Kissing Fortune
Man Season #4
By
Mila McClung
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Kissing Fortune
Copyright 2012 RTWD PRESS
All Rights Reserved.
For all the divas…
CHAPTER ONE
She thought maybe she loved him. She knew she loved the way his fingers danced over the piano keys as he played Chopin. It was the same way they danced over her skin when he made love to her.
Tierney Evans didn’t know much about love. Her parents had never loved her. She was just a shiny toy they held up to their friends and said: “Look, see what she can do!” like they would a trained poodle. At first, their big dream was to turn her into an Olympic champion swimmer like her mother, Betsy. But Tierney soon proved to be a disappointment, crying and throwing tantrums whenever they dragged her out to the lap pool. Then they decided she should be a ballerina but her feet were too big and clumsy to do a pirouette. After that came riding lessons – but she was allergic to horses – and now, at the age when most girls were starting college - she was practicing to become the next piano virtuoso. She was also the star of her own reality show, Taming Tierney, produced by her billionaire dad’s sports clothing company, Aram Evans LTD.
And she was sleeping with Istvan Rader, her piano teacher. The grungy cameramen followed them around as if they were Brad and Angelina, immortalizing every chipped fingernail and cranky diatribe, every good morning kiss and goodnight/goodbye/good riddance – which happened quite a lot. Tierney loved her loving but she still wasn’t sure she actually loved Istvan.
Oh, he was handsome enough with his fierce blue eyes, chestnut hair down to his shoulders and a body worthy of sculpting for posterity but he had too many flaws. He was arrogant, in his lovemaking, and his music, always made her feel she was lacking in both. He humiliated her in front of the cameras, once went so far as to throw a glass of vodka – with ice – in her face! The creepy producer, Bill Weathering, welcomed the pianist’s bad behavior – knowing it would bring the show those oh so high ratings he lived for. But Tierney fought him, threatening to walk out until he had the footage removed. She was weary of being her lover’s whipping post, and Weathering’s golden goose.
“Can you hear the perfection?” Istvan asked her in his smooth, deep accent. He was Hungarian, born in Budapest. His life from the age of five had been about the piano. He seemed to resent her for thinking she could start training at the age of nineteen. Which wasn’t her idea, anyway - it was those damned selfish parents of hers, needing to have a reason to be proud of her. You’d think her being their one and only daughter was reason enough.
“I hear it,” she sighed, unimpressed.
“You’re not really listening. Where is your mind, Tierney?”
“Someplace far from here. Istvan, let’s grab Daddy’s jet and take off for some warm, wonderful place! Just the two of us. If we could be alone, without the cameras and the paparazzi maybe this relationship would grow into something good.”
He stopped playing. “It’s good now.”
“For you, maybe. Not for me.”
“You just need a good lay, Tierney. That always sets you right.”
“Not this time.”
“Sure, this time and every time. I know you too well.”
She leaned back into a soft purple sofa, rolled her green eyes. She was wearing a denim miniskirt and an elegant but unadorned satin blouse, her shoes bright blue and dangerously heeled. It was true, any other time she’d be naked and ready for him in the blink of an eye – but something was different now. Some minute shift had occurred in her universe – some change was on its way - and it had nothing to do with Istvan – she could feel it. And it made her tingle all over with fear and excitement, too.
The midday sun was streaking through the beige linen curtains on the bay window, highlighting the colorful modern furnishings and rich wooden floors of the Beverly Hills bungalow they shared. Tierney had first made love to Istvan on that sofa a year before. She met him at a crazy party in the Valley, and brought him home for a one night stand. He’d been so good at it that the one night turned into several months. Tierney had been caught in his snare; she wasn’t sure then if she wanted to be but she hated being alone. Lately, though, that didn’t satisfy her. She needed more than a lover – she needed love. The real kind, that lasted forever.
The afternoon cameraman, gruff but handsome Bodey Gillette, entered, nodding his hello. “Got any drama going, kiddies?”
