Dark Desires Page 2

  Immediately after leaving the restaurant, she'd gone to the L.A. Times building, where she'd spent the remainder of the afternoon in the morgue, poring over microfilm of year-old newspaper clippings. While she'd made more than her share of headlines in those days, Blake had been busy creating a few of his own—the most unsettling being those in which the police questioned him regarding his wife's near-fatal car crash.

  According to the published reports, his wife had allegedly been having affairs with other men, including a well-known producer whom she ultimately married after a particularly messy divorce. Although no charges had been filed, rumors persisted that Pamela Winters's accident was a failed attempt by Blake Winters to kill his wife for her blatant infidelity.

  To Savannah, who'd already suffered at the hands of a dangerously possessive man, such rumors proved chilling. Enough so, that her nightmares had returned with a vengeance, their horrors even infiltrating her waking mind during the day.

  She'd returned to the kitchen for a refill when her doorbell rang, jerking her from her unsettling thoughts. Peering through the peephole in the door, she breathed a sigh of relief as she recognized the uniformed courier. Even then, she remained cautious, opening the door only wide enough to accept delivery of the red-and-white cardboard envelope.

  After exchanging polite pleasantries about the weather, Savannah shut the door, refastening the multiple locks before turning her attention to the envelope, whose contents were boldly proclaimed in a bright primary red to be Urgent.

  "You win this round," the brief note read in a strong, masculine scrawl. "Here are two scenes; you're the only one outside the immediate crew to read them." It was signed, without the bother of a polite closing, simply, "Blake Winters."

  Unwillingly intrigued in spite of her better judgment, Savannah took the pages out onto the balcony and began to read. The first scene, glowingly lit by candlelight, depicted the protagonist falling in love; it was lushly romantic, bordering on the erotic.

  But if that successfully captured her attention, it was the second scene—where the husband belatedly discovered that he'd married a female vampire—that proved absolutely riveting. Broadly drawn, it borrowed from a mingling of romance, black comedy and horror genres, while remaining both fresh and familiar at the same time.

  Ten minutes later, Savannah had finished the sample pages and was eager for more. "I'll say this for you, Winters," she muttered with reluctant admiration, "you have definitely piqued my interest."

  At that precise moment, the doorbell sounded again. It was the courier with another envelope. This time, rather than the additional scenes Savannah had been hoping for, Blake Winters had enclosed an airline ticket to San Francisco and another brief note.

  "You can view the corresponding clips tomorrow. I'll meet your flight and drive you up the coast to my house. Don't bother to bring any recording equipment; I have everything you'll need." This time he'd merely scrawled his initials at the bottom of the page.

  "The nerve of the man," Savannah fumed. "Thinking he can order me around this way." She began pacing the bleached-oak flooring of her living room. "If he treated his wife this way, it's no wonder she fooled around."

  No, Savannah amended reluctantly. Even if Blake Winters had acted like a dictator, that didn't excuse Pamela's blatant behavior with other men. Not wanting to prejudge a woman she'd met only once, and then just briefly, Savannah considered that perhaps Pamela had tried to escape her marriage, only to be held captive by her husband's unyielding possessiveness.

  Even as she told herself that she wanted nothing to do with such a man, even professionally, Savannah couldn't keep the tantalizing strains of music from her mind. There was no doubt about it; Blake Winters's darkly compelling scenes had effectively stimulated her creativity.

  "All right," she muttered, marching into the bedroom where she began throwing clothing into an overnight bag, "I'll audition for your damn movie. But on my terms. And at my convenience."

  By the time she landed in San Francisco that afternoon, twenty-four hours ahead of Blake's autocratic schedule, the evocative melodies running through Savannah's mind had almost made her forget her initial aversion to working with such an impossible, dangerous man.

