by Sue Wilder
Neither was I—the coming home part—but I couldn’t stay in Malibu, and since Luna said it was better to settle than to drift, I accepted her offer to stay in our grandfather’s old house.
I was supposed to be safe there. G. Kincade was supposed to help me, and all I can say is that I handled the rejection like a pro.
I walked in, hit my mark, delivered my lines. Walked out when he said no. And wounds like Garrett Kincade were too old to matter anymore.
He hadn’t changed. His hair was still the color of old gold, darker at the roots. The cut was shorter than I remembered, and the stubble on his jaw was sexy as hell. The masculine, woodsy scent of his skin was locked in my lungs and I wanted to damn his eyes.
Damn the way he sipped whiskey like it was a proposition.
He made me feel fifteen again, while he exuded a dangerously edgy vibe, with a virility that definitely caused thrills.
Grown up thrills this time.
Get a grip, Soleil.
I squinted in the bright sunlight, paid attention to walking down the hill. Convenient parking was not available—something I neglected to think about when I put on four-inch heels. Now I remembered the narrow street running along the waterfront. The steep hills and the claustrophobic way buildings crowded in, disjointed and showing the many decades of design.
Between the warehouses and raised piers, sea lions barked like irritated dogs. The constant fishy smell wrinkled my nose, and when my heel caught on the uneven curb, I jerked to regain my balance.
For an instant, fear surged. But I wasn’t running through a dark parking lot at midnight. I was walking down a street in bright daylight. There were dozens of people around, and I was drawing attention—a group of teenage girls, whispering.
One girl stood out. I guessed her age to be thirteen, with a gawkiness that would bloom into stunning. Her blue-plaid pants matched a cropped blue tee, and the kaleidoscope of color in her shoulder-length brown hair had a freshness I admired. I wanted her to know.
“I like your style,” I said as I approached. “I’m stuck in boring jeans-and-blouse mode.”
“I guess I was staring.”
“No.” I held out my hand. “I’m Soleil.”
“Yeah, I thought so, but here?” Her smile crushed me. “Seemed kinda weird.”
“Not weird. I used to live here.”
She said her name was Becca, short for Rebecca, but that made her sound like a girl in a history book she’d read at school, so she’d shortened it. We chatted, and a group quickly formed, both girls and boys. After a moment, I heard my alter-ego name—Dacree.
“How about Dacree’s last episode?” I teased, smiling at the resounding chorus of boos and groans and “sick stuff, dude.”
Which was followed by the expected request for selfies.
I didn’t want the exposure, but I could remember how it felt to be awkward, trying to fit in, and the thrill in posing with Dacree of Wyvern was something I understood.
I could do something nice after dealing with Garrett Kincade, and I threw myself into the moment. Smiled through the group hugs. Swiped at my hair and sent flirty looks over my shoulder as if we were all starlets on the red carpet. And I felt liberated—until I looked up and saw Garrett Kincade.
Braced near a private boat dock, he stood with his legs wide and arms crossed. Tight jeans and a black tee revealed the hardened muscularity of his body, and in the sunlight, his hair took on a tarnished look—like the man.
My skin dampened.
I’d met my share of attractive men, all those sex gods swarming Hollywood. But I’d never met a man who demolished me the way Garrett Kincade did. He drove me crazy in high school, but the sexual charisma he had now made my pulse race, and tightened all the nerves in my body.
If I hadn’t needed his help, I would have walked out so fast he wouldn’t have had time to sip his whiskey. But I’d stayed, coming to a halt in front of his table, then sitting down.
Now, while I wasn’t running, I was walking quickly. I couldn’t stay in Newport, not anymore. Seeing Garrett Kincade made me realize the connections I still had here, the people who remembered me.
Luna would argue, but she’d lived here for years. People knew her, loved her, and I’d never slip by unnoticed. I’d nearly ruined her reputation last year, and I didn’t need more small-world surprises. People who defended her, and I couldn’t really blame them.
