True Bliss (44 page)

"Ferrito," he said quietly. "Nasty Ferrito. Nasty to my friends."

This time her voice was faint. "Nasty?"

"You can call me Nasty."

"Nasty? "

"Sure. And don't ask me why that's my name because I don't discuss it." He didn't even think about it. "Dusty Miller and I run Room Below. It's a dive shop. We're trustworthy people. I'm trustworthy."

A woman in red climbed from a motorcruiser and set off toward land. The flash of relief on Polly's face was impossible to miss. "You really are afraid of me, aren't you?" he asked.

"Good night, Nasty."

"Aren't you? Doesn't matter. I'll find out why."

"You'll leave me alone." Trotting now, Polly followed the woman.

"If you're scared, it isn't because of me. Let me help you."

"No!" She started to run.

"Lock your doors, Polly." Jesus Christ, she was terrified. Something had crawled inside her skull and ripped up her nerves. He'd just happened along when she was ready to break. "Do you hear me? Lock yourself in."

Her strides lengthened but he kept the same distance between them with no effort.

As she reached the grass verge at the shore end of the docks, Polly paused and looked back at him. Her eyes were dry but wild.

"It's okay," he told her. "Talk to me. Let me help you. Tell me what you need and I'll make sure you get it."

She didn't answer, but sped away once more.

Nasty threw up his hands and said, "Okay, you win. For now. But remember to lock those doors. A lovely woman alone is always vulnerable."

He let her leave him behind.

So he wasn't smooth. Maybe he'd handled things badly even.

But not badly enough to warrant her behavior. She was scared shitless about something and he wasn't through asking what it was. Next time he'd just have to be more forceful.

Yeah, next time he wouldn't take no for an answer.

When she ran, her long, white skirt flipped up around her knees. Even at a distance he noted how pretty her legs were. She had narrow feet. Nasty Ferrito was a foot man on occasion. Like now. He'd like to kiss Polly Crow's feet. He'd start with the toes, spend a lot of time on her instep, go slow, very slow— work his way up.

Bless the wet suit.

"Hello, Pretty Polly. Put the Kettle On."

The light on the answering machine still flashed, but a click came, then a buzz.

Polly felt so sick she had to sit down. That was it, the whole message. She pushed strands of hair from her forehead and felt moisture. She was sweating, but she'd been sweating since she left the hard-muscled, cold-eyed diver behind on the waterfront. "... remember to lock those doors. A lovely woman alone is always vulnerable."

Another click.

"Polly, where are you? It's your favorite super-model sister. I'm so sick of being an object, my love. All these pushy people pawing me. Can we meet? Puhleeze? Call me."

Fabiola. Polly smiled with relief at the sound of her twin's blessedly familiar voice and reached for the phone.

Click, buzz, click.

She peered at the counter on the answering machine. Six calls and she'd only heard two.

"Oh, Pretty Polly, you haven't been listening to me. I'm going to have to get very angry with you if you don't stop disobeying me."

Click.

She let her hand fall back into her lap. He as much hissed, as

whispered. Who was he? The clock on the equipment no longer functioned. Why hadn't she fixed it or bought a new one?

Buzz. Click.

"Heavenly child, I feel you are in need of me. Come to Festus and to me. You are always so calm at Another Reality. I'll make you some of my latest tea. Soar to Serenity. It's a Belinda special, darling child."

Belinda and Festus of Another Reality, a crystals, incense, taro, tea, and wiccan-wannabe shop, had become good friends to Polly and Bobby.

Click.

"You should be there by now, Polly. You've had time to leave the studio and get home. Ah, but I mustn't be too harsh with you. Perhaps that dreadful man who writes the scripts has kept you late. Be very careful of him, pet, he wants you, you know. He wants your body, not your mind. I want your mind . . . and your body. Bye."

The scream Polly heard was her own. Shaking desperately she stared at the readout that should have given her the caller's identification. Blocked. Every time it was blocked.

Who could she ask for help? Venus was out of the question. Fabiola would panic, too. Belinda and Festus already knew and had suggested incense and a goddess to do something or other.

Once more the buzz on the line was followed by a click, and the whisperer said, "You have tried my patience, Pretty Polly. Why can't you understand that I, and only I am to see the woman you really are. That thin, white skirt"—he gave a grating moan—"with the light shining through. And the wind blowing. You know what that does. You do these things deliberately. Light and wind. Showing your legs. Oh, yes, your legs . . ."

The connection broke before the final message began. First there was only panting, then he said. "I've given you chances. I told you there is a connection between us. But you have denied me again. Others saw you on the dock, flaunting yourself. Disgusting. But don't worry, little Polly, I'm going to save you from yourself. . . ."

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Stella Cameron, the bestselling author of 40 books, lives in Seattle with her husband and children. The award-winning author of SHEER PLEASURES and PURE DELIGHTS has seen her books on nearly every bestseller list in America. Born in England, she was working as an editor in Harley Street where she met her husband, an officer in the American Air Force, at a party in London. He invited her to dance, and they've been together ever since.