Actually, Wesley was on a pile of beach towels, his black hair slicked off his forehead. Dylan was nursing a beer, while, she noted, the wet one had opted for a soft drink. Easy, girl, her conscious warned.
“Sorry we disturbed you,” Dylan said to her, though he was glaring at his companion. “But Wes led me to believe that this was something of an emergency.”
“Emergency?” she echoed.
Wes’s eyes darkened to an almost blackish blue as he gave her a reproachful look. “I saw your expression this afternoon when you got those flowers. It doesn’t exactly take a member of Mensa to see that you have a possible stalker on your hands.”
“Has someone been stalking you?” Dylan asked.
Destiny went to the bar and poured herself a glass of diet soda, wondering where Gina had disappeared to. “I have gotten a few strange notes and some flowers.” Offering them her best stage smile, she added, “Most girls dream of getting flowers on a regular basis.”
“You aren’t most girls,” Wesley said softly.
Destiny felt her face redden with warmth as his eyes lingered on her mouth.
“You look very nice when you aren’t all painted up,” he commented.
She let out a small laugh. “Obviously, you’ve never worked under the glare of footlights, Doctor,” she told him. “Without all that paint and glitter, I wash out like a ghost.”
Wes looked as if he wanted to say something more on the subject, when Dylan spoke up.
“Do these deliveries show up every place you appear?”
She nodded.
“For how long?” Dylan asked.
Gina appeared suddenly, dressed in a flowing skirt that almost masked her limp. “They started six months ago.”
“What?” Destiny gasped.
She watched as Gina lowered her gaze. “David and I thought it would be best if you didn’t know about them.”
“David’s your manager?” The question came from the agent.
She nodded. “But if I get this pilot, I won’t have to spend forty-five weeks a year traveling. Whoever’s sending these silly flowers and cryptic notes will probably lose interest when he doesn’t have to follow me all over hell’s creation and back.”
“Pilot?” Wesley asked.
“It could lead to some really terrific things for me, and David—”
“Wants to make sure he gets a financial piece of that action,” Wesley finished.
She gave Wesley a reproachful look, then turned to the obviously less hostile Dylan. “David knows how hard I’ve worked for this.”
“How long have you known him?”
Destiny did a mental tally before she answered. “Almost ten years. He owned a small comedy club in Maryland.” Noting the skeptical expression on the agent’s face, she formed the letter T with her hands. “Time out here,” she said. “David has done nothing but wonderful things for me. He gave me a shot when I was only eighteen. He arranged for financial backing so that I could go out on the road to build a reputation. He—”
“Also wanted to be a comic, isn’t that right?” Wes said.
Sighing, Destiny said, “That was years ago. David gave up on performing when he realized he didn’t have the timing to do stand-up.”
“So now he’s living his dreams vicariously through your career?”
Glaring at Wesley now, she felt her blood pressure begin to rise. “As soon as you pass your boards, Dr. Porter, feel free to diagnose at will. Until then, I’d be grateful if you’d keep your Psych 101 diagnoses to yourself.”
“It is a possibility,” Dylan said, breaking the string of tension connecting Destiny to the handsome doctor.
“No,” she said, without even a trace of the venom she’d spewed at Wesley. “The worst thing I can say about David Crane is that he can, on occasion, be overbearing.”
“What about the other people you’re close to?” Dylan queried.
“There’s only Gina and Walter.”
“Gina’s the one with the gun,” Dylan surmised, smiling at the now-demure Gina. “Who’s this Walter person?”
“Walter Sommerfield,” Destiny answered. “He lives in Potomac, Maryland. He and his daughter, Samantha, used to come to every one of my shows when I was working at David’s place.” Sadness settled over her as she remembered the bright-eyed young woman with so much promise. “After Samantha died, Walter sort of latched on to me and gave me the backing I needed to hit the road.”
“What happened to the daughter?” Wesley asked.
“She died in a car accident two days after she was accepted at Harvard Law School. Walter had already lost his wife. Losing Samantha nearly killed him.”
Wesley nodded. From anyone else, it would have been a comforting gesture. From Wesley, though, she interpreted it in a completely different way.
“Is Walter’s pain psychologically significant?” she asked. Why, she wondered, did everything this man say or do annoy her so much? It was like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life. Destiny walked over to the phone, lifted it from the cradle and held it near Wes. “Maybe you can have a session over the phone. Maybe you’d find it fascinating to discuss the story of his only child’s death?”
Calmly, Wesley took the phone from her hand and replaced it. In the process, his knuckles brushed against her skin, causing an immediate and involuntary reaction. It was a tingle that warmed her blood and quickened her pulse for just an instant.
“I have no intention of causing anyone any pain,” he said softly.
When he spoke in that deep, velvety voice, Destiny was quite certain that she would do anything he asked. Hell, she thought, if he used that voice to tell her to take a leap into Charleston Harbor, she’d be smelling like fish and diesel fuel in no time flat.
“Tell me about the first delivery,” Dylan said to Gina.
“She was onstage,” Gina began. “I thought they might have been from her father, so I took a peek at the card. When I saw it—” Gina paused as a chill shook her body “—David and I decided to toss them. They’ve been coming like clockwork for the past six months.”
“What’s your first recollection?” Dylan asked Destiny.
Taking a seat across from the two men, Destiny didn’t hesitate with her answer. “I received a pot of gardenias with the note when I was appearing in the Bahamas about three months ago.”
“And you hired a detective to try and trace the deliveries?” Dylan continued.
Destiny met Dylan’s concerned eyes and said, “Miller. Gina can give you his number.”
“Why did you think the flowers were from her father?” Wes asked.
“Carl’s like that. The pot was huge, you know. Destiny’s father never does things in half measure.”
Wesley’s dark brows drew together. “And I guess you’re sure he’s not behind this? Meaning it as a joke,” he added quickly.
“My father’s an alcoholic who spends more time in detox than he does at home,” she answered. “So even though he does have a slightly off-center sense of humor, he couldn’t afford to do something like this, nor would he ever do anything remotely threatening to me.”
There was something about the understanding she saw in Wesley’s expression that made her feel suddenly less hostile and more willing to share with this man. Still,