Family

by Karen Kingsbury

  At the same time, he turned and faced her. “Katy . . .” He reached for her hands, wove his fingers between hers, and once more—very carefully—he looked around. Then he did what they were both dying to do. He slipped his arms around her waist and drew her into his embrace. “I feel like I’ve waited forever for this.” He brushed his cheek against hers. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  Her hands wound around his neck, and she let herself get lost in his eyes. They shone with a love that could only have come from God. Mixed with the hint of moonlight reflecting off the water, the nearness of him was more than she could take. She let herself be pulled in closer, and she rested her head against his chest. “Why is it—” she looked up and let the light from his eyes wash over her—“I never feel complete until I’m in your arms?”

  At first he looked as if he might answer her, but in the time it took him to blink, the air between them changed. He brought his hands to her face, and with the most tender care he touched his lips to hers.

  But just as the kiss began, just as she was remembering how wonderful it felt to be in his arms, there was a movement in the bushes, a rush of feet, and the clicking of cameras.

  Fear and adrenaline mixed and flooded her veins.

  In a blur of motion, two men appeared from behind the bushes beneath Dayne’s home—one of them the same as last time she was here, the other one much younger.

  Katy held up her hand, but it was too late.

  The men blocked their way to Dayne’s staircase and began taking rapid-fire pictures.

  “Put your hand down,” Dayne whispered to her. He used his body to shelter her, pulling her close, wrapping his arm around her, as he hurried her around the photographers to the door that led to his stairs.

  The cameras didn’t stop clicking until Dayne and Katy were inside the private staircase. Even then the men banged on the seven-foot-high gate. One of them shouted, “Tell us her name! Come on, Matthews. She’s not an actress. Just tell us who she is.”

  The other one chimed in. “She’s the mystery woman, right? The one who’ll be at the trial tomorrow?”

  Only then did Katy fully realize what had happened. The paparazzi had figured it out. All along she really had been the mystery woman. The photographers were desperate for the identity of the woman Dayne had been with back in January, and in the process they’d kept the story alive. They might not know her name—not yet. But the pictures they’d taken tonight would show her entire body—her face and her surprise—and the fact that she had been locked in an embrace with Dayne Matthews.

  And that could mean only one thing: Life as she had known it was about to come to an end.

  Dayne thought about going after the photographers. As he and Katy stood there on the steps, hearts racing, hidden by his private fence and gate, he actually considered pushing his way out to the public beach, seizing their cameras, and removing the memory chips from inside. That’s all he wanted. The memory chips. Then he and Katy could pretend they hadn’t been caught kissing on the beach, and the world would never have proof that the two of them were anything more than associates.

  But the thought left him as soon as it came. The cameramen were still banging on the gate, shaking it, threatening to tear it down. He searched Katy’s eyes and whispered, “You okay?”

  Her face was pale, but she nodded and pointed up the staircase. “Please, Dayne . . . let’s get out of here.” She kept her voice too quiet for the photographers to hear—especially above the noise they were making. But as she spoke, her teeth chattered. She was shaken, no question.

  How could he have been so careless, meeting her on the beach? So what if the paparazzi had laid low? They knew the trial was about to start, so they’d taken a gamble that maybe—just maybe—the woman who had been on the beach with Dayne at the time of the attack might come around a day early. They’d been right and he’d been wrong. And now Katy would suffer the consequences.

  He felt his heart settle somewhere in the pit of his stomach. “Come on.” He put his arm around Katy and led her up the private outdoor staircase to his secluded deck and into the house. They moved past the kitchen table and into his living room, and then they dropped onto his leather sofa, breathless.

  Anger had its claws around Dayne’s throat. “That’s so wrong.” His teeth were clenched, and he barely squeezed out the words. “How can they live with themselves?”

  Katy didn’t seem to hear him. She was staring at nothing, her expression frozen in shock. “Do you think—” she turned to him, her eyes big—“they’ll figure out who I am?”

  He felt his insides melt. If there was a way he could calm her fears or tell her something different, he would do it. But she deserved the truth. “Yes.” He leaned closer and barely touched her face. “I’m sorry, Katy.” He thought for a minute. “The pictures, the story . . . all of it will hit early next week.” Anger dug in a little deeper. “That’s how it works.”

  She groaned and stared at her lap. “We never should’ve met outside.” There was no accusation in her tone, but her regret was deep. She looked up, her expression tight with fear. “What’ll happen, Dayne?”

  “They’ll learn as much about you as they can between now and the day they go to print.” He hated telling her this, but he had to be honest. “Sometimes . . . when a story’s bound to wind up in the gossip rags, you’re almost better off to provide them with easy information. That way they’re less likely to dig.”

  The details made Katy look dizzy. “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, man . . .” Dayne dug his elbows into his knees and hung his head. “I hate this, Katy. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

  She was still shaking but not as much as before. Anger played in her eyes now as well. “It’s not your fault.” Her tone told him she was anxious for a way out, a way to discourage the press from digging. “Tell me what you mean, how you provide them with information.”

