by J. Kenner
In an instant, she had the window rolled down, not wanting to let him get away quite so quickly. Then she just stared at him, realizing she didn’t know what to say, and hoping she didn’t look like a total idiot.
Fat chance.
“So,” she finally managed. “I guess I’m out of here.”
He didn’t answer right away, and she wished she could slink down into the driver’s seat and disappear. Then she took another look at him, and realized his nose was twitching as he fought a sneeze.
“Hale?”
Sniff, sniff, twitch, twitch. He waved his hand in some vague gesture. “Right. Great. Drive safe,” he managed. His voice was nasal and his nose was still twitching.
He looked so darn uncomfortable, she fought a chuckle. “Well,” she said. “Tomorrow, then.”
He nodded, then half-waved, his face contorted with the effort.
Amused, she pulled away, figuring if he was going to so much trouble not to let loose with a rip-roaring sneeze in front of her, she might as well be accommodating. She’d barely traveled any distance at all when she heard the loud A-a-choo! She hit the brake, then leaned out the window and glanced back, expecting to see Hale standing there looking pleased with himself for holding it until she’d left.
He wasn’t there. Odd. He had to be there. She’d just heard him. She remembered the way he’d dropped out of sight in the trailer. The man certainly had a knack for disappearing.
Frowning, she ducked back in the car, her eyes automatically going to the rearview mirror. There he was.
Okay, now that was weird. She glanced at the mirror again, only to see Hale darting toward the trailer. She popped her head out the window to call to him, but he was gone. The man certainly could move fast.
She tapped the accelerator, and almost sideswiped Leon. The actor was standing in the road, a lovesick-puppy look on his face. Still bewildered about Hale, Tracy waved, swerved around him, then pulled out the studio gate. He hollered after her, “See you tonight!”
Just yesterday, she’d been manless. Today, America’s latest heartthrob had the hots for her, and a disappearing cover model had not only asked her out, but asked to move in. Not bad for one day.
The morning might have started out weird, but it was wrapping up nicely. Thoroughly satisfied with herself, she turned onto Ventura Boulevard, wondering what the next twenty-four hours would bring.
Two Henchmen crouched behind a dumpster just outside the studio gate, the fat one scratching under where his arms would be if he’d been remotely human.
“Tha’s her. Tha’s the girl. Weesa supposed to get the girl.”
The skinny one turned and bopped him alongside the head. Or, the head-type part. “Not the girl. Master says we gotsa get the belt.”
“The belt. Righta.” He turned, his huge folds of slimy flesh jiggling as he looked toward Tracy’s car. It turned onto Ventura Boulevard, brakelights flashing briefly as she careened around the corner. “She’sa going-gone. We go now?”
He started to run after the car, but the skinny one caught his tail and pulled him back. He settled with a wet ker-plap on the concrete.
Another bop on his face. “Not go now. Change now.”
“Right-o.” The fat one’s facial features squinched up with concentration, and then he started to shimmer and shake, the folds of his flesh and slime dissolving and changing until he was no longer a fat creature but a plump man, decked out in denim bib overalls.
The skinny one followed suit, transforming into a tall, skinny man with a shock of red hair. His wore faded green fatigues that appeared two sizes too big.
The transformation complete, they faced each other. “We go,” said the skinny one.
“Weesa go now,” concurred the fat one. And with that, they took off down the road in the direction where Tracy’s taillights had disappeared.
Hale slipped behind a building before rematerializing, two things at the forefront of his mind. One, Tracy Tannin had managed to get under his skin in the most deliciously distracting of ways. Two, he really needed to find some allergy medicine.
But as pressing as that second need was, Zeus help him, he had to see Tracy again. They’d pored over that sitcom script for hours, sitting side by side as they discussed the various tricks Elmer would be expected to perform. Through it all, Hale had to fight to concentrate on the work rather than on the minty scent of her shampoo. By the time they’d finished the first read-through, he’d been desperate to leave, desperate to get outside and clear his head.
