by Cindy Dees
He twisted the throttle and the Harley leaped forward. Ana relaxed behind him and moved easily with the bike. She obviously knew how to stay centered and quiet on top of one. He didn’t let many women ride with him because they usually threw off his balance. He could hardly tell she was aboard, though, as their bodies moved in perfect unison. Only that sexy female form clinging to the length of his back reminded him she was there.
The farther inland they went, the hotter the air got. It was official. They were in hell. He followed the directions she gave him through the radio-mike between their helmets, and in a few minutes he pulled into a shabby motel parking lot. A few disreputable-looking surfers were just coming back after a day in the water, but the parking lot was otherwise deserted.
“Need me to walk you up to your room?” he asked. His grandmother was a stickler for the niceties and had raised all the kids to be polite.
Ana stiffened against his back. “No, but thanks for offering.” She slid off the bike a little too hastily and he shot out a hand to steady her as she stumbled.
“Dinner, tonight. With me,” he stated.
“No, thanks.”
“That wasn’t a request. Your audition isn’t over yet.”
If she’d been awkward before, she was board-stiff and epically uncomfortable now. Jeez. Did she think he was going to throw her down and rape her on a casting couch? He said defensively, “I just want to talk more. Get to know you. Find the chemistry between us. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“I’ll meet you at a restaurant,” she countered quickly. “Pick a place.”
“Romaletti’s.” She wanted to have her own ride home, huh? Did she not want to sleep with him or just doubt that he would be interested? Hmm. Intriguing.
She disengaged her arm from his fingers, and he was startled to discover he missed the feel of her skin. He took the helmet she passed him and watched her pull her blond hair out of its ponytail. It swung around her shoulders pertly.
Realizing with a start that he was staring at her, he tore his gaze away from her. For lack of anything else to look at, he eyed the motel. It looked one step up from a crack den. But it was the only low-cost lodging in town. Serendipity was mostly a secret enclave of the rich and famous. It was far enough north of Los Angeles to get out of the rat race, but close enough that a private jet could have a person back in the heart of L.A. in less than an hour.
He and Adrian had chosen the sleepy little town to house their production company precisely because of its laid-back atmosphere and distance from the Hollywood rat race. Not to mention real estate wasn’t sold by the square foot up here or for exorbitant prices. That, and his grandmother’s home was here. He’d just finished fully renovating the place and adding a few bells and whistles to it. Serendipity was where he’d grown up. His roots ran deep in this town.
“Thanks for the ride, Jackson.”
“Anytime, babycakes.” Grinning, he revved the throttle and spit gravel at her with his back tire as he peeled out of the parking lot.
He pointed his Harley back toward the coast and let the wind blow away the misgivings trying to creep into his mind. Was he making a mistake casting someone so naive? Her freshness and innocence would play great in the film, but at what price to her? He would hate to hurt Ana. She was a good kid.
He pulled into the driveway of the sprawling Victorian home he’d grown up in. Technically, he owned the place now, but it would always be Gran’s house. It was gray-blue with white gingerbread trim and moss-green accents, and looked totally at ease in its rocky seaside environment. The recent renovation and expansion had more than doubled its square footage, but the architect had done a brilliant job of blending the old with the new.
For the past few years, he’d only crashed here between movie gigs. But he was looking forward to living here full-time. The Hollywood grind was getting old. He also thought Minerva liked the company, not that she would ever admit it. The twins had left for college, and he suspected Minerva was empty nesting. Not to mention his grandmother was a flamboyant soul in constant need of an audience.
He parked his Harley in the garage next to the white Cadillac he’d bought her for her birthday last year and headed into the kitchen. Steeling himself to face the baby lecture—again—he sighed.
“Hey, Gran.” He paused beside her to drop a fond kiss on her cheek. Still tall and slim at sixtysomething, she was an elegant woman. Beautiful, even now.
“Hello, Jackie. Tea?” She glanced up at him and did a double take. “What happened to your face?”
“Ana—an actress auditioning for a part—clocked me across the face with a club.”
“Oh, dear. It looks like you’re going to have a hooked nose and a black eye. Won’t you make quite the dashing pirate? I assume she didn’t get the part?”
“Actually, we’re thinking about casting her.”
“Well, at least she can defend herself from your advances.”
He rolled his eyes. “The crap in the tabloids about me is not true, Gran. I swear.”
She waved a “whatever” hand at him and pulled the tea bags out of the pot.
“Can I have some of that tea on ice?” he asked.
“Ruins the flavor, dear.”
“Yes, but it’s a thousand degrees outside. And the idea of drinking something hot makes my nose hurt.”
“There’s a nice breeze coming off the ocean. Why don’t we take our tea on the veranda?”
He never failed to be amazed at how it could be twenty degrees cooler on the coast than in town. He picked up the tray and followed her outside onto the stone patio. Sure enough, a cool, fresh breeze dried his sweat in a matter of seconds. He sipped at the tall glass of iced tea Minerva poured for him in spite of her objection to chilling her imported Earl Grey.
