Low Tide: Rarity Cove Book Two Read online

  Low Tide

  Rarity Cove Book Two

  Leslie Tentler

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Works by Leslie Tentler

  Low Tide

  Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Tentler

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Published by Left Field Press

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  The wheel of life takes one up and down by turn.

  —Kalidasa

  Chapter One

  Los Angeles, California

  “It was a good night.” Bianca Rossi looked up at Carter St. Clair, a smile on her lips. Tall, with the willowy body of a supermodel, her sleek, raven hair fell around her shoulders. Her words were spiked with an Italian accent. “At least it was for me. I know how you claim to hate those kinds of things.”

  “They’re pretentious and exhausting.” Carter gave a resigned sigh. “Rich, over-privileged people preening and grabbing up swag, all in the name of charity.”

  “You’re talking about your own kind, Carter. And it was for a good cause.” Her manicured nails toyed with the covered buttons on his tuxedo shirt. “People go to events like that in hopes of mingling with someone like you. It’s why they buy tickets and write those big checks in the first place.”

  When he merely shrugged, she ran her fingers through his thick, dark blond hair. “You’ve been distracted all night, gorgeous. What can I do to change that?”

  Arms sliding around his neck, she pressed her mouth to his. As they kissed under the mansion’s porte cochere, Bianca ran her hands over his chest. She got frisky when she drank, and she’d had plenty of the two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne the gala had served. She had been caressing and fondling him as he drove them back to his home located in the hills high above Los Angeles. Pulling away from her, Carter punched the key fob he held, locking the Aston Martin from which they had emerged. Then he unlocked the home’s front door.

  “The security system’s not on,” Bianca commented.

  Carter had noted the absence of the high-pitched shrill, too. “Housekeeping was here today. They’ve left it off before.”

  As they entered, Bianca’s stiletto heels tapped over the marble floor in the dramatic, two-story foyer. Carter tossed his keys onto the pedestal table that sat under a crystal chandelier, then turned to find Bianca in front of him. She slid his undone tie from his shirt collar. He’d left the black tuxedo jacket in the car, having escaped from it at his first opportunity.

  “I feel dirty,” she said in a silky voice, her espresso-brown eyes mischievous. “I’m going to take a shower. Join me?”

  “I’ll be up soon. I need to check my voice mail.”

  A faint petulance flickered over her features, but she kissed his jaw. “Don’t make me wait too long. I might have to start without you.”

  He watched as she traveled up the staircase. To her credit, she wobbled only slightly from the champagne, her long, shapely legs displayed in a short haute couture cocktail dress. Once Bianca had disappeared onto the second-floor landing, Carter dug his cell phone from his pocket. He’d felt its repeated vibration as they posed for the cameras at the high-profile fundraiser. There were indeed several messages, including a rather tense one from Elliott Kaplan, his agent, another from his publicist and one from the producer of his most recent film, pressing him to attend a party he was having that weekend. His heart lifted as he played the final one—from Emily, his eight-year-old niece.

  “Daddy said I could call to say hi,” she said on the recording. Excitement in her voice, she updated him on an upcoming school field trip to the South Carolina Aquarium. Then, “Are you coming home for Nana’s birthday?”

  By home, she meant Rarity Cove, the seaside town near Charleston where Carter had grown up. Where all of his family still lived, with the exception of his younger sister, Mercer, who resided in Atlanta. In the recording’s background, he could hear the happy chatter of his three-year-old nephew, Ethan. Emily rambled on until Carter’s brother, Mark, confiscated the phone.

  “Hope you’re doing well, little brother,” Mark said. At thirty-six, he was two years older than Carter and ran the historic St. Clair hotel that had been the family business for generations. “We are throwing a party for Mom’s birthday—her sixty-fifth. If you can make it in, it’d be a real treat for her. Maybe you could extend your stay through Thanksgiving, since it’s only a week later? We haven’t seen you in a while, but we know how busy you are. Give us a call when you can. Samantha sends her love.”

  Carter had also heard Mark’s wife, Samantha, in the background with Ethan. Tiredly clasping the back of his neck, he checked his wristwatch. With the time difference, it was far too late to return Mark’s call. He wouldn’t be able to attend his mother’s birthday party, he knew, wishing the situation were different. Filming on his next movie—an action adventure—started in two weeks in Perth, Australia.

  Despite the woman waiting for him upstairs, Carter wandered into the immense kitchen with granite counters and Mexican-tile floor, opened the Sub-Zero, stainless-steel refrigerator and took out a beer. He hadn’t been anywhere close to keeping up with Bianca’s alcohol intake and, in fact, had kept his wits about him so he could drive them back afterward. He needed some quiet to decompress. Bottle in hand, he walked out onto the large rear terrace and closed the glass doors behind him. The outdoor space featured an infinity edge pool and a dazzling view of the twinkling lights of Universal City and the San Fernando Valley below. It was a warm night for early November, and Carter settled into stillness as he sipped his beverage, watching coyotes as they traveled down the chaparral- and lupine-covered hillside, the animals visible in the strong moonlight.

