Dark Desires

  Dark Desires

  By

  JoAnn Ross

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  "I was waiting for you."

  Savannah's relief at having someone finally answer the door was stifled by Blake's words. All in black, illuminated only by a flickering candle he held, he didn't look like a safe retreat from the storm.

  Blake was looking at her closely. Too closely. Savannah resisted the impulse to cover her scarred cheek with her palm. "You might have had a long wait."

  "No," he said. "I knew you'd come."

  "I'm not accustomed to auditioning."

  He nodded. "I thought it was important that I see how we work together. I'll show you to your room."

  Unwilling to let the faint candle flare out of her sight, Savannah followed close on his heels. Something brushed against her legs. Relief rushed over her when she viewed the midnight-black cat at her feet. Blake would have a black familiar. "Am I here so that you can see if we're compatible?"

  Blake stopped and assessed her from head to foot. "Not exactly. You're here so that I can discover whether or not I can work with you without taking you to bed."

  JoAnn Ross and the Temptation editors were walking along the Toronto waterfront when vampires naturally came up in the conversation. We all agreed that vampires were very romantic— unrequited love, danger, etc. As well, JoAnn told us about an idea she'd had kicking around for some time, the story of two people badly hurt by love who meet at an enchanted isolated house. Imagine our delight a few months later, when the combination of these two ideas arrived as Dark Desires!

  As this is the month that honors lovers, Harlequin is celebrating with MY VALENTINE 1992. Jo Ann's A Very Special Delivery is one of the wonderful short stories that focus on Valentine's Day. The collection includes other stories by popular Temptation authors Gina Wilkins, Kristine Rolofson and Vicki Lewis Thompson.

  In September 1992, The Knight in Shining Armor by JoAnn Ross will be a part of Rebels & Rogues—our yearlong salute to Temptation heroes. Don't miss this story about a hero who cares too much.

  To my editor,

  Malle Vallik,

  who understands the fantasy

  Published February 1992

  ISBN 0-373-25482-2

  DARK DESIRES

  Copyright © 1992 by JoAnn Ross.

  1

  "I've got a proposal for you."

  Savannah Starr crossed her long legs, sat back in the white wrought-iron chair and eyed the man seated across the umbrella-topped table with suspicion. Justin Peters had been pitching the same offer for the past three weeks. She'd been tossing it back into his lap for the identical length of time.

  "If it's what I think it is," she said, "the answer's still no." Flashing him a sweet but firm smile, she began searching through her seafood salad for elusive bay shrimp.

  Normally known for his unflappability, Justin Peters allowed his frustration to surface. "Anyone ever tell you that you take after your old man?"

  Savannah's father was a phenomenon in the music business: a British-born rock singer whose glittering star continued to rise after thirty years in the business. Over those years, Reggie Starr had been described as cheeky, unbelievably sexy, irreverent, irresistible, and brilliant. He was also infamous for his insistence on doing things his own way.

  "Since it isn't considered good form for an agent to insult a client, I'll assume you meant that as a compliment," Savannah said calmly.

  Justin Peters's answering expression was one of exasperation mixed with affection. He'd known Savannah for all of her twenty-six years. As agent to not only Savannah, but her father and equally famous mother, actress/sex-symbol Melanie Raine, he'd been on the scene at Savannah's birth, had comforted her when her parents divorced the summer of her seventh year and had been the only member of her "family" who'd managed to show up for her high-school graduation.

  Eighteen months ago, he'd grieved with her over her mother's death; six months later, he'd rushed to her hospital bed, where, ignoring threats from her doctors and seething glares from her nurses, he'd remained for three days until she'd been declared out of danger.

  Although he'd been married five times, none of those marriages had resulted in children. Now, at sixty-five, Justin had no intention of marrying again. Which made Savannah the closest thing to a daughter he'd ever have. Which was fine with him. Because he couldn't love her more if she were his own flesh and blood.

  "I still think you're making a mistake," he said, swirling his drink. "The role of Scarlett O'Hara only comes around every fifty years or so."

  There had been a time when Savannah would have lusted for a chance to play the world-famous vixen in the long-awaited sequel to Gone with the Wind. But for someone who'd grown up in a town where dreams and reality often became distorted, she was incredibly well-grounded. She'd also been born with a deep-seated sense of honesty that made it impossible for her to lie. Even to herself—especially to herself.

  With a sigh, she put her fork down and met his frustrated gaze with a resigned one of her own. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, Justin," she said gently. "And twelve months ago, I would have jumped at the chance. But a lot has changed." Her fingers unconsciously brushed against her cheek, drawing his attention to the faint line that went from her ear to the corner of her lips. The scar was one of several bearing mute evidence to last year's horror.

  "If you're worried about your scars, they're barely visible," he insisted, not for the first time.

  "They've faded a lot," Savannah agreed. "Especially since the dermabrasion. But closeup lenses are brutal."

  "All the years in the business and you haven't heard of soft-focus lenses?"

  His teasing question earned a faint smile. "Forget the Vaseline or cheesecloth, they'd have to shoot me through denim."

