My head was fuzzy. It was hard to think. I had to concentrate to remember what had happened. I was in my car, lodged among the trees with branches through the window. Now I got the inference my brain had made—boughs breaking.
Broken branches weren't good. Those damn branches were scratching my prize paint job. Did they have any idea how much it would cost to repaint this baby? The paint was so pricey it may as well have been gold. It cost two thousand dollars just to get the oil changed in this vehicle. I bought this car on a whim for a weekend away at Riggins' expense at a local castle.
Ah, shit. What did I care about the money? I had plenty. It was the sentimental value that bothered me.
The engine was still, miraculously, running. The heat was on. But not for long. I was just about to run out of gas. Then I'd be hostage to how long the battery would last. I wasn't wearing my coat. I'd thrown it in the passenger seat. It was gone now, replaced with a large fir branch and cold air streaming in. It wouldn't have mattered if it had still been there. I was pinned in. Trapped. Unable to move.
Where was help? Why hadn't my automatic collision response sent help?
Call. I'd just make a call. Dial 9-1-1.
I glanced around for my phone. It was on the floorboards of the passenger side. Out of reach. No problem. I'd call with my Bluetooth. I didn't even have to use my hands. I had voice control activated in my car.
"Amanda"—yes, Amanda was also the name of my electronic assistant in my car—"call 9-1-1."
"Calling 9-1-1." Her pleasant voice was reassuring. And sexy. I'd insisted on that.
"I'm sorry," Amanda said. "I can't reach 9-1-1. There's no phone service available."
I would have beaten my head on the steering wheel, but my head pounded enough as it was. I'd turned the phone off when we'd touched down in Seattle. Because I wanted to be alone.
Be careful what you wish for.
I started to laugh, and winced. Even laughing hurt. I'd had a broken rib before. Snowboarding accident. This felt eerily similar. Damn.
At least the car seemed to be on the ground, not lodged in the trees, which had been my first impression. Something sticky was on my cheek. I brushed my cheek with my shoulder. Blood. My cheek was split.
I angled toward the rearview mirror and managed to get a look at myself. That was a nasty gash, but probably the least of my worries.
I turned to the tree branch in the passenger seat. "So what do we do now, Douglas?" It was a Douglas fir. Bad joke.
But the question was serious.
As I stared at that big, bad branch, I was suddenly faced with my own mortality and just how close I'd come to staring down death. Another foot or two more and that branch, which was the size of many tree trunks—we grew them big here in the Pacific Northwest—would have collided with my head. There was little doubt. I wouldn't have survived a head-on, no pun intended, collision with it. Not in any kind of condition I'd want to live in.
I shivered. That tree had missed me by that much. Your life wasn't supposed to flash before your eyes after the danger had passed. But mine did. What the hell did that mean?
Ashley
Why does time trickle so slowly when you want it to pass and be done with it? Agony must be stretched out. Father Time was bored after his big event of the year was over? Whatever. After one of the smoothest, fastest—and yet longest—flights from New York to Seattle I'd ever been on, we landed.
The fog had cleared and the temperatures had risen above freezing. It was a perfectly pleasant day, as far as January went. It was afternoon. Not many hours of daylight left this time of year. I was impatient to get my meeting with Sheri over, and hopeful Austin had found Lazer. I texted him I was in and headed immediately to the arrivals pick-up area, my bag trailing behind me. He pulled up just as I arrived at the curb and waved to him.
"Any luck?" I asked as Austin got out of his car and loaded my bag in the trunk.
Austin hesitated. "Finding him? No."
"He wasn't at home or his apartment?" I looked him in the eye.
"Nope. The caretaker for Lazer Lodge even snowmobiled up there to check for me. He isn't there, either."
We got into Austin's car.
"The Bentley is missing from the garage at his mansion." Austin grinned for my sake, trying to be reassuring. "Still hard to believe my buddy has a mansion. Anyway, his housekeeper said he took it out New Year’s Eve and hasn't returned. I double-checked. The car's missing."