I’ve been in the spotlight for too long to be naive. I understood the criticisms—how people thought they knew me when all they knew was the role I played, or the rumors they read on their phone during the commute to work.
What was best for me was moving on, my original plan, and I’d go home, scan the internet for some other town where I could keep a lower profile.
But first, I’d settle my nerves, and caffeine always did the trick.
“Where should I go for coffee?” I asked the crowd, and the responses were quick and all the same; a café called Missy’s, with a blue painted door and customers waiting on the sidewalk.
Joining the line was easy. Since the crowd was older, few people recognized Dacree of Wyvern, and when my turn came, I smiled at the auburn-haired woman behind the counter. She returned the smile before turning toward the teenager who appeared at her side. From the similar brown hair and blue eyes, I guessed he was her son.
“Sorry.” Breathless, he reached for a white apron. “Dude was really hurting today. Had to help him with the tie lines.”
“His name is Garrett,” the woman said, while my smile froze. “It’s only polite to address him that way.”
“Mom.” The boy came close to rolling his eyes. “He’s dude. I’m kid. It’s how we relate.”
“The man’s got too much pain in his life,” she murmured before focusing on me. “What can I get you?”
“What’s good?” The menu on the wall was obvious, and I pretended an interest. As if I hadn’t just eavesdropped on their conversation. “I haven’t been back in town for years, and everything’s changed.”
“You’re up from California, aren’t you?” She poured fresh coffee beans into a grinder and held her palm against the lid. “I spent some time down there. Espresso macchiato with foamed milk work for you? Unless you want a to-go cup, then I’d suggest a latte with a triple shot.” She winked. “Hated the way they killed Dacree.”
“Me, too.” It was a rough game. A late-night phone call from the director was the only warning I’d received. “I’ll take the triple-shot today and order the real thing when I have time.”
“Name’s Missy Wilks. This is Tad Junior, my son. How’s Luna?”
Small town, I reminded myself. Everyone knew Luna. And I looked just like her.
“Luna’s fine—I mean, what woman wouldn’t be fine with a husband like Connor Lange?” He was a total heart-throb even when he was ruthless, and sometimes they seemed so happy together it was sickening.
“I’m glad for her. And I’m glad she’s keeping all the bluff houses as rentals. No one needs more ugly condos out there.”
I knew the story, how Connor Lange bought the houses when he was coercing Luna, then gave them to her in their prenup. While Blackthorn handled the management, Luna kept the properties as long-term rentals, other than the house our grandfather owned. She held that house for the family.
“Mom,” Tad called from the far end of the counter. “We just ran out of cookies.”
“With four more hours to go. Don’t suppose you can bake?” Missy arched me a look, then laughed. “I can’t believe I asked Dacree of Wyvern if she could bake cookies.”
“Speaking of…” Tad held up an empty to-go cup and a sharpie pen. “How cool would it be—having Dacree sign one of Missy’s to-go cups? We could totally put it on display. Drive in more tourists.”
“Like you don’t have enough.” Amusement washed through me. Tad had a boyish enthusiasm that was infectious. Stubborn, too, reminding me, oddly, of Garrett.
Quickly, I glanced around at the cus
tomers packing the room like sardines. They closed in, and I could barely reach the items Tad pushed toward my hands.
After scribbling a message, I signed with a flourish. When I handed the pen and cup back, Tad’s eyes widened; I thought his face would hurt if he smiled any harder.
“This is so epic! Mom—see what she wrote? This first part is in her dragon language.”
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound grave. “It says to Tad, my loyal friend and protector.”
“And then she signed it—duuude! Both Dacree of Wyvern and Soleil St. Clair.”
Holding the cup high, Tad did a little dance. Customers laughed. One girl applauded while the clicking sound of cell phone cameras came with the low-level remarks. People were live-streaming. I could imagine the comments, about how my acting sucked and I should never work again.
Obscurity was fading fast, and when a man picked up his coffee order, another took his place. Owlish glasses slipped on his nose. Mousy hair framed a pudgy face. The pockets of his fleece vest sagged, and the scent of mothballs and heavy cologne tightened my stomach.
