by Cindy Dees
Embarrassment flashed through her transparent gaze and she mumbled, “No. No one.”
“I’m the significant other,” Jackson blurted, leaping to the rescue of the damsel in distress. Apparently, he had a heretofore untapped knight-in-shining-armor complex. Not to mention a bizarre possessive streak where Ana was concerned.
She looked startled and the cop looked skeptical until Jackson added defensively, “She was on her way to dinner with me when she was attacked.” He took satisfaction in the way Surfer Cop’s expression fell in disappointment.
The nurse interjected, “Then you’ll be with her tonight, Mr. Prescott? We can’t release her with a concussion unless she won’t be alone.”
Ana struggled to sit up, looking freaked at the idea of spending the night in the hospital. Or maybe she was freaked at the idea of spending the night with him. He frowned. “Of course. I’ll take her home with me. I’ll wake her up every two hours or whatever I need to do.” He’d been in a movie last year where his female costar had to be woken up periodically after a concussion. It had been a plot point that they made love each time he woke her up. Fun couple days of shooting—
The nurse broke his train of thought. “She won’t require anything that extreme. Just keep an eye on her for nausea, vomiting, disorientation, slurring of speech, balance problems, mood changes, restlessness, excessive light or sound sensitivity, or trouble focusing her eyes.”
Well, okay then. He followed the nurse out front to deal with the discharge papers, and he wrote a check for the cost of the E.R. visit. He remembered what it had been like to be a struggling young actor couch surfing and living from hand to mouth between jobs.
After all of the paperwork was taken care of, he headed back down the hall to collect Ana. He wasn’t thrilled to see the cop still there, perched on the end of her bed chatting her up. She was his dinner date, dammit.
“Ready to go home, Ana-banana?”
He caught the glimpse of wistfulness that passed through her expressive eyes before she masked it. It tugged at his heart. An orderly shooed him aside to help Ana into a wheelchair. The cop walked out beside her while Jackson cooled his jets behind the procession. He wasn’t used to having competition for women, and he didn’t particularly like it.
At least he got to put the hot girl on the back of his bike and peel out of the parking lot while the cop climbed into his piece-of-junk Crown Vic cruiser. There was a little justice in this world, after all.
He murmured over his shoulder, “Hang on tight, baby. I’ve got you now.”
* * *
Ana leaned into Jackson’s back and wished desperately that his comment could be true. She was so tired of fighting her own fights and looking out for herself. Particularly since she didn’t seem to be doing that hot a job of it.
His bike accelerated onto the Coast Highway, and it felt phenomenal to breathe in clean, ocean air as the wind whipped past. It had been a scorching-hot day and warmth still lingered in the evening. She reveled in having survived the attack. In having her arms around this man. Euphoria overtook her at having cheated death for real. In her stunt training, she’d done plenty of risky things, but all of that paled before the danger of real life.
“You okay?” Jackson asked over the comm system between their helmets.
She replied, “Um, yes. Why?”
“You tensed up.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She consciously relaxed each major muscle group in her body one by one and let herself flow with the movements of the motorcycle and the man confidently maneuvering along the moonlit ribbon of asphalt.
Jackson pulled into the parking lot of her motel. She slid out reluctantly from behind him, startled by how sexy it felt to rub her body across his like that. His gaze snapped to hers, and for a second, his eyes blazed white-hot. Yowza.
Embarrassed as all get-out, she made a production of taking off her helmet and passing it to him. He stayed seated on his bike for a few extra seconds, securing first her helmet and then his before climbing off the Harley and following her up the stairs to her second-floor room.
Except as they approached her door, she spied something odd about it. The whole thing looked...crooked. Jackson shoved past her abruptly, hooking an arm around her front and simultaneously pushing her behind him and jumping in front of her. What the heck?
“Get back,” he ordered low and hard.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your door’s busted.”
“It was probably like that before—” she started.
“Jamb’s broken. Boot print by the doorknob,” he interrupted. “Stay out here.”
“What?”
He stopped in front of the door and spared her a glare. “You heard me. Don’t come in until I tell you it’s clear.” He used his forearm to push open the sagging door. She frowned until it occurred to her he was intentionally not leaving fingerprints on the doorknob. Sheesh. Paranoid much?
He disappeared into the dark interior of her dingy room. Ignoring his instructions, she stepped into the doorway to see what he was doing. She caught sight of him just spinning into her bathroom in a low crouch. Whoa. Where did he learn a move like that?
That was when her eyesight adjusted enough to really see the interior of her place. What. The. Heck? It was trashed. As in totaled. As in a tornado had shredded the place. Every piece of furniture was knocked over. Every cushion was gutted, and stuffing was all over the place. Drawers were pulled out and thrown on the floor. The TV was smashed. Curtains yanked down off the rods and sliced into rags.
She jumped as Jackson reappeared in the doorway of her bathroom. “I told you to stay outside.” He sounded irritated.
“Is anyone here?” she blurted, her heart pounding.
“No. But if a crook had been in here, you could’ve put yourself in the line of fire and gotten hurt.
