Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

Jerry did as everyone in the bar did. His surprised gaze swung to Dent and, seeing that he was the person being addressed, he froze. But for less than a heartbeat. Then he bolted.

Dent charged after him. Jerry ran like the devil was after him. In his haste, he didn’t see his way completely clear of the double doorway. He crashed into one panel of it, breaking several panes of glass and splintering the wood frame.

Women screamed. Men scurried aside.

Jerry, in a stumbling run, tried to get away, but Dent caught him by the collar, dragged him back into the bar, and slammed him face first against the wall. The man cried out in fear and pain as Dent crowded in behind him.

“What’s your story, Jerry ?”

“Let him go!”

Dent paid no heed to the shout coming from someone in the room. He wanted an explanation from the man who’d tracked Bellamy from New York to Texas. “What were you reaching for under the bar?”

“A b-b-book,” Jerry stuttered.

“Dent.” Bellamy was at his elbow, trying to pull him off the man. “It’s nothing. He did have a book. See, it’s right here. It was under his barstool.”

Dent blinked the copy of Low Pressure into focus. Gradually, he backed away from the man. Jerry turned in the narrow space. He was bleeding from several cuts from the broken door panes. His nose was also dripping blood from being smashed into the wall.

Dent placed the heel of his hand over Jerry’s sternum, keeping him pinned to the wall by stiff-arming. “Why have you been following her?”

Jerry’s eyes bulged with fear. His lips were moving but he couldn’t articulate a word.

“Let him go.”

Dent recognized the voice as the one who’d spoken before. He turned his head in the direction from which it had come, and there stood Steven.

He motioned for Dent to remove his hand from the man’s chest. “He’s been following Bellamy because I paid him to.”

Dent looked at Steven with disbelief. Then he turned to Bellamy, who stood there beside her stepmother, both of them frozen and mute and staring at him with horror.

He dropped his hand, and Jerry slumped to the floor. Dent made a gesture of supreme disgust that encompassed everyone in the room. “You people suck.”

Then he stepped over Jerry and stalked out, crunching shards of glass beneath his boots.

The ten-minute drive in the limousine was made in absolute silence.

Bellamy was first inside the house. Helena approached, but Bellamy shook her head, and the housekeeper tactfully withdrew. Bellamy went into the living room, slung her handbag onto an ottoman, and turned to confront the other three as they filed in behind her.

“His name is Simon Dowd,” Steven said even before she could demand an explanation. “He’s a private investigator.”

“Oh my God,” Olivia groaned. “Steven, what in the world—”

Bellamy sliced the air, cutting off anything else her stepmother might say. She wanted only to hear what Steven had to say in his defense. “Why, in the name of God, did you hire a private investigator to follow me? I thought he was a stalker!”

“The whole business was distasteful, I assure you,” he said. “His office is a third-floor walk-up. His desk is a card table. The morning I went to see him, there was a partially eaten bagel—”

“I don’t give a damn about that! Why did you hire him to follow me?”

“For your protection.” His voice had taken on an angry edge that matched hers. “You wrote a book about a true crime but left the ending open to interpretation. Then you started publicizing it, making you a target for anyone involved who had a problem with that.”

“Like who?”

“Like Dent Carter. Who proved less that an hour ago that he’s a thug. Not that that comes as any surprise.”

“Scandalous behavior,” Olivia said in an undertone. “I’ll never be able to hold my head up in the club again.”

Bellamy cried out, “He thought he was protecting me.”

“Naturally you jump to his defense,” Steven said. “He’s acquired those cuts and bruises on his face since I saw you in Atlanta. Who beat him up?”

“Don’t try and change the subject. Tell me why you sicced this… this Simon Dowd on me.”

“In your book you all but came out and accused Dale Moody of being a crooked cop. An incompetent one at best. He could have wanted retribution. Even Rupe Collier. Anyway, I became worried for your safety. William will tell you.”

She glanced over at him. He nodded. “His motive was noble. He was terribly concerned about you.”

“So I retained Dowd,” Steven said, bringing her back to him. “His first love is the theater. He fancies himself an actor. He assured me that he would be perfect, that he could play the avid fan. That way, he could stay close to you when you appeared in public. And before you launch into a tirade, let me point out that my hiring him was validated when you told me about the rat, the vandalism done to your house, to Dent’s airplane.”

Olivia looked between the two of them with bewilderment. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Wearily, Bellamy sat down on the arm of a chair and rubbed her forehead. As she thought back over the last several days, she now understood why Steven hadn’t been all that surprised to see her and Dent when they appeared at Maxey’s. Jerry—Dowd, whatever—had followed them from the park in Georgetown to the Austin airport. He’d given Steven advance warning of their trip to Atlanta.

“Which brings us up to today,” he was saying. “I knew there would be a crowd at the funeral, and that made me nervous for your safety. For the safety of all of us. So I asked Dowd to be there, to watch our backs, and, again, I was justified in doing so. The funeral brought them all out. Moody. Rupe Collier.”

“He was there?” Bellamy asked, raising her head. “I didn’t see him.”

“Seated two rows behind us in the church.”

“And holding court in the country club’s dining room,” Olivia said. “Like he’s a dear friend of our family.”

“Let’s not forget Dent,” Steven said. “You and he are practically joined at the hip these days. I’m surprised you didn’t go charging after him like you were twelve again, pining over your first major crush.”

Bellamy’s cheeks burned as though he’d slapped her. She left her perch on the arm of the chair and walked toward him. “Why do you say things like that?”

“Like what?”

“Hurtful things. Hateful things.”

“Bellamy”—Olivia sighed—“please don’t start something. Not today.”

Ignoring her stepmother’s plea, she kept her gaze fixed on Steven. “What’s wrong with you? When you were younger, you were sensitive to other people’s feelings.”

“I grew up.”

“No, you grew mean . Snide and scornful and mean-spirited like the people you once despised.” She shook her head with perplexity. “I don’t understand you. I truly don’t.”

“I never asked you to.”

“But I want to.” She reached for his hand. “Steven,” she said with appeal, “I’ve always thought of you as a blood brother. I love you. I want you to love me.”

“We’re no longer children.” He pulled his hand away from hers. “It’s time you grew up, too, and realized that life rarely gives us what we want.”

She searched his eyes, saw how untouchable his heart seemed, and in that moment, she pitied him. Physically he was beautiful, but he was emotionally deformed. The effects of Susan’s abuse had taken a tragic toll on his life.

But by refusing to let it go, he had prevented himself from healing. He’d let his hatred and resentment fester until he’d become critical, cynical, and slow to forgive. He had a mother who loved him with all her heart. He was adored by a patient and devoted partner whose love was visible in every gesture, grand or small. But Steven kept a part of himself separate even from them. He refused to wholly accept their love and to give his in return.