The Signature (A Perfect Forever Novel) Page 7

  Nick’s legacy stood as an arctic wall, steadfast, that kept her from ever feeling an attraction to any man. But this man she was attracted to, and she anxiously searched her colliding thoughts to try and understand this change in her.

  Devon was handsome, very natural and sexy, but before Coos Bay her life had been filled with handsome men who had stirred no more of a reaction in her than a detached cataloging of their attributes. There was something more than mere handsomeness about Devon that caused her deadened senses to awaken, a strange feeling of familiarity that she couldn’t quite define.

  Devon carried a dew of déjà vu about him, as though at some point in their lives they’d crossed paths and it had been pleasant, but she knew that she had never met him before. His face was not one that any woman would forget. Whatever it was about Devon—and she was far from fathoming what it was—pushed down her walls.

  For countless reasons, her attraction frightened her, but to her secret, inner self, it was pleasing. You’re healing, Krystal, and you didn’t even know it.

  She watched the move of Devon’s hand, shocked a second time that the impulse to recoil from the contact didn’t claim her. His finger traced down her jaw. It was only a friendly touch, but it pleased her that she could allow it. How long have I been capable of this? To be touched by a man and not panic?

  His voice was soft. “You’re a constant surprise, Christine.”

  It was difficult to collect herself enough to figure out what he had meant by that. She watched Devon pull back, hiding her thoughts behind an overly bright smile.

  “I always offer lunch to Fritz when he gives me a hand. Would you like to stay? I’m a much better cook than I am a plumber.”

  “I’d like that very much. Just let me get this hooked back up for you.”

  “Good.”

  As Krystal watched Devon gracefully disappear back beneath the cabinet, she wondered why she had been so foolish as to invite him to stay, knowing that while the afternoon had held pleasant surprises for her, her attraction to Devon was dangerous and better left unexplored.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Krystal Stafford made him lunch. It was horrible. Two years of working-class living hadn’t compelled the woman to learn how to fix her plumbing or to cook. Devon ate every bite, driven by professional dedication, though this had been a grueling test which exceeded army canned rations in Croatia. He felt obligated by politeness, the only one at the table picking at the tuna salad. Part of his profession was knowing how to subtly put people at ease with him, so he’d forced each ghastly forkful into his stomach, then complimented and thanked her.

  He made a mental note: Next time, Howard, you do the cooking.

  He dragged out the afternoon five hours, and in the orange glow of the setting Oregon sun pouring through her living room window, he reclined on a stack of pillows, playing Sorry with Katherine Stafford and feeling appalled with himself for using the little girl as a tool to linger here.

  The child was as much a surprise as the mother. Katherine was a trusting, vivacious, precocious six-year-old, well-adjusted in every way with an I.Q. that probably exceeds that of a NASA scientist. She latched onto Devon, perhaps because of the void of not having a father in her life. She was a child, however, and hadn’t learned to be clever about hiding her thoughts. She studied him with the open curiosity of an innocent who didn’t have much contact with men.

  It told him that Krystal Stafford was a loving, devoted mother and hadn’t exposed her daughter to a stream of men in her bed. Given who Krystal was, her past stormy affair with Morgan, it surprised Devon.

  He made a mental note: This woman with a body that would put a centerfold to shame doesn’t sleep around. Was it because of the child, because she was in hiding, because she loved Morgan, or because of something he hadn’t discovered yet?

  Using Katherine’s curiosity was appalling. It kept him in the house, though, so he could study the mother while she was unguarded.

  Devon watched Krystal as she sat curled on the sofa, a pile of sheet music in hand, which she had apologized for. She explained it required her attention before her next day’s lessons. She’d surprised him by not asking him to leave, dismissed him from her thoughts, and sat there quietly working.

  As the afternoon progressed, he wondered why he was purposely delaying opening up the discussion as to why he had come to Coos Bay.

