Strange Bedfellow by Janet Dailey Page A

Chet.”  
    Like the sudden uncoiling of a spring, Blake leaned down, spreading his hands across the tabletop, arms rigid. In the flickering candlelight his features resembled a carved teakwood mask of some pagan god, harsh and ruthless and dangerously compelling.  
    “When are you going to get it through that blind little brain of yours that you've never needed him?” he demanded.  
    Her heart was pounding out a message of fear. “I don't know you,” she breathed in panic. “You're a stranger. You frighten me, Blake.”  
    “That makes two of us, because I'm scared as hell of myself!” He straightened abruptly, issuing an impatient, “Let's get out of here before I do something I'll regret.”  
    Throwing caution away, Dina protested, “I don't want to go anywhere with you.”  
    “I'm aware of that!” His hand clamped a hold on her arm to haul her to her feet, overpowering her weak resistance. Once she was upright, his fingers remained clamped around her arm to keep her pressed to his side. “Is the drink paid for?” Blake reminded her of the untouched contents of the glass on the table.  
    As always when she came in physical contact with him, she seemed to lose the ability to think coherently. His muscular body was like living steel and the softness of her shape had to yield. Everything was suddenly reduced to an elemental level. Not until Blake had put the question to her a second time did Dina take in what he had asked.  
    She managed a trembling, “No, it isn't.”  
    Releasing her, Blake took a money clip from his pocket and peeled off a bill, tossing it on the table. Then the steel band of his arm circled her waist to guide her out of the lounge, oblivious to the curious stares.  
    In towering silence he walked her to the white Porsche, its top still down. He opened the door and pushed her behind the wheel. Then, slamming the door shut, he leaned on the frame, an unrelenting grimness to his mouth.  
    “My car is going to be glued to your bumper, following you every inch of the way. So don't take any detours on the route home, Dina,” he warned.  
    Before Dina could make any kind of retort, he walked to his car parked in the next row of the lot. Starting the car, she gunned the motor as if she were accelerating for a race, a puny gesture of impotent defiance.  
    True to his word, his car was a large shadow behind hers every block of the way, an ominous presence she couldn't shake even if she had tried—which she didn't. Stopping in the driveway of his mother's house—their house—Dina hurried from her car, anxious to get inside where the other inhabitants could offer her a degree of safety from him.  
    Halfway to the door Blake caught up with her, a hand firmly clasping her elbow to slow her down.  
    “This little episode isn't over yet,” he stated in an undertone. “We'll talk about it later.”  
    Dina swallowed the impulse to challenge him. It was better to keep silent with safety so near. Together they entered the house, both concealing the state of war between them.  
    Mother Chandler appeared in the living-room doorway, wearing an attractive black chiffon dress. Her elegantly coiffed silver hair was freshly styled, thanks to an afternoon's appointment at her favorite salon. She smiled brightly at the pair of them, unaware of the tension crackling between them.  
    “You're both home—how wonderful!” she exclaimed, assuming her cultured tone. “I was about to suggest to Deirdre that perhaps she should delay dinner for an hour. I'm so glad it won't be necessary. I know how much you detest overcooked meat, Blake.”  
    “You always did like your beef very rare, didn't you, Blake?” Dina followed up on the comment, her gaze glittering at his face with diamond sharpness. “I have always considered your desire for raw flesh as a barbaric tendency.”  
    “It seems you were right, doesn't it?” he countered.  
    Mother Chandler seemed impervious to the barbed exchange