But time pressure wouldn’t allow him time to clear his head. If he was going to get close to Tracy and get the belt away from her, then Tracy needed to fall for him—and fall hard. And fast. With her wearing the belt now, it was only a matter of time before Hieronymous tracked her down. After she’d agreed to let him move in, he’d thought he was in the clear. Then Tracy had reminded him about her plans tonight—her plans with Leon.
The fact that she was going out with Leon mucked everything up. If Tracy was also dating Leon, Hale’s talents in the bedroom might not be enough to persuade her to part with the belt. Hale couldn’t imagine the risk was high, but what if she actually fell for this guy?
Not that he actually would admit the possibility that Leon could rank over him in any woman’s mind, but why take the chance? He needed to make damn certain that he spent time with Tracy before she went out with Leon, and that their time together beat the pants off any piddly little date activities Leon might dream up.
Of course, there was always Plan B. He could follow Tracy and Leon on their date, stay invisible, and secretly intercede if any sort of warm fuzzy moments seemed to be lurking on the horizon. Screw chivalry. As far as Hale knew, chivalry didn’t count when another man had his sights set on your girl.
Blinking, he squeezed his hands into fists. What was he thinking? She wasn’t his “girl.” At most, she was his temporary fling. Or his mission. His “girl” implied a level of commitment and permanency, and Hale had no intention of falling into that trap. No intention whatsoever.
His resolve renewed, he dematerialized again and took off running at top speed toward the studio gate.
Mordi smiled, not believing his luck. Hale and Tracy had parted ways, and now Mordi had the entire evening to ingratiate himself to her. How perfectly thoughtful of Hale to leave his cousin such a wonderful opening.
He considered shifting into a dog or a bird and following her by foot or by air, then decided that the old-fashioned approach would work best. Hopping down from the trailer roof, he headed to the Porsche he’d rented that morning. It had cost a fortune to wrangle the thing for the weekend; he might as well use it.
The sleek machine took curves like a dream, and in no time at all he saw Tracy two blocks ahead, zipping down the street in her ancient Chevy. She turned off of Ventura onto Laurel Canyon, heading into the valley, and that’s when he saw them. The two men running after her car. Only they weren’t men. Nope. Not by a long shot.
On the surface they might look human. And certainly no passing mortal would give them a second glance—except for the fact that they were racing down the street after a car, a nail gun aimed at its back tires. But simply on the sake of appearance, these guys could fit in among any mortals quite nicely.
But like any of Protector blood, Mordi saw past the surface. Henchmen had to work hard to maintain the illusion of humanity. Mortals couldn’t see the effort; Protectors could. And right at the moment he saw a beanpole of a Henchman and his huffing, puffing, rotund slimeball buddy closing in on Tracy.
Closing in on the belt.
Damn his father!
Not that Mordi should have been surprised, but just once why couldn’t Hieronymous believe in him? Was it really necessary to send Henchmen to do the very thing he was assigned to do?
He scowled, pondering the possibilities.
What if Hieronymous had decided he couldn’t trust his son to acquire the belt and turn it over to Daddy Dearest? Wouldn’t that be a pick
le?
It raised an interesting conundrum. Did Mordi let the Henchmen get the belt, and ruin his chance to obtain the prize himself, or did he swoop down and protect Tracy from his father’s stinky little beasts? He’d preferred the latter, but then word would get back to Hieronymous and Mordi would be in the doghouse. Again.
He was still pondering the dilemma when the solution materialized about three blocks behind the Henchmen. Mordi half-snorted. Leave it to Hale to rush to a woman’s rescue. With his chiseled looks and buff body, all he needed was a white stallion.
Show-off.
Not that Mordi begrudged Hale his looks—hell, Mordi wasn’t any slouch in the appearance department—but somehow Hale was just, well, Hale. Probably a product of all that cover modeling. Surely eight hours under a photographer’s lights with a half-naked woman in your arms did wonders for a guy’s ego.