“Have you thought about what we talked about on the phone?” she asked without preamble.
The memory of Ana’s declaration that she could fake out his grandmother flashed through his mind. If only.
He took a long pull at the tea before answering with long-suffering patience, “We’ve been over this before. I’m not averse to having a family...someday. But right now, I’m traveling and working too much to sustain a relationship, let alone raise kids.”
“But now that the production company is up and running, you’ll be home more. Have more control of your schedule.”
In theory. He had yet to see that play out in practice. He’d been working day and night with Adrian for the past year getting all the financing and business paperwork set up. He was convinced that it was a good business move to invest a large chunk of his accumulated wealth in a long-term venture like this. But it was a big risk. A big project.
“Tell me about this pugilist actress.”
“She’s a newcomer. Name’s Ana Izzolo.” He searched for words to describe her accurately. “She’s spunky. Fiery. Very un-Hollywood.”
Minerva’s eyes lit with interest. “How old is she?”
“I don’t know. Mid-twenties, maybe.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Of course she’s pretty. We wouldn’t be casting her as a leading lady if she wasn’t. Although she’s not traditional. She’d be a girl-next-door type if she didn’t have...” How to describe the cynical edge he sensed more than saw? He shrugged, and finished lamely, “She has a certain something. She’s compelling.”
Speaking of which, he only had about an hour until he had to leave for their date. And he needed a shower.
“Going out tonight?” Minerva queried.
“Yup.”
“On a date?”
“That’s none of your business,” he retorted.
“And why not?”
“Because I’m thirty-three years old and don’t tell you every detail of my life?”
Her nose went
up. “Fine. I’ll find out where you went and who with down at the hair salon tomorrow.”
He stared at her in chagrin. The hell of it was she would be able to do just that. And that would be the downside of small-town life. “If you must know, it’s a working dinner. I’m meeting Ana to talk some more.”
His grandmother pursed her lips. “When do I get to meet her?”
“Uh, never.”
Minerva glared down her patrician nose at him. “Are you ashamed of me?”
He’d forgotten how effectively she could deliver a guilt trip. “No, Gran. I’m not ashamed. This is just work, not true love ever after.”
“Compelling, hmm?” she murmured as he stomped past her toward the house.
Meddling woman. This was getting out of hand. “You don’t have the right to run my life, Gran.”
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering, dear.”
Hah. And leopards didn’t have spots. Even if the leopard was his grandmother and her heart was in the right place. At least she hadn’t played the “I could die at any moment without ever seeing my great-grandchildren” card.
Looking forward to dinner with Ana more than he’d looked forward to a date in a while, he headed upstairs.
* * *
Ana couldn’t say if she was more excited or scared. Both about her dinner date tonight and the whole idea of landing a major movie role. Either way, she was a bundle of nerves as she primped. She did her best not to mess up Tyrone’s awesome makeup job. She wasn’t much into the girlie arts and could never duplicate Tyrone’s artistry.
She chose a pale pink angora sweater and white jeans to change into. They were basically her only decent clothes left after the vandalism of her other audition clothes at the studio earlier.
She tossed her purse over her shoulder and headed downstairs in the gathering dusk. Tonight, she would burn some of the remaining gasoline in her car to get to Romaletti’s and back. If she actually landed this job, money to fill up her car wouldn’t be a problem anymore.
She approached her vintage VW Beetle affectionately. The Bug Bomb and she had been through a lot together over the years. Hopefully, times were looking up for the two of them. And it started with this dinner tonight—
Maybe because she was distracted thinking about Jackson Prescott, or maybe because she simply forgot the first rule of self-defense, which was to be aware of her surroundings, but she didn’t see the attack coming. One second she was reaching for her car-door handle, and the next she was flat on the ground with a heavy body on top of her.
Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. Not again. And maybe because this reminded her so much of the last time she was attacked, she panicked a little and forgot the second rule of self-defense, which was to make as much noise as possible and attract help, or at least the attention of passersby.
She pushed in silent panic against the gravelly asphalt, trying to turn over. To get her hands or feet free to defend herself. Something hard and heavy slammed into her right temple, and the world went black for a few seconds. She didn’t quite lose consciousness, but she was dazed and had to work to stay conscious, let alone fight back.
Her years of self-defense classes finally caught up with her and one more cardinal rule belatedly registered in her brain: never give up. She struggled weakly beneath her attacker.
“Bitch,” a male voice ground out in her ear, dripping with vitriol.
She fought harder. But trapped on her stomach like this, there wasn’t much she could do. All her martial arts training was negated by her inability to move. Her purse was gone, the mace container inside it useless. The motel’s parking lot had no light in it and was usually deserted, anyway. Fat lot of good noticing all that did her now.
She should have been more aware of her surroundings. But she’d been so caught up in fantasizing about Jackson Prescott that she’d failed to pay the slightest attention to anything around her. She almost deserved whatever happened next.
