"It hardly ever rains heavily in L.A.," he murmured almost to himself. He shrugged on his backpack. "But those look like they might be serious rain clouds. How badly do you want to see the peak?"
"Pretty badly," she answered, her voice more breathy and sultry than she intended.
He smiled, and cute laugh-lines appeared at the corner of his eyes. He gazed into her own eyes teasingly. "Then the next question would be, do you mind getting a little wet?"
She didn't laugh, but it was an effort not to. "No. I don't mind getting a little wet."
His mischievous smile went well with his speculative gaze. He leaped up from the small boulder, bowed before her and held out his hand, palm up. "Come then, my lady. For there are sights worth seeing further up yonder trail." He was the very image of an old-fashioned knight for a moment, his broad shoulders bent to her service, his bearing gallant.
Laughing and delighted with his antics, she grasped his hand. The touch tingled through her as he pulled her to her feet.
He didn't let go, but kept her hand enfolded in his larger one as he paced beside her. The connection warmed and centered her.
She'd never felt more safe.
Ian had never felt more furious.
After more than a month of miscellaneous dirty tricks, from petty vandalism to promoting Men's Weekly's bad publicity… from agitating the feminist groups to calling in favors from his shadier contacts… from Internet discussion group trolling to emails sent off wherever they might do the most damage... the stupid magazine was showing no sign of stumbling.
Jake was showing no signs of stumbling.
How he hated that damn usurper. Jake was using the money Ian himself had once easily embezzled to launch the magazine into national prominence.
His latest trick, paying off that Mexican actress to make her suicide call to Stanna, was diabolical if he did say so himself. Keeping Stanna primed against Jake and on Ian’s good side was key to his success. The key that got Jake out of the way for good.
He was running out of time.
The thugs were becoming persistent. Just last night he'd discovered all four tires on his beautiful Jaguar punctured. How they’d managed to do it while he dined at the famous French restaurant L'Orangerie he didn't discover. Probably bribed the valets.
The note was more ominous. Tucked under his wiper as if it was a ticket, the note read simply, "Thirty days. Then we turn you into geezer pate."
He could’ve done without such unpleasant, not to mention nauseating, reminders.
Yet he owed enough money they’d never let him go with a slap on the wrist if he defaulted. Outrageous that after so many years of power and ease, he found himself at such a disadvantage.
Ian bared his teeth. If he worked quickly, he might still pull this chestnut out of the fire. He might take quite a bit of additional profit for himself besides, if all went swimmingly.
His grimace broadened into a fierce smile. The lipless grin of covetous greed was that of an intelligently watchful, ravenously hungry vulture.
Soon, he thought. He would make his next move very soon.
If the cute guy across the room didn't make his move soon, Telly reasoned, then she'd be justified in making one of her own. She'd give him exactly one more minute of her high-powered smiles and subtly provocative poses.
Subtle was the name of the game here at the Saturday night church social. She probably should have slicked her white-blond hair back, stuck in a few barrettes or something instead of the spiky punk look she currently sported. But how could she have known it'd be so drably conservative? She'd never been to church in her life, but “social” to her meant talking, dancing, flirting… all the things not happening nearly enough here.
Looking around the large room, Telly noticed lots of gray, blue, and white preppy styles. The men and women were around her age, but they looked older due to their dress and demeanor. Books and inspirational pictures lined the walls, and Christian rock music played softly over the PA system. Nobody danced. Nobody flirted. And the talking… Telly shuddered. She’d had more rousing conversations with herself.
She shook off her displeasure. She was here in a quest to explore new places for the elusive Mr. Just Right. Someone with good morals. Someone sincere and sweet and not sleazy. The guy she envisioned had to be a decent sort of fellow. What better place than a church to screen out the lecherous, spittley types?
The cute, tall, and sincere-looking guy she watched most closely had dimples when he smiled, and he smiled often, with a cute shy dip to his head. His blond hair was cropped short in tiny ringlets, like a Greek statue. He wore inconspicuous wire-rim glasses that made him look like a beautiful scholar.
