Never a Bride Page 3

  Although one of the things that immediately pegged him as a Hollywood maverick was Sloan’s steadfast refusal to have a phone in his car, this was one of the few times he wished he’d given in to popular culture.

  However, since he hadn’t, he had no other choice but to drive back home, retrieve the damn piece of paper, then return here and open the gate. The additional delay, along with Blythe changing the time of the appointment in the first place, would result in his entire evening schedule being put hopelessly out of whack.

  He was about to return to the Porsche when... “Hell,” he decided, “If you don’t try...”

  Cait drove around the last hairpin turn on Benedict Canyon Drive before Blythe’s house and brought the Mustang to a screeching halt when she saw the man climbing over the wrought iron gate.

  Grabbing her 9 mm Glock from the glove compartment, she was out of the car in a flash.

  “Police! Freeze.”

  Congratulating himself for nearly making it over the top of the gate without triggering the alarm or, more importantly, considering the row of deadly iron spikes at the top, endangering his ability to father future generations, Sloan turned his head and stared down in disbelief at the woman clad in the ultra short, skintight strapless dress.

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  She sure as hell didn’t look like any cop Sloan had ever seen.

  Beneath the lacy, see-through dress, the outline of a skimpy hot pink bra and matching bikini panties was clearly visible. Her long legs were showcased by a pair of lacy white thigh-high nylons and white satin high heels that looked as if they’d come from Frederick’s of Hollywood.

  In a cascade of fiery hair that was tousled in a way that looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed was a white silk rose. Another rose, sewn to a white satin ribbon, adorned her neck.

  In her right hand she was holding up what appeared to be a police shield. In her left was a 9 mm pistol. The contrast between the weapon and the white lace dress seemed enormous.

  On second thought, taking in the slender curves displayed so enticingly beneath that white lace, Sloan decided that they were both, in their own way, pretty damn lethal.

  As she watched the flash of male awareness in his eyes, Cait realized—too late—that her hooker patrol outfit did not exactly exude authority. Fortunately, her police pistol did.

  “I want you to climb down from that fence very slowly,” she said, her tone quiet, but forceful. “Then, I want you to place your palms against the brick wall.”

  For a fleeting moment Sloan thought about arguing, considered telling her who he was.

  But before he could say a word, a memory flickered across the view screen of his mind, like a wartime flashback—which, in its own way, it was.

  He saw a phalanx of black-and-white police cars behind which were seemingly hundreds of cops. He saw the guns. Smelled the tear gas choking his lungs.

  Then, as if he were watching it up on some oversize silver movie screen, he saw the man inside the building come running out. Sloan heard the deafening roar of all those guns being fired at the same time, saw the orange tracer of shots being fired.

  No matter how many times that horrifying day replayed in his head, the shoot-out on that Portland, Oregon street seemed to take place in slow motion, like the final showdown scene in Bonnie and Clyde, when the infamous pair’s crime spree was finally brought to an end.

  In his case, when the acrid smoke finally cleared, fifteen-year-old Sloan Wyndham could see his father’s bullet-riddled body lying dead on the sidewalk in a growing pool of blood.

  He found himself getting icily furious even as he reminded himself that this lissome woman—this cop!—had nothing to do with his father’s murder. “I’m coming down.”

  Adrenaline was coursing through Cait’s system. It was the first time in her four years on the force that Cait had had reason to draw her sidearm in the line of duty. And unlike how a situation such as this was invariably depicted in fiction, she wasn’t finding it a kick at all.

  Contrary to the police bravado that thrilled audiences in all those Lethal Weapon and Beverly Hills Cop movies, as she watched him climb back down the gate, Cait was quite honestly and quite literally terrified.

  She was terrified that she’d shoot this perp and suffer nightmares for the rest of her life. She was terrified that she wouldn’t shoot him, in which case he’d have a weapon hidden away in his pocket and he’d shoot her. And she was also terrified that they’d shoot each other.