  It was there, on the tip of his tongue, all afternoon. He had her alone in her house—the perfect setting to get what he wanted. Events had gone amazingly well. Why wasn’t he getting on with it?

  Why did it seem more important to him to learn all he could about Krystal Stafford, rather than the events which had brought her to Oregon. Why was he not even interested in that aspect of the story?

  Be truthful, old man. You know why! That inner voice chided him. You’ve been obsessed with this woman since you first laid eyes on her. That was what gave you the strength to stay through that horrible lunch.

  She was not what Devon had anticipated. She’d come to him like an overwrapped gift—vulgar in every aspect. A woman not at all to his tastes.

  At the age of eighteen, she’d inherited a trust fund estimated at ten million. By the age of twenty-five, rumor had it that it had been depleted by the excess and drug addiction of her husband. She’d been well on her way to stardom by the age of twenty-six, with a career that had launched with the upward momentum of a space shuttle. Her first release had sold eleven millions copies. Her second, nearly nine. Both the music trade magazines and the tabloids predicted she would be a superstar.

  She’d had a turbulent on-again, off-again affair with Morgan, the bad boy, mega-star of rock. He was cold and cynical, a man of dissipations and flagrant affairs with women, yet in the center of this man was Krystal Stafford, a lingering presence in his heart, a shadow, a ghost he couldn’t escape even after two years apart from her.

  Devon’s distaste of who she was had vanished after the first day. Vanished and been replaced by a hungry obsession. Layer by layer, as he studied her, what he uncovered inside the woman was no less fascinating than the story that had brought him here.

  By some complex quirk of nature, the harsher elements of her world had only settled skin-deep. In some mysterious way, she was without physical vanity, almost as though she’d never been on camera, never seen herself. She was livelier, more natural, more fragile, more gentle, more vulnerable, more intelligent and more humorous than any woman he’d ever known.

  She had an overly simple way of looking at the world and the people in it. Why else would she have dared such an improbable act of desperation, believing in the possibility of its success?

  In all the enticing, unexpected things Devon had discovered about Krystal, it was her eyes that were the signature of who she was. They held her story. They were the mirror of Krystal Stafford’s complicated make-up.

  What was in her eyes was haunting and seductive; just like her music. When they gazed at you they whispered provocatively. Kiss me, I need love. Their shadow: Stay away, I hurt. They held the look of a woman who’d been loved by one man and brutalized by another. They were eyes that carried the ghosts of innocence and suffering at once, woven together in a single, glimmering brightness, always mingled, always one. They teased a man to want to take her in his arms, to make love to her until the pain was gone, until the fragile crystal was free of the haze that covered it.

  Devon had interviewed over two dozen people before coming here. It had not prepared him for what he’d found, nor did it give him insight into this woman, who was a contradiction in every way. Understanding her was crucial if he were ever going to be able to form into a coherent fashion anything she told him. If he tried to write the story now, no one would believe it. Devon was here, with her, seeing the reality for himself, and even he was having difficulty believing parts of it.

  Morgan called her the unicorn. A mythical creature. Innocence and purity that somehow survived on its own magic in an often dark and cynica
l world. She was that...

  Devon felt something prick at his senses. He looked up from the game board to find Krystal Stafford standing above him, hypnotic eyes vivid and fixed on him.

  “Has my daughter talked your ears off yet?” Krystal asked, as she bent forward to ruffle her daughter’s dark hair.

  Katie rose on her legs and gently reached out her tiny fingers to tug lightly on Devon’s ears.

  “No, Mommy, he’s still got them!”

  “Very funny, dear,” Krystal laughed. “Why don’t you pack your things so I can drive you over to Fritz’s? Jason and the boys will be here soon.”

  “Okay, Mommy,” Katie said, springing to her feet and running from the room.

  Devon’s gaze held her for a moment in a warm study, and then he said, “I take it it’s time for me to head home,” though he made no effort to move.

