Shivering, she walked outside and made her way to the Jeep. It was locked; the keys were not in the ignition and, of course, there was no mobile phone. Though she suspected he had a phone somewhere. But where? Miserably, she stared at the darkened dashboard. She didn’t know the first thing about hot-wiring a Jeep—or any other car for that matter. Hot-wiring, as well as breaking into a car were among those valuable high school lessons she’d missed while growing up on a Hollywood back lot.
She kicked at the gravel in disgust and felt the breath of a mountain breeze touch her bare shoulders. Rubbing her arms, she stared dismally at the black woods looming all around her. If she left now, she wouldn’t get far in sandals and a thin cotton dress. Nope. Zane had made sure escape was impossible. At least for tonight.
Turning on her heel, she started back up the steps. There had to be a way, she thought, refusing to give up. If she couldn’t leave tonight, she’d find a way tomorrow.
Back in the house, she searched all the downstairs’ rooms for a telephone, but though she found phone jacks, there wasn’t one telephone in sight. She clenched her teeth in frustration. Damn the man. He’d made sure to thwart her. In the living room, hidden behind panels, she discovered a television, and she worried about her job. What would happen when she didn’t show up tomorrow morning?
She turned on the power to the set but nothing happened. Then she noticed that the connecting cables swung free. Obviously the cable had been switched off.
She tried not to think of her position as cohostess of West Coast Morning. There was time enough to worry later. First she had to find a means of escape. And then, once back in the city, she’d check out Ted’s warning personally, even drive to Whispering Hills to see Dr. Henshaw in person. With renewed purpose, she continued her quick search. In the pantry she found a flashlight and an old army jacket—not the most elegant or comfortable, but something to protect her from the elements, should she have to walk any distance. But taking off in the woods alone at night was too intimidating, even though it would serve Zane right to discover her gone come morning.
Leaving the jacket and flashlight untouched, she padded upstairs and noted that the lamp in Zane’s room was still burning—a sliver of light showed beneath his closed door. She didn’t bother knocking, but twisted the knob and found Zane, wearing only the worn Levi’s, leaning back on the bed, almost as if he were waiting for her.
His head was supported by two pillows, and his eyes were the color of slate. His chest was covered with a mat of dark, swirling hair that covered a tanned skin and a washboard of rigid abdominal muscles before disappearing enticingly beneath his waistband.
The back of Kaylie’s throat went dry. She forced her gaze back to his face. His lazy smile flashed white against a day’s growth of beard.
“Your room’s to the right, remember?” His lips curved speculatively. “Unless of course you want to stay with me.”
The shepherd, lying on the floor near the foot of the bed, lifted his head and cocked it to one side, as if he were sizing up Kaylie.
Kaylie turned her attention back to Zane. “I just want control of my life again.”
Reaching over to the lamp, his shoulder muscles gliding with easy, corded strength, he clicked off the light. “Your choice,” he said in the darkness. “Here—” he thumped on the bed “—or down the hall.”
“I have a job to get to—”
“Forget it.”
“They’ll miss me.”
He chuckled, as if he knew something she didn’t. “Alan will be thrilled to have a chance to show the whole world he doesn’t need you.”
“You’ll regret this, Zane,” she muttered as she fumbled in the dark, then finding the door, walked quickly out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
What had she been thinking of? She’d been out of her mind to walk into his room and see him half-naked on the bed. A warmth in the pit of her stomach curled invitingly, and she remembered how lying next to him had been safe, secure, loving. The scent of his body lingering on the bedsheets, the feel of a strong arm wrapped around her waist.
“Stop it,” she told herself as she marched to the room designated as hers and closed the door behind her. She surveyed her surroundings with a critical eye. The bedside lamps were lit, and golden light glowed warmly against the pine-paneled walls. The hand-stitched quilt on the double bed had been turned down. “How thoughtful,” she grumbled, as if he could hear her as she stared at the plumped pillows. “But you forgot the mints!” She kicked off her sandals and padded barefoot against the smooth floor. The room was inviting, in an elemental sort of way, but she couldn’t forget that she had been shanghaied here against her will, even if, as Zane so emphatically insisted, her life were in danger.
She groaned at the thought of what would happen tomorrow morning when she didn’t arrive on the set of West Coast Morning. There would be chaos; her boss would be furious, and the phones at her apartment in San Francisco as well as at the beach house, would be ringing off the hook. Someone would call her sister, and Margot would worry herself sick.
“Oh, Lord, what a mess!” She grabbed a handful of hair and flung it over her shoulders as she padded to the closet and, out of curiosity, opened the door. An array of clothes—women’s clothes—filled every available space. Skirts, sweaters, jeans and slacks were draped on hangers or folded neatly on the shelves. So she hadn’t been the first, she thought cynically. Disappointment welled up in her, and she slammed the door shut. No time for sentimentality.
So Zane had a woman—or women. So what? She didn’t really believe that he’d lived the life of a monk, did she? It was only surprising that he would expect her to buy that whacked-out story, what with this closet chock-full of women’s things.
Flopping onto the mattress, she tossed one arm over her eyes, trying to relieve the headache that was pounding at her temples. Too much wine, too much fear and way too much Zane Flannery, she thought. But tomorrow she’d find a way to force him to take her back to Carmel or straight to San Francisco, back to her home, her job, her life without him.
She only had to get through one night of sleeping under the same roof with him. One night with him lying, stripped bare to the waist, on a king-size bed only a dozen feet away.
Stop it! she thought, squeezing her eyes shut against the pure, sensual vision of him sprawled lazily across the smooth eiderdown quilt.
She didn’t want him! She didn’t! And yet there was something so provocatively male and charming about him, that she wondered, just for a fleeting moment, what it would be like to love Zane again.
Tossing the quilt over her shoulders, she started counting slowly, hoping that sleep would envelop her and that by morning Zane would come to his senses!
* * *
Zane climbed out of bed and stared out the window. He wondered if he’d made a big mistake. He’d known she’d be angry, of course, even expected her temper to boil. But he hadn’t been prepared for her accusations cutting so close to the bone. Nor had he expected to want her so badly. Already he ached for her, and the thought of a night alone in the bed, with Kaylie only a few steps down the hall, would be torture.
From the foot of the bed, Franklin whined.
“Shh.” Zane patted
