“It might be security,” she insisted.
“It might not.” He yanked her down, pushing her against hard, cold asphalt. “Go under. Now.”
He thrust her into the eighteen-inch wheel space, cinders stabbing her palms. She held her breath as he half dragged her into the darkness, blinking into the gloom, smelling earth and grease and whatever grew under there. He stopped when they were fully underneath the trailer floor.
Arianna peered into the dim light on the other side, where she could see her bag and half its contents scattered around the metal stairs. There was her wallet. Her cell phone. Her keys. And good Lord, there was the tiny velvet pouch she’d stuffed in her pack, right out in the open, where a truck would smash it or someone would find it!
Oh, Mom. I’m sorry.
She’d thought about leaving the ring on, but, as always, she took it off unless she needed it. Now she might lose it. That couldn’t happen. It couldn’t.
The golf cart was still far enough away that she couldn’t see any headlights. She had time. Without a glance of warning to the man beside her, she shot forward, getting no more than two feet before he seized her thigh.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, dragging her back, her jacket and tank top sliding up so that the asphalt scraped her bare skin.
“You see that little bag, right past the stairs? I’m going to get that. And yes, I am willing to die trying.”
He swore softly. “Don’t move.” He slithered forward like an army guy in the trenches, a gun in his right hand as he snaked toward the stairs.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was bone-dry. Hope grabbed her heart and squeezed as she watched. She knew she was right about him. Good all the way down to the bone. Pissed off and pessimistic as hell, but good.
In one graceful move, he grabbed the keys and the wallet. But he still didn’t have the ring. He inched out of the protective covering of the trailer just as the golf cart rumbled from the access road behind sound stage four, a few hundred yards away. In seconds, it would turn the corner and its lights would shine directly on him.
Hurry. Terrified to look, but unable not to, she glanced in the direction of sound stage four. High beam lights danced on the strip of asphalt she could see from under the trailer.
Chase dove at the bag, seized it, then pivoted without getting up from his crouch. Lunging back under the trailer, he twisted into the tiny space the very second that yellow lights spilled all over the spot where he’d just been.
She reached to him, an exclamation caught in her throat.
“Quiet!” he ordered, shimmying next to her. “I didn’t have time to get the backpack,” he said, the tiny note of apology in his voice touching her more than the act itself.
“Thank you.” She closed her hand around the velvet bag, sending a silent message of apology to her mother. She didn’t dare take the ring out and risk dropping it in the dark, so she pulled the zipper of her jacket down enough to stuff the pouch into the bra shelf in her tank top.
Next to her, he jockeyed for position in the tight space, shoving her wallet and keys in his jacket pocket. The heat of his body and the closeness of the trailer caused her clothes to stick to her skin and her neck to prickle.
There was just enough light to make out a grease stain on his cheekbone, the treacherous set of his jaw. He cut his gaze from the lights to her, his blue eyes penetrating. She touched his face, thumbing the hollow of his cheek, rubbing the streak of dirt. “That was really—”
He slapped his hand over her mouth and shook his head.
Heroic.
“Shhh.” He mouthed the order, his expression serious, and heated. For one second, she thought he might replace his fingers with his mouth, and kiss her.
The lights grew brighter, the engine louder.
In an instant, he slid his whole body over hers, sandwiching her between him and the ground. The impact pushed a shocked breath out of her, but she clamped her mouth closed to stop any sound.
He swept his right arm forward to aim his gun, and the movement gave her a sliver of a view between his shoulder and chin, offering a glimpse of golf cart wheels as they came to a stop directly in front of them.
It had to be security.
Then she remembered the gunshot, the explosive pop as it hit her trailer, so close it had to have been meant to hit her.
It might not be security.
At the sight of her dropped backpack and the open trailer door, a studio guard would radio for backup. Any second, they would hear the static, then the voice of MetroNet security requesting assistance at Arianna Killian’s trailer.
But this guard . . . this visitor . . . said nothing.
She modulated her breaths, taking in her bodyguard’s distinctly masculine scent and the musty stink of the trailer.
Still no radio static.
She could feel the steady, solid beat of Chase’s heart, and his chest rise and fall with each breath. His body pressed as hard on her back as the asphalt that jammed into her hipbones.
She saw the driver’s boots and dark pants as he climbed out of the cart. He reached down to lift her backpack, then her phone, but not low enough to give them a look at his face. He kicked something—her lipstick?—then started toward the trailer.
Chase lifted the gun a millimeter.
At the foot of the stairs the man paused for a second, then the familiar squeak of the trailer door broke the silence of the darkened studio lot. Above them, footsteps moved from one end of the trailer to the other. Slowly at first, then faster.
Was he looking for her? From the sound, he was near her vanity and powder room, then he moved to the seating area in the middle, then all the way to the back, to the wardrobe racks and cot.
Was it the security guard? Or someone else?
The velvet pouch slipped a little between her breasts, and Arianna’s whole body clutched. She inched her left hand toward her chest, dipping her fingers into the sliver of space in her bodice. She could barely get in there, he had her so smashed on the ground, but she managed to find the opening of the pouch and worm one finger into it.