  Krystal nodded her head. “Unless, of course, you’d like to stay and referee four hot-blooded teenage boys through a two hour jam session.”

  It was a joke, not an invitation. Devon took it at that.

  “No. I think that Jason is just itching for a reason to take a swing at me,” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed, that boy has a crush on you. Does he react so protectively with every man who shows an interest in you?”

  The question, so unexpected, made Krystal tense. He’d spent most of his time amusing Katie. Why did Devon so carefully keep his distance from her if he were interested in her?

  “The only man in my life other than the boys, is Fritz and he’s been happily married to Maggie for nearly half a century, so I really couldn’t tell you.”

  “Amazing.” He packed that single word with enough sensual undercurrent to make her insides collapse in hot, melting waves. “The men in Coos Bay must be crazy.”

  She gave a lazy shrug, hoping it masked her reaction to his comments, and said in an overly cheerful voice, “Not crazy. There just aren’t any men available in Coos Bay between the ages of twenty-five and forty. At least I’ve seen no sign of one. I’ve enjoyed today, Devon.”

  “But it’s time that I leave, right?” He rose up from the ground. “We should do this again. I’ve enjoyed myself.” He gave her an amused smile and added, “I’m between twenty-five and forty and available if you are ever shopping for someone to pass an afternoon with.”

  Krystal completely missed the teasing light in his eyes.

  “I take it the idea of spending time with me isn’t appealing,” Devon said.

  She stared at him, realizing that he’d been waiting for a response from her. He rested against the door frame, looking at her.

  She spoke the first words that formed in her mind. “I don’t make love to men if that is why you are interested in doing this again.”

  Devon’s eyes widened.

  “I don’t recall inviting you to bed.” He began to laugh. “Have I missed something? Or are you telling me you go to bed with women?”

  Devon’s question hit her like a cold shower: sanity returned. “My inclination is men. I just don’t have any interest in a relationship. If you’ve stayed all afternoon playing with Katie thinking there might be dessert after lunch, I should tell you, there is no dessert. Not ever.”

  Devon laughed again. This time his expression was charmingly rueful. “I’ll keep that in mind, though I’ve never quite had it put to me that way before. No dessert.” He touched her cheek with the lightest contact, then laughed. “Good night, Christine.”

  He slowly eased back from her doorframe, his eyes lingering on her face, almost as if he were reluctant to leave.

  “Good night.” She dragged her gaze from his mesmeric eyes.

  Another minute passed, and then, finally, he stepped back and gave her a pleasant smile. She stood, rooted in place, staring at her front walk long after Devon had disappeared from view.

  Devon leaned back in his chair and turned off his laptop. He had an excellent memory, but the first thing he did upon returning to his house was rapidly impart each word of today’s conversation with Krystal Stafford to his word processor. It had taken nearly an hour, and all through the quick keystrokes, he kept returning to the same phrase: I don’t make love to men.

  It was an odd collection of words for a brush-off. He cursed himself for being so transparent in his attraction for her that she’d felt the need to brush him off. Not wise, Howard, not if you want her to trust you later.

  He cursed himself a second time, wondering if it were male vanity that made him believe that the phrase was odd and that there was something more to it than simply telling him to buzz off. Whatever the reason, it stuck in his head and bothered him.

  The ring of his cell phone was a welcome intrusion to his unwelcome ponderings. He flipped it open. “Devon.”

  There was a pause. “You don’t sound in a pleasant mood this evening,” Kara said. “Maybe I should leave you alone.”

  Devon ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been working all afternoon and getting nowhere. Actually I’m glad you called. I need a woman—”

  He’d been about to say a woman’s point of view, but Kara cut him off, laughing, and said, “So…you were working and getting nowhere and you want me to get you the number of a woman. The first time out of hibernation is proving tough. I’m sorry I haven’t got the number of a leggy blonde. Are you interested in a brunette?”

