If I Can't Have You Read Online Free Page B

wanted his keys, too, and suddenly he remembered that he’d kept a spare hidden under the rubber floor mat in the back
    Climbing into the car, he sat on the edge of the seat and the heavy door swung shut behind him. He searched but found nothing. Kneeling on the floor, he looked further, running his fingers over and around each crack and crevice. Water still dripped about him. His head ached and his stomach lurched from looking down and being in a tight, confining space.
    And then he heard voices and footsteps.
    He was going to be seen. There might even be a photographer around who would relish catching him this way. Louella claimed to be a friend, but she’d be in seventh heaven if she could catch the always-perfect Trevor Montgomery in such a vulnerable spot.
    He wasn’t about to let that happen. Louella’s gossip column normally didn’t bother him, but today it did. His image could easily be ruined.
    He crouched low on the floor and pulled the blanket he’d seen on the seat over his head and body. The driver’s door opened. He heard the distinct creak of leather as someone sat on the seat, heard a key grinding in the ignition and the roar of the engine. His engine. The engine of the car he’d driven yesterday from Santa Barbara to Sparta at well over eighty miles an hour on the winding coastal road. Why was someone else driving his car? Why did someone else have his key?
    “I’m sorry I can’t stay, Elliott.”
    It was a woman’s voice he heard. A soft, sweet, very feminine voice.
    “Perhaps you could drive up one evening just for dinner.”
    “I’d love to, but I’m so busy with work right now. Maybe I can make it in a few weeks.”
    He heard a light sigh of frustration before the man spoke again. “That’s all I can hope for.”
    They were quiet, too quiet, until Trevor heard the kiss and their good-byes. They weren’t lovers. He could tell the difference. He’d kissed many lovers, many friends, and many young stars who’d been both.
    What the hell was he thinking about? He was hiding under a blanket on the floor of his very own car, strange things were going on around him, yet he was wondering if the woman sitting in the front seat might be worth kissing. The melodic lilt of her voice mesmerized him. The hint of her perfume filled his senses. Had she dabbed it just behind her ears, or behind her knees and on the soft bend of her elbows, too? The fragrance he’d noticed on her scarf wafted throughout the car, drowning out the scent of tobacco he remembered from yesterday. Now there was only the sweetness of a woman. God, he must be crazy. He must be a lunatic. Instead of thinking about making love, he should be climbing out of the car and asking for an explanation, finding out what the hell was going on. But he didn’t want to be seen—not like this.
    The car jolted to a start, and he felt the rumbling of the wheels as the Duesenberg moved over the cobblestones. He had no idea where he was going, no idea who was driving, no idea why queer things were happening, but none of that mattered. Not at the moment. His eyelids had grown heavy, and the warmth and darkness under the blanket, along with the gentle rock and sway of the car and too much whiskey were lulling him to sleep. Maybe when he woke he’d be at home again. Maybe the nightmare would have ended.
    He prayed for both those things. And slowly, with the sweetness of her perfume and the soft music on the radio easing the pain in his head, he slept.
    oOo
    Trevor woke when the engine stopped. He heard the driver’s door open and the sound of a woman’s high heels clipping on pavement, moving away from the car. He waited until the footsteps silenced, then shoved aside the blanket and cautiously peered over the door of the convertible.
    Thank God! He was parked in his own driveway, right next to the small, Spanish-style ranch house he’d bought in 1931. Two bedrooms, two baths, nestled in the middle of one acre overlooking the Pacific. Just big