River Road

by JoAnn Ross

  "So, who is this Julia Summers?"

  "Obviously you've been spending too much time looking at Wanted posters. She's the hottest thing on the tube these days. Back when Suzanne Bouchand and I were passing a good time together, before Suzanne got all carried away and started thinkin' about marriage, she used to make me watch it every Friday night with her."

  Nate held out a glossy publicity photo of a modern-day Amazon lying in the surf wearing little more than two postage stamps and a Band-Aid. Her hair was a tawny red mane around shoulders that gleamed with glistening drops of sea spray and oil. Her glossy, kiss-me-big-boy lips were parted; her eyes, which were so green they had to be contacts, were darkly lined to emphasize their catlike tilt.

  She had an old Hollywood sex appeal, like Rita Hayworth's Gilda who'd so sorely tempted poor old Glenn Ford. She also had bimbo written all over her.

  "She looks like trouble." Only for family or country would Finn even consider spending the next two weeks with someone whose bra size was undoubtedly higher than her I.Q.

  "Lorelei says she saw on Entertainment Tonight that Julia Summers is going to be the new Bond Girl."

  "Well, shit, that impresses the hell out of me." She'd be perfect, he secretly allowed.

  Ursula Andress had been the quintessential Bond Girl, the first of those beautiful women with the big breasts and double entendre names that were as integral to the stories as all the guns and gadgets. The actresses who'd followed had come close, though the more recent girls tended to be intelligent and athletic, as likely to exchange clever banter and engage in one-upmanship as they were to swoon in Bond's arms. While these women were definitely appealing, Finn took it as proof that political correctness had managed to get its tentacles even into the last true bastion of testosterone-driven fantasy.

  "It's only fourteen days, cher," Nate coaxed. "If you won't do it for me, how 'bout doin' it for the little kids of Blue Bayou?"

  "Jesus, you're shameless."

  Nate grinned. "I'm a politician."

  "So, how serious is everyone taking this so-called threat?"

  "The producer seemed concerned enough, but I got the impression he was more worried about some crazy fan disrupting shooting before they finished the season finale."

  "I suppose I could call the L.A. cops and get their take on things."

  Nate shook his head. "Won't help, since she refused to bring the cops into it."

  "Why?"

  "Beats me. Maybe she's worried about the press getting hold of the story and blowing it out of proportion."

  "If that's the case, why the hell is she agreeing to police protection while she's here?"

  "I got the impression she's still not that eager about the idea, but since she refused to let the private guy they hired in L.A. come with her to Louisiana, we were a last-minute compromise."

  "Terrific." An uncooperative Hollywood type was all he needed right now. Still, it wasn't as if he had a helluva lot to do until he returned to D.C.

  Fourteen days. A guy could probably survive anything for fourteen days. Except fishing.

  "When are they due to show up?"

  "They're arriving in New Orleans the day after tomorrow, then coming down here by limo. They booked all the rooms at The Plantation Inn and I'll be throwing them a little welcome cocktail party. They'll begin shooting a couple days later out at Beau Soleil."

  "If they bring out the drugs, I'm going to have to bust them," Finn warned.

  Nate sighed. "I'd expect nothing less. Which is why I've already warned them, that Blue Bayou has a zero-tolerance policy." He paused, eyeing his brother with a suspicious caution.

  "What now?" Finn asked.

  "I promised the director you'd meet their plane."

  "That was ballsy. What would you have done if I'd turned you down?"

  His brother shrugged. "Never happen. If there's one constant in life, it's the fact that I can always count on my big brother to come through for me." His expression sobered. "I really do owe you one, Finn."

  "Believe me, Nate, I intend to collect."

  Finn shook his head as he checked out the photo again. If the actress fell into the bayou, at least he wouldn't have to worry about rescuing her from drowning. Not with the set of water wings she'd managed to stuff into that teensy-weensy gold bikini.

  Chapter 7

  As the airliner made its approach into New Orleans, Julia couldn't decide whether she was looking at bits of land surrounded by water, or water dotted with hundreds of tiny little islands.

