Damn it. This is just one more reason to be pissed at him.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Romero.” I didn’t think it was possible, but his eyes go even wider as the huge grin he’s wearing slides right off his face. “This is what you wanted. I followed your directions explicitly.”
“My directions?” I demand, stepping back from him a little as it occurs to me that this guy might not just be a vandal. He might actually be delusional. “This is my father’s prized garden. Why would I tell you to destroy it? And how? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“No, of course not. But we’ve talked on the phone several times and you were adamant that the whole thing needed to go. That you wanted to replace the past with the future—”
“That is not my future,” I almost shriek, pointing toward the copious rows of belladonna plants. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what possessed you to do this or how you even got in here, but I assure you, we have never spoken on the phone. The only people I let near my father’s garden are Miguel and his crew. And you are definitely not Miguel.”
“I’m not, no.” It’s his turn to fumble in his pocket and he has more success than I did, finally coming up with a business card that he holds out to me. “My name is Jensen Barksdale. I run Luxe Gardens. I assure you, we really have spoken on the phone several times in the last couple weeks about what you wanted done with these gardens. Your voice is very recognizable.”
I look from him to his card and back again. “You could give me a million of these cards, but that doesn’t prove anything. Do you have a contract signed by me detailing the work you claim I wanted done? Work that has destroyed my father’s prize gardens?”
Now he’s the one taking a step back…and the one looking a little frightened, as if I’m the crazy person in this equation. “I don’t have a contract, no. But we spoke just this morning, Ms. Romero. I called over to let you know I was on my way and you gave me a code to use for the front gate—23715. You told me to get started as you were busy all morning but that you’d be back this afternoon. We talked about how you didn’t expect the whole garden to be finished today, just the east side, which we’ve completed.”
I’m so horrified that it takes a minute for his words to sink in, but once they do…once they do I start to really freak out. Start to question what I know to be true. Because he has the right gate code.
He’s using the visitor’s code, the one I change monthly for visiting repair people, etc. It’s brand new, since I changed the old one two days ago after the photo shoot. I haven’t given it to anyone yet—except for maybe Jensen Barksdale, if I decide to believe him.
Still, what he’s saying is impossible. I remember every second of what I was doing today clearly and I never spoke to this man. I sure as hell didn’t give him a code to my house and ask him to come in and destroy the gardens. Just the idea is absurd.
So maybe he hacked the equipment somehow and got the code that way? I need to call my security company, see if they can figure out if someone’s been messing around in my system. Considering we never spoke, it’s the only thing that makes sense.
Except, as I stand here trying to figure things out, he pulls out his phone. He scrolls through his recent call screen, then holds it out to me with a frown. “This is your number, right?”
“It can’t be. I’ve never—” I freeze. It can’t be, but it is. It is my number. And not my public cell, either, the one a lot of people know the number to. No, this is my private one. The one only a handful of people even know about and that I use only to conduct personal business.
Jensen must be able to see the truth on my face, because he slides his phone back in his pocket. “Look,” he says quietly, gesturing to the south side of the house. “I’m really sorry if there’s been some mistake. Obviously, we won’t continue the rest of the job. But I can’t put this part of the yard back the way it was. The plants are already dead. I mean, I can come back tomorrow and rip out the belladonna, and replant with similar flowers, but they’ll take some time to grow.”
“I know.” God, do I know. I don’t even want to think about what Miguel is going to say when he sees this disaster. He’s spent over twenty years taking care of this garden like it was one of his own children.
I walk the few steps to the beginning of one of the winding stone paths my father had had laid throughout the garden when I was a child. At one time, this particular path had been lined with every size and color and kind of rose imaginable—they were my favorite flowers when I was young and my father had indulged my affinity for them. He’d even let me pick out which colors I wanted and where I wanted them to be placed along the path.
I’d wander the rose path, as we called it, almost every day. Partly to smell the roses and partly because it led directly to a large, wedding cake white gazebo that I had—for many years—considered my own personal haven. I can’t begin to guess how many afternoons I whiled away in that gazebo, playing Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty or my personal favorite, Mulan.
The gazebo is gone now, destroyed by my father not long after everything went bad. I never would have asked him to do that. Just like I would never have had the gardens demolished, no matter how uncomfortable they make me.
Except it seems very much like I did just that.
My gut churns, bile burning the back of my throat, and for a second I’m deathly afraid that I’m going to be sick right here in front of this man and his crew. Only the fact that I haven’t managed to choke anything down but that bite of apple today keeps my stomach from rebelling completely.
“Miss Romero.”
I can barely hear Jensen over the pounding of my heart, the roaring in my ears. Through the haze of memories too long ignored.
But he says my name again, more forcefully this time, and finally I turn to him. “How much do I owe you for this?” I call on every ounce of acting ability I have to keep my voice steady and my hands from shaking. “If you come in the house, I’ll write you a check.”
