She blushed slightly at the implication of her own words. Even in the short time she’d been in Stillwater, she’d picked up on Bryce Delaney’s reputation. He slept around. A different date, if not every night, at least every few days. The man was a walking shot of testosterone and it seemed the ladies of West County were only too happy to indulge his need to be the local stud.
His lips quirked into a smile that told her he understood the reason for her blush. “As it happens, I don’t.” He frowned slightly, changing the subject abruptly. “When I broke in here, you were afraid of something. You said, ‘Don’t let them get me.’ What was that about?”
She shrugged, hoping the gloom disguised her blush. “Did I? Maybe I was delirious or something.”
It was a lame explanation, but, although he gave her a searching look, he didn’t push it. “Go back to sleep, Steffi. I’ll be here if you need me.”
She should probably challenge that. Get mad. Throw him out. But she was still so tired and, even if she only admitted it to herself, having him here was comforting. Snuggling back down into the bedclothes, she closed her eyes and listened to the voice of the newsreader. A train had derailed, causing major problems. There was an ongoing debate about the minimum wage. Steffi was just feeling sleep tug at the edge of her consciousness again when the focus switched from local issues to celebrity news.
“Police still have no further information on the whereabouts of actress Anya Moretti. Moretti, who has been missing since the murder of her boyfriend Greg Spence and an unknown woman three months ago, is best known for her roles in films such as...”
“Turn it off, please.” Steffi spoke more sharply than she had intended.
Bryce looked up in surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was bothering you.” He flicked a switch on the remote control and the room was plunged into darkness and silence.
* * *
Sleep didn’t come easily to Bryce. When it did arrive it was brief and filled with nightmares from which he woke sweating, having relived every minute of the living hell of that roadside explosion. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why he never chased slumber, why he tended to find other—more interesting—things to do during the hours of darkness. Sleeping in the uncomfortable upright chair in Steffi’s bedroom was damn near impossible. After shifting his long limbs into various positions, Bryce gave up. He didn’t want to switch on the lamp and disturb Steffi, but he did want to check on her before he left the room.
Stepping into the narrow hall, he flicked on the light. Returning to the bedroom, he gazed down at her in the gloomy half-light flowing through the open door. She was sleeping peacefully, her short, chestnut curls clustered like a halo around her head. In sleep her features seemed less sharp than in wakefulness. Steffi was one of those women who would never be able to lay claim to classical beauty. Taking each feature in turn, there was a flaw. Her nose definitely turned up at the end in a defiant, go-to-hell gesture. Her mouth was way too wide for prettiness and the gap between her front teeth caught the eye almost as much as her full lips. Then there was that stubborn, determined chin. The one she tilted upward at him during their frequent arguments. Yet when you put those features together, they made an unforgettable face. It wasn’t beautiful. It was mesmerizing.
Because she kept them hidden behind her dark glasses, Bryce hadn’t seen Steffi’s eyes until just now. They had taken his breath away. The golden-brown irises had elongated downward notches that made them look like cat’s eyes. He had never seen eyes like them. What had Leon called the condition that caused it? Coloboma, that was it.
She was an enigma. Bryce didn’t care what she said; Steffi had been scared out of her wits when he broke in here, trying to hide under the bed and covering her head with her hands. His first guess had been that she was running from a bad relationship. Don’t let them get me? Them. Plural. That made it sound less like she was running from a vengeful ex. One thing was for sure; she clearly wasn’t ready to confide in him. Another thing was certain; Bryce wasn’t leaving her until he knew she was both well and safe. To hell with what his brothers might say about his knack for collecting waifs and strays. This was Steffi. She was different. He didn’t know why; it was just a conviction, solid and unshakable, sitting in the center of his chest.
Treading softly back out of the room, Bryce made his way into the den. There was a TV in here as well, but the walls were so thin he was afraid of waking Steffi. With a sigh of resignation, he picked up one of her celebrity magazines and began to flick through it. After twenty minutes of thumbing through the magazines and newspapers, he came to the conclusion that Steffi had a bit of an obsession with the very story she had interrupted when she asked him to turn the TV off so she could go to sleep. Either that, or it was a coincidence that all these journals she had stockpiled contained articles about the disappearance of Anya Moretti.
Bryce hadn’t paid much attention to the case. Celebrities didn’t interest him, and the sort of happily-ever-after romances in which Anya Moretti starred weren’t his style. He knew it was a sordid story, typical gossip column fodder. Greg Spence, Moretti’s boyfriend, had been found shot through the head. The story was that another woman had been with him at the time. She had been shot as well, also through the head. Although the woman had still not been identified, rumors were rife on social media about the compromising position in which the couple had been found. Anya Moretti had not been seen since the day of the murders. The inevitable conclusions had been drawn. Moretti, once Hollywood’s darling, had already been tried and convicted in the press as the woman who had killed her boyfriend and his lover in a jealous rage.
Bryce thought again how he just hadn’t seen Steffi as the type to enjoy this sort of trashy reporting. He started to cast aside the magazine he had been thumbing without reading the story, when one of the pictures caught his eye. Most of the articles had gone with the same photographs. Moretti in the role that had brought her into the public eye as an accident-prone speedway rider, shaking loose her waist-length curls as she sat astride a bike and removed her helmet. Or on the podium when she received her Oscar, her arm held high as she raised the statuette above her head in a celebratory gesture. One had gone with a red carpet picture of her smiling into Spence’s eyes as they held hands. He was a tall, handsome man with dark brown hair drawn back into a ponytail. The caption beneath the picture stated that they hadn’t been together long, but there was already talk of an engagement. Most articles included pictures of the crime scene outside Spence’s luxury apartment on the morning the bodies were found. Emergency vehicles converged on the building, and shocked onlookers waited behind a makeshift barrier.
This picture Bryce studied now was different. This article included a photograph of a younger Anya Moretti. Her chestnut curls were drawn back in a ponytail and there was a wistful smile on her face as she turned to look at the photographer. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but you could tell she had that special something that would always draw the camera to her. It was her eyes that held Bryce’s attention. Her golden-brown eyes with their unusual downward notches. They were cat’s eyes. They were Steffi’s eyes.
* * *
It was fully light when Steffi woke again and she lay still, blinking slightly as she recalled the events of the previous day. Turning her head, she confirmed that Bryce was in the chair where he had been when she fell asleep. But something in his demeanor had changed. The concerned look had gone. He was watching her, but there was a frown in his eyes. She didn’t need to ask why. It was obvious. He knew. Somehow, between her falling asleep and waking, Bryce had discovered the secret of her identity.
“How did you find out?” It didn’t occur to her to try to deny it. Subterfuge wasn’t Steffi’s style. It almost felt like a relief that, at last, someone knew who she was.
“There was a picture in one of your magazines. It showed a close-up of your eyes.”
Steffi sighed, pushing herself into an upright position. Although she still felt weak, the stomach cramps were a thing of the past. “I knew my eyes would give me away. I usually wear contact lenses so I don’t draw attention to them. In the early days, when I made my first films, it didn’t bother me too much. Then the comments started to get intrusive and I