  “Simple.” Defeat rang in his every word. “My agent or my attorney stages a press conference, puts together the basic details—your name and age, your occupation—something like community theater director, leaving out the part about Christian kids. He also provides a list of people to contact, people you trust.”

  “Someone like Ashley, maybe? Or Rhonda?”

  Dayne felt the air leave his lungs. Ashley Baxter Blake? If the press got hold of her, they would be dangerously close to another truth. A truth he wasn’t nearly ready to talk about. He tried to keep his voice even. “Yeah, maybe Rhonda, since she knows you from the theater. Or Jenny Flanigan.”

  “Dayne . . .” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m scared to death. How can I face the families in Bloomington? The magazines will make me out to be just another one of your conquests. How can I live with that?”

  The question stung. He sat back and stared at the ceiling. How come he hadn’t thought things through better? God, why did it happen? What are we supposed to do now?

  My son, lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Me, and I will make your paths straight.

  The still small voice blew like a summer wind across his soul. The words were from a verse in Proverbs he’d read this morning.

  His own understanding was clear in this case. Pictures of Dayne and the mystery woman had to be worth what the photographers made for ten or twenty typical Hollywood star photos, right? But if he leaned on God, then somehow—someway—his path and Katy’s would wind up straight.

  He straightened and looked at her, at the way her blonde hair framed her face, at her sweet, guileless blue eyes. This was the girl he thought about and dreamed about, the girl he’d prayed for every day since returning from Mexico. “A conquest, Katy?” The comment hurt more than he first thought. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

  She stood and paced to the opposite side of the room. From there she faced him. “Not most of the time.” She held up her hands and let them fall to her sides. “I mean, I don’t know what to believe.” She gestur
ed toward the glass door to the deck. “I read the stories too. Every week there’s a photo of you and some woman walking through LA or eating together or working on a set.” She was shaking again. “The whole world thinks you’re a player, Dayne.”

  The anger was back, stronger than ever. Not at Katy but at the photographers who wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace, at the stories they were bound to make up in the coming week, and at himself for ever putting her in this situation. He waited, and after a few seconds sadness replaced his anger. He slid to the edge of the sofa and patted the spot beside him. “Please, Katy.” His eyes held hers, refusing to let go. “Come here.”

  Her expression changed, and the look in her eyes softened. She came to him and sat closer this time. “I’m sorry.” She searched his face. “That wasn’t fair.”

  “I can’t stop them from taking photos.” He took her hands, worked his fingers between hers. The feeling filled his heart and soul, and he struggled to remember his point. He swallowed. “But there’s been no one.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “You deserve the truth.” He wanted to kiss her so badly, but he wouldn’t. Not now after what had happened on the beach. Especially not after her conquest and player comments. Tonight would be nothing but strategy and friendship, a way to figure out a game plan so they could survive the rest of the week with as little paparazzi and as much time together as possible. He ran his thumb over her hand. “Those women in the pictures, they’re friends. Nothing more.” His voice fell. “You, Katy. You’re the only one I want to be with. Please . . . let’s figure out the media thing. Let’s make a plan.”

  She clung to his hands, waiting for him. “Right now?”

  “Yes.” He eased back a few inches. “Here’s what we’re going to do. . . .”

  For the next hour he helped her imagine a dozen different scenarios involving the trial and how she could best keep the press at bay. At the end of the night, he made good on his silent promise. He held her close and stroked her hair. Then he led her to his Escalade—so no one could take pictures of him walking her back down the beach—and he drove her back to her car.

  “Feels like the last time you were here, doesn’t it?” He smiled. The conversation between them was lighter now.

  “It does.” The corners of her lips lifted in a shy smile. “Only now we have a plan.”

  He gave her a quick hug just as he spotted two guys with cameras running up the beach toward the parking lot. Dayne leaned back. “Go, Katy.” He gave her as much advice as he could in a handful of seconds.

  She managed to get to her car before the photographers could catch her. As she pulled away, Dayne watched the paparazzi sprint toward their cars. They would follow her, for sure. Something she hadn’t had to deal with before.

  His frustration seemed to suck the air from the SUV, making it hard for him to breathe. So they had a plan—big deal. The plan might help them feel better about the coming week, but there was no way to undo the damage already done.

  Damage that would hit the newsstands in just a few days.

  Katy’s hands shook as she drove back to her hotel.

  Two cars were tailing her, staying as close to her bumper as they could without hitting her. The photographers had spotted her before she climbed into her car, and in what could only be described as dangerously reckless driving, they’d caught up to her in a few stoplights.

  Dayne’s last words to her were all she was holding on to. “Ignore them, Katy. Don’t drive faster; don’t try to lose them.” He took hold of her shoulders, his expression intense. “They’ll find out where you’re staying anyway. There’s nothing they can do to you that hasn’t already been done. So what if they get a picture of you walking into your hotel?”

  Still, she could barely focus on the road. Was this really what Dayne dealt with? A constant barrage of scrutiny and camera clicks? God . . . get me through this; get me back safely. Please, God . . .