“Yes,” Istvan huffed. “Start filming.”
“No! I’m tired of being this year’s pet monkey!” Tierney stood, gathered her Louis Vuitton purse and car keys and headed for the door.
“Where are you off to, Baby? We’ve got six more episodes to tape!”
“Stuff it, Bodey! I’m out of here!”
Istvan shrugged, began to play a funeral dirge. Bodey eyed them both strangely, switched on his camera, urged the young man to emote into the lens; he eagerly obliged.
Tierney hopped into her red Ferrari convertible; shot it out into the street and straight over to Santa Monica Boulevard. It was slow going through a crowded freeway or two until she found the Ventura Highway. Then she rammed the gas with her spiky heel and flew over the pavement, ignoring a busload of tourists who squealed at her from the top of a double decker.
“There’s got to be more to life than this!” she said out loud.
She flicked on the radio. Tina Turner was singing What’s Love Got To Do With It? Tierney didn’t think love had anything at all to do with her situation. The lack of it, maybe, or some mislabeled emotion that people were mistaking for love.
She followed the highway out to Pierpont Bay, hoping to make it to her retreat in Santa Barbara before Istvan turned on his charm and convinced her parents she needed counseling – again. He was obsessed with pouring out his most minute miseries and sorrows to any fake TV therapist who came along, and had her family believing it was the best thing for all concerned.
“No more!” she shouted over the hum of the engine. “I want to be me now! I am not some spoiled little rich bitch who needs a reality show to prove her worth to the world! I want to be loved, God Damn It! I want a real man who knows what a real woman needs!”
She began to cry, hard, the tears flying from her eyes and out the top of the convertible, marking the sky like tiny raindrops. She thought she heard a strange buzz, clicked off the radio, listening. The sound was louder, frightening her.
Tierney eased off the highway; stepped out of the car. She trailed the sound down to the back wheel, peered underneath the fender and gasped. There was a bomb, a real, ticking, flashing bomb, like you’d see in an action movie, and the numbers on it were closing down on zero, fast!
Tierney glanced round – the cars zinging by might not get hit in the blast but she couldn’t be certain. And she was way too close to a restaurant full of customers. She took a strong breath, jumped into the car and steered it out as far away from people as she could, finding a narrow stretch of beach to park on. Then she leapt out of the driver’s seat and began to fling her arms like warning flags.
“Get back!” she screamed to the gathering crowd. “There’s a bomb in my car!”
Panic broke out; people scattered like bugs. Tierney sprinted towards the shelter of a line of boulders just in time. The bomb exploded, showering fire and smoke and bright red car parts all over the beach. She watched them fall; ducked to miss her r
adio as it sailed by.
“Who would do this?” she wondered aloud. “Who would want me dead?”
People were closing in, smothering her. Some had recognized her. They were pulling out their phones, hoping no doubt to get some good footage they could sell to one of those sleazy online celebrity news sites.
“Can I help you, Tierney?” one guy asked, reaching out his left hand – his phone was in his right.
“That’s not my name,” she lied, lowering her gaze. “But I’m fine. I can get up on my own.”
She did just that and sought out some kind of refuge from the crowd. There was a marina nearby. She headed in that direction, thinking she could lose herself there. A second explosion from the car sent everyone scrambling, and gave her a chance to disappear.
Tierney searched through the endless line of crisp white boats; finally came upon one called Sea Mistress that wasn’t so crisp or white but it was uninhabited as far as she could tell. She made sure no one was looking then boarded it and slipped down into the unlocked hull. The place was a mess; clothes strewn all over the dark, 70s style furniture, half-eaten pizzas still in their boxes, and cans reeking of stale beer lying in clusters about the floor.
“God, can I pick them or what?” she sighed. Then she heard footsteps and hid in the tiny blue-tiled bathroom. It was a man – she could tell because he apparently stubbed his toe on the beer cans and cursed out loud in a deep, sexy voice.
