She went into the front hall and paused to glance through the narrow pane of decorative amber glass that bordered the door on one side.
A man stood on the front step. He was not alone. He had a large dog with him. The dog was a handsome beast with a decidedly feral edge. Definitely not the cute and cuddly type.
The stranger waiting for her to open the door was a lot harder to classify but the words cute and cuddly did not come to mind. She opened her senses a little but she couldn’t get a proper read on him while peering through the glass. All she could see were the superficial, easily cataloged elements—dark hair cut short in the current style and strong, rather fierce features that were far too interesting to be labeled handsome. A stern, grim expression implied a severe lack of a sense of humor. He looked like a warrior doomed to fight a never-ending battle.
She knew one thing—she couldn’t wait to get the new client in front of a camera. She wanted to know his secrets.
She opened the door and smiled her best professional smile.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “If you’re here to request a portrait I’m afraid I’m fully booked today but I can give you an appointment first thing in the morning.”
“My name is Nick Sundridge,” he said. “I’m not a client. May I come in?”
The voice, she decided, went with the man—dark and resonant and compelling. It was a midnight-and-moonlight voice, full of shadows and unspoken promises. A voice that could lead a woman into—or out of—hell. She absolutely had to photograph the man.
But he had just said he was not a client. A tiny shiver of alarm flashed through her. She was suddenly very glad that Norman—big, muscular Norman—was still in the studio.
She dropped her professional smile.
“What do you want?” she said. “If you’re a traveling salesman—”
“I’m going to have to work on my image. People keep mistaking me for a salesman.”
“Is that right? Would that be because you are one?”
“I’m more of a messenger.”
“Western Union?”
“No, this message was delivered by telephone, not telegram, late last night. I was in San Francisco at the time. I’ve been on the road ever since. Long drive.”
“Who sent the message?”
“You don’t know the sender but I assure you he has your best interests at heart. I’ve got a character witness you can call.”
Before she could respond Norman emerged from the studio and ambled down the hall. He was wearing the very snug swimming trunks and his hair was still tousled. He looked like a man who had just rolled out of bed.
He noticed Nick, gave him a brief, polite nod, and then looked at Vivian.
“You can reach me at the gym when my photos are ready, Miss Brazier,” he said.
“Right,” she said.
She tried to think of an excuse to make him linger for a few minutes, but before she could come up with something plausible he was halfway out the door.
“Got to get going,” he said. “I’ll be late to work at the lifeguard station.”
He went past Nick Sundridge and strode briskly down the front walk.
Vivian’s next-door neighbor Mrs. Spalding magically appeared and made a show of walking to her mailbox. The elderly Miss Graham across the street emerged from her house. She, too, headed for her mailbox.
The mail for that day had not yet been delivered. Neither Mrs. Spalding nor Miss Graham cared. Vivian’s new Muscle Beach clients had become a source of great interest in the small neighborhood.
Nick’s brows rose ever so slightly. “About my message, Miss Brazier.”
She moved deliberately out of the doorway and onto the front step. Nick and the dog made room for her.
“You can deliver your message here,” she said.
“I’m a private investigator, Miss Brazier. I’ve been hired to protect you. I suppose you should think of me as your bodyguard, although in fairness, I ought to warn you that I haven’t had a lot of experience—”
She froze. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Someone wants you dead,” Nick said. “There is reason to believe that a killer has been commissioned to murder you at some point in the next few days.”
Chapter 11
I knew this was going to be a problem,” Nick said. “I explained that to the man who asked me to deliver the message. His name is Luther Pell, by the way.”
Vivian looked as if he had just handed her a live grenade. He didn’t blame her. He had a few modest talents but they did not include a gift for delivering bad news in a tactful, nonthreatening manner. He wasn’t a doctor or a member of the clergy or a funeral director. He was not very good at cloaking hard truths in soothing euphemisms. He was a private investigator. He dealt in facts. He viewed every case as a chaotic puzzle to be solved. When the pieces had been identified and put together properly, he went on to the next case.
One thing was certain—this job was getting complicated fast because Vivian was not the only one who was having a few problems coping with a sudden, unsettling turn of events. A blast of sensations had jolted his senses when she opened her door a moment ago. He had been made forcibly aware of the fact that he had been living what could only be described as a monastic life since Patricia had left.
Sure, part of it was the raw power of physical attraction. There was a hell of a lot of it, at least on his end, and it was easily explained by nearly a year of abstinence. But there was something else going on and he needed to figure it out fast because it was having a devastating effect on his sense of inner balance. He really needed the sense of control. He depended on it. Sometimes he worried that it was the only thing that anchored him in the world. Well, that and Rex.
Vivian Brazier was attractive but not in the traditional sense. Her features were too striking, too bold, too intriguing. Too compelling. The effect was definitely more than skin-deep. If she lived to be a hundred she would still be a fascinating woman.
Her high-waisted trousers and black silk shirt emphasized her slim, graceful frame. A couple of combs anchored her whiskey-brown hair behind her ears, framing mysterious, unreadable green eyes. She watched him in a way that warned him she saw things other people never noticed. They were the eyes of a woman who viewed the world from a different dimension.
The smile she had given him when she had answered the door, polite and professional though it was, had sent a thrill of delight across his senses. Now he was aware of a deep, prowling curiosity; a need to learn more about Vivian Brazier.
“I don’t know this Luther Pell,” Vivian said.