  2

  It was dusk, too late for sunlight, too early for stars, by the time Savannah left the highway, following the hand-drawn map that she'd wheedled from Justin. Although she'd expected another hour of daylight, night seemed to come quickly in this part of the country. As she drove through the towering redwood groves, the sky grew darker, the temperature dropped, and ominous drops of rain began splattering against the windshield of her rented car.

  "You have got to be crazy," Savannah muttered to herself, leaning forward over the steering wheel to peer out into the widening well of purple darkness. The wind picked up and the rain began to slant hard. "How do you know he'll even be home?"

  If she had any sense, Savannah told herself, she would have stopped at that friendly-looking inn a few miles back and telephoned him. But she had been overtaken by some perverse desire to arrive unannounced, to demonstrate unequivocally that even the great Blake Winters couldn't always have things his way.

  But with the way this road was beginning to wash out, if she arrived to find the man not at home, she could very easily end up spending the night in her car.

  Which was, considering the potential of the Pacific storm brewing outside, a most unappealing scenario.

  Savannah had never considered herself a reckless person. She'd always left the flamboyant behavior and caution-throwing to her famous parents. During this past year, she'd grown even more prudent, and although she refused to accept Justin's accusation that she was hiding behind the multiple locks on her house, she couldn't deny that it had been a very long time since she'd ventured more than a few miles from home. And then, only during the day, when the bright California sunshine illuminated everything and everyone, making her feel almost safe.

  So, what was she doing, traveling alone on this treacherous mountain road, headed toward the home of a man she knew little about, other than the fact that he was rumored to have tried to kill his wife?

  "Don't be ridiculous." Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the close confines of the car. "Those were only vicious tabloid rumors. Nothing more. Besides, Justin would never have encouraged you to work with the man if he thought you'd be in any danger."

  Terrific. Now she was talking to herself. Nothing like a north-coast storm to drive a person a little insane. No wonder Winters had written a screenplay about a vampire. The man definitely lived in the right place for it.

  The rain fell harder, streaming down the windshield, making visibility nearly impossible. Although she hated to admit to what she considered a distressingly feminine weakness, storms had always played havoc with her nerves. And tonight was no exception.

  Darkness engulfed the car. Her senses were so stimulated by the building storm that Savannah began to imagine that the black tree limbs arching over the narrow roadway were ominously gesturing arms, leading her into danger. All the eerie atmosphere needed was the howl of a werewolf—or the flapping of a vampire's black-caped wings.

  She considered going back, but common sense told her that if she tried to turn the car around on this narrow gravel road, she'd only succeed in getting mired down in the muddy shoulder. No, she had no choice but to continue on the path she'd chosen.

  Five minutes later, she drove through a particularly deep wash. Moments later, the engine coughed and shuddered to a stop.

  "Damn!"

  Savannah twisted the key in the ignition. Once. Twice. Forcing herself to count to ten, she tried a third time. But there was only a weak grinding sound that gave way to an ominous silence.

  "Damn Blake Winters's black heart," she cursed, slamming her hands down on the steering wheel. This was, without a doubt, the most stupid thing she'd ever done. But now that she'd come this far…

  She turned on the dome light and studied the map. If the
map was accurate, she was less than half a mile from Winters's house. Before her near-fatal fall through her living-room window, she'd run ten times that distance each morning before breakfast.

  Heaving a sigh, she tried the ignition one last time. Nothing. Pocketing the key with another curse, she left the car. As she trudged up the muddy road, bent against the driving wind, Savannah prayed that Blake Winters was at home.

  He was. While Savannah was slowly making her way toward his rambling Victorian house, Blake was sitting in front of a comfortable fire, watching her slink across his large-screen television set, clad in a clinging white silk slip that displayed every lush curve to advantage.

  Cut to a close-up. Her thickly lashed eyes, the color of rich, dark coffee, were guileless as she coaxed her married lover into committing murder. Although Blake, more than most men, understood the difference between real life and the movies, when those wide eyes looked directly at him, he experienced a slow, seductive pull—the same painfully erotic pull he'd been suffering for days.