  Her heart pounding painfully in her throat, Cait was more than a little relieved when he did as he was instructed and placed his hands obediently against the red brick wall that surrounded Blythe’s property.

  “All right.” She moved to his right. “Wiggle your fingers.” Her voice, she realized on some distant level of amazement, remained textbook calm and self-assured, belying the fact that her knees were knocking.

  Realizing the dangers involved in arguing with a redhead who had a chip the size of the Queen Mary on her bare shoulder and a Glock 9 mm pistol in her hand, Sloan did as instructed.

  She began to search him. “Very slowly, let me see your right hand.... Okay. Now your left.” He wasn’t concealing any razor blades, glass or dirt between his fingers. So far, so good, Cait thought.

  “Put your palms back against the bricks. Turn your head to the left. And spread your legs. Wide.”

  Another burst of ice-cold fury, born in childhood and nurtured by his radical, counterculture parents throughout his formative years, shot through Sloan. Refusing to give this long-legged cop even the slightest excuse to shoot him in the back, Sloan managed, with a massive expenditure of effort, to conceal his anger as he did as he was told.

  It was amazing, Cait thought, how things came back to you. As she began the frisking procedure she’d been taught in the Academy, her wildly beating heart slowed to a more normal rate.

  Still holding her pistol in her left hand, she patted first his dark head, then his neck, then his arm, all the way to his hand and back up again, under the arm, across his chest, to his back, up and down, then around the waist.

  Sloan could have written this scene himself. As a matter of fact, he had, several times.

  “I can’t wait for this next part,” he drawled, knowing such sarcasm was risky, but furious enough that he could no longer allow her to throw her weight around with absolute impunity. Sloan had never been fond of authority. Official or otherwise.

  “When I want you to talk, I’ll ask you a question,” Cait snapped, as she ran her hand over his groin, before moving down, then back up his legs.

  Although the hooker clothes might be from Frederick’s, her perfume was expensive. Expensive and sexy. But subtle. The kind that got under a man’s skin. The kind designed to linger in a man’s mind.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  His words, drawled in a deep baritone, were properly polite, but there was a mocking note to his tone. Switching her gun to her weaker hand, Cait repeated the process on his other side. All she managed to find were some gum wrappers, a ruined piece of cardboard that appeared to be a Los Angeles Public Library card and a key ring.

  “All right,” she said, once she’d determined that he wasn’t carrying a weapon. “You can turn around. Slowly.”

  Although his clothes—a black Grateful Dead T-shirt and faded jeans—definitely hadn’t come from Rodeo Drive and his thick, shaggy chestnut hair was in need of a trim, it crossed Cait’s mind that he didn’t look entirely out of place in the exclusive neighborhood. There was an air of confidence surrounding the man she wasn’t accustomed to viewing in your run-of-the-mill burglar.

  His expression gave nothing away.

  “Would you care to explain what you were doing, climbing over that fence?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe that I left the combination at home in my other pants?”

  She made a derisive sound.

  He studied her frowning face, noted on some dispassionate level that
she was stunningly beautiful, and gave a slow nod. “I didn’t think so. But it is the truth.”

  “Do you know whose house this is?”

  Sloan watched the mask of professional composure building, layer by layer on a complexion that was part honey, part cream. Reminding himself that while she might be a very appealing woman, she was first and foremost a cop, he tamped down the unwelcome tug of desire.

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Blythe Fielding’s. We had a meeting scheduled for this evening, but she was held up at the studio reshooting a scene. I’m Sloan Wyndham, by the way.”

  He tossed off the name with a casual air that suggested she’d recognize it immediately. Which she did. Damn. If he was telling the truth, Sloan Wyndham was important enough to get her called on the administrative carpet with a single phone call.

  Even as she groaned inwardly, Cait schooled her expression to one of absolute controlled calm.

  “I don’t suppose you have any identification.”

  Sloan viewed the distress in her green eyes and felt a faint stir of pity. One he immediately squashed.

