You Belong To Me (20 page)

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Authors: Patricia Sargeant

BOOK: You Belong To Me
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“I hear him sometimes,” he admitted.
“Pardon me?”
“Ty. Sometimes he talks to me,” Malcolm clarified. “I hear his voice in my mind.”
“What does he say?” Nicole asked, with more than curiosity in her tone.
Malcolm shrugged. He didn't see any need to discuss Tyrone's attempts to play matchmaker. “I don't know if he's actually speaking or if I'm losing my mind.”
He flinched when Nicole clasped his hand, which lay between them on the sofa. His eyes popped open, his gaze caught by her soft regard. Her smile further ensnared him.
“You're not losing your mind,” she said. “That's what people mean when they say our dearly departed never really depart from us. It's a sign of how strong your bond is with him.”
Malcolm considered her response. He slid his hand free of her grasp, afraid the physical connection would further undermine his control. But he regretted the flash of pain in her eyes.
“Is that what happened to you after your mother died?” he asked.
A sad smile tugged at a corner of her lips. “Yes. And when my father passed away. Sometimes I still hear them both. They encourage me when I wonder if I have what it takes to be successful. Or scold me when I'm not getting enough sleep. In my mind, they repeat words or phrases they used to say when they were alive.”
“That's what it's like for me,” Malcolm admitted. “They're parts of conversations Ty and I have had in the past, cut together.” He paused, lost in thought. “I remember when your father died,” he murmured, recalling her depression and insomnia.
“You were my rock. I can't tell you how much your support meant to me.” Nicole's response brought back memories of all the times he'd held her as she'd cried. How he'd worried about her.
Nicole lifted her hand. Then, as though rethinking her impulsive act, she lowered it back to the sofa. “I hope you'll let me return the favor.”
“You have.” Malcolm shifted to see her better. “It helps to just be here talking to you like this.”
A quizzical expression drifted across Nicole's face.
“What is it?” Malcolm asked.
“Nothing.” Nicole stood, turning toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Some water?”
Malcolm followed her. “Nicky, don't change the subject. Tell me what you're thinking.”
Nicole put ice in two glasses, then filled them with water from the tap. She avoided his eyes as she responded to his question. “I've never seen this side of you before.”
Malcolm stiffened. He cursed the weakness that had allowed him to give in to the need to see her when he wasn't ready, when he wasn't himself. He hated craving her comfort. Malcolm hurried to resurrect his barriers as Nicole turned to offer him the glass of ice water.
“I've always wanted you to feel comfortable coming to me when you were troubled, but you never did,” she continued. “I don't know what made you finally change your mind, but I'm glad you did. I'm happy to be able to help you the way you had always helped me.”
Caught off guard, Malcolm stared at her. Her response left him scrambling for footing behind his semireconstructed barrier. Under his fixed stare, Nicole's gaze slid away. As she moved to brush past him, Malcolm reached out and wrapped his hand around her slender bicep.
“What is it?” he asked again. “What are you thinking?”
He didn't think she would answer this time. Her reply was so long in coming. Then he had to strain to hear her words.
“I never thought you would need me for anything,” she whispered.
A half-dozen needs swept through him with her words. The need to comfort and be comforted. The need to cherish and be cherished. The need to be wanted, loved, respected, and needed by this woman who meant so much to him. He stood dumbly in the eye of the storm.
Nicole turned to face him, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears. She lifted her hand to cup his jaw.
“Don't be afraid of the pain, Mal. It takes a long time to function past it. And, even then, you'll still feel the echo of it. But that's normal. It hurts when you lose someone you love.”
He looked at her, thinking not only of Tyrone but also of what he'd had with her and had thrown away.
“I know,” he said, drinking in more of her comfort. “I know.”
 