  Cursing, he pointed the remote control at the television and darkened the screen. Pushing himself out of the chair, he walked over to the bank of windows and watched the flashes of lightning arc over the darkening sea.

  He'd always enjoyed living on this part of the coast; he found the storms exciting, invigorating—unlike Pamela, who'd complained that the wind and rain destroyed her expensively coiffed blond hair and that between the morning fog and the afternoon rains, it was utterly impossible to get a decent tan.

  His wife had much preferred Beverly Hills, which Blake hated. Which was why, after the initial whirlwind courtship, he'd reluctantly agreed to separate homes.

  In the beginning, the plan had been for him to write during the week, here on the coast, and for her to join him on the weekends. And when his wife's busy social calendar began to preclude such visits, he'd tried visiting her in that outrageously expensive French Regency manor that he considered more a museum than a proper home.

  But the house was always packed to the rafters with guests, and the weekends consisted of elaborate brunches by the pool, excruciatingly boring society lunches, and formal dinner parties where the guests tried to outdo each other with their sartorial splendor. By the sixth month of their marriage, Blake found the atmosphere increasingly claustrophobic—a complaint Pamela blithely dismissed.

  An intense lightning flash preceded a stunning roll of thunder. The lights flickered briefly, then went out, plunging the house into darkness. Retrieving a book of matches from the desk drawer, Blake went around the room lighting the candles he kept for just such an emergency. After dealing with that little domestic problem, he allowed his mind to drift back to his disastrous marriage.

  It hadn't been easy on his ego to admit that he'd made a mistake—that he'd fallen in love with the woman Pamela had pretended to be, rather than the self-consumed, frighteningly ambitious actress who'd do anything to get a part—including marrying a man in order to coax him into writing a screenplay she could use as a vehicle for fame and fortune.

  Even as she constantly derided him for what she considered his boring, rustic life-style, Pamela had re-fused to give him a divorce. There were definite perks to being Mrs. Blake Winters—privileges she was not about to give up. By the time their second anniversary rolled around, they were living in mutual distaste, miles from each other.

  Blake's fingers tightened around his glass. That was all in the past; he'd exorcised his deep, seething anger while writing Unholy Matrimony. The film was the most autobiographical and the best work he'd ever done. After viewing the rough cut, Justin had agreed, predicting that Blake would not only walk away with all the awards at Cannes, but sweep the Oscars, as well. So, why the hell was he in such a rotten mood?

  It was because of her. Savannah Starr. Oh, he had no doubt that Justin was right about her ability to score his film; after hearing the sound track from her last film, Blake realized that she'd inherited her father's musical genius. What he did have a great many questions about was his ability to work closely with such a beautiful woman. Or, at least, one as beautiful as she had once been. Because he had the scars to prove that a woman, too, could hide one helluva lot behind such wide, guileless eyes. Furious at letting Savannah get under his skin before she'd even arrived, Blake poured himself another drink and brooded.

  Finally! Savannah could have wept with relief when she reached Blake Winters's cliffside house. But when she actually focused on the huge Gothic mansion, complete with a tower and widow's walk, her breath caught in her throat.

  The stone house was draped in deep purple shadows that served to intensify its brooding atmosphere. And although it reminded her of the type of home Dracula might have chosen, were the vampire to decide to relocate from Transylvania to northern California, it was, she told herself, a safe, warm refuge from the storm. As if to push her inside, the rain came down even harder, and lighting washed the house in brief, stuttering flashes of light.

  The lion's-head knocker was heavy and old. After banging it against the ornately carved door for what seemed like hours, Savannah was forced to face her worst fear: that Winters wasn't home. She had just decided to break one of the darkened windows to gain entrance to the house, when the heavy door swung open to reveal Dracula himself, silhouetted by a flare of lightning.