"Oh." My heart pounded. "What does that mean? Did he drive it to the airport?"
Austin looked over his shoulder and pulled into traffic. "Apparently. Justin got a hold of Lazer's pilot. He confirmed he flew Lazer home safely early this morning. Lazer roared off in his own car, the Bentley, the one that's missing. That's the last anyone has seen him."
I shivered, silently cursing that crack security team of his. "Then where is he?"
"Good question." Austin circled out of the airport and got onto the freeway. He paused as if he was dreading hitting me with the kicker, and avoided looking at me, instead focusing intently on traffic. "Jeremy did some digging. The company that monitors Lazer's automatic crash collision response got a report of a crash shortly after Lazer left the airport. They alerted the authorities and reported it. There were thousands of fender benders, collisions, and disturbances last night and into the morning.
"The state patrol and local authorities had their hands full and no time to waste. They dispatched an officer to the coordinates reported by the GPS. There was nothing there and no signs of any accident. No broken glass. No skid marks.
"The officer looked around, decided that either Lazer must have driven off himself or the report was in error, which happens from time to time, like a false alarm on a home security system, and moved on."
My heart hammered furiously. I took a deep breath. "So where is Lazer? And the car?"
Austin shrugged. "The guys and I are on it. We got our hands on the report from the service Lazer uses and the police. The police say there's nothing they can do right now. The guys are on their way to check it out. I'll join them as I soon as I drop you off at your meeting."
"I'm coming with you," I said without thinking.
"What about Sheri?" Austin sounded uneasy. "We can handle this."
"Sheri can wait—"
Austin laughed, glumly and sarcastically. "Is this the same Sheri we're talking about who can smell a story in the wind and circles when she sees blood?"
"You make her sound like a barracuda."
"Isn't she?" he said. "If she has something that can do even more damage to Pair Us than what's currently been in the news—"
"At this point, I don't care what she does," I said. "Without Lazer, we're sunk anyway. Point this car toward the site of the purported accident. We only have a few hours of daylight left. We have to find him. Let me deal with Sheri."
Austin nodded. I was one of them now. And one of our own needed us. The one I needed most.
As Austin sped toward 405, I dialed Sheri. "Something's come up," I said when she picked up. "I can't make it to a meeting right now."
"That's too bad," Sheri said, slyly. She actually sounded disappointed. "I hope it's a worthy emergency. I can't hold this video. I'm going to have to run with it without your comments."
"Do what you have to," I said. "I don't care what happens now. Lazer's missing."
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.
Austin raised an eyebrow and patted my hand. What was I thinking?
"Missing?" Sheri sounded suddenly bright and interested, like a bloodhound on the scent. "Missing how? When?"
"I have to go." I hung up, mumbling to myself about what an idiot I was. I turned to Austin. "I blew that one big time. So much for my media training."
"Don't beat yourself up." He merged onto 405. "Look on the bright side—this might distract her from whatever she was up to. Maybe she'll find him."
I snorted and shook my head. "Sorry to drag you in
to this."
He shrugged. "It's no problem. I didn't have anything better to do." His tone was full of upbeat, teasing sarcasm. "I was just binge-watching the last season of Jamie. Alone, I might add.
"The guys, who are hooked on it now, too, don't let them tell you different, have been giving me crap for watching. But what can I do? I have to get into character, right?" He pointed at me. "This is all your fault for making me over into the Sinclair. That highlander is one tough warrior. I have a lot to live up to."
"All the ladies love him," I said. I actually loved him. A kilted warrior bad boy that fought for his ladylove—that was a fantasy worth having. Who could resist it?
"Well, I should hope so. He knows how to pleasure a woman, evidently." Austin grinned. "At least his woman. I've been watching the sex scenes in the show closely to see how he does it."
I shook my head and laughed with him. "You're terrible. You know that, right?"
He kept grinning. "I'm taking notes on everything the Sinclair does, you ken."
"You ken? Are we in ancient Scotland now, lad?" My eyebrows shot up.