Trouble was, he didn't seem aware of her existence as a woman.
That was about to change. Telly regarded him with fox-like interest, knowing her big black-lined eyes sparkled deviously. Setting down her empty punch cup, she grabbed two more full ones and made a beeline for his small group.
Telly parked herself next to him and fixed her eyes adoringly on his face. She smiled up at him when he glanced at her, and held out one of the punch cups to him.
"I'm Telly," she stated with what she hoped was affectionate directness. She batted her eyes and smiled winningly up at him.
"Hi," he said softly, but equally direct. His even white teeth revealed themselves quickly in a shy smile. "I'm Ernest." He looked down at the punch cup in her hand and back at her face. "Is that for me?"
She grinned and nodded, projecting friendliness and interest. He was so serious. So earnest. She swallowed giggles.
"You are very kind to bring me a drink." His pronunciation was so exact, she wondered if he thought she was hard of hearing. He regarded her with an innocent scrutiny and sipped his cup of punch, waiting for her to speak again. Behind his spectacles, blue eyes the color of a still summer sky blinked slowly and with childlike simplicity.
A few minutes of silence passed, filled by nothing more than smiling and waiting. Weird, thought Telly, keeping the smile on her face. But maybe church guys were less aggressive than the norm. That would make sense. She’d just have to take the lead.
"Why don't we go for a walk?"
He immediately nodded with a pleased smile, letting her lead him to the front porch and beyond, to a well groomed and prettily lit little garden near the building's parking lot. She checked the lot for her red Mustang out of habit. Once one had had one’s car "borrowed" by a weasel jerk of an ex boyfriend, one just monitored vehicle whereabouts more closely. But there it still was, her beautiful steed.
She sighed. Why couldn't men be as beautiful, reliable, and powerful as her Mustang?
This man was beautiful, anyway. She snuck a peek. Chiseled profile, flawless skin, tall...
"You're seeking something here, aren't you?" The gentle query wasn't a come-on line. It was too serious. Interesting.
"Well... I suppose so." She ran a long nail down her own bare white forearm slowly. "You could say so," she growled, sultry, nudging him playfully. See what he did with that, she thought.
He was already nodding. "You've found it, here. With me."
She did a double take. Was Ernest conceited?
"The church eagerly embraces seekers such as yourself. Those who are sincerely seeking God's love, as you are." He had a youthful smile on his face. He stepped closer and took her hand gently into his cool one. She felt no sparks. "I'm the Pastor's son and I know he'd love to meet you." His tugging her back toward the building reminded her of an eager golden retriever she'd once owned.
"Whoa," she said, extricating her hand. "I'm really not especially religious."
"You're not?" His voice reflected his shock. For the first time, his gaze obviously crept over her attire, taking in the black skirt and punky hair and make-up, lingering on the tiny edge of cleavage she’d let show. “But you want to be, right? To be forgiven your trespasses? You’re seeking Divine grace.” His eyes telegraphed his sudden caution. He moved three steps back from t
he chummy proximity he'd had when he took her hand.
"No, not exactly. But I don’t mind people who’re into religion. It could be sort of different." But it was a lost cause. He kept eyeballing her outfit and she could read him as clearly as one of Stanna's columns. He was thinking she was one of them, one of those godless heathen sluts from Hollywood. He'd been warned about women like her.
It was suddenly hard not to laugh. There he was, looking a bizarre combination of crestfallen and enguard, and all she'd wanted was to get to know him better, maybe flirt a tiny bit, possibly set up a date.
He clearly wanted to flee, but just as clearly didn't want to be rude. The poor guy visibly re-gathered his composure and tried again. He spoke sincerely, but kept his distance. "I know you'd like my dad. I know he likes to meet people like you too. We could go and meet him before we all head down to the Pleasant Pastures retirement home to play checkers. That’s the charity for this evening, and it makes the seniors so happy. Won't you join us?"
