Cavanaugh’s Woman Read online

  She’d countered with an invitation to her room, adding in a seductively lowered voice that Carrie was now staying in her own room at the hotel.

  He’d countered the invitation by making an assessment of her condition.

  Tired? She’d looked surprised at his question. “Is that your way of saying you don’t want to see me?”

  “No, that’s my way of saying that you’ve been up since four, filming until way after dark and, according to what you told me, you’ve got lines to memorize for tomorrow.” Even if she hadn’t told him, he knew her schedule cold. Knew with reasonable certainty what she was doing almost every hour of the day. He told himself it was his way of coping. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  Even in the restaurant’s dim light, he could see her eyes shining with amusement. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  They walked toward the elevators. A car stood open, waiting for them. He ushered her in quickly, wanting to ride up to her room without someone else coming along with them.

  “That wasn’t a proposition.”

  The doors closed. She pretended to look serious. “Someone else caught your eye?”

  He only smiled. “Not possible when I’m blinded by the light you cast.”

  Only training kept her from letting her mouth drop open. The elevator stopped on her floor. She was hardly aware of walking out and toward her room.

  “My God, Shaw, that’s positively poetic. Who fed you the line?”

  They stopped before her door. He waited as she opened the door, anticipation elbowing its way to the fore.

  “Something I remember reading once,” he admitted. Then he added quietly, “It didn’t really make any sense to me, until I met you.”

  “You’re just getting better and better at this.” She could feel herself choking up as she closed the door behind them. It took effort not to give way to her emotions. She’d known him such a short time, how could he have such an effect on her? The heart knows what it wants, something whispered inside of her. Too bad the heart was eventually going to be disappointed, she thought sadly.

  “Tell me more.”

  He wasn’t much on poetry, and venturing out on a limb, telling her what he felt, was a little more reckless than he wanted to be right now. “Sorry, fresh out.”

  There was only one light on in the suite. She didn’t bother putting on any more. “Okay, then show me.”

  Her voice, low, seductive, wound itself around him. “Are you sure you’re not tired?”

  She grinned, suddenly feeling alive and vital. “I guess I’m just going to have to show you how not tired I am.”

  Before he could protest or do what he knew in his heart was the right thing, she was weaving that magic of hers all about him. First her arms went around his neck, then her body pressed against his, the heat issuing an invitation of its own.

  The second her mouth touched his, he could feel the fireworks going off, feel the desire growing. Feel, too, the sadness that stood off in the wings, promising itself to him the moment she left town.

  He tried to shut its presence out, but couldn’t.

  Its mere existence urged him on, had him determined to make love with her more enthusiastically than he had up until now. It encouraged him to take advantage of his time a little more zealously.

  And all the while, pretend that tomorrow, with all its emptiness, would not come.

  He made love to her as if it were their last time.

  And their first.

  Exhilarated, Moira sank down in her chair. They were filming in the heart of Aurora’s uptown district and the weather was cooperating beautifully. The scene had been a tough one to nail down, but she had gotten it in one overwhelming take. Her energy was flying so high, she’d funneled it all into her character, made the words come out just right at the pivotal moment. The second the director had called, “Cut—print,” the rest of the cast and crew had burst into a round of applause she found both humbling and energizing, as well.

  Murmuring her thanks, she’d retreated off camera to her chair.

  Slowly, her surroundings came back into focus. She was Moira again instead of Sally, her character in the movie. And as Moira, she became aware of all the things that mattered to Moira. The police personnel she’d prevailed upon the director to take on as extras were all gathered together, exchanging nervous talk and laughter until the cameras started rolling again. She saw Amy tugging at the hem of a too-short skirt. The girl was playing what she no longer was and doing a fine job of it.

  Moira smiled to herself. She had her doubts that Amy was as old as she claimed, but there was no way to prove the girl wrong. According to Shaw, there was no missing child posting on her on the Internet, no record of her anywhere, not under the name she had given them. Her fingerprints hadn’t shown up in the database, either.

  Maybe someday she’d get the girl to trust her enough to tell her who she really was, she mused. But right now, since the girl appeared to have no home other than the broken-down motel room she’d first taken her to, Moira fully intended to take Amy back with her when she returned to Los Angeles. She was confident that with her connections, she could always find work for her until Amy finally decided what she wanted to do with her life.

  The same went for Carrie.

  Looking to the side, she saw her sister in the distance, talking to a stuntman. Laughing. God, but it was good to see Carrie laugh again. Simon had left town and Carrie was beginning to revert to her old self again. There was no doubt in her mind that her sister would remain with her until after the baby was born.

  And for as long as she wanted after that.

  Moira looked down at her nails, checking to see if she’d broken one in the last scene.

  If she was busy getting immersed in other people’s lives, maybe she wouldn’t notice that her own was going to be empty all too soon.

  She thought of Shaw. The way she did at least a hundred times a day.

  “How do you do it?”

  Moira jumped. It was as if she’d just conjured up his voice. Composing herself, she looked over her shoulder just as he walked up to her.