  Over the past three years, there had been little time for reflection. From television to a string of hit movies to the onslaught of press junkets, appearances, interviews and photo shoots, his life had been moving at the speed of a freight train. He loved filmmaking, but he also felt a growing weariness. Carter made a point of savoring the cool, yeasty taste of the beer, as well as the surrounding solitude. Then, a short time later, he left the empty bottle
on the ledge and returned inside. He suspected Bianca was still waiting for him, probably in his walk-in rain shower. Bianca was young—in her early twenties—and a rising star on a new network television show. The two had begun seeing each other only a month ago, making them a hot topic for the celebrity news columns. After the gala, three cars of paparazzi had tailed them through the city and to the base of the canyon, until Carter had opened up the powerful sports car and left them in its dust.

  As he took the stairs to the second level, he noticed the hallway appeared dark. Traveling toward the master suite, he heard no running water coming from its adjoining bathroom. With the amount of champagne she’d drunk, maybe Bianca had ended up facedown in his bed, asleep. But the suite’s double doors stood open, revealing the king-size bed to still be made up and empty. Carter entered.

  “Bianca?” Her dress lay crumpled on the floor, high-heeled designer shoes, bra and panties dropped a little farther away like a trail of seductive breadcrumbs. Moving closer to the closed bathroom door, he could see light seeping around its edges.

  He knocked. “Bianca, you in there?”

  No response. He tried the door handle, but it was locked from the inside. Faint alarm flickered through him. Had she had more to drink than he’d realized and passed out? Carter knocked on the door again and called her name louder. Something was wrong. He hesitated for a second before slamming his shoulder against the door. When it didn’t budge, he remembered the key and rushed to the nightstand, where he opened the top drawer. Finding the key, he returned and quickly slid it into the lock, then turned the knob and pushed the door open. Carter’s heart clenched. Bianca lay sprawled on her side, nude and turned away from him. Blood splattered the marble tile floor.

  “Bianca! God!”

  Racing inside, he fell to his knees beside her. Carefully rolling her onto her back, panic made him lightheaded. Blood slicked Bianca’s skin—her neck, collarbone, breasts. Carter stared in disbelief at the gruesome wound to her throat.

  But Bianca was looking at him, dazed. Still alive. Her body trembled, and little bubbles formed in the blood seeping from the ugly gash as she gasped for air.

  Adrenaline sent him into action. He grabbed a towel from the vanity above him and pressed the cloth to her throat. She wheezed as the thick cotton began to soak with her blood.

  “Stay with me,” he pleaded. He had to call for help. God. He’d left his cell phone downstairs. Carter stood, slipping on the blood before getting his feet under him and stumbling into the bedroom. He grabbed the wireless handset on the nightstand and ran back. On his knees beside Bianca again, he dialed 911 with shaking fingers.

  “I’m at 1211 Lone Oak Canyon Road,” he rasped to the answering operator. “I need help, now!”

  “What’s your emergency, sir?”

  He drew in a ragged breath. “There’s a woman—she has a bad wound to her throat!”

  “She’s breathing?”

  Anxiety knotted his belly as he looked at Bianca. Her lashes had fluttered closed, but he could still see the fast, shallow rise of her chest and hear her wet gasping. His throat convulsed. Carter’s voice broke. “Yes. We need someone now! Please!”

  “I’m sending police and an ambulance, sir. Stay on the line with me, all right?”

  As the operator began giving instructions on what to do, Bianca’s eyes slowly fluttered open again. They grew wider, focusing on a spot behind him. She kicked feebly and made a gurgling sound.

  Carter’s skin prickled in sudden awareness. He’d been so shell-shocked, so frantic to help Bianca…

  Whoever had done this was still here.

  Before he could turn, a stabbing force hit his right shoulder. Jesus! Agony hurdled through him. Carter managed to twist halfway onto his back, falling on top of Bianca as a strangled cry tore from his throat. His vision swam, his heartbeat roaring in his ears as he used his forearm to try to defend himself against whatever plunged into him again, this time between his ribs. Everything exploded into red.

  Can’t breathe.

  More vicious strikes sliced through his chest, the pain nearly ripping his soul from his body. His lungs, his arm, were on fire. Unable to move, Carter heard his own strained gasps growing farther away.

  He fell into darkness.

  * * *

  Mark St. Clair paced the corridor of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, a short distance away from the ICU waiting area where he had left his mother, Olivia. Despite the vibrant mid-morning sky visible through the windows, he felt an all-consuming grayness. He paused as two LAPD detectives, based on the holstered weapons and gold shields at their waists, exited the elevator. Mark had been told they were on their way, and he wanted to speak with them out of Olivia’s hearing.

