swung open.
Briskly, and with a pounding heart, she returned her tools, and the small piece of window, to the satchel, slid it into her purse and picked up her suitcase. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Taking her tools out again, Gillian worked quickly, replacing the window in the door and returning her tools to the leather satchel. She placed the satchel into her purse.
Then looked around her.
Thirties Hollywood. That was her first impression. Maybe not so big as some of those deco places out in the hills. But in its own faded, still glamorous way, this one was just as tasty.
White marble entrance hall. Light streaming through looped drapes at the long windows either side of the tall white studded door. A white staircase rose before her. It branched off, right and left, each section winding upward and then back on itself. Both sets of stairs met on a white and chrome balcony, the entire width of the house. Just like the prow of a cruise liner.
The Busby Berkeley Babes.
Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler.
“Yessir,” Gillian breathed. “The place has style, all right.”
She shivered. It was this air of loneliness, inside the house as well as out. It hung about the place like some longforgotten melody. It made her want to cry, it was so sad.
The emptiness made her think that maybe this house, too, was up for sale. But once again, she had this deep down certainty that it wasn’t.
A quick check on all the rooms told her that the house was lived in. It was tidy; not a magazine out of place. Garden flowers were still fresh in the tall white vases.
Black and white studio shots of a blonde with cupid bow lips and provocative, dark-lashed eyes smiled archly from the walls. In one photograph, she was dressed up like Heidi, complete with pigtails, accompanied by a mustachioed guy in Bavarian fancy dress.
Gillian recognized the woman—though from where, she couldn’t say. Some all-time movie star. All alone with her memories. Alone, except for a maid coming in twice a week to keep the place straight. ...
She inspected the first bedroom she came to. White quilted satin on a large, circular bed. Flimsy white drapes drawn aside from the heart-shaped quilted satin headboard. Flimsy white drapes at the windows, too. Built-in wardrobes. A curved white dresser covered in glass gewgaws and perfume and stuff. Matching nightstands stood either side of the bed.
A movie set from years ago.
Gillian stepped inside the adjoining all-white bathroom. And gasped with pleasure as her eyes took in the round sunken tub and ornate gold taps shaped like dolphin heads. Slender bottles filled with colored oils and unguents were set neatly at intervals around the rim.
Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra.
Only thing missing was a Nubian slave girl.
Excitement stirred, touching her spine with soft, seductive fingers. The tingly feeling teased her stomach and goosebumps rose on her skin. She couldn’t wait to undress.
But first off, had she missed anything? Like some vital clue telling her that the owner was home, after all? To be safe, Gillian called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”
If somebody answered she could always say ... hell, what could she say? The usual excuses, like she’d been asked to call around, to check on ... who? That she was a relative come to stay? All seemed woefully inadequate.
An escapee from the local psychiatric unit seemed more plausible, she remembered thinking.
Okay. Weak wasn’t the word. Especially if she was discovered upstairs already. She’d have to come up with a pretty good answer. Bluff her way out of a tricky situation.
Or just make a break for it.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
Silence.
No reply.
Thank God.
She was safe. Although ...
Do it now. Do it. I dare you ...
The short hairs on the back of her neck began to rise.
Hey. Live life on the edge, Gilly baby. Why not?
She cocked her head. Listening for sounds. Any sounds.
None.
The familiar tingle of excitement teased
Briskly, and with a pounding heart, she returned her tools, and the small piece of window, to the satchel, slid it into her purse and picked up her suitcase. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Taking her tools out again, Gillian worked quickly, replacing the window in the door and returning her tools to the leather satchel. She placed the satchel into her purse.
Then looked around her.
Thirties Hollywood. That was her first impression. Maybe not so big as some of those deco places out in the hills. But in its own faded, still glamorous way, this one was just as tasty.
White marble entrance hall. Light streaming through looped drapes at the long windows either side of the tall white studded door. A white staircase rose before her. It branched off, right and left, each section winding upward and then back on itself. Both sets of stairs met on a white and chrome balcony, the entire width of the house. Just like the prow of a cruise liner.
The Busby Berkeley Babes.
Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler.
“Yessir,” Gillian breathed. “The place has style, all right.”
She shivered. It was this air of loneliness, inside the house as well as out. It hung about the place like some longforgotten melody. It made her want to cry, it was so sad.
The emptiness made her think that maybe this house, too, was up for sale. But once again, she had this deep down certainty that it wasn’t.
A quick check on all the rooms told her that the house was lived in. It was tidy; not a magazine out of place. Garden flowers were still fresh in the tall white vases.
Black and white studio shots of a blonde with cupid bow lips and provocative, dark-lashed eyes smiled archly from the walls. In one photograph, she was dressed up like Heidi, complete with pigtails, accompanied by a mustachioed guy in Bavarian fancy dress.
Gillian recognized the woman—though from where, she couldn’t say. Some all-time movie star. All alone with her memories. Alone, except for a maid coming in twice a week to keep the place straight. ...
She inspected the first bedroom she came to. White quilted satin on a large, circular bed. Flimsy white drapes drawn aside from the heart-shaped quilted satin headboard. Flimsy white drapes at the windows, too. Built-in wardrobes. A curved white dresser covered in glass gewgaws and perfume and stuff. Matching nightstands stood either side of the bed.
A movie set from years ago.
Gillian stepped inside the adjoining all-white bathroom. And gasped with pleasure as her eyes took in the round sunken tub and ornate gold taps shaped like dolphin heads. Slender bottles filled with colored oils and unguents were set neatly at intervals around the rim.
Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra.
Only thing missing was a Nubian slave girl.
Excitement stirred, touching her spine with soft, seductive fingers. The tingly feeling teased her stomach and goosebumps rose on her skin. She couldn’t wait to undress.
But first off, had she missed anything? Like some vital clue telling her that the owner was home, after all? To be safe, Gillian called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”
If somebody answered she could always say ... hell, what could she say? The usual excuses, like she’d been asked to call around, to check on ... who? That she was a relative come to stay? All seemed woefully inadequate.
An escapee from the local psychiatric unit seemed more plausible, she remembered thinking.
Okay. Weak wasn’t the word. Especially if she was discovered upstairs already. She’d have to come up with a pretty good answer. Bluff her way out of a tricky situation.
Or just make a break for it.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
Silence.
No reply.
Thank God.
She was safe. Although ...
Do it now. Do it. I dare you ...
The short hairs on the back of her neck began to rise.
Hey. Live life on the edge, Gilly baby. Why not?
She cocked her head. Listening for sounds. Any sounds.
None.
The familiar tingle of excitement teased
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