  Waiting until her laughter subsided, he said, “Can you stop harassing me long enough to be useful? I need a woman’s point of view on something someone said today. You’re a woman, so I thought this might make sense to you. I got brushed off today. For some reason the words are bothering me and they seem odd.”

  Kara was rolling in laughter after that. Devon stared at the phone and cringed.

  Finally able to collect herself, she said, “Of course it bothered you. It’s supposed to. Men are vain and creatures of fragile ego. And because all men are vain, whatever she said I’m sure you imagine it to be odd. What did she say?”

  Half wanting to hang up, half wanting to kick himself, he said, “You’re a female chauvinist at times, Kara. I’m trying to understand a very difficult-to-understand woman. She’s the subject of my interview. It’s not vanity. It’s instinct that makes me bothered by what she said. To be precise: ‘I don’t make love to men.’ Not ‘buzz off.’ Not ‘I’m not interested in you.’ And before you ask, no, she is not a lesbian. They’re an odd collection of words, aren’t they? What’s in those words beyond the obvious that she won’t go to bed with me?”

  The laughter died at once. “You’re a bit of a chauvinist too, Devon, if you think I understand that, simply because I’m a woman,” she said calmly, though there was anger laced in her voice. Relenting, she went on. “Yes, your instincts are operating correctly beyond the scope of male vanity. They are odd words to use in a brush-off. Intentionally or not intentionally. I don’t know, since I don’t know the woman and I haven’t any idea what you did to piss her off as you came on to her. Boy, Devon, you’re full of surprises lately. Taking off without a word and now trying to hit on the subject of an interview. Isn’t there an unwritten code of ethics among reporters about things like that?”

  Oh, Kara, when you go for blood, you go for blood. Direct hit!

  “I didn’t come on to her,” he said, being deliberately succinct to put conviction into the words, though it rang hollow to himself. “I am, however, a man. She is a very beautiful woman. My ethics are fully operationally, but I’m not dead. For the point of debate, let’s say the words were a Freudian slip. What do you think they mean?”

  “I think they mean that you are not going to get laid by your interviewee, not ever. You probably have researched your interviewee to the point that you even know her panty size, so you’ll know if I’m on target with this or not. But if I were to venture a guess, this woman has been hurt, hurt badly. She either doesn’t trust men, is afraid to have men touch her, or doesn’t like men.”

  Kara was a shrewd women. Insights on target with laser ac
curacy. Which was the correct answer? Or was it all three?

  He recalled those pictures Morgan had shown him, claiming her attorneys had taken them after a savage beating by Nick Stafford, the final act that had sent her into flight. There was not a whisper of rumor among those who had been close to her to confirm the pictures were true, that her life had been a living hell. No one liked Nick. No one thought much of him. No one cared for how he had treated Krystal. No one indicted it had been this brutal.

  He’d been undecided on the truth of this element of her story, even after those hideous pictures. His profession had taught him never to take anything at face value. It had left him undecided until now. It was true.

  He was about to speak; the sound that came out of his mouth instead was an absolutely humiliating, ghastly grumble. Gasping, while trying to steady himself, Kara said into the void, “My, Devon boy, you don’t take rejection well. That was an amusing groan of disappointment, finding out you’re not going to get laid.”

  Struggling to hold the contents of his stomach, he managed to bite off before he hung up, “Damn it, Kara, that wasn’t disappointment you heard. I’ve just realized why the lunch she prepared for me tasted dreadful. The mayonnaise was bad...”

  Devon spent the better part of three days in bed struggling with his stomach. It had never been one hundred percent after Croatia. It was surely what he deserved. For a handful of reasons, he wasn’t feeling at all pleased with himself over this interview in Coos Bay.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Krystal went from pot to pot, carefully weeding and watering the Millers’ backyard garden. She enjoyed these quiet Saturday mornings alone, so much so, that when Mrs. Miller had offered to pay her for keeping up the garden until the house sold, she had refused the money.