her jacket and she grimaced. God only knew what vile stuff had come from that pervert, she thought with a shudder of revulsion. Amelia pulled off the jacket and threw it on the floor. She angrily scrubbed her hands at the bathroom sink, thinking that in addition to losing her purse, something had been tossed on a very expensive outfit. She poured a neat glass of vodka and paced until Fletcher came in an hour later.

“
My God, darling, you could have been killed,” he said after she told him about the man in the garage. He wrapped his arms around her. “Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?”

She was shaking uncontrollably now. Fletcher’s concern made her aware of what a close encounter she’d had. When she calmed down enough to be left alone, Fletcher went out to retrace her steps. In minutes he was back. No sign of her purse or a man in black, he reported.

They decided, after discussing it at length, that due to the clandestine nature of their relationship, it was best to pretend it never happened.

CHAPTER 11

The light on Regina Van Raven’s telephone blinked, indicating a caller was holding. She finished up on another line and glanced at the desk clock. Damn, she was going to be late. It was Monday, and Kristy, going straight from work at the Farm House Restaurant, was to meet her at the new apartment to measure the windows and floors. Regina had a key, Kristy didn’t.

She punched the lighted button. “Van Raven speaking,” she said impatiently.

“
That show about the beauty contestants ...” a low voice began, pausing.

“
Yes, what about it?”

“
Maybe it shouldn’t.”

“
Shouldn’t what?”

“
Go on.”

Regina rolled her eyes upward. Her patience was stretched to the max. “And why not?”

“
History has a way of repeating itself,” he said. Regina was about to cut him off when she heard him ask, “Will Corinne Odett be there? Only one side of her face is burned, shall we try for the other side?”

Regina sat up, her eyes darting around the open production department. She wanted someone to get on an extension
and hear this. The only other person in the area was Tom Gansing, the director, and he had his back to her.

“
What do you know about Corinne?” Regina asked. She wadded a piece of paper and threw it toward Tom. It fell short, unnoticed.

The line disconnected.

Just as Regina slammed down the receiver, Donna appeared.“Reg, what’s the matter?”

“
Someone has a long memory. That was a call about this Friday’s show.”

“
The ‘Classic’ format?”

“
Yes. It sounded like a threat.”

Donna stood silently staring at Regina. Then: “Another attack?”

Regina shrugged.

“
Man or woman?” Donna asked.

“
I couldn’t tell. The voice was deep, gravelly.”

“
A crank, maybe?”

“
Sure, it’s possible. But what if it isn’t?”

“
What’s possible?” Nolan asked, joining Donna.

“
Regina just got a phone threat of some sort. Tell him, Reg.”

Regina repeated what the caller had said.

“
A kook,” Nolan said, grinning. “Forget it.”

Donna, her face showing concern, turned to her husband. “Honey, maybe we should discuss it. If Reggie’s anxious about it--”

Nolan cut her off. “If it happens again, then we’ll discuss it. Okay?”

Donna looked to Regina. Regina sighed. She opened the bottom drawer, pulled out her purse, and stood. Talking to Nolan was a waste of time. He would welcome threats, even a grisly follow-through if it would boost the ratings. In fact, she wouldn’t put it past Nolan to have made the call himself.