"I'm trying to sound like him, too, wench. I've even started reading the book the show is based on. The dialogue in the show is pulled nearly directly from the original series of books. I can't decide whether that's brilliant screenwriting or verra lazy."
I laughed. "Reading? That's desperate. Do you really think the language in the show and book are historically accurate?"
"It matters no to me." He grinned. "As long as I look and, if possible, sound like the Sinclair, as written and portrayed on TV, I'm good. That's the point of cosplay, after all."
I got the feeling again that Austin was trying to distract me. I went along with his diversion. There was nothing we could do until we got to the scene of the disappearance, anyway. Except worry. And that never solved anything.
"The plaid of the kilt you got me for the makeover isn't the right pattern for the Sinclair." Austin moved to the fast lane and shot me a quick look of mock disapproval and disappointment.
"No, I'm sure no one researched that," I said. "We were going for a reasonable facsimile of a Scottish warrior."
"Huh," he said. "That won't do for my appearance at Jet City Comicon, though, will it?"
"You're going to Comicon?" I said, goading him gently, because of course I knew he'd go.
"Going to Comicon?" He scowled. His expression was an extremely good impression of the Sinclair's trademark look of fierceness. "It's heresy to suggest otherwise. We're all going to Jet City Comicon. Even Lazer, once we find his sorry ass. We bought our four-day passes the minute the sale went online. They sell out within minutes. And did I tell you? This year Connor Reid from Jamie is one of the top names coming."
"Is he?" I said, innocently.
"Yeah. He's getting top dollar for his autograph. That's how you can tell who's most important and popular. I'm going to try to fool the crowd into mistaking me for him."
"Trying to make a little extra cash on the side?"
"By forging his autograph?" Austin's laugh boomed. "Right. Being mistaken for him would be the ultimate cosplay coup."
"I see."
"And good for my image and reputation as a first-rate cosplayer. I'm giving a workshop on cosplay for beginners."
He puffed his chest rather comically. But, on the other hand, it was a rather impressive puffing. I could see the women swooning over it. Stryker had done a good job keeping the men in shape.
"You may not realize it, but I am rather well known in cosplay circles."
"Is that so?" I said, happy for the distraction Austin was obviously, and rather pointedly, providing. He was a sweet, sweet guy. I made a note to renew my efforts to find him his perfect match.
"I have my reputation to uphold. When I debut a new cosplay character, the pressure is on. It had better be good and convincing."
"I see." I nodded. "In this case, I believe you have a definite natural advantage in looking so much like the Sinclair to begin with." I paused. "Have you ever wondered if you and Connor Reid are related? He's Scottish. You're of Scottish descent."
Austin snorted. "Related, aye? Possible, I suppose. Somewhere far back. Though Reid is a natural blond. They only died his hair to match the red of the Sinclair." He rolled his eyes playfully. "And his name is probably a stage name, anyway. I could ask my grandfather if he has any idea, but that's asking for trouble." He shuddered.
I laughed at him and his lack of enthusiasm for his grandpa. "You're afraid of an old man?"
"You haven't met my grandpa. He's a mean old Scot. He made me take bagpipe lessons, remember? Looking back, I think that was as much to torture my dad as anyone. Listening to bagpipe practice, by someone with no interest, no less, is a rare kind of torture.
"Seanair, that's Scots Gaelic for grandfather, the formal term—told you he's an old stickler—never forgave Dad for marrying outside the Scottish community. Seanair likes to think he's laird of our clan. He did his best to punish Dad as painfully and often as possible." Austin signaled and turned off the freeway toward the shoreline of Lake Washington.
"That's archaic, isn't it?" I said.
Austin grinned. "Yeah. But you don't argue with Seanair about anything. He isn't rational when it comes to being a Scotsman."
A call came through on the Bluetooth in Austin's car. "Where are you, man?" It was Jeremy. "We're just about to the scene. Justin is right behind us."
The concern in Jeremy's voice brought reality crashing back.
