The Signature (A Perfect Forever Novel) Read online

  She debated with herself. “I don’t know. It’s late and tomorrow is Monday and I have the tots at nine.”

  Devon’s eyes were beguiling. “Come on, pretty lady. One drink. It’s the least you owe me after I won for you this magnificent collection of stuffed toys.”

  He picked up the stuff snake, lightly tapping it on her nose. She laughed, pushing it away.

  “Haven’t you had more than enough of a daily dose of me?” she asked, teasing.

  “I could stand a bit more if you’re willing.”

  In the end, she accepted without intending to.

  Ten minutes later, Devon was alone with Krystal Stafford, and it was at last time to tell her why he was in Coos Bay. If he didn’t do it now, he’d forget the whole interview and give in to the stronger impulse inside of him, of wanting to take her to bed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Krystal wandered around the Miller house, lightly touching the collection of fine antiques, while Devon went to the kitchen for a bottle of wine and two glasses. There was a tragic emptiness to the house now. The magnificent grand piano, which had once boasted pictures of the Miller children, now stood bare, in all its wooden perfection. All of Mrs. Miller’s fine knickknacks, accumulated from years of travel and hunting antique shops, were gone.

  Without Mrs. Millers treasures, the rooms looked bereft, and it was clear Devon had brought nothing to replace them. In fact, there was nothing in this room that would suggest anything about Devon’s personality. Not a book, or a magazine, or even a picture. Standing in the middle of such an immense room in an even grander house, she wondered about the inconsistencies of Devon living alone here.

  Krystal sunk down on the piano bench, her nimble fingers touching out a melody with effortless skill.

  “Do you always travel light, or were you not planning to stay very long?” Krystal asked, continuing to play.

  Devon came from the kitchen, two glasses and an excellent California chardonnay in his hands.

  “Both, in fact,” Devon stated, sinking down beside her on the bench, in a graceful descent of long limbs. “Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve brought nothing with you from home. There’s nothing in here that wasn’t here before the Miller’s left. How long do you have the house for?”

  “The Millers required a six month lease.”

  The way he said it, Krystal could tell he wasn’t planning to stay the full lease.

  “Why such an extravagance, Devon? You certainly don’t need all this space to write, and if you’re not planning to stay, why commit to a six-month lease?”

  “I liked the house. And I may very well stay six months. I know, I travel light. But I like simplicity.”

  Krystal laughed and stopped playing.

  “I travel light, Devon. You travel without. I sense a mystery.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Krystal accepted her wineglass from Devon.

  “Because everyone travels with some kind of treasures,” she replied. “A touchstone of home. Something familiar and cherished that links them to the past that they won’t part with.”

  He gave her one of his enigmatic looks. “Like a custom made Fender guitar, signed by Morgan Katz, and a handcrafted twenty-four karat gold picture frame, when you couldn’t earn enough in a year to pay for either? Are those your touchstones, Christine? The keys to the mystery you fight so hard to hide?”

  Krystal felt her stomach lurch. “What?” She was hoping against hope she hadn’t heard him correctly.

  Devon stepped back, then, and sat on the smooth arm of the couch, regarding her coolly for what seemed like a century. “You give yourself away, you know. A thousand times, in a thousand little ways each day.”

  Clutching the slippery glass in both hands, unable to hold it steady, Krystal knew with a sinking heart that what she feared for so long was now happening. In terror, she sat frozen while Devon recited the pieces as though he were doing little more than working out a riddle.

  “I have to admit that your physical transformation is nothing short of a miracle,” he continued. “Why you ever bothered to tamper which such natural beauty is a question that bears exploring later.”

  He reached out, lightly lifting a strand of golden hair from her shoulders. “This shade suits you better, you know. It was made to go with those blue eyes you inherited from your father. You might have even managed your transformation so completely that I wouldn’t have known it was you for certain, if you could have done something about those eyes. They’re very unique. Not just the color but the expression in them. They’re like a signature. Nothing less than surgery could have ever totally camouflaged those eyes.”

  Devon took a long drink from his wine and then got up again and walked back to the piano, settling easily against it, one knee bent, those clever eyes sharply assessing her, as if allowing her to fully digest his words before continuing.

  “I’ve known since day one who you are. The blunt, visual evidence hardly worked in your favor. I’ll only touch briefly, for the simple fact that I think you need your mistakes pointed out to you, that working at Fritz’s was hardly wise. Within ten minutes of being in his shop, he told more of your life story than I imagine you divulged yourself. Music graduates from Mills College don’t wander in off the streets into the middle of nowhere and take a job which pays little better than minimum wage. As for Katie, what can I say? You may have shortened her name, but any way you slice it, it’s still a form of Katherine. She does bear a striking resemblance to Nick.”

  When at last Krystal could find her voice, all she could mutter desperately was, “Who are you?”

  “A better question is who are you? Or would you like for me to venture a guess?”

  His hand, which had come to lightly trace the gentle slope of her cheek, she slapped away in fury. “No.” That single word was acid. She sprang from the piano bench and was to the door in a flash.

