The Girl Who Knew Too Much(8)

Just like cops, she thought, never around when you needed one.

She abandoned the idea of making a dash for the door.

“It’s been a very trying night,” she said instead, striving to appear pathetic. She certainly looked the part, swathed in a thick spa robe with her hair bound up in a turban made from a hotel towel. “I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I would like to go back to the Cove Inn. I’ve got a room there. Perhaps we could talk in the morning?”

With a little luck she would be in her car, heading back to Los Angeles, before Ward realized she had left town.

“I’d prefer to have the conversation now,” he said.

She abandoned the pathetic approach and went for icy outrage.

“Detective Brandon declined to arrest me,” she said. “Most likely because I’m innocent. Are you planning to keep me here against my will? Because, if so, I would like to remind you that I am a member of the press. I’m sure you don’t want this scandal to get any bigger than it is already.”

All right, claiming to be a member of the press was pushing things a bit—technically she was a mere assistant at Whispers, a Hollywood gossip paper. But she was in Burning Cove with her editor’s approval, and she was on the trail of what she was sure would be a headline-making story—murder and scandal that involved a leading man who was considered by many to be the next Clark Gable.

A short time ago, Ward had summoned his manager and the head concierge. They had been instructed to do everything in their power to stanch rumors and speculation. Their primary job was to keep the press at bay. The fact that it was a reporter, or an aspiring reporter, who had found the body in the spa was going to be a very big problem for Oliver Ward.

She could expect threats, she thought, but Ward had to know it was unlikely that any force on earth could squelch the story of murder in his hotel spa. Furthermore, she doubted that Ward would want to add fuel to the fire by ordering his people to forcibly detain her—not in front of witnesses, at least.

Unfortunately, at the moment there were no witnesses. She was alone with Oliver Ward in the living room of his private villa, Casa del Mar.

“We both know that there is no avoiding the headlines,” Oliver said. He put the stopper back into the cut glass decanter. “The best I can do at this point is try to contain and control the story.”

“At least you are honest about your intentions. How do you intend to contain and control the scandal?”

He gave her a cool, assessing smile. “I’m working on that problem. Perhaps you can help me.”

“Why?”

“It would be in your own best interests.”

She managed what she hoped was a smile as cold as his own. “Threats, Mr. Ward?”

“I never make threats. Just statements of fact. I do have some questions I would like to ask before you leave here tonight.” Oliver picked up one of the glasses and turned to face her. “Save yourself the effort of making a run for the front door. It’s true that I am no longer a working magician, but I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. I’m not quite as slow as I appear.”

She believed him.

“I don’t care if you are the owner of this hotel, Mr. Ward,” she said. “You have no right to keep me a prisoner here.”

“I hope you will consider yourself my guest,” Oliver said. He gripped his cane and made his way across the living room. “You are, after all, sitting in my home, wearing a robe and slippers provided by my hotel.”

He stopped in front of her and held out the glass of whiskey. She was briefly distracted by the masculine grace of the gesture. In his hands the glass seemed to materialize out of thin air.

She looked up from the glass and found herself briefly ensnared by his compelling eyes. They were an unusual color—a feral shade of dark amber. She refused to admit that there was anything genuinely mesmeric about his gaze, but she was intensely aware of the sheer power of his will. She was dealing with a very intelligent, very coolheaded man. She was certain that once he settled on a goal or a course of action, it would be difficult—make that impossible—to distract him or turn him aside.

It wasn’t just his eyes that caught and held her attention. He was not handsome in the way of the leading men of the silver screen, but there was a certain kind of raw power about his boldly carved features, broad shoulders, and lean build. Oliver Ward possessed that magical quality called presence. No wonder he had been able to enthrall audiences.

Her first inclination was to refuse the whiskey. She needed to keep her wits about her. But her nerves deserved some consideration, she thought. The events in the spa had rattled her.