The smooth, familiar band touched her skin. Then she closed her eyes, and waited.
The footsteps pounded right overhead. What was he doing in there? She forced herself to be calm. If it was a security guard, then nothing would happen. If it wasn’t, then something would. At least, in her head.
She rubbed the gold of her mother’s ring and focused on its power.
Five, ten, fifteen seconds ticked by. Each footfall sounded a little more desperate as the intruder clomped back and forth over their heads. Something dropped with a thud and Arianna jerked, but Chase held her still.
Glass shattered, and a chair leg scraped.
She slipped her finger deeper in the ring. Who was it? What did they want?
A fine, familiar chill snaked down her spine. She arched into it, vaguely aware that the man on top of her responded by grasping her tighter with every unrelenting muscle he had.
She ignored him, stroking the gold and coaxing her sixth sense forward.
Like a black-and-white slide show, the images came as stills. Rain. Asphalt. Tires. Not a cat, a silver hood ornament. Darkened windows. The crash. A guardrail giving way. The free fall into blackness. Glass and rain and blood. The end.
She slipped her finger from the ring and the slide show stopped.
But she had the answer she sought. Directly above them, tearing her trailer apart, was a murderer.
“Chase,” she whispered, but he smacked his hand over her mouth again, forcing her desperate breaths from her nose. In a minute, the trailer door closed and booted feet appeared again, jogging down the steps.
She had to know who it was. She squirmed and made a tiny moan into his hand. The feet froze. He’d heard her! She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for gunfire.
Suddenly, the intruder jogged to the golf cart, flipped the ignition switch, and in less than two seconds the beam of headlights disa
ppeared into the darkness of the studio lot.
Only then did Chase release his seal over her mouth.
“He’s the murderer.” Arianna blew out the words. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
Slowly, he rolled off her. “What?”
“I had the vision. That person is a killer, and you just let him drive away.”
“Yes, I did. Because my job is first and foremost to keep you alive. What was I going to do? Leave you here? That won’t happen, Arianna. Ever. You never risk a principal to get an assailant. Protection 101.”
“He’s a murderer,” she insisted.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes. I. Do.” She bit the words out.
His expression melted into disbelief and disgust. “Let’s get out of here.”
She opened her mouth, but he placed his hand gently over her lips, to make a point. “We do this my way. No debate.”
“You aren’t going to go into the trailer? He tore the place apart.”
“It won’t look much different,” he said. “But, no. I’m not. I’m going to check to see if the area is clear, then I’m going to get you off the premises as soon as humanly possible.”
“But what was he doing in there?”
“He was looking for something. That was obvious. Copies of the e-mails, maybe. Something incriminating. Something of value. Do you have something someone might want enough to shoot at you, so that you run away and leave your trailer unlocked?”
Her heart pounded against a soft velvet pouch. “No,” she lied. “Nothing I can think of.”
• • •
“Brace yourself,” Arianna said as she pushed open the six-foot-high wooden gate that led to the steep stairs along the side of her house. “It’s eighty years old, tiny as a shoe box, but it’s—”
“A bodyguard’s nightmare.”
“Home,” she finished.
He reached the edge of her pine deck, looking at the surrounding brush and the direct drop down the hillside that overlooked Chateau Marmont and the never-ending stream of car lights that snaked along Sunset Boulevard.
“It was good enough for Judy Garland,” she said defensively, sliding her fingers into her front jeans pockets. “She lived here when she was starting out.”
He didn’t look impressed. In fact, he shrugged as if only an idiot would take up residence somewhere so precarious. “There’s no railing and a direct drop down a steep hill. One drink and somebody could topple right over.”
“I keep my drunken guests inside,” she said. “And avoid the edges.”
“The brush should be cut back. It’s a fire hazard.”
“It gives me privacy.”
He pulled her keys from his jacket pocket. “Alarm code?”
Oh, boy. “It’s, um . . . I keep meaning to get it changed. It kept going off in the middle of the night, and it’s disabled right now.” Stupid for a woman getting nasty e-mails, but she had hired a bodyguard. She wasn’t a total fool.
“We need to get it a new code ASAP.”
When he unlocked the sliding glass door she waited for a moment, letting him enter, imagining her three-room hideaway through his eyes. What she saw as an inviting and warm sanctuary, all celery silk and cream velvet, a precious collection of crystals and candles, Mr. Look at the Bright Side probably thought was a tinderbox.
When she followed him in, she flipped on a single uplight over the fireplace. He prowled through the tiny living room, set his duffel bag on an end table, and continued past the kitchenette, following the narrow hall to the only other room in the house. Had she made her bed?
Once, last year.
Maybe she didn’t finish anything.
When he returned, she’d already started water for tea and leaned against the counter, picking dirt from her jacket and jeans.
“Cute house,” he said.
“But fraught with danger,” she added.
He stepped into the kitchen, his expression more relaxed as he slipped out of his sports jacket, revealing the holster and gun, and that muscular chest that had flattened her so efficiently from behind. She could only imagine what it could do from the front.
Awareness curled through her and mixed with that spark of hero worship he’d lit under her trailer. “Would you like some tea?”