  She turned to Charles, who was seated across the aisle.

  "Please tell me that you didn't hire the Incredible Hulk's Louisiana cousin."

  "Large is good. It's intimidating. Keeps the crazies from trying anything in the first place."

  "If a stalker had tried to get to me, I would have been on my own. I've seen glaciers on the Nature Channel move faster than that guy."

  "I'm sure the Blue Bayou deputy will be more to your liking," he said, his tone letting her know he was still less than pleased with her demand to leave the L.A. bodyguard behind.

  Julia wasn't so sure about that. Using voice mail to monitor her calls, she'd received three messages from the cop before leaving for the airport.

  "We're probably just trading the human blimp for Barney Fife," she muttered.

  Granted, he hadn't sounded much like Mayberry's inept deputy. His voice had been deep and gruff, his instruction that she call him back terse. He'd also sounded increasingly frustrated with the situation. Well, that made two of them.

  "Callahan assured me he's just what we're looking for. Besides, it's a sensible solution. A local cop is bound to spot any strangers showing up on the set who don't belong there."

  Julia allowed it made a bit of sense, and reminded herself that it was only two weeks. She could probably survive anyone for two weeks.

  She changed her mind the moment she entered the terminal. It wasn't his height that gave him away. Nor his body, which while even more substantial than the Miami Vice wannabe, appeared to have not an ounce of excess flesh on it. His black hair was cut military short, another giveaway, and certainly too short for her personal taste.

  But it was his alert ice blue eyes, which somehow managed to scan the terminal while not appearing to move, that screamed out Cop. With a capital C. This was no Barney Fife. And if he was a small town deputy, she'd eat her Emmy.

  Damn. Though Julia understood, on an intellectual level, that the majority of police put their lives on the line on a daily basis to protect citizens, and she certainly appreciated their efforts on her behalf, she'd spent too many of her formative years watching cops drag her counterculture parents, Freedom and Peace, off to jail in paddy wagons to be comfortable around them. She'd even been arrested herself once, though the charges were dropped after she'd spent a night in jail.

  "You didn't tell me Kendall brought in the FBI," she murmured to Randy.

  "He didn't."

  "Then you want to tell me who else would be wearing a suit and tie in this heat?"

  The New Orleans humidity had hit like a steamy fist the instant she'd entered the jetway. Amazingly, the man's white shirt didn't appear to have a solitary wrinkle. The full Windsor knot of his dark blue tie was precisely centered beneath his starched collar.

  Randy followed her gaze. "He certainly does stand out. But what makes you think he's your bodyguard? Perhaps he's picking up a prisoner. Or his wife."

  "He doesn't have a wife."

  "How would you know that?"

  "Just call it a hunch." Surely a man with a loving woman in his life wouldn't look so hard. A man with a family—wife, kids, and a mutt who'd dig holes in the lawn and fetch sticks-—wouldn't appear so unrelentingly rigid.

  Definitely FBI, Julia decided as he squared his broad shoulders and began walking toward them.

  "Welcome to Blue Bayou, Mr. Hogan," he greeted Randy. "I admire your work." He held out a huge bear paw of a hand. His nails were neatly trimmed, not manicured,
but squared to precision that suggested a controlling nature. "I'm Finn Callahan. Nate apologizes for not coming to the airport to welcome you himself, but something came up."

  "Nothing vital, I hope." Charles's brow furrowed at the idea that something might disrupt their shooting schedule.

  "Just a little dispute over some traps," Finn assured him, then turned to Julia. "Ms. Summers. If you'll come with me, we'll get your bags."

  She gave him a sweet, utterly false smile. "How lovely of you to offer. But that won't be necessary, Special Agent Callahan."

  Those killer blue eyes hardened and his dark head dipped in a slight nod. "Good guess."

  "Oh, it wasn't that difficult," she said with a careless shrug. There was no way she'd let him know that her stomach had taken off on a roller coaster the moment she'd spotted him. "You're obviously not a local cop, and since I'm neither visiting royalty nor a member of the presidential family, that rules out Secret Service. Which leaves FBI."