  “What are you doing here?” Reese was right behind him, looking around. He clearly looked as if he wanted to remain.

  With the unconscious familiarity of a lover, Shaw lightly laid his hand on her shoulder. “I’m actually here on official business,” he told her, “but you were busy, so I decided to wait.” Before she could ask what kind of official business he could have with her, he said, “That scene you just did had nothing to do with the last one.”

  “All movies are shot out of sequence,” she told him. “They’re trying to make use of the locale, so we’re shooting all the scenes in front of City Hall today.” She nodded at the ivy-covered building that had been standing for over ninety years.

  He and Reese had come on the set just as she’d ended one scene and then launched into the last one. “How can you hop around like that? It’d take me all day to build up to what you just did.”

  Reese laughed. “It’d take him all year and he would still sound like someone had done a lobotomy on him just before he opened his mouth.”

  Moira laughed as she rose from the folding chair. “So, what did you come to tell me?”

  Shaw scanned the area until he found who he was looking for. It had been one of those days that made him glad he’d chosen the career he had. “Actually, we came to tell Amy she doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  Moira made the connection instantly. “You caught the guy behind the prostitution ring?”

  The last tip he and Reese had followed up on had paid off. “Got enough on him to put him and the people in his organization away for a long, long time. She doesn’t have to be afraid anymore,” he repeated. “When the time comes, we are going to need her to testify, though.”

  Moira nodded. He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t expected. “She won’t be hard to find,” she told him. “She’ll be staying with me.”

  Shaw a
ssumed she was talking about the hotel. “This isn’t going to be for a while. The law moves a hell of a lot slower than any of us would like. I’m talking about after the movie’s made.”

  The hairdresser came to fuss over her hair, but Moira put her hand up to stop him. “Give me a few minutes.” She knew Shaw would want to talk to her in relative privacy. The hairdresser stepped back. “So am I,” she told Shaw.

  “So what, you’re adopting her?”

  “Giving her a job. As my assistant.”

  He saw Carrie standing off on the side. “And your sister?”

  “She’s my stand-in.”

  Just how far did her largesse extend? “Even when you’re not filming?”

  “Then she’s my sister.” He came from a big family; he knew how it worked. “Carrie can stay with me for as long as she wants to.”

  “I didn’t know you ran a day care.”

  “I don’t.” Was he trying to pick a fight with her? Why? They had so little time left together. Why was he trying to spoil it? “It’s called family. Ask your dad about it.”

  “Amy’s not your family,” he pointed out.

  “Amy needs a family. Besides, I like her. She’s a great kid. Nobody ever took the time to notice, that’s all.”

  It wasn’t working. He was trying to find a way to push her away and all he’d succeeded in doing was wanting her more. Wanting her with a swiftness that took his breath away. Wanting her because she made his heart swell for so many different reasons.

  Although Reese had stepped back to give them a little privacy, it wasn’t enough. He leaned in to her, lowering his voice. “When can you get away?”

  Her eyes twinkled. She looked toward her trailer parked over in the distance. “I’ve got a lunch break coming up.”

  “Might not be long enough.” Not for what he had in mind.

  “Hey,” she kidded, “I’m the star. They’ll cut me a little slack.” It was all she could do not to wind her arms around his neck, but she knew he’d hate having an audience observe them.

  That he was tempted showed him just how much this woman affected him. “I’m on duty.”

  She sighed. “I know. But there’s always tonight. We can run lines.” She looked at him significantly. “Or anything else you want.”

  What he wanted was for the interlude not to end. For her not to return back to Los Angeles. For her not to leave his life.

  The realization didn’t really startle him. He’d felt it creeping into his consciousness for a while now. It was just not something he allowed himself to readily admit. “Sounds like a plan to me.” He looked back to where Amy had been standing a moment ago, but the girl was gone. “Now, where can I find Amy?”

  “C’mon,” she told him, “we’ll find her together.”

  Together. It had a nice ring to it. He knew he was deluding himself, something he never did, but he did like the sound of that.

  Together.

  Being together with her.

  But because his mother had disappeared out of his life so suddenly, he’d grown up believing that nothing was permanent. And this certainly was no different. He’d enjoy the moment—what he had—and when it was over, when it was behind him, he’d move on. Everyone in life moved on. They did that or they died. There was no other choice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even as Claire approached the tub with its bright, Wedgwood-blue tile, a feeling of dread descended over her. It was the same every morning. A cold iciness would pass up and down her spine at the very thought of what lay ahead of her.

  She didn’t like water. Never went to the beach, never took those long, luxurious baths other women raved about. To her, the sight of water in anything other than a glass or shallow pot instantly brought fear with it. Claire knew her phobia was unreasonable, bordering on the insane, but it was something she had never been able to conquer.

  Faced with a body of water, she always saw her own death.

  Unable to come to grips with her pathological fear, Claire worked around it. She washed her face with a washcloth and took showers. Quick ones with the showerhead aimed low because she particularly didn’t like getting any water on her face.