Mordi liked his cousin well enough, but the guy definitely believed his own press. And right now, he was racing to play the hero to Tracy. Damn.
Mordi considered showing himself and running to her rescue first—then he’d be the hero instead of Hale. But since Hale had clearly seen the Henchmen, that would never do. Already, because of his father, his cousin would suspect him of duplicity. Even though Mordi had nothing to do with the Henchmen, best not to foster any suspicions in Hale’s mind.
No, he’d just kick back and wait.
After more than twenty-five years of living in his father’s shadow, if there was one thing Mordi was good at, it was waiting.
12
Ker-thwonk! Thud, thud, thud.
Tracy groaned, trying to keep her car under control even as she tried to figure out what had suddenly gone so wrong. Then it hit her. A flat tire.
Damn! Well, what did she expect? She was driving a thirteen-year-old Chevy Nova. Not exactly the car folks in Beverly Hills expected to see, but at least it was paid for. And, except for the occasional dead battery, it usually ran just fine.
Right now, though, she was cursing it. Already she barely had time to run to the mall and interrogate the cosmetic-counter ladies for tips on how she could look presentable. How the heck was she supposed to change a tire and do her shopping and still manage to get changed in time for a date?
Not that she was in that much of a hurry. After all, since Burke had shut production down early, she had a few hours to play with. And even though she would have preferred to spend more time with Hale and Elmer, she figured she’d need as much time as she could get to look beautiful.
As close to beautiful as she could manage, that is. Which probably wouldn’t be very close, but maybe she could land in the general vicinity of passable.
The car pulled to the right, and Tracy fought to keep it on a straight path until she could pull off the street into a parking lot. Dragging the wheel to the left with a string of colorful curses, she finally managed to squeeze over a lane and pull into the lot of a greasy spoon that advertised chicken and waffles.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t be overcome with hunger until after she’d managed to change the tire.
With a groan, she slipped out of her car and popped the trunk, then proceeded to dig through the bags of pet food and animal toys looking for her jack. No luck.
Well, fine. If she had to empty her trunk in the middle of a parking lot and do this methodically, then that’s exactly what she’d do. Right away, she started hauling out bags—puppy chow, dog chow, ferret chow. If she looked long enough she’d probably find a bag of tiger chow, too.
Finally, she reached the bottom of her trunk. She was just about to lift the little panel that hid the spare tire when she saw them—a thin man in fatigues and his rather round companion. In farmer-style overalls, the second guy looked like he belonged with milk cows, not on a street in Los Angeles. But Tracy had long since learned not to bat an eye where fashion in the City of Angels was concerned.
The men were walking toward her, and she didn’t have any real reason to feel nervous. For all she knew, they were suffering from chicken and waffle cravings. Except, she did feel nervous. She made a point of rummaging a little faster, the adrenaline rush building until she felt her fingers close over the cool metal of a tire iron.
“Hey, lady. Shesa pretty lady, yes?”
She turned, facing them straight on, the tire iron gripped tight in her hand.
“Oh, yes. Pretty. Weesa like pretty ladies.”
What she wanted to do was take a step backward, but since her car was blocking any escape, that wasn’t an option. Instead she hefted the iron, and tried to summon her most authoritative voice. The one she used with misbehaving dogs.
“Sorry, guys. I’m busy. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone.”
The fat one nudged the skinny one, nearly knocking him over. “D’you hear that? Sheesa wants us to leave. Not nice, lady.”
“We leave,” the skinny one said. “You gives it to us, and we leave now.”
It? What it?
The skinny one wasn’t staring at anything except the tire iron she was holding at her waist. Did he want that? ’Cause if he did, at the moment, she’d be happy to give it to him . . .
“Give now.” He moved toward her, and she held the iron up, brandishing it a bit until he moved back. Where the hell was everybody? This parking lot was hidden from the street by some brush, but this was a restaurant. Where were all the patrons? Where was the cavalry? Didn’t anyone eat anything but tofu in this town?