  There was no answer, and she thought about the verse from Matthew. The one that had drifted across her soul earlier. Maybe the reason they had been caught on camera was because God didn’t want her kissing Dayne on the shore of Malibu Beach. This was a time when Dayne was figuring out his faith, trying to find his way through the maze of distractions that made up his life. What right did she have kissing him when all that could do at this point was confuse him?

  Uneasiness rattled her nerves, and she pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal. Suddenly she heard the long wail of a car horn. Then another and another. Her heart pounded. What was happening? She looked in her rearview mirror and saw the photographers darting in and out of traffic, lobbying for the spot directly behind her.

  Impossible, she thought. Someone’s going to get killed, all so a photographer can get the right picture. It was insanity beyond anything Katy had ever known. She wanted to drive a hundred miles an hour or turn into an alley and take a dozen turns through side streets. Anything to lose them.

  But Dayne’s words played in her mind again: “Ignore them, Katy . . . ignore them. . . .”

  She pursed her lips and forced herself to exhale. “Come on, Lord . . . ,” she whispered. “Guide my hands.”

  The minutes passed slowly, the photographers’ cars directly behind her the entire way.

  When she arrived at the hotel, her heart began to race, slamming against her chest twice as hard as before. “Ignore them, Katy . . . ignore them.” She clung to Dayne’s words like so many life preservers. Valet parking was the best option, no doubt. She pulled in, rolled down her window, and motioned for the nearest person in uniform. “Please . . . I’m in a hurry. Can I have a receipt for my car?”

  The man glanced behind her, and at the same time she caught a look in the mirror. Both cars containing paparazzi had screeched to a halt just short of the valet area. They were opening their doors, grabbing their gear, ready to chase her.

  The man seemed accustomed to people on the run. He ripped a receipt from his book and handed it to her. “Here you go. I’ll get your car moved right away.”

  “Thanks.” She grabbed her purse and opened her car door, her chest heaving. She was halfway to the revolving door when she heard the pounding of feet, the clicking of cameras. She ducked into the hotel and looked over her shoulder.

  Two doormen had stopped the photographers on the sidewalk. The diversion gave her time to get into the elevator. As soon as the elevator doors closed, she collapsed against the back wall. What were the paparazzi trying to do? Would they have tackled her to the ground, demanding information and snapping photos until she lay there unconscious?

  Katy felt sick to her stomach, and as the elevator doors opened on her floor, she was almost afraid to step out. She glanced both ways. The hallway was clear. She rushed to her room, unlocked the door, and closed it behind her. She leaned against the wall and caught her breath. Good. She had escaped them for now, but tomorrow would be worse.

  She headed to the window. The view was breathtaking—the lights from the Hollywood Hills spread out before her like a twinkling blanket. The glitz and glamour of Dayne’s life would always seem appealing to people who hadn’t been thrust into the limelight. She remembered a conversation from earlier.

  Before she left for the airport, Bailey Flanigan had found her. “You’re so lucky.” Jenny’s daughter sighed, her expression dreamy. “Spending the week with Dayne Matthews, running around Hollywood like a celebrity.” She giggled. “You have to tell me every detail when you get back.”

  But the truth was so far removed from the picture most people had in their heads. How had Dayne survived living under such scrutiny? No wonder his photo was in the tabloids every week. If he left his house, no matter who he spoke with or where he ate a meal, the moment would be documented for everyone to see.

  She pressed her fist against her middle, staving off the waves of nausea. The terror was fading, but she still felt sick. For the past month or so, Katy had convinced herself that she and Dayne might have a
chance, that the friendship they were developing was proof that maybe—just maybe—something romantic and long-term might come from their time together.

  Yes, he had a contract to fulfill, and yes, he was in the public eye. But she had begun to see those obstacles as surmountable. Mountains that could be climbed. Now though . . . she had no control over the photos taken earlier tonight, no idea what the paparazzi might find if they dug far enough. Maybe they’d figure out that she was Tad Thompson’s old girlfriend. Tad Thompson, the overnight sensation who died of a drug overdose at a wild Hollywood party.

  Or maybe they’d place her as a mistress, someone Dayne was seeing even while he was living with Kelly Parker. Otherwise why would he have chosen Bloomington, Indiana, for his location shoots on Dream On?

  Her heart began beating faster, her breathing shallow and unsteady. Enough. She turned away from the window. Please, God, clear my mind. She couldn’t think about Dayne or the stolen moments they might find together or the paparazzi. There was nothing she could do about the pictures or whatever story the photogs might pull together.

  She could only focus on the matter at hand. The trial against a knife-wielding fan set to begin first thing in the morning.

  Ashley Baxter Blake stared at the newspaper. The article was taken from the AP newswire, too brief for many details. But the story made one thing clear—the trial was about to start. Ashley intended to follow the proceedings every day.

  “This tells me nothing.” She folded the paper and pushed it aside. She was sitting at the kitchen table, baby Devin cradled in her arms. His head was covered with blond peach fuzz. At four weeks old he looked more like Cole every day, though he was definitely an easier baby. He was waking up just once in the middle of the night and nursing every four hours right on schedule. She checked the clock on the microwave. It was nine thirty. Three and a half hours and he’d be hungry again.