He shook his head. “Never touch the stuff.”
“You sure? It’s African rooibos.”
He laughed softly, a low, sexy sound that tingled her already raw nerve endings. “Like I have a clue what that is.”
“It’s tea with an attitude and no caffeine. Try it. It’s all vanilla and spice. I promise you’ll never go back.”
“I prefer no attitude and plenty of caffeine, but all right—you sold me.” He turned to peer through the wall of plate glass to the world of West Hollywood below. “That’s some view.”
“But a landslide waiting to happen, right?”
“No kidding.” He strolled to the sofa that lined one wall, picking up a massive amethyst on the table. “And just for the record, this could be a lethal weapon in the right hands.”
“Stop it, will you?” She twisted the top to the rooibos tin. “You’re scaring me.”
“That’s my job,” he explained, setting it down carefully on the glass table and looking across the room at her. “Hypervigilance.”
She leaned on her elbows and dropped her chin on her knuckles. “Did anyone ever tell you what a nice aura you have?”
He fought a smile. “No, I can’t say anyone’s ever mentinoed my aura.”
“Well, you do,” she continued, undaunted by his mocking tone. “You have a lovely golden aura of goodness all around you.”
“A lovely golden aura.” He laughed, a little self-conscious. “Please don’t tell my colleagues.”
“But you are in the perfect job for someone who wants to take care of people. You are very . . .” Kind, protective, sweet. He was, but that wasn’t his color. It was liquid amber. It was warm and sensual and . . . “Safe.”
“I guess that beats dangerous, in my line of work.” He studied her for a moment, that smile still there, but not quite as cynical as it was a minute ago. “Let me ask you something, Arianna.”
She leaned forward, drawn to him, sparked by the possibility of what he might ask her. “Anything.”
“Does the studio keep a log of every person who leaves the lot, as well as everyone who arrives?”
She shifted her attention back to the tea to hide her disappointment in the impersonal question. “I think so. And the security cameras run all the time, but could you do me a favor and drop it for a minute? I need to decompress after tonight. I don’t want to talk about who ransacked my trailer. It makes my head hurt.” And her heart, to think someone might be after her ring. “Do you mind?”
He shrugged. “We’ll have to figure it out eventually.”
“Eventually,” she agreed. But not now. She rounded the counter that ran between the kitchen and the living area, and perched on the arm of a club chair. “Isn’t there anything else you wanted to ask me? You can hit me with anything, and I’ll answer. We should get to know each other, don’t you think?”
“All right,” he agreed. “How well do you know my boss?”
The reading she’d done for Lucy Sharpe had been unforgettable, and so powerful it had rocked them both. “We met through mutual friends a few years ago.” That wasn’t a lie, nor did it break Lucy’s confidential reading. “How about you? How’d you get a job with her? Astronaut to bodyguard isn’t your typical career path.”
“I’m not typical,” he said.
“No weak spots, not typical.” She cocked her head, giving him a teasing, analyzing smile. “Hmm. I like those qualities in a man.”
“Do you flirt with everyone? The camera, strangers, your bodyguard?”
“I’m not flirting,” she replied. “This is my natural personality. And you just deftly changed the subject.” She twirled her finger in a counterclockwise circle. “Bac
k we go now. Astronaut to bodyguard? How did that happen?”
“I got to know one of the Bullet Catchers when I was on a high-profile assignment for NASA a while ago,” he explained. “Good man by the name of Dan Gallagher. He’s close to Lucy, recruits a lot of new hires.” He draped his powerful arms over the back of the sofa, making her want to climb under one for a few hours. “Mostly I handle the jobs that require someone who can snip government red tape.”
“Were you ever in space?”
“Yes, I piloted the space shuttle twice.”
She drew back, her jaw loose. “Wow. How totally cool is that?”
“Like very totally.” He added a wink to neutralize the tease.
She pointed at him. “You know, you’re cute when you loosen up, Rocket Man.”
“Cute?” He made a disgusted face. “Don’t you know it’s rude to point? And call grown men cute and safe?”
She chuckled. Not cute. Totally hot, when he relaxed a little. “So why’d you quit being an astronaut?” she asked as the teapot sang.
He didn’t answer until she was back with two steaming mugs, the vanilla teasing her nose as she carried it across the room.
“I quit because of changes in the space program that I didn’t like,” he finally said.
For the first time since she met him hours earlier, she had the feeling he wasn’t being honest. “What kind of changes?” she asked.
He took the tea she offered, a glimmer of distaste in his eyes. Either he hated the smell of vanilla, or the turn of the conversation. “Lax safety.”
It was only partially true, she could tell. He avoided her gaze, his whole body had stiffened.
“Let me guess,” she said, finding a little space among the candles and crystals for her cup. “It had something to do with Michael.”
He sloshed a drop of hot tea over the edge of the mug, swearing under his breath as it hit his thumb. He wiped his hand on his trousers. “Like I said, you’re a very good guesser.”
“Sometimes I guess,” she admitted. “Sometimes I read body language. And sometimes I really know.”
He sipped the tea, and winced at the taste. Or the idea that she really knew.
Reason to Believe Page 4