  Devon caught her before her hand reached the latch, surrounding her with the wall of his body, while he held the door shut with an arm on either side of her.

  “You don’t have to run from me,” he told her, his words a forceful wind in her hair, at the back of her neck. “If I were going to turn you in, wouldn’t I have already done so? You’d be in prison now if that what I was after.”

  Recklessly, needing desperately to know what kind of danger she was in, she hissed, “Now there’s a loaded statement, Devon. Exactly what are you after? Why come here, befriend me, and tell me this now? Who are you? What do you want from me?”

  The way she said it made Devon feel instantly uncomfortable, as if she had spent years knowing nothing of people except that they all wanted something from her. She did have a way at striking back at the heart of things with brutal accuracy. And he did want something from her. An interview. It was simple. It was his job. Why did it make him feel so damn lousy?

  “What I want,” he said slowly, “is for you to hear me out. What I am, Krystal, is a reporter.”

  He felt her lithe body tense, almost as if suddenly shocked by an electric current. And then he felt her shoulders begin to shake like a loose jelly mold and knew that she was crying, reality sinking in.

  Reporter. She didn’t have to voice a single word for him to know what that must mean to her. He’d been among the frenzy of reporters there that last day in court, fighting to get close to her, making her slowly crumble from the brutality of their questions about what must have surely been among one of the worst days of her life.

  The press hadn’t always been kind to Krystal Stafford, and Devon counted himself among the offenders. To Krystal Stafford, Devon knew very well what he was. Simply put: he was the enemy.

  “All I want, Krystal, is a chance to convince you to cooperate with me. I want to do a series of articles on your experiences. What happened with Nick. Why you went underground. How you managed your disappearance so masterfully. If you decide to do the interview, I give you my word that I won’t betray where you are, what
you’ve done, in my writing or in any other way. If not, you can walk from that door completely safe. No one need ever know that I found you. A no obligation, no risk offer, so to speak.”

  She felt his arms back away from her and then away from the door. She could hear the sharp sound of her own breathing in the intense quiet of the room. Like a caged animal. Only she wasn’t caged. She could run from the room now. Instinct told her that Devon would let her go without stopping her.

  But what then? There was Devon, Devon who knew who she was, and Devon who could lead both Nick and the police to her. For that reason alone, she didn’t bolt.

  She turned around to face him and in a voice that trembled with fury and disdain, she hissed, “You expect me to trust you? Is it your own personal ethics or that of your profession I should count on?”

  He deserved that. It had hardly been ethical to insinuate himself into her life without telling her his true purpose.

  “You should trust me because my reputation wouldn’t be worth a damn if I somehow contributed to your capture. And whatever you may think of my profession, I’ve been quite satisfied with it for fifteen years.”

  It was not the reason he wanted to give, but a reason he hoped she could accept. The more consuming reason he knew would fall unwelcomed in her ears now. In one month, he had grown to care for her more than any woman he had ever known.

  “Give me ten minutes, Krystal, to persuade you to consent. I’m not out to exploit you. I want to put your story into print because it’s a compelling one. It could do a lot of good for a lot of women out there not as fortunate as you. With someone of your stature coming forward to explain why she went underground, it might raise a lot of questions about what’s going on in our judicial system.”

  She wanted to say no, but as she rapidly weighed her options, refusal seemed less self-serving. After all, his story would have added sensationalism if she continued to remain safe in hiding. And if he wrote about her and later turned her in, he was right; his credibility wouldn’t be worth a damn. Who would ever trust him again?

  “Do I even have a choice but to give you your damn interview?” she snapped, fighting to conceal her hurt.

  She dropped her forehead into the cradle of her hands, no longer able to look at Devon. Oh god, what a fool she’d been. Devon had never wanted anything but an interview from her. These wonderful days with Devon had been a farce, a sham. It was an interview he wanted, that was all.

  “To the interview? Yes, you have a choice. As to whether or not I do a story about you? No, Krystal. I’ll write the story either way, because that’s what I do, and whether you like it or not, you’re news. What information I have now would make a first rate article, but you wouldn’t have a voice in it. And it wouldn’t answer fully why you ran, Krystal, what compelled you to commit such a desperate act. Only you know the complete truth, Krystal Stafford. Isn’t it time you told it?”

  Sparks flashed in her blue eyes, but when she spoke, she spoke so softly, Devon could barely hear her.

  “No one cared about the truth two years ago, and no one will care about it now. And telling you my reasons won’t change a thing. I’m a fugitive. A criminal. Don’t try to make this sound like something you’re doing for me. It doesn’t matter one bit to you whether or not I have a voice in what you write, because it’s the story that matters to you, not the people. You don’t care about me. You never did. You just wanted me to trust you, to let you close enough so you could get what you wanted from me!”

  Devon’s eyes, hard at first, became softer. “You matter to me, Krystal. Whether you believe that or not, it’s the truth. I may have lied to you about my reasons for being in Coos Bay, but don’t ever accuse me of lying about this. I’ve found myself thinking about you in ways that have nothing to do with why I’m here. And you’ve been thinking about me, too. A complication neither of us expected to face at this point in our lives. But it’s there. Every time our eyes meet, it’s there, Krystal. Denying it won’t change a damn thing.”