Tierney heard a cell phone beep then the man said, “Yeah, I’m still here but I’m heading out in awhile. No, I’m not sure where exactly, maybe Baja. I don’t care what Slater says. I’m through! Get it? All right then. Talk later, Joe. Sure. Bye.”
Tierney waited, afraid the man would yank open the door and find her but he didn’t. He stomped up to the deck and started the engine. The boat began to move, easing grumpily out of its dock and into the Bay.
“Oh my God, what do I do now?” Tierney whispered. Her mind was jumbled, unsure of who to trust. She tried to come up with a list of suspects for the bombing. Sure, she had enemies, rich people always do. But she couldn’t imagine anyone hating her enough to actually commit murder. It wasn’t Istvan, was it? He did know about demolition, his dad ran a blasting company in Budapest. Maybe he had sensed that she was over him and that mad temper of his got the better of his judgment.
Or was it Bodey? He had a thing for her, told her once that he meant to take her away from Istvan once the show was done. Nah, he was too lazy to even think of constructing a bomb, though he did work with explosives in Iraq while he was in the military.
Then there was her brother, Dennis Aram Evans. The brat was spoiled beyond belief, had envied and despised Tierney for most of her life. And why? Because he was utterly happy being an only child, pampered and paraded about like a prize cow. He enjoyed all the attention and bragging. Then Tierney came along and stole some of his sunshine, leaving him a miserable, sullen beast. She had tried to love him in spite of his acid tongue and spiteful actions but it couldn’t be done. Only a saint – and she certainly wasn’t one - could love that guy.
Tierney thought maybe she should call her folks. Then she remembered her phone was in her purse and her purse was probably floating in the Pacific if it hadn’t been blown to bits. She had the urge to pee, took the opportunity to use the tiny bathroom.
As she was sitting there she heard the footsteps again. The bathroom door flew open before she could get her Victoria’s Secret panties up! She stood; bare-butted, face to hairy chest with the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. He was shirtless, wearing jeans and deck shoes, and shaped like Apollo in a Romantic Era painting, his body firm and muscled, his features finely chiseled, with lines down his cheeks and a dimple in his chin. He looked her up and down with cinnamon brown eyes then averted his gaze while he ran lean fingers through a mass of golden brown hair. She swore his tanned face turned ruddy.
“What the hell … how did you get in here?”
Tierney repositioned her panties, and smoothed her denim miniskirt as she fashioned a quick lie. “I thought this was my dad’s boat. The Saracen. I guess I was mistaken …”
“You must be blind, or high on something. Get your business done while I turn the boat around.”
He turned to leave; she followed him out. “Wait, oh, please! I can’t go back! Someone tried to kill me!”
He flung about, stood tall in front of her. She was trying to mentally measure his height, made him out to be at least six foot two.
“Are you crazy?”
“No, just afraid. Do you have a TV? It must be on the news by now.”
He dug through the clothes, found a small flat screen on a table, and flicked it on. After a bit of channel surfing he left it on the twenty-four hour news network. They were indeed talking about Tierney. Her face was all over the screen.
“A bomb? Damn, you must’ve made somebody real angry!”
“Yeah, I guess I must have.” All of a sudden her eyes went wet, tears streamed down her cheeks, ruining her mascara.
“Hey, there’s no need for that. Come on, dry it up.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t! I’ve been holding it in too long.”
She plopped down on a sofa, buried her face in her hands. She felt three years old again. Her mother, upset over some stupid thing her dad had done, left her in a ritzy galleria, and walked off to her car. The poor child was lost for half an hour, bumping into callous strangers. Finally her mother returned and scooped her up, begging forgiveness. Tierney forgave her but she never forgot that feeling of vulnerability, of being completely, hopelessly alone. It all came back to her now. And she couldn’t stop the fear and misery from claiming her.