  “You should know the answer to that,” he said. “Did you feel a billfold while you were groping my ass?...Officer?” he tacked on with a respect they both knew was totally feigned.

  If he’d been breaking into Blythe’s home—which Cait was still not prepared to discount—he wouldn’t tend to be carrying a wallet. Or any identification.

  He watched the wheels turning in her head and decided to help her out. “I was running this afternoon on the beach. When I changed clothes, I forgot to put my ID in my pocket,” he volunteered.

  She’d done the same thing herself. Still... “Where do you live?”

  When he gave her an address in Pacific Palisades, she lifted a tawny brow. “That’s quite an afternoon run.”

  “It would have been. If I’d run it. But I drove here.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Around the corner. The black Porsche. You would’ve passed it.”

  She had. She’d even found it moderately interesting that it didn’t have the vanity plates that were about as ubiquitous as security warnings in this neighborhood.

  “There’s no room to park in front of the gate,” he elaborated. “And I didn’t want to risk leaving it on this curve. So, when the housekeeper didn’t answer the intercom and I realized I didn’t have the combination, I parked the car down the road, walked back up here and decided to climb over the gate. Ms. Fielding assured me that the housekeeper would be home to let me in to wait for her.”

  “Why didn’t you call Blythe at the studio and just ask her to give you the numbers again?”

  “I don’t have a phone in my car.” At her sharp, disbelieving look, Sloan said, “Hey, check it out. You’ve already got the keys.”

  “I intend to do just that.”

  Cait gave him another long look, trying to decide what, exactly to do with him. She didn’t want to leave him here, in case he’d decide to go over the wall again.

  She could take him with her, but what if this was all a lie and he decided to run for it? One of her biggest surprises was discovering, her first week on the job, that people had absolutely no compunction about lying to the police.

  “You could always shoot me,” he suggested helpfully, as he watched her sort out the dilemma.

  Now that he had conquered his anger, which he would be the first to admit was a knee-jerk response, Sloan was beginning to find this scenario mildly interesting. Beauty and power made a dangerous—and intriguing—combination.

  “That should keep me in my place.”

  He was smooth. Too smooth. The silky sarcasm in his tone and the masculine arrogance in his eyes tempted Cait to take him up on his suggestion.

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  Her own tone was laced with an identical sarcasm. For some reason Sloan would think about later, when he wasn’t wondering how in the hell she managed to sit down in that skintight dress, he’d figure out why he found it amusing.

  “Got a point there,” he said with a lazy shrug.

  Once again his steely self-confidence told Cait that this was a man who belonged mingling with the rich and famous. Once again she reminded herself of what she’d learned in the Police Academy about not ever taking anything at face value.

  “Don’t you dare move so much as a muscle.”

  Sloan bestowed his most charming smile on her. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  The smile, meant to annoy, did exactly that. But on some distant, feminine level, Cait also had to admit that it was devastating. In the event he did turn out to be Sloan Wyndham, Cait wondered if Blythe was truly planning to work with him.

  And if so, what Blythe’s stuffy, social-climbing physician fiancé would have to say about the collaboration.

  Keeping her gun trained on him—which made her feel a little ridiculous, but she assured herself she’d feel a lot more ridiculous if she ended up letting some lying, thieving perp get away—she reached into her car and retrieved her handcuffs.

  “You realize, of course,” he said, when he saw what she had in her hand, “that you’re going to end up apologizing for this.” And damn was he going to enjoy watching her do it!

  “If you’re not who you say you are, I won’t have to apologize for anything.” She took his right wrist and cuffed it to the gate. “And if you really are Sloan Wyndham, next time you find someone climbing over your driveway gate in the Palisades, instead of 911, try calling the Screenwriters’ Guild.”

  She turned on those ridiculously high heels and as she marched away around the hairpin curve to where he’d left the Porsche parked, it crossed Sloan’s mind that for a stormtrooper, the lady cop had a very nice ass.