  “Is there any change in your brother’s condition?” one of them, a heavyset, African-American male who looked to be in his fifties, asked somberly once they approached and introduced themselves.

  “He made it through surgery. He’s in the ICU.” Mark dragged a hand through his hair, unable to suppress the tremor in his voice. “The surgical team said it’s touch and go. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”

  They nodded their understanding. Detective Warren, the one who asked about Carter’s condition, indicated a row of upholstered chairs. “You have our sympathy, Mr. St. Clair. Would you like to sit down or go to a private room? We know you just got off a plane from the East Coast.”

  The hallway was actually quiet, with police watching the floor and making sure no one got near the closed-off portion of the ICU without authorization. Mark was aware they were on the lookout for paparazzi hoping to get a photo of his brother. It sickened him.

  “I’d rather stand.” He’d been awakened by the ringing phone in the middle of the night. Carter’s agent, Elliott Kaplan, had shakily relayed what had happened, at least as much as he’d known at the time. Mark and Olivia had caught the first flight out of the Charleston airport, while Samantha stayed behind with the children. Mercer’s flight from Atlanta had landed a short while ago, and she was en route to the hospital.

  “Where is she?” Mark asked tightly, referring to Carter’s attacker.

  “Kelsey Dobbins is in custody at the downtown precinct,” the second detective, a tall Latino named Ortega, assured him. “She’s being transferred later today for a psych evaluation. She has a documented history of paranoid schizophrenia. Hallucinations, hearing voices—”

  Mark’s jaw ached. He felt no sympathy. “I don’t give a damn if she is mentally disturbed. I want her in prison.”

  Ortega nodded. “We’ll do everything we can.”

  Since his arrival at the hospital, Mark had witnessed the nonstop news coverage on the waiting room’s mounted television—video of police cars surrounding Carter’s gated home, yellow crime scene tape cordoning off its front entrance. Since the media didn’t know who they were, Mark had been able to get Olivia past the photographers and fans gathered on the street in front of the hospital. Kaplan was sitting with her now, appearing anxious and disheveled himself, doing his best to console her.

  This didn’t seem real. The more salacious news programs were describing the attack on Carter and Bianca Rossi as a slaughter. Rumors were circulating online that both were dead. At least for now, that was the case for only one of them. Rossi had been declared dead at the scene. Overwhelmed, Mark drew in a breath and rubbed his burning eyes.

  “Are you all right, Mr. St. Clair?” Ortega asked. “As a family member, we have some questions for you, but we can wait if—”

  He shook his head. “No. Let’s do this now.”

  “Did your brother mention having a stalker?” Warren settled his hands on the belt at his thick waist, one of them just above his holstered gun.

  “He’s had a few of them. It comes with the territory,” Mark said as a nurse went past.

  “Did he mention Dobbins specifically?”

  “He said she’d sent letters. A lot of them.” He recalled Carter having described them as sad an
d a little disturbing. “He never mentioned her trying to make physical contact, though.”

  “It’s possible he didn’t know,” Ortega said. “We talked to his studio. Six weeks ago, Dobbins was intercepted by security, trying to get onto one of the lots where he was shooting scenes. A woman who works for the maid service your brother uses at his residence also recognized her from a photo.”

  Mark’s stomach fluttered. “In what context?”

  “Dobbins rang the bell at the front door—must’ve climbed the fence to get onto the property. She kept loitering even after being told Mr. St. Clair wasn’t home. She left only when the maid threatened to call police.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last week.”

  Regret spiraled through him. Carter should have had better security. But he had insisted he didn’t want to be one of those people who went around with bodyguards or an entourage. Mark believed Carter had never been fully prepared for the level of stardom he had reached, and so quickly. After leaving the soap opera he had been on for over six years, he had appeared on a hit television show, eventually getting out of his contract so he could work full time in movies. Last year, he was an Academy Award nominee. Mark might be biased, but he believed Carter had lost only because the recognition went to another actor posthumously. An ache filled him. He didn’t want that word ever being used in connection with his brother. “Have you spoken with Elliott Kaplan about this woman?”

  “We did,” Warren acknowledged. “Mr. Kaplan said he knew about Dobbins but had written her off as just another overzealous fan.”

  They asked Mark a few more questions, then Ortega gave him his business card and encouraged him to call if he thought of anything important.

  “We’ll be in touch,” he added as both men shook Mark’s hand again. “We’re praying for your brother. You and he look a little alike, you know.”

  As they began to walk away, Mark halted them. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to know if this woman—this psychopath—felt any remorse. “Detectives. Has Dobbins said anything? Can I ask that?”