Season Of Strangers. Kat Martin

called the police.”

      Laura straightened a little on the sofa, began to fidget with the cord of her blue velour robe. “I-I didn’t realize I had called them so much.”

      “Want to tell me about the other times?”

      Laura sagged back against the sofa, resting her head against the top, catching her long blond hair beneath her shoulders. “I thought I heard something, that’s all. I thought someone was trying to break in.”

      “You heard noises, something that frightened you?”

      “Not noises exactly, more like just a feeling. It was terrifying, Julie. I’m sure someone was out there. I didn’t know what else to do.”

      For a moment Julie said nothing. “You always said you liked living alone. You never used to be afraid.”

      “I know. It’s just that lately…I don’t know what it is…I just feel scared all the time.”

      Julie rubbed her temple, praying the slight nag of pain wasn’t the start of another headache. “You haven’t been frightened like that since we were children. When did all of this start?”

      “I don’t know exactly. Not that long ago. Sometime after the day we spent together out at your place.”

      “The policeman assured me no one was trying to break in, but if you’re frightened, maybe you should come home with me, spend a few days in Malibu lying on the beach.”

      “I’d rather stay here. Besides, I can’t take time off from work.”

      “It’s only a part-time job.” Laura worked in a little boutique called The Cottage down on Main Street, one of a dozen different jobs she had had since she dropped out of college. “You could always drive in to work from my house.”

      Laura chewed her bottom lip. “Yeah, I guess I could.” She glanced at the door and then at the window. “Maybe if I just stayed there until the weekend. By then Jimmy will be back in town—”

      “Jimmy Osborn? I thought you weren’t seeing that creep anymore.”

      Laura straightened, pulling her hand away. “He isn’t a creep.”

      “He hit you, Laura. If you want to be frightened of something, you ought to be frightened of him.”

      “He just lost his temper, that’s all. He promised it won’t happen again.”

      “He’s bad news, Laura. Forget about Jimmy Osborn, pack a bag and let’s go.”

      She hesitated only a moment, then she got up from the couch and went into the other room. A few minutes later she returned with a small vinyl suitcase, enough clothes to last through the end of the week. She wouldn’t stay longer than that, Julie knew. Laura liked being on her own too much, and even if she didn’t go back to dating Jimmy Osborn, there were a dozen more men standing in line to take his place.

      As they walked out to the car, Julie caught a glimpse of Laura’s strained, wary expression. Her sister glanced over her shoulder, looking right and left, then finally climbed into the passenger seat.

      What was the matter with Laura now?

      She’d always had a tendency to illness, both real and imagined, but this was something else. Julie wondered if the policeman might have been right, and silently vowed to find the name of a good psychiatrist.

      Three

      Julie walked out of her office, heading toward the front door at the opposite end of the room.

      “Always in a hurry.” Seated at his desk, Fred Thompkins chuckled. “I told you what my doctor said about that.”

      She paused beside his chair and smiled down at him. “He said you have high cholesterol and a heart condition. That you had better learn to slow down. You said that also applies to me, that I should stop and smell the roses. I believe you’ve mentioned that, Fred.”

      “Maybe I have…a couple of dozen times.” He was an overweight retired math professor who wore funny little paisley bow ties. He grinned above the starched white collar that cut into the folds on his neck. “Unfortunately, you never listen.”

      “That’s because I don’t have high cholesterol and I’ve got bills to pay.” More next month, she thought grimly, when Dr. Heraldson’s psychiatric bill came in. She just hoped the sessions would be of some help to her sister.

      “You still looking for Patrick?”

      “I’m always looking for Patrick, for one thing or another. He hasn’t come in yet, has he?”

      “He’s never here before noon. You know that as well as I do.”

      “He said he’d work on the Rabinoff deal. We’ve got to get that escrow closed.”

      “Shirl said he was driving out to Flintridge to see his dad. He’s supposed to be in later.”

      Julie’s heart tugged painfully. “I hope Alex is feeling better. He looked pretty bad when I saw him last Saturday.” Patrick’s father was confined to a wheelchair, the left side of his body paralyzed by a stroke, his speech impaired, one side of his once-handsome face now drooping.

      It was tough on a strong, imposing man like Alexander Donovan, and yet he would not give up. Instead, he’d had a therapy room installed in his lavish Mediterranean style mansion. Daily he worked with nurses and equipment to rebuild his aging, ravaged body into something that resembled the powerful figure he had once been.

      “He’s a good man,” Fred said. “This place was really something back when Alex was running it. There wasn’t a real estate man in town who could shine his shoes.” He shook his head, the lamp on his desk gleaming on the bald spot in the center, fringed by his thinning gray hair. “This place hasn’t been the same since he’s been gone.”

      It could be, Julie thought morosely, if Patrick would put as much effort into his work as he did getting laid. He was smart enough, and certainly he was savvy enough about business if he would only apply himself.

      Instead he was driving the company further and further into debt. Several people on the sales staff had already quit. Babs and Fred would like to leave, but they stayed on for Alex’s sake, just as Julie did. She loved that old man. She wasn’t about to abandon him, no matter what kind of a jerk his son turned out to be.

      “I’ve got to run, Fred.” Julie started walking.

      “Why am I not surprised?”

      Julie waved at him over one shoulder. “I’ll talk to you later.” And then she was out the door, heading off to Spago to meet Jane Whitelaw for lunch.

      Evan Whitelaw, Jane’s husband, was a big-time movie producer. Six months earlier, he had listed his home on Burton Way and it had finally sold last week. Now his wife was ready to start searching for a larger place to live. An estate in Bel-Air, she’d said, but Julie knew better than to listen to what a client said they wanted. You had to listen past what they said, learn to look inside and discover their secret yearnings. That was how she’d made so many sales—listening for wishes, instead of just meeting needs.

      She had just reached the outside wall of the restaurant when Patrick’s black Porsche pulled up to the curb. There was office parking in the rear of the building, but Patrick liked the valet to take care of it for him personally.

      The pudgy youth opened the passenger door as Patrick unwound his tall frame from the driver’s side of the car, and a long-legged, willowy blonde stepped out on the sidewalk.

      Julie’s chest went a little tight, but she forced herself to ignore it. It always bothered her to see him with a woman. Silly. Stupid, beyond belief. Yet she couldn’t seem to stop the twinge she always felt watching Patrick squire one of his many one-night stands.

      Ignoring the woman, she stopped him before he reached the curb, which gave her the advantage of looking