“Sorry,” he mumbled when his shoulder knocked into mine.
“My order is up next.” Uneasy, I stepped to the side. “I’ll be out of your way in a few.”
“Uh… you’re…”
“Dude,” Tad Junior drawled from behind the counter, “it’s her, but she’s here, just like you, getting her coffee. What can I get ya?”
“Oh… latte with a double shot. And…” The man turned back to me. “Well, this is more awkward than I thought. I’m sort of your neighbor.”
“Sort of?” Tad arched an eyebrow. “You either are or you aren’t.”
“Well, yes. I am. Name’s Marshal Gray—Marsh for short. I’m in the Maxwell house, right next door. I asked about renting the St. Clair house, but the property manager said no.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I said, “The Maxwell house is nearly identical, with a better view.”
“Maybe. But I’m a writer. Screenplays, mostly, and I was hoping for the inspiration. You know.” He shrugged. “Writing in the same room your father and grandfather used.”
“You’re a fan?”
“Yes, of both William and Liam St. Clair.” His glasses slipped as if the frames were too wide for his face. “William’s thrillers are okay, but I love your grandfather’s dramas. People don’t write morality plays like that anymore.”
Missy sent me a sympathetic look and poured steamed milk in a rush, wiping the drips from the to-go cup and then snapping on the lid.
“That’s scalding,” she warned, while I blew on the vent and felt the steam hit my lips.
“It’s perfect.” I edged toward the door, relishing the cool breeze against my skin. I didn’t realize Marsh followed until I smelled his cloying cologne.
“Sorry… I guess this is creepy.”
I held my steaming cup close to my mouth and focused on the heat. “Did you need something?”
“Well… yes.”
God—I hoped it wasn’t a selfie.
“It’s just that… I’m more of an aspiring writer. Nothing solid yet, but one of my scripts got picked up by an agent. She’s pitching it at the cocktail parties.”
“It’s a competitive business.” And agents didn’t pitch scripts at cocktail parties. I wondered how much Marsh was paying this woman for her services.
“Oh, I know,” he agreed. “But it’s good to have someone on your side who won’t forget you.”
Perhaps Marsh was harmless, but too many hopeful fans had used this approach. Devise a connection. Push a foot through the door. Then drop by unannounced, with a script in hand, or some other request I couldn’t fill. I forced a smile, then wove through the tourists, hoping to leave him behind. Marsh followed like a lost puppy.
“What I really wanted to ask was—if I dropped by sometime—would you sign a copy of your grandfather’s book? I mean, he’s dead and all, but having you sign it would be great.”
His persistence unsettled me, as if he was working too hard to establish a rapport. “I’m sorry.” It was better to make things clear from the start. “I’m not available to the public when I’m at home.”
“And you think I’m a stalker.”
Somehow, I’d turned his lost puppy into kicked puppy, which made me feel weirdly guilty when Marshal Gray had approached me. I’d been polite, but it wasn’t enough, and I remembered why I’d left California.
My arm ached. Uneasiness quickened my steps, and as good as the coffee was, I couldn’t swallow. I tossed the to-go cup in a trash receptacle, then crossed the street without telling Marsh goodbye.
I didn’t care if I was rude. The innocuous rental waited in the parking lot, and a primitive instinct warned me to go to the car, get inside and lock the doors.
When I saw the white paint smeared on the rental’s windshield, my first thought was that I’d overstayed my time, and the attendant marked up the glass so I’d pay an extra fee.
But as I walked closer, I saw the scrawled word.
Bitch.
While behind me, a man whistled.
CHAPTER THREE
The whistle from behind sparked a jolt of alarm. I started running toward my car and couldn’t stop, not even when my shoes slipped on the uneven pavement. The rental’s key fob felt damp in my hand. My rasping breath was louder than the click when the doors unlocked, but I saw the headlights flash as the man closed in.
The force of his momentum drove his body crashing into mine, and he reached over my shoulder, slamming the car door just as I wrenched it open.