  No. Not Dracula, she determined on a cooling rush of relief. The storm had caused her imagination to run amok. It was only Winters, clad in black jeans and a black sweater. Not that he looked all that safe, himself. His jet-black hair was swept back from a deep widow's peak and his stormy eyes were either black or brown—she couldn't quite tell which. His features, illuminated by the flickering candle he held in his left hand, appeared to have been chiseled from a block of granite. "What the hell are you doing here?" Brows lowered, he stared down at her.

  Irritation and exhaustion steamrolled her earlier fear. "Unless my memory has failed, I believe you ordered me here," she shot back.

  "I was expecting you tomorrow."

  "I know. But I was so excited about the chance to collaborate with genius that I couldn't resist coming early." She flashed him a patently false smile.

  "How did you get here?"

  "How do you think? I drove."

  "In this weather?" He glanced past her. "Where's your car?"

  "It's down the road about half a mile. I think it drowned in that last wash I had to cross."

  His fathomless eyes met hers with no change of expression. "You walked all that way?" That explained why her sweater and jeans were soaked. As annoyed as he was by her unexpected arrival, Blake couldn't help noticing how nicely those snug jeans hugged her hips.

  "I was going to wait for a tow truck—" Savannah pushed her dripping hair out of her eyes "—but none showed up."

  "Well, I suppose now that you're here, you may as well come in out of the rain," he decided.

  "Gee," she drawled, "I've always heard about northern-California hospitality, but it's so illuminating to see it in action."

  "And here I thought I was on my best behavior."

  Refusing to answer such an outrageous statement, her chin high and her eyes flashing, Savannah swept past him into the vast dark foyer. There wasn't a light burning anywhere in the house; it was as black and silent as a tomb. "So where are the rest of the vampires?"

  Although she amused him, Blake managed, with effort, to keep the humor from his face. "Out getting their nightly ration of blood."

  Knowing that she was behaving abominably, but unable to stop herself, Savannah asked, "Why aren't you out with them?"

  "I was waiting for you."

  Blake wished that he could see her face more clearly. The candle offered only a faint, flickering light, but even with her dark hair a wet tangle over her shoulders, Savannah Starr was every bit as stunning in person as she'd been on the movie screen. And as sexy as in his dreams.

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

  He regarded her obliquely for a long, silent time. "No," he said finally. "I knew you'd come."

  Savannah realized that she should be furious at his arrogant attitude. But the frustrating thing was that he was right. "I almost didn't. I'm not accustomed to auditioning."

  He nodded. "So Justin said. But I thought it was important that I see how we work together."

  Savannah's eyes widened. "That's what this is all about? To see if we're compatible?"

  "Not exactly." He turned and headed toward a floating staircase with an ornately carved mahogany banister. "You'll want to get out of those wet things," he said. "I'll show you to your room."

  Unwilling to let the faint flare of the candle out of her sight, Savannah followed close on his heels. Something brushed against her legs; she pressed her fingers against her lips to stifle a scream. Relief rushed over her when she viewed the midnight-black cat at her feet. "What do you mean, 'Not exactly'?"

  "It's a bit complicated to explain. And you've had a tiring drive." He reached the landing and waited for her to catch up before continuing.

  "I'm not that tired."

  Blake appeared not to have heard her. "Your room is right down the hall." Although Savannah had always prided herself on her long legs, she found herself hurrying to keep up with his lengthy stride. "Have you eaten?"

  "Some peanuts on the plane."

  "That's hardly eating." He stopped in front of a closed door. "After you get settled in, I'll fix you a light supper. How does soup and sandwiches sound?"

  "I thought the electricity was out." Surely he didn't keep the house this dark because he preferred it that way? she considered. Even a man with Blake Winters's maverick reputation couldn't be that weird.

  "I had a backup wood stove installed in the kitchen. The power goes out a lot up here, and I like to cook."

  "Oh." The idea of this mysteriously intimidating man puttering around a kitchen strained even Savannah's vivid imagination. "I'm surprised you don't have a housekeeper to do that."