Without warning, the skinny one lunged. Tracy reacted automatically, her throat releasing a high-pitched scream even as she hauled off and hit her assailant in the gut with the tire iron. She might not have played softball since junior high, but she had to mentally congratulate herself on the force of her blow.
Of course, while she was busy congratulating herself, the guy was busy recovering. And it didn’t seem to take him anytime at all. The fat one was getting into the act too, now, so she had two thugs advancing on her.
Wildly she swung the tire iron, connecting with the solid bone of the skinny one’s jaw before moving on to whonk the shorter, fat one across the top of his skull. Oddly enough, she didn’t hear bone cracking. Instead, she had the weirdest sensation of dragging an oar through pudding.
She blinked, but didn’t have time to ponder the oddity. Everything was happening too quickly and as she took a deep breath, they advanced. Closer and closer, until—
“Gentlemen, I suggest you leave the lady alone.”
Hale!
Like some foolish twit in a scary movie, Tracy dropped the tire iron and ran to his side, grateful when he swung his arm around her and pulled her close.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”
“Sorry?” How on earth could he be sorry? “I’m just glad you’re here at all.” She frowned. “Why are you here?” But she didn’t really want an answer. At the moment, she didn’t care. She just wanted to be held. Just wanted to be taken care of.
And Hale was just the man she would have chosen to be her hero.
“I’m here to fight the bad guys, of course,” Hale said, keeping an eye on Dopey and Grumpy.
The bad guys in question shifted in front of him, moving from side to side, foot to foot. Hale let them squirm. At the moment, there wasn’t anything he could do with them, so he might as well let them stew.
Gently, he kissed the top of Tracy’s head, the sweet smell of her shampoo intoxicating him. “Can’t let Henchmen wander the streets of L.A. picking on beautiful women.” He threw in the word to let the Henchmen know that he knew what they were—and that he was a Protector. It was a bluff, of course. If they ran, he couldn’t catch them. Not without revealing himself to Tracy.
Which was too bad, since he’d thoroughly enjoy beating them to a pulp. But since he couldn’t beat them with his brawn, he could only hope to outwit them with his brain.
Considering how dumb Henchmen tended to be, that shouldn’t be too much of a problem.
“Should we call the police?” Tracy asked.
A slow grin crossed Hale’s face. “Actually, I think that’s a perfect plan.” He produced his cell phone.
While Hale could easily see past their disguise, mortals wouldn’t be able to. And though a county jail cell wasn’t going to be able to hold the slimy critters for long, it would certainly put a crimp in Uncle H’s style when he learned that his thugs got picked up for assault and attempted robbery. Even so, Hale had to mentally congratulate his uncle.
A mortal couldn’t steal the belt, and what Protector would want to? But slimy, vile Henchmen suited Hieronymous’s needs to a T. It had been a clever tactic, using them.
Dopey took a step backward, getting ready to bolt.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Hale said. The creature stopped, its eyes narrowed. It weighed its options as Tracy dialed Hale’s phone.
Fortunately Hieronymous—or that maniac Clyde—must have drilled into the Henchmen’s heads that they weren’t to raise any mortal suspicions. In no time at all, cops had arrived and had them in cuffs. The two flabbergasted blobs were shoved into the backseat of a cruiser.
Hale glanced at his watch, wondering if even an hour would pass before these friendly neighborhood thugs performed their little jail-break routine. Well, it didn’t matter to him. He already knew what he needed to. It was time to institute a twenty-four-hour watch on Tracy.
Beside him, she relaxed, clearly pleased to see her assailants hauled off in cuffs.
“Better?” he asked.
“I’ve lived in L.A. my whole life, but I’ve never been mugged before.” She looked up at him, the smile on her face only slightly distracted. “I’ve even taken self-defense classes for years. Not that you could tell. All I did was swing a tire iron.”
“It worked, though.”