Easy Loving. Sheryl Lynn
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breath was warm.
His lips were velvet.
She sprang away, gasping. “Who do you think you are?” In her haste to escape, she struck a table with her hip. Several cans of fixative clattered to the floor. She grabbed blindly for them.
He looked dazed. He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it into spikes.
“It’s over!” She thrust out her left hand, showing him the ring. “I’m engaged. I have a life. You can’t interfere. I won’t let you.”
His mouth fell open. “You can’t marry Jeffrey Livman!”
“I can and I will—” Now she realized the danger. Easy had been doing a lot more than merely following her around. For all she knew his impulsive nature had evolved into an obsessive-compulsive disorder. “How in the world do you know about Jeffrey?”
“I’m a private investigator.” He spoke in a rush, his voice harsh. “I’m not interfering in your life, I’m trying to save it. Jeffrey Livman murdered his wife, and now he’s targeted you. I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it, so I put together some hard information. It’s in the envelope. Read it.”
She wished she knew as much about mental disorders as she did about animal anatomy. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to handle his delusions. She clamped down on the urge to shout and threaten. If she angered him, he’d eventually get around to figuring out how to destroy her in court. “Okay, I’ll read it.”
The dogs crowded her legs. Oscar growled, an ominous rumbling from deep in his chest. She rested a hand on his head.
“I have a lot to do,” she said. “Is there a number where I can reach you?”
“Don’t blow me off, Tink. This isn’t a joke. Jeffrey Livman is a stone-cold killer. He collected half a million dollars from his wife’s death. He’ll do the same thing to you.”
“I’m sure you only mean the best for me.” She nodded, hoping to impress him with a show of credulity. “I’ll read your stuff. But I do have a lot to do and I really can’t ask you to stay. I’ll call you. I promise.” After she called her attorney and found out what kind of options she’d have in a legal battle. “I promise, Easy. I will call you.”
She held her breath, waiting. The look he gave her ripped at her heart and made her mouth burn where his kiss had touched her. But he left her home.
She sprang after him and threw the dead bolt. She eyed the envelope he’d left behind. If he’d turned into a deranged stalker intent on destroying her life, she didn’t know what she’d do.
Catherine glared at the envelope Easy had left behind. She scrubbed at her lips where his touch lingered, taunting her with old memories and hurts. She refused to remember how much she’d loved him—how much he’d loved her.
Oscar and Bent eyed her curiously.
“I don’t know what his game is,” she told the dogs, “but I’m not playing. He’s crazy. Completely out of his mind.”
Jeffrey murdered his wife. The accusation hung in the air like an odor.
He’d collected proof her fiancé was a murderer—ridiculous! Easy must consider her a complete dummy if he thought for a moment he could march in here and disrupt her life. She snatched up the envelope. A string looped around a paper button held the flap shut.
She stomped into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet under the sink and dropped the envelope into the garbage can. With her foot, she closed the cabinet and swiped her hands in good riddance.
She hummed old show tunes, the notes fierce in her attempt to not think about Easy, while she showered. Once clean, she used a towel to scrub at her wet hair while she sat on the edge of the bed. Her attention wandered to the framed photograph of Elizabeth’s substitute. The anonymous child’s dark eyes seemed to mock her: He never lied to you.
“I never caught him in a lie,” she whispered in rebuttal. “There’s a big difference.”
Scrubbing her hair, she wandered restlessly around the bedroom and out to the lower-level family room. The room was stark, far too large for the lone recliner and television set that furnished it. Old-fashioned panelling on the walls reminded her of the rumpus room in the basement of Easy’s parents’ home.
This house wasn’t pretty and it needed extensive remodeling, but it was home. She liked it fifty times better than the pristine, overdressed, oversize showplace where her parents lived. Catherine wondered if this house had appealed so much to her because it reminded her of the Martels’ place over on Uintah Street.
Troubled, she dried her hair and left it loose. After slathering moisturizing lotion on her hands and arms, she slid on her engagement ring.
She frowned at the flashy ring. Jeffrey murdered his wife.
Easy didn’t even know Jeffrey, who had never been married much less murdered anyone. Easy couldn’t know Jeffrey. The two men were as different as fire and water, and had nothing in common. Except he did know Jeffrey—somehow.
She went upstairs to the kitchen and jerked open the cabinet under the sink. Easy claimed to be a private eye. She found it difficult to reconcile the memory of a sports-crazy, impulsive, restless boy with a methodical, dogged investigator. It made as little sense as his insistence that her fiancé had murdered a woman.
Easy wanted Elizabeth. Now that made sense. She wondered how far he’d go to find their daughter.
She slammed the cabinet shut and studied the kitchen. The old cabinets showed their age. The walls had been painted an odd shade of blue-green by the previous owners. When her next royalty check came in, she intended to redo the kitchen. She had plans for this house, plans for her life. Easy threatened her future, her happiness and her hard-won peace.
The telephone rang, startling her. Fearing it might be Easy, she waited for the answering machine to screen the call. Margaret’s brash voice insisted Catherine pick up the line.
Catherine snatched up the telephone. “I’m here! What’s up?” She noticed the light blinking on the answering machine, indicating she had other messages.
“I’m glad I caught you. We have a problem.”
Catherine chuckled, partly in relief because it was Margaret and not Easy, but mostly because Margaret thrived on crises and problems. “As long as you don’t make me speak in front of a crowd, I can handle it.”
“Does a press conference qualify as a crowd?”
It took a few seconds for her agent’s meaning to sink in. Catherine nearly choked. “Margaret! You know I hate publicity. I can’t do tours and press things. They make me crazy.” The mere idea of having to speak to a group of strangers filled her belly with ice.
“Settle down. You won’t actually have to say anything. All you have to do is stand there and look cute. You are cute, aren’t you? Do your publicity photos do you justice?”
Catherine groaned and sank onto a chair. “Spill it, Margaret. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been on the phone with Doc Halladay’s publicist The good doctor wants to meet you.”
Catherine had illustrated stories, books and articles for dozens of writers, none of whom she’d met face-to-face. She’d spoken to many of them on the telephone or via fax transmissions, but she’d never done a job that required personal contact. “Whatever for?”
“We’re dealing with television people. They spend the majority of their lives in meetings and at lunch. They like personal contact.”
“Do I have to go to New York? Or Los Angeles?”
“Actually…Halladay