The battle on the
InterDimensions
space station raged. The invading forces overwhelmed the station's soldiers. Captain Mallory had been badly wounded in the laser fight. Lieutenant Commander Albright—the woman behind the man charged with protecting the galaxy—prepared to drag her captain farther behind battle lines as she reluctantly shouted orders for her officers to retreat.
As the lieutenant commander, Nicole's alter ego, started to make one of her trademark dry comments, the security buzzer of Nicole's apartment summoned the author abruptly back to planet Earth. Nicole finished her thought before it was forever forgotten, then, still caught between two worlds, walked to her security phone.
Images from the space station battle still played in her head. She could hear the explosions, smell the smoke, see the blood as it spread over the captain's tunic. How was she going to get her characters out of this one?
“Yes?” she snapped.
“Detectives Miller and Fairway to see Ms. Collins.” The gruff male voice claimed Nicole's full attention.
The
InterDimensions
images cleared, and Nicole landed back on twenty-first-century Earth. “Just a moment.”
She hurried into her bedroom and pulled on her sneakers before jogging downstairs to the security door. A woman living alone couldn't be too careful. Nicole would examine their police badges before letting these strange men into her apartment. When she caught her first sight of them through the glass security door, she smiled. One partner resembled a taller Detective Columbo; the other looked like a heavyset Sonny Crockett, a detective from the 1980s series
Miami Vice
. She could use these characters in one of her mystery novels.
The detectives held up their badges without her having to ask for the identification. Still smiling, Nicole opened the door and stepped back.
“Good morning, detectives. Please follow me.”
Nicole trotted back up the stairs, then waited outside her open apartment door for the two men to catch up.
“You have a lot of energy for this time of the morning,” puffed Jim “Columbo” Miller.
Frowning, Nicole glanced at the clock above her entertainment center. It was almost eleven o'clock. Not that early.
“I've been up for a while,” she explained as he and Ethan “Sonny Crockett” Fairway walked past her into the apartment.
Miller grunted as he pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed it under his jaw and across his throat. His pink cheeks were even more flushed than they had been when she'd first seen him at the security entrance. Nicole felt a twinge of guilt. She shouldn't have set such a brisk pace back to her apartment. The detective wasn't in a condition for it.
She looked at Ethan Fairway. He wasn't saying anything, but from the quick rise and fall of his chest, he also was trying to catch his breath. Nicole's guilt increased.
“May I get you gentlemen anything? Perhaps some water?”
“That would be terrific,” Miller said.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Fairway agreed.
“Please, have a seat.” She walked toward the kitchen.
She filled three tall glasses with ice and cold water and put the glasses on a tray. She returned to find the detectives seated on her sofa visually cataloging everything in her living room and dining area.
“Here you are.” After the detectives each took a glass, she set the tray on the coffee table, claimed a glass for herself, then settled onto the love seat.
Miller gulped half the glass of water. “Thank you.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Fairway echoed. “And thank you for agreeing to see us.”
“I'm happy to help however I can with the investigation, although I didn't know Tyrone Austin well. He was a very nice person.”
Miller set down his empty glass and pulled out his notepad. “When did you first meet Mr. Austin?”
“January thirty-first.” Nicole still mentally cringed when she thought of the bad first impression she must have made. “I came to Los Angeles to discuss Celestial Productions's bid for the movie rights to my sci-fi books.”
“How did that meeting go?” Fairway asked.
Nicole paused at his curt tone. Apparently, Fairway wanted to play good cop/bad cop and had cast himself as the bad cop. His rapid-fire delivery probably was designed to catch her off balance. Fair enough, she decided, determined not to let him rattle her. She hadn't done anything wrong. Her objective was to help the police find Tyrone's killer.
“That meeting was inconclusive.” Nicole smiled. “I wasn't certain I wanted to sell the movie rights.”
“What made you change your mind?” Fairway persisted.
Nicole hesitated, reluctant to reveal personal family information. “Celestial Productions's offer was very generous, and they agreed to my contract terms.”
“You didn't feel any pressure to sign?” Miller's measured delivery contrasted with Fairway's brusque tone.
“Not from Ty or Mal, no.”
Fairway's gaze sharpened as though sensing a vulnerable spot. “If not from Mr. Austin or Mr. Bryant, who did you feel pressure from?”
Nicole shrugged. “Myself,” she answered honestly.
Fairway's eyes narrowed as though he doubted her answer. He finished his drink before resuming his questions. “Did you know Celestial Productions is having financial problems?”
“Yes, I did.” Nicole mentally thanked Joyce for sharing that information with her. She would have hated being caught off guard by Sonny Crockett's evil twin.
Fairway frowned. “And you agreed to the deal anyway?”
Nicole sipped her water. “I didn't see a need for a financial disclosure, Detective Fairway. The contract was in order, and my check didn't bounce.”
Miller shifted on the sofa before redirecting the questioning. “Did you sense any tension between Mr. Austin and Mr. Bryant?”
“No. They seemed like good friends as well as good partners.” Nicole drank more water.
“Can you think of anyone who showed signs of hostility toward Mr. Austin?” Miller followed up.
“No. No one at all. That's what makes this situation so strange to me,” Nicole confided. “I would think you'd have to really hate someone to force him or her off the road. But Ty didn't seem like the kind of person to inspire such a strong, negative emotion.”
“In cases like these, Ms. Collins, nothing and no one are the way they seem,” Miller warned.
 
Malcolm hadn't slept well on Nicole's couch the night before. The second sleepover in a row, counting his emotional breakdown. The sofa didn't make a comfortable bed, and he'd had a lot on his mind, including coming up with an airtight argument for her to move into his house. The intercom interrupted another yawn.
“Eunice Gannon is on the line for you.”
Rita spoke in a subdued, preoccupied tone. They both carried much heavier loads now that they were picking up Tyrone's tasks. Neither minded the extra work. It was the reason for the responsibilities that caused the burden. Someone out there—perhaps someone they knew—had murdered a good friend.
Malcolm tapped the computer's mouse to save the production schedule he was altering in preparation for his meeting with the completion guarantor. He then pressed the button on the telephone to take the casting director's call.
“Hello, Eunice,” he greeted. “How are you?”
“I'm fine, Malcolm. And you?” The casting director briskly exchanged the perfunctory greeting.
“Good, thanks. What can I do for you?”
“Malcolm, I've had to make a difficult decision, and I hope you'll understand. This is business.”
Dread settled over him. “What's that, Eunice?”
“I'm pulling out of the
InterDimensions
project.”
Malcolm took a steadying breath. “Can I ask why?”
“My company can't handle the negative publicity right now.” Eunice's tone was unapologetic.
Malcolm's anger built. “I think of Ty's death as a tragedy, not negative publicity.”
“Tyrone didn't just die. He was murdered. And, according to the film-industry rumor mill, the police suspect you.”

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