The man sat down beside her; he seemed confused, frustrated.
“This isn’t helping anything, you know. Tell me your family’s number and I’ll call them. They need to know you’re okay.”
She glanced up into the rich brown eyes. Hers were glistening, reddened by the tears. He began to fidget, as if being so close to her made him uncomfortable. He smoothed her ash blonde hair from her face.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Fortune. Ezekiel Fortune, though most people call me Kiel.”
“Kiel? That’s kind of cool. I’m Tierney, but I guess you knew that.”
“Not until I saw the report. I’m not one to watch reality shows. I’ve got enough drama in my own life.”
“Are you married?”
“No, was, once, but that ship sailed awhile ago. You?”
“No, I’m engaged, I suppose, though there was no real proposal, not even a ring.”
“He’s probably wondering about you.”
“I doubt that. I’m not too certain he wasn’t the one who planted the bomb!”
“Well, here,” he handed her his phone. “Call your daddy and have him meet us at the dock. I’ll get the boat turned around.”
He stood, breathed easier once he was distanced from her. She watched him move as he neared the stairs, made her twitch inside. God, what a man! He glanced back at her, caught her admiring his butt. It seemed to irritate him; he climbed up to the deck.
“I guess I’m not his type,” Tierney sighed.
They hovered around the marina until Aram and Betsy Evans showed up. Kiel busied himself cleaning up the hull, Tierney helped him, trying not to let him see how he was affecting her. She didn’t want to leave him. She wanted to know him, in every way possible. To learn who he was and what he did, and how those full lips would feel on her mouth, and just how deeply he would slide into her if he had the chance. But he was stone cold, offering polite but vague answers to her questions and avoiding her physically by at least two feet.
When Aram Evans’ Escalade Hybrid appeared Tierney was reluctant to acknowledge it. She gave Kiel a hug in thanks, letting her body linger against his until he stiffened, not in passion but from embarrassment. She pulled away, looked at him one more time, trying to draw him upon her memory then she hopped into the SUV and wa
s shuttled off into the horizon.
“My God, Tierney!” her mother almost shouted. “Why didn’t you call us right away? We were going out of our minds with worry!”
“I’m sorry. I was mixed up, and really scared. Wouldn’t you be if you knew someone had tried to kill you?”
“I can’t believe that. It must have been a mistake.”
“Now Mom, how many red Ferrari convertibles are there on my block? It was not a mistake!”
“You’re right,” Aram Evans stated in a solemn voice.
The women gasped in unison.
“Aram, you don’t mean it!”
“It’s true, Betsy. I’ve had threats from some nasty people. I didn’t want anyone to know. The FBI has been trying to track them down.”
“But who are they, Dad? And why are they targeting me?’
“I’m not sure exactly who they are. But I have received some ugly emails. The people involved seem to think I’ve made my money under dubious circumstances. They talked about sweat shops in China, that sort of thing …”
“Did you?”
“Tierney …”
“No, Mom, I want to know.”
“It has come to my attention that several of the factories that make our clothing are suspected of being sweat shops. I was planning to fly over there, to see for myself, but the FBI warned me against it.”
“Lovely,” Tierney sighed. She sat back in her seat, quiet for the rest of the ride. Her thoughts kept traveling back to Kiel Fortune. She wondered what he was doing - if he’d gone to Baja or Catalina or just stayed there at the dock. She imagined him taking a shower in that tiny bathroom, watched him in her fantasy as he soaped up that firm, hairy chest and his lower parts too. She blew out her breath, trying to quell an orgasm that was spreading through her. “I’ve got to see him again,” she thought to herself. No one had ever made her feel the way he did. Not Istvan or the two other supposed fiancés she’d known in her young but busy life. And he hadn’t even kissed her. But he would, he had to – no matter what she had to do to get him. She simply had to know what it was like to kiss Kiel Fortune!
Kissing Fortune (Man Season) Page 1