  Washing her hair always presented a challenge. She did it in the sink, where she could control the flow and the direction of the water.

  Claire shed her robe. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the bathtub, then closed the sliding door behind her.

  The feeling of being trapped immediately hovered over her.

  Bracing herself, she went to move the showerhead downward. It wouldn’t budge. Someone had returned it to its original position and now it resisted being moved. She tried it again, but it was stuck. Muttering under her breath, Claire pushed against the metal until the head bent down again.

  Three minutes, just three minutes, that’s all she needed.

  Mind over matter, Claire projected herself three minutes into the future, then turned the faucet on.

  Standing in the kitchen, about to start preparing breakfast, Andrew looked up at the ceiling. The floor above his head had creaked and then he heard the sound of the sliding glass door being closed.

  She was up, he thought. That meant she’d be down for breakfast soon.

  This morning, the house was empty except for him and Rose, or Claire, as she called herself. Just like in the very beginning, he thought with a sad smile. Neither Rayne nor Teri had come home last night. Rayne was out on an all-night stakeout and Teri was spending the night at Callie’s place. The two were going over wedding plans.

  Weddings. He shook his head, smiling. Without comparing notes, it turned out that all four of his children’s weddings were clustered together in the same month. When he’d found out, he’d made the suggestion that they all take place on the same day. He’d gotten summarily shot down, only to have the idea resurrected again shortly thereafter.

  Consequently, Callie and Brent, Clay and Ilene, Rayne and Cole and Teri and Hawk were all getting married in a month.

  A month.

  He wondered if Rose would still be here then. She’d mentioned two months when she came, but yesterday, she’d said something about having to return up north to her job. To her life.

  The taste of bitterness filled his mouth. Her life was here, with their children.

  With him.

  But so far, there was no way he could get her to see that.

  Because she was still Claire and not Rose.

  Brian had told him he might have to get used to his wife’s condition. He knew his younger brother was just trying to be helpful, but he didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to try to make peace with the idea that she would never be the woman he loved. Never be Rose again.

  And then, because the realist coexisted with the idealist, Andrew paused, thinking.

  Maybe he should try to build a new life with this stranger he’d discovered living in Rose’s body. Because he knew in his heart that his Rose was still in there somewhere. He could hear Rose in the way Claire laughed, could see her in Claire’s eyes. And whether she answered to “Claire” or “Rose,” she still had that endearing tilt of the head when she was pondering on something.

  If he could just get her to love him again, no matter what name she answered to, then maybe—

  Andrew stiffened, the first of the eggs he was about to break over the bowl falling from his fingers to the counter.

  He heard a scream.

  The sound carried through the vent, seeming to vibrate through the very floor. The water was running and Rose was screaming.

  Andrew broke into a run.

  He didn’t even stop to think, to try to figure out what was going on. He was on the stairs in a moment, flying up them two at a time.

  In less than a heartbeat, not standing on ceremony, he’d rushed into Callie’s old bedroom.

  The bathroom door was closed. As he tried it, he found it locked.

  “Rose, are you in there?” He pounded on the door when she made no answer. “Rose,
what’s wrong?”

  She was still screaming. The sound curdled his blood.

  Andrew put his shoulder to the door and hit it as hard as he could. The simple lock gave, splintering the jamb as the door flew open. The next instant, he flung open the sliding door and pulled her out. She screamed and gasped for air.

  There was water everywhere. The showerhead had somehow broken off and water sprayed the entire room. Andrew was soaked in an instant.

  With one arm wrapped protectively around Claire, he reached into the tub and shut off the water. Water dripped into his eyes. She was shaking like a leaf. Andrew grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around her as best he could, then took the second towel and threw it over her shoulders.

  Claire stopped screaming. Instead, she began to sob uncontrollably. Not knowing what else to do, Andrew sat down on the closed commode and took her onto his lap. Holding her, he began to rock to and fro, trying as best as he knew how to soothe her.

  “It’s all right, you’re safe now. Just an old showerhead coming apart, that’s all, nothing more.” Andrew had no idea what had gone on in her head, only that he’d never seen the kind of fear he’d glimpsed on her face when he’d pulled her out.

  Very gently, he took the edge of one of the towels and wiped her cheeks.

  He knew all about her phobia. She’d admitted it to him the first day she’d arrived at the house. He had given her a tour of the house and pointed out the remodeled bathroom, telling her that she’d have exclusive use of it during her stay. When he’d gone on to show her Teri’s cache of bubble bath crystals, she’d told him she’d have no use for them.

  “I only take showers,” she told him quietly. “Quick ones. I hate getting water on my face.”

  It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know why. He’d figured it had to do with the car going over the side and into the river. But the look in her eyes when he began to say as much had him holding his tongue. Instincts told him not to push it, so he’d retreated.

  He resisted the urge to tighten his arms around her now. To hold her the way a man held the woman he loved. Instead, he held her as if she were a child, to be protected and comforted.