  Cait swore. The Porsche, as he’d told her, was registered to Sloan Wyndham. And the address was in Pacific Palisades. Of course, she reminded herself, that didn’t mean that the man she’d caught climbing over Blythe’s gate was the owner of this car.

  But she’d bet her shield he was.

  As she walked back up the street, Cait only hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Already twenty minutes late for her rescheduled appointment with Sloan, Blythe hoped yet again that stories of the talented screenwriter’s impatience would prove to be exaggerated. The project she’d planned for her fledgling production company’s first film was already turning out to be more difficult than she could have imagined. If she didn’t sign a writer soon...

  No! Blythe refused to think that she might not be successful. Somehow she would convince Sloan Wyndham to write her screenplay. And she would make this movie that had become what could only be described as an obsession.

  As she approached her driveway, Blythe couldn’t believe her eyes. She stared at the man handcuffed to her gate.

  “Sloan? What on earth?”

  “Hello, Blythe,” he said with an amazingly casual air for a man in his position. “How about doing me a favor and putting a good word in with Dirty Harriet?”

  “Dirty Harriet?” Blythe glanced around, wondered why she hadn’t seen the familiar red Mustang when she’d first pulled up and decided that her attention had been immediately captured by the picture Sloan made handcuffed to her gate. “Oh, no. I take it you’ve met Cait.”

  On cue, Cait came around the bend, viewed the two of them talking like old friends and could practically see her career going up in smoke.

  “Don’t tell me that outfit is regulation,” Blythe greeted her.

  “It’s a long story,” Cait muttered. She glared over at Sloan, who gave her a bland I-told-you-so look in return. “I don’t suppose you can ID him?”

  “Of course I can. It’s Sloan Wyndham. What I haven’t determined is what he’s doing handcuffed to my gate.”

  “Actually,” Sloan said before Cait could answer, “the officer was only protecting your property, Blythe. I left your combination at home, so I decided to climb over the gate. Under the circumstances, Cait’s response was absolutely just
ified.”

  Cait had expected him to inform her that he was on his way downtown to file a citizen’s complaint. Perhaps even threaten a lawsuit. She knew she should be relieved. But for some reason, having Sloan Wyndham defend her actions irked. Especially when his deep voice made her name sound like a caress.

  Irritation scored a line between her tawny brows. “The name is Officer Carrigan.”

  “I like Cait better.”

  “Tough,” she practically snarled through gritted teeth as she moved to release him.

  Lord she smelled good! Too good for a cop. He had a sudden urge to skim a finger over one of those bare shoulders. “You sure you want to do this?”

  Surprised, she looked up him and found herself momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected humor—and something far more dangerous—in his eyes. “Do what?”

  “Release me.” Touching wouldn’t be enough, Sloan realized as he was hit with an even stronger urge to sink his teeth into that fragrant flesh. “Do you know how many people in this town would love having me as a captive audience?”

  The maddening thing was it was all too true. “You’re forgetting something.” She yanked the cuffs off. “I’m a cop. Not an actress.”

  “You could be.”

  His smooth flattery, which reminded her of her earlier encounter with Walter Stern, only irritated her further. Cait supposed that the line probably worked with most of the women of Sloan Wyndham’s acquaintance.

  But not her.

  Definitely not her.

  “Gee, Mr. Wyndham,” she cooed on an eager, breathless little voice, “are you saying that if I’m a good girl and treat you nice, you could actually make little old me a star?”

  She was gazing adoringly up at him through her lashes. When she provocatively licked her glossy pink lips, Sloan felt dual twinges of humor and desire.

  “With your own series,” he agreed, playing along. Knowing better, but unable to resist, he tugged on a wayward bright curl. “Lady Law.” His gaze skimmed down her body. “If you wore that dress in the pilot, sweet Cait, ratings would go soaring through the roof.”

  He was close. Much too close. Cait yanked her hair loose and backed away. “I was working undercover. On Sunset.”