  She wanted to believe him so badly that the depths of it terrified her. How could she still have feelings for Devon after all he had done?

  Resisting the hypnotic tenderness of his gaze, she said sadly, “I’ll give you your interview, Devon, and I’ll have to trust your word, because I haven’t any choice. But when we’re through, that’ll be the end of it. I’ve got a life, and I’m sure you do, too. Whatever it is you imagine to be between us, I don’t want to explore, because there’s no point. I don’t want or need it. If you can’t agree to that, then you might as well go back to Los Angeles and write your story with whatever you have.”

  His smile was amused. “Do you think it can be brushed away so easily? The way we feel about each other?”

  She pulled herself out the spell of his gaze. “Yes.”

  “Do you have any objections to starting work tonight?” he asked in a cautiously neutral tone, stepping back into the living room. “Katie is with Fritz and Maggie. It seems as good a time as any to start.”

  It surprised her that Devon didn’t want to argue the point further. And it proved to Krystal that she was right about Devon. Clearly, he wasn’t willing to risk the interview in spite of how he claimed to feel about her.

  The tears swelled in her throat until it was painful to hold them back.

  She stood, rooted in place, watching him. She had a lot of objections, but what was the point? It wouldn’t put off the inevitable. The faster she got rid of Devon, the safer she’d be. What a fool she’d been! How could she have dismissed every warning sign about this man?

  Shrugging, she took the single step down into the room to join him. She eyed the spot next to him on the couch and instead sank down on one of the large cushions before the fire Devon had lit when they first entered the house.

  She pulled a pillow into her arms and hugged it to her chest.

  He took in her expression in a carefully assessed way. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Sure? She wasn’t sure about anything and hadn’t been, since that first moment Devon had rocketed into her world. She wasn’t sure why she had let him close when her instincts had told her he was danger. She wasn’t even sure why she was still here.

  Exhaling in shuddering spurts, she whispered, “Go ahead. Fire at will. You’ve got me here, which it all you wanted. There is no point in dragging this out a moment longer than necessary.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. “I’m not doing this to hurt you.”

  She looked at Devon, with her wide eyes damning him. “None of the other reporters wanted to hurt me either, I imagine. But I bled a little each time their words saw print. I’ll bleed a little more when you’re through with me.”

  Devon rose and went to her, sinking down close. “I can’t change what happened before. I can only try not to hurt you more, and to do what I do better than they did.”

  “I suppose I should begin by explaining my marriage to Nick,” she whispered on a ragged sigh.

  “No. Not yet.” He reached for their discarded wineglasses, refilling them. He pressed hers into her hand. “I want you to tell me a story, a memory. Anything. Happy or unhappy, just let it be something about your life before Nick.”

  Her pale brows rose in suspicion. “Why? What’s the point of it?”

  “There’s so much about you that I don’t understand. You’re a complicated puzzle. I need to feel that I understand you before I can do justice with, and make sense of, anything you tell me. I don’t like to work with only cold facts and details. There’s so much more to this than a simple recollection of events could explain.”

  She had expected him to go straight for the jugular. It was what all the reporters did in the few times she had consented to be interviewed—rushing in to find the sensational, and completely missing what she had tried to explain. Obviously, Devon’s mind worked in more complex ways than that. She shouldn’t have expected otherwise. He was a complex man. Hadn’t that been part of the reason for her fascin
ation with him from the beginning?

  Still reluctant, she countered, “I don’t see any point in dredging up a lot of meaningless stuff that has nothing to do with what happened and why I’m here. You want an interview, so interview. Ask me the darned questions and I’ll give you the darned answers. I don’t want you probing around in my head as if I’m some sort of psych puzzle that needs putting together.”

  Devon laughed softly and smiled. “I’ll make a deal with you, Krystal. I won’t include anything in the articles you don’t want to include, but in exchange you’re going to have to let me do my job the way I do it. As to whether or not what you’ll tell me is meaningless, nothing that happens in our lives is meaningless. It’s all part of who we become and the choices we make. If nothing else, knowing you better will give me a tone when I sit down to write.”

  He was lying propped up on a pillow, running his fingertip along the rim of his glass, and she could tell by the way his eyes watched her that there was no point in arguing about this.

  “So you think that my telling you stuff like I wanted a normal family as a child and never got it because I had a father who was never home and left me locked away in school until I was seventeen, without any thought of what a family should be, will give you insight into why I became a fugitive?” she snapped sarcastically.

  “Does it?”

  “No!”

  He was clever enough to read between the lines, so he asked, “How would it have benefited you if your father had remarried earlier? If you’d had a normal upbringing?”

  She had been wrong to forget how clever he was. “I don’t know. You had two parents, siblings who were there for you. What did you learn from them?”

  He answered without having to give it thought. “How two people who love each other should love each other, and that I’m not alone in this world.”

  She took a long drink from her wine, and then whispered, as if to herself, “Then you’re lucky, Devon. I didn’t have anyone to teach me either of those things.”