"We're right behind you. We just turned off the freeway. We're minutes away," Austin said. "What are you seeing? Any signs of Lazer?"
"At first glance, nothing," Jeremy said. "Absolutely nothing. See you in a few."
Chapter 4
Lazer
I woke slowly to the realization that the airbag had been activated then deflated. I was surrounded by white powder. The car was quiet except for the fan of the heater, the sound of traffic from the road above, and the irritating chatter of a squirrel just outside my window.
A friendly squirrel. A bold, entitled squirrel. He—I had no idea, it could have been a she, how do you tell with squirrels?—chattered away at me from a branch just outside my car window. He was obviously used to people. He was either scolding me for invading his territory or begging for a handout. Someone had probably been hand-feeding him peanuts for his entire life.
Hey, buddy, if I had a peanut, I would eat it myself. Assuming I had the strength.
I realized that I had been drifting in and out of consciousness all day. As I drifted back in and became aware of my surroundings, I didn't hear the engine running. The car had run out of gas, but the battery still worked, so the heat still pumped out.
I cursed to myself. How long had I been burning through battery life? There was no way to tell. The heat would drain the battery quickly. I glanced at the clock. It was late afternoon. Soon it would start getting dark.
Optimism that someone would come looking for me was fading as I realized how long I'd already been here. If my automatic crash response had worked as promised, help should have arrived long ago.
I was clearly in shock. Which muddied my thinking. I finally had enough common sense to realize I was deep in the underbrush. If someone was looking for me, I'd be hard to see. Part of the beauty of Western Washington was its lush, dense vegetation. Right now, that was also part of its curse.
I needed to make some noise. I'd been streaming one of my favorite playlists when I'd skidded off the road. No music was playing now. I assumed whatever controlled my streaming had been damaged. That was out.
With great effort, I managed to find the horn on the steering wheel beneath the deflated airbag. I hit it with all my might, hoping someone at one of the houses below near the lake would hear. Or a passing motorist or jogger on the road above. Unfortunately, at this time of year, not many people would be out, and few, if any, cars would have their windows open.
The horn let out a pitiful whimper that wa
sn't loud enough, or threatening enough, to scare the squirrel. It looked at me curiously, and scolded me again for being peanut-less.
I laid on the horn with all my might, such as it was. Might was a relative term in this case. The horn let out a pathetically soft "blare" and died completely, as wiped out as I was.
I collapsed against the seat. Plan B.
"Amanda, turn on the radio."
"You would like to me turn on the radio, is that right?"
"Yes." I hoped no one thought the sound of my tunes was just kids on the beach or another loud car passing by.
"Turning on the radio."
I breathed a sigh of relief as music exploded in the car. The radio was, unfortunately, tuned to a station I usually didn't listen to. The kid who cleaned my car had probably been listening to it last. My buddy the squirrel scampered away. Not a fan of indie rock? Definitely not a squirrel with good taste.
My mouth was dry. I was thirsty and weak. I just had to hang on. I didn't like to think morbidly, but what would I do if help didn't arrive?
It wasn't as crazy or ludicrous a thought as one might think. Several years ago, a woman disappeared on her drive to work. She was missing for three days before being found just on the brink of death. Dehydration was a bitch. She'd somehow slid off the road in a suburban area much like this one. Her car was buried in the underbrush. No one could find her, including search-and-rescue teams and the police. Her husband walked every inch of her route for days before he finally found her. That was the kind of dense vegetation we had here. I'd never really thought about it being deadly before, though stinging nettle was no picnic to run into on a hike.
I pushed away the thought of days in the woods with the squirrel. Death by dehydration or starvation wasn't the way I wanted to go. I wasn't ready to die, no matter what the method. Even thinking about death seemed melodramatic. But I could see the headline: Billionaire dies of dehydration in car buried in underbrush for weeks before being discovered.
It was a pathetic way to go, and not the legacy I wanted to leave. Not the headline I wanted to depart this world on.
Match Point: A Jet City Billionaire Romance (The Billionaire Matchmaker Series Book 5) Page 3