"Thanks, Ernest. That's really sweet of you." She pointedly looked at her watch. "Oh, gosh, look at the time. I have to be going. Have fun with the checkers and everything." She spoke over her shoulder as she darted across the path, over the grass and to the parking lot to escape.
It was tremendously strange, Telly thought as she drove from the church social at a speed that doubtless reinforced Ernest's opinion of her, that someone so beautiful could be such a bore.
Okay. So, bar boys weren’t for her. And, church boys weren't for her.
Telly popped Blondie's "One Way Or Another" into her cassette deck and narrowed her flawlessly made-up eyes. The hard-driving tunes pumped her up.
There were other places to look for Mr. Just Right, and she'd search every one of them if necessary.
Jake and Stanna hiked up Sandpiper Peak together, holding hands and talking shop. Stanna listened with fascination as he actually confided in her.
"We've been getting bomb threats," he told her. “Well, I have, anyway. And that's not all. Magazine hate mail addressed to me. Then my house was spray-painted. Who has nothing better to do than follow me home and spray paint my house?
“Then, it was a double-whammy: a dramatic, unexplained rise in Standard's paper prices combined with Marshall Distributing's union strike. That suicidal woman's phone call was par for the course, Stanna."
His lips pursed thoughtfully. "It's as if someone's determined to make me fail with Men's Weekly, but of course that's silly. Who would have the time, influence, or motivation to go to all that trouble? Why would they do it? It's all just bad timing for me, I guess." His words were fatalistic, but his thunderous glare at the trail in front said otherwise.
"I don't remember business being so difficult with Ian," Stanna mused aloud. Then, blushing, she added, "I don't mean to say he was better than you or anything. But it's weird that things are going wrong all of a sudden with him gone. Maybe there's something suspicious about that. Yesterday when he called--"
"He called you?" Jake's thunderous expression turned on her suddenly. As if to punctuate, a low rumble of thunder echoed across the hills.
"Well... yes." She eyed him warily.
"That will stop. It's entirely inappropriate for the former editor to be consulting with you still," he told her stiffly.
"And what you and I are doing is so proper and appropriate?" she bit back immediately, wondering why he'd donned the "boss" persona all of a sudden. It was strange hearing it while they held hands. She sang cavalierly, tauntingly, "I guess I'm just not an 'appropriate' kind of girl," and gave him a sweet smile.
"Did you have a special relationship with him, Stanna? An intimate one?" His grasp tightened painfully. His acid voice would have stung her if she weren't struck by the humor of it. Her and Ian. She imagined the man’s frail body and lined old face and dapper little distinguished-gentleman clothing. Ridiculous!
He caught her amused expression and his mask-like face relaxed slightly, as did his grip, but he still waited for her answer.
"Not 'special' the way you're implying, buddy. Unlike some people, he was harmless that way." She thought about Ian and what she’d tried to suggest to Jake concerning him. Namely, that Ian had the motivation and resources to mess with Men's Weekly. But it seemed so silly now that she held the image of weak, fired old Ian in her mind.
She decided not to mention her fleeting suspicion. The recent Men's Weekly difficulties was just bad luck and doubtless the result of Jake's controversial new angles. Some unstable schoolteacher probably found an issue of Men's Weekly under Junior's pillow, followed Jake home and painted his garage with correctly spelled profanity.
The air must be getting thin, Stanna thought. Her mind's imaginings had her vilifying poor old Ian and innocent schoolteachers.
He was tugging her to a stop and turned to face her. His broad chest and shoulders blocked her view of anything but him, he stood so close. "I apologize for suggesting anything about you and Ian," he stated formally.
"It’s okay. Humorous, really," she began.
He placed his finger on her lips to quiet her and continued. "But I think it's strange he still calls you. If it's to talk about the magazine, that's bad. That's what's known as a 'conflict of interest.' We don't know if he's ferreting for info to start his own competing magazine, or something worse."
Flippantly, she replied, "If you want to worry about someone starting a competing magazine, worry about me. I'd blow you out of the water."
He smiled at that, but nodded his head: maybe-possibly. "Just the same, it's a delicate situation. I have to ask that you keep magazine business confidential."