  Justin frowned. "Savannah, you're okay with all this, aren't you?"

  Try as he might, he couldn't forget the pain her mother had experienced when forced to face the fact that she was no longer the sexy young bombshell who'd been discovered selling stockings at Saks. When her stunning beauty began to fade, rather than have her legion of fans watch her age, Melanie Raine had committed suicide. Her untimely death had made headlines around the world; thousands of her distraught fans had descended on Forest Lawn for a lavish funeral befitting the woman who'd been described as the Goddess of Lust.

  The fleeting pain in Savannah's dark eyes revealed that she, too, was thinking of her mother—the very same woman who had once told her adoring five-year-old daughter that without beauty, a woman was nothing.

  "Emotionally, I'm fine. Physically…" She shrugged. "Let's just say that it's been a rough year. I'm glad it's over. And I'm eager to get back to work."

  "But not in front of the camera."

  "No." Her soft tone was firm. Final. "I enjoyed acting, but that part of my life is over. I've spent the past twenty years of my life utilizing talents I inherited from my mother. From now on, I'm concentrating on my father's branch of my genetic tree."

  "Speaking of music," Justin said with forced casualness, "I had dinner Saturday night with a client who admired your score for Seduced."

  The movie about a Southern siren who seduced a married police detective in order to convince him to kill her rich elderly husband had been Savannah's last role, and although she suspected that her Best Actress Oscar, awarded while she was still in the hospital, had been influenced by a strong sympathy vote, she was nevertheless proud of her work.

  But as much as she appreciated receiving the highest accolade that could have been grante
d her by her acting peers, she was exceptionally pleased with the way the movie's sound track—the first she'd ever done— had gained her immediate recognition in the music community—a recognition that didn't appear to have been influenced by her father's fame.

  "Oh?" she asked idly, beginning to relax, now that she had determined that Justin wasn't going to argue for her returning to the screen anymore. "Anyone I know?" She took a sip of white wine.

  "Blake Winters."

  "Ah." Savannah nodded. "The wunderkind."

  Although she'd never met the reclusive screenwriter/director/producer, his reputation as a maverick stood out in a herd-mentality town like Hollywood. There were other rumors, as well, Savannah remembered—especially about an accident concerning his former wife. But she'd been in the hospital at the time and didn't know the details.

  "Since I've heard he's quite difficult to please, I suppose I should be flattered," she said.

  "Blake's a perfectionist," Justin agreed. "But he knows talent when he sees it. Or in this case, hears it." He leaned back, glass in hand, and sipped his Scotch. "He's just finished his latest picture."

  "I read something about it last week in Variety," she recalled. "Is it true that the cast and crew had to swear not to divulge the plot or risk never working for him again?"

  "No one was actually forced to agree to those terms," Justin corrected.

  "But they all agreed?"

  "Blake is particularly close to this story. He doesn't want it hashed over in the press before he can get it to the screen."

  "Well, he sounds paranoid to me," Savannah decided. She speared an artichoke heart and popped it into her mouth.

  "Isn't everyone, in this town?"

  "I suppose so. But from what I've heard, if you look up the word paranoia in the dictionary, you'll find Blake Winters's picture. I also read that whenever he shot on location, he made the crew wear T-shirts suggesting they were working on a sci-fi film, instead of a black comedy about his marriage… That is what the film's about? His marriage?"

  "All Blake's movies are somewhat autobiographical," Justin hedged. "As for the T-shirts—I thought that was a particularly brilliant stroke of genius."

  "Or dementia," she countered. "Anyone that distrustful should be weaving baskets in some quiet sanitarium or, at the very least, making spy films."

  Taking another sip of the crisp, dry, house wine, she made a mental note to ask the waiter the label. It would be nice to serve at parties. Not that she'd done much entertaining in the past year. Actually, Savannah admitted to herself, she hadn't done any entertaining in the past twelve months. Perhaps Justin had been right, last week, when he'd accused her of becoming a hermit.

  "The Cold War's over," Justin pointed out, breaking into her introspection. "Which effectively rules out spy stories. And if Blake is a little wary of people—and I'm not agreeing that he is—did you ever consider that he might have a reason to be?"

  "Ouch." Savannah grimaced. "I think I've just been put in my place. live and let live—is that what you're saying?"

  "I was merely suggesting that you withhold judgment until you meet the guy."

  Savannah eyed him over the rim of her wineglass. "This proposal you asked me to lunch to discuss," she said slowly, "would it have anything to do with Blake Winters's new film?"

  "He wants you to audition to lay the track," Justin divulged, looking immensely pleased with himself.

  Two thoughts flew through Savannah's mind, the first being that she was being offered a chance to work with one of Hollywood's premiere talents. The second was that the man actually expected her to audition.

  "I haven't tried out for a part since I was fourteen years old," she reminded Justin unnecessarily.

  "By that time you'd already been in the business for eight years," he countered. "Everyone knew what you could do in front of the camera. But working in a studio, fitting music to moving pictures, is a whole different ball of wax, sweetheart."