“You’ve already paid for half the work up front. The deposit will cover everything that we did today, and will more than likely cover our coming back tomorrow and tearing out the belladonna—”
“Don’t bother,” I tell him. “I’ll have the estate’s full-time gardener take care of things from here.”
Jensen looks relieved not to have to deal with my craziness anymore. “If that’s what you’d like, Miss Romero.”
“It is. Thank you.”
He nods, then backs away a few more steps. “We’ll just finish cleaning up and get out of your hair.”
He turns away, but a thought occurs to me. “Wait, please,” I call out to his retreating back. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but can I ask where the money came from? How did I pay you?”
“By credit card.” Again he reaches for his phone, taps at it a few times. “An American Express ending in 5406?” He says it like it’s a question, but we both know it’s not.
My card, then. My card, my phone number, my private gate code, my voice. I can’t figure it out, but then, at this point I’m not sure there is anything left to figure out. If it talks like a duck and walks like a duck…
Somehow I manage to keep it together long enough to thank him and watch him walk away. I even stand out there as they haul the last of the dead plants away. But the moment Jensen and his crew pack up the last shovel and start back toward the driveway, the whole terrible mess comes crashing down on me.
This isn’t happening, I tell myself. This can’t be happening. There’s no way that I did all the work to arrange this destruction and then just forgot it. No way I turned the bathtub on in my house and then just blithely wandered down to the beach. I’m not forgetful. More important, I’m not insane.
And yet, here I am, standing on the edge of this nightmare of a garden wondering how I got here. How it all came down to this.
I don’t understand.
I just don’t understand.
Without making a conscious choice to do it, I find mys
elf walking further into the destroyed gardens. My head is spinning, my stomach rolling, and I don’t stop until I’m surrounded on all sides by the deadly nightshade plants. By the belladonna.
They’re beautiful. Captivating. Definitely enticing. Not harmless, with their black berries and misshapen flowers, but that doesn’t matter. Not when they look so damn seductive.
Just like the woman who so famously used them to kill.
It’s been months since I played her, months since I had to think like she thought and act like she acted. And still she haunts me. Still I can feel her inside of me, knocking me off center. Twisting me up.
It’s been a power struggle between the character and the real me from the very beginning. Once filming had started, more often than not I’d have nightmares about her taking me over. Nightmares about losing myself inside of her and becoming the version of her that I helped to create. When the film wrapped, I breathed a huge sigh of relief because it was over and I was still me. I was still sane.
Yet now, after one little photo shoot and a couple of intense experiences with the man who wrote so eloquently of the Belladonna, I’ve suddenly lost the ability to tell what’s real and what isn’t. I’m bathing in her scent. Planting a garden full of her namesake—and her murder weapon. And maybe, possibly, losing my mind?
Then again, that’s the irony of the whole situation, isn’t it? I’ve spent so long worrying about becoming her, worrying about losing myself inside my portrayal of her, that I never realized that maybe I already had. Maybe I’m already crazy.
God knows growing up in this house could drive anyone around the bend.
Fear slices through me at the thought, a jagged razor blade that lays me open. That makes me bleed. Even worse, it makes me remember things I’ve spent most of my life trying to forget.
Memories of what happened in these gardens, in this house, rise up inside me. I double over, wrap my arms around my middle. Take several long, deep, calming breaths. Try my best not to give in to the despair and the terror crowding into every part of me.
It isn’t easy, but then, it never has been. But it is old hat by now, or so I tell myself as I continue to pull air in through my nose and blow it slowly, quietly, out through my mouth. I can do it one more time. Hell, I can do it a million more times.
So that’s what I do. I take several more minutes to get myself together. I bury the memories deep. Bury my fears, and these new, terrifying memory lapses, even deeper. No one ever needs to know.
Then I straighten my shoulders, blink my eyes dry, focus on the goal. Going crazy can wait until later. Right now, I have a party to throw, a mother to placate, and a man to bring to his knees.
I’ll be damned if anything as mundane as losing my mind gets in my way.
Chapter 17
It’s another stereotypical California day here in Los Angeles. The air is warm, the water is glassy and the sun is bright and high in the cloudless sky, though the shadows it’s casting are long. It’s this dichotomy that makes my early afternoon walk down Sunset Blvd. a little more interesting than it might be otherwise (and it’s plenty interesting on its own) because it’s more than a walk. It’s a journey between sun and shadow, between light and dark, between famous and infamous.
It’s a dichotomy that fits more than just this famous street. It also fits the way of life here in Hollywood—and, more specifically, the way of life of its favorite sons and daughters, more specifically famed actress Veronica Romero. It’s been four days since I had the privilege of meeting the gorgeous and talented screen icon for the first time, four days that have given me a case of whiplash so severe it’s a miracle I can still hold my head up. Four days that have convinced me that I’m absolutely crazy, but then—
Fuck. I slam a frustrated hand down on my desk as the turmoil inside of me leaks onto my computer screen for the fiftieth time in as many minutes. With a snarl, I delete the last couple of sentences for the shit that they are, then shove back from the desk so hard that I nearly do get whiplash.