She flipped the switch beside the door that turned on the lamp across the room. Nothing happened. What on earth was going on? It was as if someone was targeting her. But who? The only person on earth who wanted to kill her was in jail.
Jackson moved to her side and reached past her to close the broken door as much as it would go. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a phone number without answering her question. “Hello, I’d like to report a break-in.” He gave her room number and the name of the motel, but he gave the person on the other end of the line his cell phone number.
“I understand, Officer. The room is secure, no one’s injured and I’m taking the owner to a safe location. I’ll have her make a list of stolen property, and when you’re ready to come by and have a look, call me.”
Jackson called the motel’s manager on his cell since the rotary phone in the room was currently in pieces, none of which were still attached to each other or the wall. He pocketed his phone and then asked her, “Did you have anything valuable in the room like jewelry or cash that someone could have taken?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Can you think of anything someone might toss your place to look for?”
“No.”
“You got a torqued-off ex?”
“No!”
“How about an ex you didn’t know is pissed?”
“No exes,” she admitted reluctantly.
“None at all?” he blurted, sounding surprised.
Well, wasn’t this just too embarrassing for words? “I don’t date,” she mumbled.
“Why the hell not?”
“This from the guy who has no female friends whatsoever?” she replied a shade defensively.
The manager showed up, blessedly ending Jackson’s uncomfortable line of questioning. The man confirmed that this had been the only room broken into and commenced shooting her suspicious looks as if this was all her fault.
Jackson must have picked up the guy’s
hostility because when she started to ask the manager if he had another room she could move into, Jackson cut her off with “I’m taking you to my place to stay until we find out who trashed your room.”
“That won’t be necessary—” she started.
“Nonetheless, that’s what’s going to happen. Do you want to grab your toothbrush and some clothes, assuming they aren’t destroyed, too?”
She headed for the closet and gasped as she peered inside. It was just like the locker at the studio. Every piece of clothing inside was in tatters. Even her shoes’ heels were broken off. The rage behind the attack stole her breath away. “Who would do something like this?” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes and throat.
“Screw the toothbrush,” Jackson said gruffly. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”
A sob rattled up out of her chest and escaped.
With urgency approaching panic, Jackson grabbed her elbow and bodily dragged her out of the motel room. A fog descended over her brain, dulling sound and sensation as he led her back to his Harley and installed her on it. He slid onto the bike in front of her and the engine roared to life.
“There’s a hotel at the beach. If you could take me there, I’ll grab a room until I head back to Los Angeles,” she yelled over the engine.
“Negative. You’re coming to my place,” he called back.
“I’m not shacking up with you, Jackson.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion on the topic. I’ve got plenty of room.” She started to object, but he interrupted. “Someone has to keep an eye on you for a day or two after your concussion.”
The doctor at the hospital had given her some sort of industrial-strength painkiller, and she’d actually momentarily forgotten her pounding headache from before.
“Besides,” Jackson continued firmly, “I’m worried about you. Until we figure out who trashed your place, I want you close by where I can protect you.”
She subsided, speechless. Other people didn’t protect her, particularly big hunky movie stars whom she had giant crushes on. But she had to admit it felt kind of nice to let somebody else worry about things for once. She was wiped out by today’s events. And it wasn’t like she could actually afford to pay for a decent hotel room. That was why she’d been at the crappy motel outside town in the first place. Still, she’d imposed on him too much. If she wasn’t mistaken, he had already paid her hospital bill.
His rich, soothing voice echoed inside the helmet. “Relax, Ana, and let me do the worrying.”
She hadn’t slowed down enough to get around to worrying about herself until he mentioned it. Who had attacked her? Did it have to do with the attack at the studio, or was it just a terrible coincidence that she had been attacked twice in the same day? What the heck was wrong with her? Did she have a giant V for victim on her forehead or something? All of a sudden, mountains of worry crowded in on her, crushing her beneath their weight.
She wrapped her arms around Jackson’s waist and huddled against his back, letting him be her bulwark against all of it for a few minutes. His muscular contours felt solid, real, safe. For just a minute, she lost herself in him. She let him be the only real thing in her universe, which had otherwise been knocked completely off its axis.
His next words came to her as if spoken across a long distance. “I’ve got you, Ana. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise.”
If only.
Chapter 4
Ana tried to relax as Jackson wasted no time whisking her across all six blocks of downtown Serendipity, but she failed. Had her mugger returned to the motel and trashed her room after the fact? Why go to all that trouble and then not take anything? Sure, she didn’t have much, but there’d still been a television and a few personal items the intruder could have stolen.
Jackson guided the Harley north along the coast for a few gloriously beautiful miles. Even the magnificent view of the ocean under the emerging stars couldn’t soothe her jangling nerves. Normally she could sit and stare at the waves for hours on end.
The bike slowed and turned off the Coast Highway into a gated drive. Jackson stopped to punch in a security code on a number pad, and the automatic gate slid back to reveal possibly the most gorgeous house she’d ever seen. It was huge and stately. Elegant. Venerable.