She didn’t want to die, dammit. And that was when the rest of her self-defense training finally, belatedly, came back to her. She opened her mouth and screamed as loudly and bloodcurdlingly as she could.
Her attacker swore as a door opened nearby. A hand reached for her mouth but she bit the salty palm as hard as she could and screamed again.
“Hey! Are you okay, lady?” somebody called.
“Help!” she screamed.
And that was the last thing she remembered before something slammed into the side of her head again, and she did pass out this time.
Chapter 3
Jackson’s cell phone rang just as he was heading downstairs. He didn’t give many people his private number, so he was surprised when he pulled out the device and didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. Normally, he would ignore it, but he was in a good mood in anticipation of dinner with Ana.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Prescott?”
“Who’s this?” he demanded.
“San Placido County Hospital emergency room. Are you familiar with a woman named Anabelle Izzolo?”
“Is she all right?” he burst out in alarm.
“There’s been an incident, sir. We couldn’t find any emergency contacts for her, but we did find your phone number in her purse.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap. What had happened? He ran for his motorcycle and flung it out of the driveway like a stunt driver. It was more like a ten-minute drive down to the county hospital under normal conditions, but his five-minute estimate turned out to be fairly accurate. He charged through the swinging doors to the emergency room, helmet still on his head.
“Where is Ana Izzolo?” he demanded of the nurse behind the admissions counter. “Is she okay? What happened to her?”
“And you are?” the nurse asked.
“Jackson Prescott. You called me.” He tore off his helmet and the nurse gasped in recognition. What the hell good was it being a movie star if he couldn’t turn it into preferential treatment now and then?
He leaned forward and murmured low, “I would rather not sit here in the public waiting room until the paparazzi show up. Is there any chance you can take me back to be with Ana and avoid a scene?”
“Of course. Come with me.” The woman stepped out from behind the counter to escort him personally.
“Thanks, so much—” he glanced down at her name tag “—Nurse Simpson.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, Mr. Prescott. I loved you in that movie about everyone having to leave Earth.”
“Thanks.” It had been the success of that movie that had led him and Adrian to produce the space Western they were working on right now.
The nurse led him into a tiny vestibule crammed with machines and a big hospital bed. A young police officer looked up as they entered. Jackson’s gaze riveted on Ana, small and pale in the big bed. “How is she?” he demanded. He still had no idea what had happened to her and how serious it was.
The cop answered, “She’s just coming around. Maybe she can tell us what happened. I found her in a parking lot, unconscious.”
Alarm gripped his chest in a vise so tight he had trouble drawing his next breath. “Was she mugged?” Or worse?
“Based on her abrasions, I’d say she was knocked down from behind. A guest at the motel heard her scream and called us. Her purse was still on the ground beside her and her clothes were intact, so it looks like she fought the guy off or scared him away. She’s just coming around. Talk to her and see if she’ll respond to your voice.”
Jackson moved to her side to pick up her hand. “Hey, babycakes. It’s me. Jackson. You’re late for our date.”
Ana groaned. He encouraged her to wake up and talk to him for a few more seconds, and she eventually mumbled, “My head hurts.”
The nurse nodde
d in approval at him and then unceremoniously elbowed him aside, “How many fingers am I holding up, Miss Izzolo?”
Ana squinted and got the number right. That was a good sign, right? Jackson fretted in the corner he’d been relegated to, where he would be out of the way. If only there was something he could do for her. He felt so damned useless. But he didn’t have the slightest bit of medical training. Hell, he didn’t have training to do anything practical. He could act. That was it. Sure, it had made him a boatload of money, but he figured it was as much a win of the genetic lottery as any real talent he might have. His brothers were soldiers—a helicopter pilot and a Marine officer. Accomplished men with distinguished careers. And he...he was pretty.
Jackson waited impatiently while a doctor came in and peered into Ana’s eyes, asked her a bunch questions, poked her some more and declared her basically unharmed. She apparently had a mild concussion that went with the lump on the side of her head over her ear.
A cop came into the room. Good-looking guy—blond, blue-eyed, deep surfer tan, lanky physique to go with it. Introduced himself as Brody Westmore.
Jackson was deeply relieved when she told the cop she’d been mugged but nothing more. She glossed over the details of the attack and finished by describing screaming her head off and then passing out.
Officer Westmore had apparently already interviewed the motel guest who’d called 9-1-1. Enterprising guy. Surfer cop concluded that, given the timing of the call to the police and their arrival shortly after the scream, her mugger had fled the scene soon after knocking her out.
The cop asked her to check if anything was missing from her purse. A pitifully small amount of cash in her wallet was apparently intact, but her cell phone had gone missing. She was upset about it, but Jackson intervened quickly. “The studio will replace it for you. We’ll need to be able to get in touch with you on short notice.” Or more to the point, he would need to be able to get in touch with her on short notice for his own peace of mind.
The police officer asked, “Ma’am, is there someone we can call to let them know you’ve had an accident? A family member? Spouse?”