My mind blanked. Refilled with memories of a darkened parking lot. Self-preservation brought my hands up while the keys and my clutch purse fell to the ground. I struck out blindly. My heart pulsed like I’d touched a live wire, but no, it was this man, looming in, ripping at my flailing hands. Then it was the woodsy scent of his skin that I recognized. The anger in the way he twisted me around until I faced him.
“Christ—Soleil!” I froze long enough for Garrett to capture my wrists, and knew better than to pull from his grasp. I’d been fighting. He hadn’t relaxed, and his adrenaline still ran hot. Then Tad’s statement spun into my thoughts, how dude was hurting. And Missy’s answer, that he had too much pain in his life. Reason enough not to resist, despite the suffocating panic that took too long to fade.
Still, I was panting, while Garrett dragged in his own rough breath. “Why didn’t you stop?”
“When?”
“Just now. I called to you.”
“You think a whistle is calling to me?” I blinked in the bright sunlight. “I’m not a damn dog.”
“Will you stop?” He jerked my wrists. “I’ll apologize for being a little shit fifteen years ago if you’ll stop fighting. You came to me for help.”
“Which you politely declined.”
“I’m un-declining my decline.”
“You can’t un-decline, it’s not even an actual word—”
The muscle near his mouth flexed. His fingers tightened, and I braced, sucking in another hard breath that only drew his scent deeper into my lungs. Fighting was futile. He towered over me with an upper body strength I found far more arousing than when we’d been in high school.
“You done, now? Or is it attention you want?”
The controlled anger in his voice made me refocus on the crowd gathering along the sidewalk. Cell phones were out and pointed in our direction, and without asking, I turned and hid my face against Garrett’s shirt. He didn’t push me away. Instead, I felt his hands in my hair, loosely weaving a braid.
Then he whipped out a ball cap from his back pocket. Slapped the hat on my head and tugged the braid through the back strap as if he did it every day. “Not much of a disguise, but you’ll need it on the boat.”
“I’m not getting on a boat with you.”
He looked toward his whiskey bar and I shook my head. I wasn’t tackling that slope twice in my Manolo Blahnik red heels—a style I
copied from Luna because they’d looked so empowering on her.
“Choice is yours, cupcake. We take my boat across the bay, or I drive your rental and we go to wherever you’re staying.”
I looked up at him, still shaky and not trusting the flinty glint in his hazel eyes. “What’s across the bay?”
“Privacy.”
Uh… no. Privacy on Garrett Kincade’s turf did not sound like a good idea.
“I’m at Luna’s old house,” I argued. “We can’t both go in my car.”
Without answering, Garrett bent down to retrieve my keys from a clump of dry grass. The contents of my purse lay scattered across the blacktop, and I crouched down, struggling to pick up the pieces of my life. When I finally stood, Garrett was beside the open passenger-side door. “Get in.”
I glared.
He stared until I glanced toward the avid crowd. More fuel for the rumors. My chin tilted in a signature Soleil St. Clair move, then I slid into the passenger seat, waiting while Garrett used the windshield wipers to wash away the paint. As the white smears faded, an old memory surfaced.
It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did, and when I gave him unnecessary directions to Luna’s house, I wondered what the hell I was doing.
◆◆◆
Bringing Garrett to Luna’s house was a bad idea. I was still on his turf, with his hand firmly at my back as I led him past the blue pots of red geraniums. Luna’s geraniums. She’d planted them to make the entry inviting, the same way she’d filled the house with calming energy.
But inside, evidence of my disruptive presence was everywhere. Driving shoes lay scattered where I’d kicked them off. A dirty cup sat in the sink. I’d driven straight through, stopping only for food and a night in a flea-bag motel because I’d been “escaping the turmoil of Hollywood”—the don’t-stress-the-parents-out version of why I bolted in the middle of the night.
At least the empty-house heat didn’t hit when we walked in because, before I left, I’d opened a window for the fresh air. Now Garrett prowled around looking for the source. When he found it, he threw a hard glance over his shoulder. Closed the window and made a point of snapping the lock.