  And there was no way she could spend the next two weeks in close proximity with this man. "I'm terribly sorry about wasting your time by bringing you out here today, but I won't be needing your services."

  "Dammit, Julia," Randy complained. "You can't refuse a bodyguard."

  "I don't know why not." She flicked her tawny hair over her shoulder. "We are, after all, talking about my body."

  Finn, who'd so far managed to keep his damn eyes out of trouble, couldn't quite resist this challenge to check out the body in question. Having rented a tape of last season's show last night—just to check out the cast of players he was going to be stuck with for the next two weeks—he'd admittedly been surprised by the woman now simply dressed in a waist-skimming white T-shirt and low-slung jeans.

  That bikini picture, along with the over-the-top bad girl character she played and the news she was going to be the next Bond Girl, had given the impression that she was some larger than life sex goddess.

  Even though he, more than most, knew appearances were deceiving—Lawson was Redford handsome, with a deceptively easygoing outward manner that had allowed him to lure the girls in the first place—Finn was having trouble picturing this slender woman as the voluptuous seductress he'd watched giving her pool guy the ride of his life in the shallow end.

  The corporate honcho, Kendall, weighed in.

  "It may be your body, but it's not your choice. Your contract with Atlantic Pharmaceuticals forbids any behavior that might jeopardize your ability to perform."

  "That clause refers to off-the-set behavior," she argued. "It was only put in there by the insurance company lawyers to keep me from breaking my neck skiing or skydiving."

  "Since the parameters aren't spelled out, the wording encompasses all dangerous behavior," he countered. "I've no doubt that the legal department would consider refusing protection after receiving threatening notes an unsatisfactory risk."

  Finn had gotten her unlisted number from the director last night. Frustrated when all he'd gotten was her answering machine, he'd left his number so she could fill in the huge gaps Kendall had left out. When she hadn't bothered to return his calls, he'd spent the past eighteen hours getting more and more pissed. This conversation did nothing to improve his mood.

  "If you don't want him, Julia, can I have him?"

  When the Barbie doll blonde he recognized from the show's credits as Felissa Templeton put a French manicured talon on his arm and offered him a come-hither-big-boy smile, Finn decided Nate was going to owe him big time for this one.

  They were beginning to draw attention. He turned to the others, who were watching the little battle of wills with undisguised interest.

  "The limo's waiting to take you all on to Blue Bayou. Why don't you go ahead, and Ms. Summers and I will catch up with you at the inn."

  It was not a suggestion, but an order. One which not a single person questioned.

  "That's very good," Julia murmured as they headed off like a herd of sheep. "You didn't even have to pull out your gun."

  "I tend to save my gun for the bad guys. Along with the bright lights and rubber hoses."

  She folded her arms, drawing his attention back to those breasts, which while not as full as they appeared on TV, were still pretty fine. "That isn't terribly reassuring, since I suspect you consider the entire population to be bad guys."

  "Potential bad guys," he corrected as he took hold of her elbow and without utilizing force, began moving her forward. "And for the record, I was playing sandlot ball with my brothers when the Feds busted your parents. Which means there's no way I could have been involved."

  While he may be on the SAC's shit list and in OPR's sights, Finn still had friends at the Bureau, who'd stayed late and pulled her hippie parents' thick FBI jackets.

  "You've obviously been reading old files. But that doesn't mean you have the slightest idea what really happened back then."

  "Our situations may have been different, Ms. Summers, but I do happen to know firsthand how it feels to be a kid and have your entire world pulled out from under you."

  What in hell had him telling her that? He'd been sixteen years old when Jake Callahan, Blue Bayou's sheriff, had heroically taken a bullet to save another man's life. His dad's death still hurt; Finn figured it always would.

  A very strong part of him just wanted to let the woman have her own way. A stronger part, the sense of personal responsibility he'd learned from his father, knew that there was no way he was going to let her walk away with her life potentially in danger.