  "You've already said he liked the sound track for Seduced. Surely that work speaks for itself."

  "It might—with any other director," Justin agreed. "But Blake's got his own way of working, Savannah. And he needs to feel that all the creative people on his team fully understand and appreciate what he's trying to do."

  "Audition." Savannah put down her glass and dragged her hand through her thick, shoulder-length black hair. "The idea of writing a song on spec, so some arrogant paranoid can determine whether or not I can understand his artistic intent, is ridiculous."

  She frowned and directed her attention toward the steady stream of traffic making its way up Sunset Boulevard. "What's even worse is that I'm actually considering doing it."

  "It'd be good for you to get back to work again," Justin pointed out, telling Savannah nothing that she hadn't been telling herself for weeks. "And since you categorically refuse to work in front of the camera, I'd say this is a golden opportunity." Point made, he returned his attention to his lunch, cutting into his prime-rib sandwich with gusto.

  He was right. Although Blake Winters wasn't the most prolific individual in town—his last film, a starring vehicle for his former wife, had been released three years ago—he was one of the most talented—perhaps even the very best in the business. The chance to work with him was enough of a lure that Savannah was willing to put aside her own pride. For now.

  "All right, I'll do it," she decided. "So, when can you get me a rough cut?"

  "I'm afraid it's not that simple."

  Of course not. From what little she'd read about Blake Winters, nothing about the man was simple. So why should she expect this to be any different? "What's the catch?"

  "You'll have to work at his place."

  An ebony eyebrow disappeared beneath the fringe of Savannah's dark bangs. "His place?"

  "He's got a house on the Mendocino coast, north of San Francisco."

  "The man actually expects me to travel all the way up there, just for an opportunity to audition?"

  "He's rather possessive about the film," Justin explained. "He doesn't like to let it out of his sight."

  Terrific. She already had the scars to prove what happened when a woman got involved with an overly possessive man. "Perhaps this isn't such a good idea…"

  "Blake Winters isn't Jerry Larsen," Justin gently pointed out.

  After all these years, Savannah wasn't surprised that Justin could read her mind. "If you mean he's not the kind of man to push a woman through a plate-glass window in a jealous rage, you're probably right," she agreed. "But I still think I'll pass."

  "Whatever you want." From his expression, Savannah knew that her longtime agent and friend wanted to argue. She also knew that he had never been one to force her into anything. Which wasn't always a blessing. If she'd only listened to him when he'd cautioned her against getting involved with Jerry…

  No. She shook her head, refusing to dwell on the past. That chapter of her life was behind her. Her broken bones had healed, her face had been worked on by the best plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills, and now, a year later, the faint scars were only visible in bright sunlight. Unfortunately, she realized with surprise as she left the restaurant, she'd not yet fully recovered from the emotional wounds Jerry Larsen had inflicted.

  A Pacific storm was blowing toward the rugged northern California coast. Dark clouds hovered ominously overhead, the white-capped waves crashed against the granite cliffs. Lost in his own thoughts, Blake Winters failed to notice the increasingly threatening weather. Indeed, a storm of an entirely different kind raged on his chiseled features as he strode along the cliff, cursing Savannah Starr under his breath.

  What kind of damn game was the woman playing? In the last twenty of her twenty-six years, she'd made fifteen movies, appeared briefly in two television soap operas, one cable miniseries, and even scored her last film. A workaholic himself, Blake could recognize obsession in others.

  After being forced to take the past twelve months off, Savannah must be going crazy. Accord
ing to the well-greased if admittedly inaccurate gossip mill, she was too badly scarred to ever appear on the screen again. If that were true—and since Justin had alluded to her unwillingness to return to acting, it might well be—the woman had no choice but to turn her attention to her music.

  Her father's international fame, while opening some doors, could not guarantee her work. The chances were that she'd be forced to discover firsthand exactly how competitive the music business could be—especially now that modern electronic advances had virtually killed the studio-music scene.

  Yet, here he was, offering her a chance to bypass all those closed doors. Unholy Matrimony was the best— not to mention the most commercial—film he'd ever made. He needed the right sound track to emphasize the proper mood. His every instinct told him that Savannah Starr was the woman to write that score. So, what had she done? Told her agent, "Thanks, but no thanks," and walked away from a golden—hell, a platinum-opportunity.

  Blake Winters was a man used to maintaining control over all aspects of his life. Unfortunately, he'd learned the hard way that controlling the behavior of a single woman was infinitely more difficult than directing a film crew numbering in the hundreds.

  "I'll give her three days to change her mind," he muttered into the wind. Jamming his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, he glared out over the storm-tossed sea. "And then I'll just have to change it for her."

  Savannah sat on the balcony of her Malibu home, her bare feet perched on the wooden railing, watching the morning parade of joggers run up and down the beach. She sipped her coffee, willing the caffeine to enter her bloodstream. It was four days after her lunch with Justin, and during that time she doubted that she'd slept more than ten hours. For three restless nights she'd tossed and turned, intrigued by the idea of working closely with Blake Winters, yet feeling equally apprehensive.