Someone to Watch Over Me

“I was watching you a few minutes ago when Logan told you I was here, and why I’m here.”

Despite the man’s unsavory background, he was a guest in her home, and Leigh was a little mortified that she’d let her negative feelings about him show so openly. Relying on the old adage that the best defense is a good offense, she said very firmly and politely, “You’re a guest in my home, and I’m an actress, Mr. Valente. If I had any negative feelings about any guest, including you, you would never know it because I would never let them show.”

“That’s very reassuring,” he said mildly.

“Yes, you were completely mistaken,” Leigh added, pleased with her strategy.

“Does that mean you don’t disapprove of my business involvement with your husband?”

“I didn’t say that.”

To her shock, he smiled at her evasive reply, a slow, strangely seductive, secretive smile that made his eyes gleam beneath their heavy lids. Others might not have noticed the nuances of it, but Leigh’s career was based on subtleties of expression, and she instantly sensed peril lurking behind that come-hither smile of his. It was the dangerously beguiling smile of a ruthless predator, a predator who wanted her to sense his power, his defiance of the social order, and to be seduced by what he represented. Instead, Leigh was repelled. She jerked her gaze from his, and gestured to the painting on the wall, a painting that Logan wouldn’t have let hang even in a closet under ordinary circumstances. “I noticed that you were admiring this painting earlier.”

“Actually, I was admiring the frame, not the painting.”

“It’s early seventeenth century. It used to hang in Logan’s grandfather’s study.”

“You can’t be referring to that painting,” he said scornfully.

“I was referring to the frame. The painting,” she advised him with a twinge of amused vengeance, “was actually done by my husband’s grandmother.”

His gaze shifted sideways, from the painting to her face. “You could have spared me that knowledge.”

He was right, but Sybil’s arrival saved Leigh from having to reply. “Here’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she said a little too eagerly, and introduced the couple. “Sybil is a famous astrologer,” Leigh added, and immediately resented his look of derision.

Undaunted by his reaction, Sybil smiled and held out her right hand, but he couldn’t shake it because she was holding a drink in it. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” she said.

“Really, why?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Sybil replied, extending her hand farther toward him. “This drink is for you. Scotch. No ice. No water. It’s what you drink.”

Eyeing her with cynical suspicion, he reluctantly took the drink. “Am I supposed to believe you know what I drink because you’re an astrologer?”

“Would you believe that if I said it was true?”

“No.”

“In that case, the truth is that I know what you drink because our hostess told me what you drink and asked me to get this for you.”

His gaze lost some of its chill as it transferred to Leigh. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“Not at all,” Leigh said, glancing over her shoulder, wishing she could leave. Sybil gave her the excuse she needed. “Logan asked me to tell you he needs you to settle some sort of debate about the play tonight.”

“In that case, I’d better go and see about it.” She smiled at Sybil, avoided shaking Valente’s hand, and gave him a polite nod instead. “I’m glad to have met you,” she lied. As she walked away, she heard Sybil say, “Let’s find somewhere to sit down, Mr. Valente. You can tell me all about yourself. Or, if you prefer, I can tell you all about yourself.”

IT WAS AFTER 4 A.M. when the last guest departed. Leigh turned out the lights, and they walked across the darkened living room together, Logan’s arm around her waist. “How does it feel to be called ‘the most gifted, multitalented actress to grace a Broadway stage in the last fifty years’?” he asked softly.

“Wonderful.” Leigh had been running on excitement until they walked into their bedroom, but at the sight of the big four-poster bed with its fluffy duvet, her body seemed to lose all its strength. She started yawning before she made it into her dressing room, and she was in bed before Logan was out of the shower.

She felt the mattress shift slightly as he got into bed, and all she managed to muster was a smile when he kissed her cheek and jokingly whispered, “Is this how you thank a man for a fabulous ruby-and-diamond pendant?”

Leigh snuggled closer and smiled, already half asleep. “Yes,” she whispered.

He chuckled. “I guess I’ll have to wait until tonight in the mountains for you to properly express your gratitude.”

It seemed like only five minutes later when Leigh awoke to find Logan already dressed and eager to leave for the mountains.

That had been Sunday morning.

This was Tuesday night.

Logan was lost somewhere out in the snow . . . probably waiting for Leigh to do something to rescue him.

Chapter 5

* * *

By ten-thirty Wednesday morning, Leigh’s anxiety was almost beyond bearing. Detective Littleton had phoned three hours earlier to say that although the map Leigh had drawn hadn’t been of much help the night before, she and Detective Shrader were already on the road again, following it through the mountains. She promised to call again as soon as they had anything to report.

All other incoming telephone calls were obviously being held by the hospital switchboard, because sometime during the night, someone had put a pile of phone messages on her nightstand. With nothing else to do to occupy her time, Leigh reread the phone messages that she’d only scanned earlier.

Jason had phoned six times; his next-to-last message had been frantic and curt: “The hospital switchboard is holding your damned calls, and you can’t have visitors. Tell your doctors to let me up to see you and I can be there in three hours. Call me, Leigh. Call me first. Call me. Call me.” He’d evidently called again, immediately after he’d hung up, because the time on the next message was only two minutes later. This time he wanted to reassure her about the play: “Jane is holding her own in your role, but she’s not you. Try not to worry too much about the play.” Leigh hadn’t given a thought to the play or to her understudy, and her only reaction to Jason’s message was a sense of amazement that he could imagine she’d care what happened to the damned play right now.

In addition to Jason’s messages, there were dozens of telegrams and phone calls from business and personal acquaintances of Logan’s and hers. Hilda had called, but the housekeeper had left no message except “Get well.” Leigh’s publicist and her secretary had both called, asking for instructions as soon as Leigh felt up to calling them.

Leigh continued leafing through the messages, finding a little bit of comfort in everyone’s genuine concern—until she came to the message from Michael Valente. It read, “My thoughts are with you. Call me at this number if I can be of help in any way.” His message instantly struck her as being too personal, very presumptuous, and completely inappropriate, but she realized her reaction was based more on her negative reaction to the man himself, than on what he’d said.

Unable to endure inactivity any longer, Leigh put the messages down, shoved the table with her untouched breakfast tray aside, and reached for the telephone. The hospital switchboard operator seemed startled and awed when she identified herself. “I’m sorry if you’ve been overloaded with phone calls,” Leigh began.

“We don’t mind, Mrs. Manning. That’s what we’re here for.”

“Thank you. The reason I was calling,” Leigh explained, “is that I wanted to be certain you aren’t holding any calls that might come from the police department or from my husband.”

“No, no, of course not. We would let the police through at once, and we all know your husband is missing. We’d never hold his call. Your doctor and the two police detectives from New York

City gave us complete instructions about handling your calls. We’re to put through any caller who says they have any information whatsoever about your husband, but we’re to take messages from all other callers, except reporters. Calls from reporters are to be transferred to our administrator’s office, so he can handle them.”

“Thank you,” Leigh said, weak with disappointment. “I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble.”

“I’ve been praying for you and your husband,” the operator said.

The sincerity and simplicity of that almost made Leigh cry. “Don’t stop,” she said, her voice strangled with fear and gratitude.

“I won’t, I promise.”

“I need to make some long distance calls,” Leigh said shakily. “How can I do it from this phone?”

“Do you have a telephone credit card?”