Stanna felt a twinge of guilt. Did he know she hadn't exactly been closed-mouthed on magazine business with Ian, and she'd been especially vocal in her disapproval of Jake? In the beginning it was because she'd still held out hope that somehow Ian might return as editor. But later she was just venting and trying to make an old, fired man feel better. He seemed to enjoy -- encouraged, really -- her slamming of Jake's leadership and ideas and plans.
Jake was making her feel sneaky and disloyal. And ashamed. Stanna frowned. All she was doing was trying to preserve her professional lifestyle and aspirations. She was entitled to protect herself, wasn't she? Ian was just a friendly former colleague, a mentor in absence, who probably called every day out of loneliness more than anything. Did she tell Jake that Ian called every day? She didn't think she had.
While she debated whether to tell him, she felt the first splatters of raindrops on her head. Surprised, for she had been so distracted by her internal musings that she'd forgotten they were simply standing on the trail, she looked at the sky above her. It was darkening with rain clouds. Looking for the sinking sun, she spotted a diffused glow from behind the hills now far beneath her. They were almost at the top of Sandpiper Peak.
"C'mon," he uttered and tugged her up the trail.
"Do you know where you're going?" she asked, looking around for a big tree or outcropping where they could take cover. There wasn't anything. They were at the top of the peak. "Maybe we should head back to that big oak tree a ways down the trail," she suggested, beginning to pant with the double-speed pace he again set.
He didn't even slow down. Miffed, she was about to dig in her heels when they rounded a bend and viewed what lay beyond the trail sloping down. A small valley.
Even the gray skies and her rain-blurred vision couldn't dim the beauty of the place. It was as if they'd crossed into another world. Lush grasses grew uncut and she thought she spotted a bobcat leaping through it. Dots of evergreen Chamise and Toyon plant varieties grew wild next to deep red, yellow, and purple wildflowers. Twisted, ancient-looking trees dotted the grassland with artistic irregularity, and a muddy mini-canyon cut a violent gash through a third of it. A quaint little wooden bridge spanned the nearer mini-crevasse, leading to the wonder of the meadow perched in a small soon-to-be-muddy clearing: a tiny gray-brown cottage from another century.
It was a single-roo
m frontier shack with what she thought at first was a bell-tower jutting out of one end of the roof. But on closer inspection she recognized the old-style chimney roof, a little pyramid perched above the stubby square of the chimney.
The house had a base of rough-hewn stones, but weathered gray wood made up the walls and door and roof. It was nearly small enough to be a large shed, or a garage. A white picket fence described a small circle in front of it. A protected patch of gardening?
It charmed her.
Jake headed directly toward it.
Then she did dig in her heels.
That just got her pulled along a few feet before Jake slowed his bull-run enough to notice she wasn't cooperating.
"Now what?" he asked, exasperated. He wiped rain from his forehead with a vehement arc of his arm. "Do you want to be carried over the threshold?"
"Think the people who live there now will mind the company?" she retorted, folding her arms across her chest.
He walked towards her, smiling slightly. "Oh no, they won't mind. They only live there between eight and nine o'clock Pacific Time on Tuesdays." He cocked his head, visibly enjoying her confusion.
"Care to explain?" she queried finally.
"Television. This hut, here," he waved a muscular arm at it, "is property of Paramount. They use it for filming." He grinned at her somewhat proudly. "Nobody's home."
"How did you know about it?" she asked him grudgingly as she began to walk quickly beside him. The rain was really beginning to pelt them. "And how do we get in," she added, peering at the door. Would it have an old-fashioned little latch on it? She couldn't see one. “And isn’t breaking in illegal?”
He ignored her last question. "I've been here before. Sandpiper Peak is the only hill around here that offers any challenge. No offense, but in Colorado we'd laugh at the idea of this bump being called a 'peak.' Pikes Peak: now that's a mountain."
"You're pretty athletic," she observed.
He shot a quick grin at her. "I've been at it a long time," he said modestly.
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