  "Look." He reined in his frustration that she wasn't going along with the program. "It's obvious that we've got a problem here."

  She tossed up her chin. A chin which, now that he was seeing it up close, was a bit too stubborn for classical beauty. "My only problem is that too many people seem to believe that just because I'm good at taking direction, I'll also take orders." A woven silver ring gleamed as she skimmed a slender hand through a wild riot of hair that looked as if she'd just gotten out of bed after a night of hot sex.

  Finn told himself not to go there. 007 would know how to settle this; he'd toss off some sexy, witty line that would immediately charm the lace panties right off her. Or, even better, he'd just shut her up by hauling her against him and kissing her silly.

  Finn momentarily wondered if those lush lips tasted as good as they looked, then ruthlessly shoved the forbidden idea back into a dark corner of his brain.

  "I'm not real wild about our situation, either. But my brother's mayor of Blue Bayou and it just might hurt tourism if some nutcase decides to kill you while you're in town, which wouldn't bode real well for his reelection chances. So why don't we just lay our cards on

  the table and move on. I'll agree not to consider you an anarchist if you stop thinking of me as a storm trooper."

  "I'm certainly no anarchist. And neither are my parents."

  She did not acknowledge any willingness not to think of him as a storm trooper. The woman was really beginning to piss him off. Here he'd been willing to compromise, and she was still arguing. And, dammit, now she was marching away again.

  "We obviously have different definitions." He fell into step beside her. "In my book, anyone who threatens to blow up a nuclear power plant isn't exactly into law and order."

  "Did it ever occur to you that your so-called 'book' may be as fictional as my TV show? Besides, they were acquitted."

  "Guilty people have been known to get acquitted."

  Too damn often, to Finn's way of thinking. Unable to deny the strength of evidence against their client, which included two naked women locked in a dungeon in his basement, Lawson's damn dream team was now trying to ensure he'd end up in some cozy mental ward instead of the prison cell where he belonged.

  "And sometimes innocent people are falsely arrested by overeager cops and prosecuted by ambitious politicians."

  Finn rubbed at the boulder-size knot of tension at the nape of his neck. "Sort of like you were, when you were picked up for starting that riot in Sac
ramento last year?"

  "It was hardly a riot, I'd merely joined a picket line of nurses demonstrating against losing more and more of their responsibilities to unlicensed hospital employees. It certainly wasn't our fault when some thugs hired by the other side started physically harassing us."

  "You're the one who began the riot by wacking one of those so-called thugs with your protest sign."

  "He knocked down a pregnant woman." She scowled at the memory. "After that, I'll admit things got a bit out of hand, but the case would have blown over if some overly ambitious district attorney hadn't been running for Congress on a law and order platform."

  The newspaper articles he'd found on an Internet search stated the prosecutor had lost his election chances the moment the pictures of Julia Summers being loaded into a paddy wagon, along with a clutch of scrub-clad nurses—one who looked about to give birth to a ten pound basketball at any moment—showed up on the nightly news of every TV station in the state.

  "We're not going to get anywhere arguing the United States judicial system," he tried to reason with her yet again.

  Which was a joke. How the hell did you begin to reason with an actress who'd grown up on a hippie California dope farm, with parents who'd been too busy protesting the system and throwing red paint on army recruiters to ever get around to tying the knot like respectable people? And she appeared to be following in their protesting footsteps.

  "The point I was trying to make was that I joined the FBI because I wanted to uphold the law. Not abuse it. But whether you believe that or not, given that clause in your contract, it appears you're stuck with a bodyguard until this production wraps up.

  "As it happens, Blue Bayou's sheriff's department is currently short-handed, so you can either take your chances with some Rent-a-Cop, or put up with me. Now, since I'm a straight-talking kind of guy, I'm going to admit that I'm not real wild about the deal either, since my lifetime goal was never to baby-sit some spoiled, argumentative Hollywood prima donna who never met a wacked-out cause she couldn't embrace."