“Whoa. You live here?” she asked over the rumble of his bike rolling up the drive.
“It’s my grandmother’s place. She’s lived here since the seventies. I renovated it for her and built on an addition after my first big movie. She had a health scare last year and I moved back in to look after her. I stay here when I’m not on location.”
“Talk about a sweet crash pad,” she muttered.
He grinned over his shoulder at her as he climbed off the bike in the circular drive in front of the stately double doors. “First time here, you get the grand entrance.”
“Please don’t fuss over me. It makes me uncomfortable.”
The front doors opened and a woman fully as elegant at the house stepped onto the broad porch. “Who’ve we got here, Jackson?” She sounded surprised. Did he not bring women here often, then?
Ana was startled when he looped his arm over her shoulder to lead her forward. “Ana, this is my grandmother, Minerva Prescott. Gran, this is Ana Izzolo. She’s going to be working on the film with me.”
Going to? No “maybe” or “probably”? No “after we check out her screen test we might make her an offer”? No explanation to his grandmother that her room had been vandalized and that was the only reason she was here?
Stunned, she barely heard Jackson’s grandmother say, “I’m so pleased to meet you, dear.” The woman held slender hands out and grasped Ana’s hand warmly. “Do come in. It will be lovely to have company. Welcome.”
Minerva glanced over at Jackson. “Is this the young lady you were so anxious to go have dinner with?”
Anxious, huh? Jackson’s mouth tightened in visible chagrin, and Ana’s mouth twitched in answering amusement. Family had a way of stripping your dignity at the most inconvenient moment.
“Ana was mugged and her place was broken into before she could meet me at the restaurant. She could use some basic toiletries and maybe some clean clothes until she has a chance to go shopping. I’d like her to stay here a few days while we sort out what happened.”
His grandmother exclaimed in alarm, “Goodness! Of course, we’ll take care of her. Don’t you worry about a thing, dear.” Her expression lightened and she clapped her hands together. “Actually, it’s perfect! It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other.”
What a warmhearted woman. Her kindness was really infectious. Perhaps this was where Jackson got some of his famous charm. Minerva never let go of her hand as she drew Ana into a front hallway filled with beautiful woodwork—elaborate crown moldings, dark wood door frames, and the stairs— Oh, my. The staircases, there were two of them, each had to be twelve feet wide and swept upward in arcs, starting on each side of the foyer, to meet in the middle at the top.
“Wow,” Ana breathed. “I’m feeling a little underdressed.”
Minerva laughed gaily. “Never fear. We dress casually here at the beach. You’re about my size. I’m sure we can find something that will fit you.”
Except, of course, that Minerva was a foot taller than she was. Well, half a foot. She was five foot two, and Jackson’s grandmother looked at least five foot eight.
Minerva continued gaily, “I run around in a bathing suit and flip-flops half the time.”
She had a hard time envisioning the elegant woman in anything other than a designer dress as tailored and classy as the one she was wearing now.
“Jackson, why don’t you show Ana around while I speak with Rosie about making you two something to eat. You both must be hungry after such a stressful day. And you never did get your dinner to
gether, did you?”
“Her solution to every crisis in life is food,” Jackson muttered as his grandmother floated gracefully down the central hallway, tsking, to disappear somewhere in the back of the sprawling home.
“Is one the up staircase and the other the down staircase?” Ana asked under her breath.
“Nah. You can go up or down either one. Although, I can say from experience that the left bannister is faster to slide down than the right one.”
“You slid on the bannisters as a kid?”
“Still do from time to time. But don’t tell Gran. She’d yell at me.”
Ana grinned as he led her off the main foyer into a living room with English manor–style cove ceilings and mahogany wainscoting to die for. “This place is stunning, Jackson.”
“Pain in the butt to keep up, though. I keep asking Gran to let me sell it, but she refuses. Says we’ll have to pry her cold, dead body out of here before she’ll go.”
“I’m with her. This place is a treasure. Has it been in your family a long time?”
He led her back across the foyer to another set of double doors, which opened to reveal a library. She gasped with pleasure since she’d always loved books. This room was lined, floor to ceiling, with volumes.
“My grandfather was a movie producer. He bought this place for her as a wedding present. It was decrepit, and they restored it to a livable state. It was built in the 1920s by a silent movie star as a getaway back when this stretch of coast was pretty much deserted.”
“What happened to him?” she asked.
“He died when my mother was ten. Lung cancer. He was a chain smoker most of his life.”
He led her upstairs, and a spacious sitting room stretched toward the back of the house and the ocean beyond. “Gran’s rooms are to the left. I’m in the new wing, this way. Let’s find you a bedroom.”
She could hardly fathom the idea of having to choose between multiple bedrooms. Her upbringing had been modest at best, and rocky during bad times. Rocky also described her parents’ marriage accurately. She wouldn’t go so far as to say she’d had a happy upbringing. It wasn’t like she’d been abused or neglected. But love hadn’t been particularly abundant. It had been...safe. Adequate.