It would serve me fucking right.
A knock on the door followed by a female voice calling, “housekeeping,” has me shoving my hands in my pockets and calling back, “Not today, thanks.”
I listen carefully, trying to decide if she’s heard me. And if that isn’t a perfect damn metaphor for the way I’ve spent the last four days, then I don’t know what the fuck is.
Eventually, the sound of the cart rolling slowly past my room filters through the door and my shoulders relax. I’m in a foul mood—the writing’s not going well and neither is the constant replay of the last conversation I had with Veronica—and I’m not in the mood to deal with people right now, even on the superficial level of housekeeper and hotel guest.
As I walk to the glass door that leads to the postage stamp balcony outside my room, I ignore the fact that the room really could use a little cleaning up. The bed alone looks like a war zone. Then again, considering what went on in it last night—and what went on in this room this morning—I can’t imagine it looking like anything else.
Even though I don’t have the time for it, I spend a few minutes gazing out at the crazy, congested traffic of Hollywood and Vine. It’s fascinating to watch the drivers claw their way forward, fighting for every inch of ground they gain. Throwing their hands up and swearing every time another driver gets in their way.
It seems I’m just full of metaphors today because their progress—slow and messy and almost completely without a working plan—reminds me so much of what I’ve been doing with Veronica that it’s a little like looking in a mirror. For every painstaking inch of ground I gain with her, there’s another mountain to scale, another misconception to shatter, another crazy driver to make my way around.
Even worse is the knowledge that most of it is my fault. I’ve been a dick. A total and complete dick. I’ve lied to her, pushed her too fast. Hell, I tied her to my fucking bed and spanked her ass until she could barely sit down. Then I all but ran away—from her and from what I did. From what being with her opened up inside of me.
Even worse, I hurt her. That knowledge alone is enough to have me nearly jumping out of my skin. But then add in the fact that she’s been hurt before—badly hurt—and I want to punch my fist through the wall. Or better, put my head through it. God knows I fucking deserve it.
And still I’m standing here thinking about her, still I want her, so much that the need is an open, aching wound inside of me. Even worse, though, is the knowledge that I still have more questions. That I still want to get the answers from her even after everything that’s already passed between us. I’m gutted every time I think of the look on her face when she left here. I’d do anything to keep her from looking that way again, anything but walk away from her and this goddamned book.
Fuck. I really am a dick.
The phone rings and I almost ignore it. But it’s the ringtone I reserve for my mother and I know that if I don’t pick up now, she’ll just keep calling every few minutes until she gets me. She doesn’t like it when I’m unaccounted for. Then again, considering what her other son got up to when left too long to his own devices, it’s not like I can blame her for her concern.
“Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“I’m good. Going a little crazy with the charity auction coming up next week, but that’s normal this time of year.” She laughs, and it sounds so natural that if I hadn’t spent my entire adult life studying people, I might have missed the subtle hint of strain buried deep beneath the surface.
“How’s everything going with that? Okay?” Seven years ago my mother started a local charity event for victims of violent crime and each year it’s grown bigger and bigger. My dad wants her to take a step back, to let someone from the actual charity take it over now that she’s done the grunt work of building it up. But she refuses to even consider it. And while my dad has a point—the auction takes a lot of time and energy—I also understand why she won’t give it up. It’s a kind of therapy for her, and in som
e ways, it’s also penance. She has nothing to be forgiven for, but trying to convince her of that…it’s about as easy as it is to convince me of it.
In other words, pretty fucking impossible.
“The auction is actually going really well this year. Between everything you donated and the signed books and experiences Mitch talked his other clients into donating, we’re way ahead of where we were at this time last year. If things keep up like this, we’re going to blow last year’s proceeds of five million dollars out of the water.”
She sounds more excited than I’ve heard her in a while and that alone has me smiling for the first time since Veronica walked out of my room this morning. “That’s great.”
“It really is. Please tell Mitch thank you for me. And the next time you’re in town, I’m definitely taking you out to dinner to thank you, as well.”
“Nothing to thank me for, Mom. All I did was donate a few signed books—”
“And talk the auction up to everyone you know. And get all your famous friends to donate. And—”
“My friends aren’t really all that famous,” I interrupt. “Besides, it’s just another way to get our books into the hands of people who might not otherwise have found them.”
“Yeah, because with your new movie coming out, you’re really struggling to find an audience.” The sarcasm is evident in her voice. “I saw that interview last week. I thought they were going to rip you apart in their enthusiasm.”
“I think it had more to do with the fact that they thought I knew Veronica Romero and Ben Jaffey than it had to do with me. Once they found out I didn’t, they lost interest pretty quickly.”
“You’re too modest.”
“I’m really not. I’m not a rock star, Mom. I write books about violent offenders. I don’t—”
“You write brilliant books that help solve murders,” she says firmly. “Books that have been read by over twenty million people.”
“The fact that you know my stats better than I do is a little weird.”