He parallel parked, climbed out of the car, and walked around to retrieve his two dates. He inhaled the odor of old grease and fried wontons as he let Madison out, then helped Chrissy from the back seat. She staggered forward, nearly falling, but the two of them managed to drag her inside the restaurant. People gawked as they took a table in a corner.
“Why can’t we go someplace nicer?” Madison whined, scowling at patrons and décor alike. She folded her arms over her small, pert breasts barely hidden by the thin material of her flapper style dress. “Like Benny Robert’s? I hear it’s the place to be seen. Everyone who’s anyone goes there.”
An elite Dallas club and hotbed of snobs and wannabes, Jonathon thought. “But this is where the interesting people are, baby,” he said instead. “The place with the culture and unapologetic faces.”
Unapologetic was right, they were getting everything from curious stares to downright menacing scowls. Chrissy giggled and slumped forward, scrunching up the paper tablecloth and knocking over the vase with a plastic flower in the center of the table. A server came over, giving them an almost accusatory look. Yeah, Jonathon had to agree, they stood out like sore thumbs with their formal attire, and chances were most recognized him from TV or magazines. Perhaps the man thought they were mocking the establishment, which he wasn’t. He genuinely preferred being out in everyday places that didn’t require social status or a dress code.
He ordered for the three of them—egg rolls, egg drop soup, Hunan beef, orange and sweet and sour chicken, along with waters. Chrissy wavered in her chair, Jonathon wanted to get her hydrated on something besides more alcohol. The way she looked now, she was a lost cause as far as his other plans went.
“Interesting?” Madison asked, picking up their previous conversation after the server left. “How is this smelly place interesting? Who knows what rating the health department gave it. We’ll have food poisoning, just wait.”
Jonathon hid his amusement behind a cough, while a group of women at a nearby table cast her frowns. Tattooed and rough around the edges, they had a gangbanger look. The last thing he needed was Madison’s loud voice starting a brawl.
“Tell me about your trip to Paris,” he said in distraction.
Her mood lightened considerably as she launched into the story. When their food arrived, she stuck her nose up at it, but Chrissy perked up enough to dive into her portion. She downed half a plate of egg rolls while her sister described all the designer labels the two of them got to wear on the French catwalk.
His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, noting a text from a former college girlfriend out in Hollywood he’d kept in touch with.
I got the most amazing news! A couple of producers want you in a reality show called Paradise. Got the call a few minutes ago, get in touch.
Before he could digest what he’d read, the worst possible thing happened. “I don’t feel well, Jonny,” Chrissy muttered.
He turned to her just as Madison squeaked out an “Oh no!”
Chrissy vomited her dinner all over the paper tablecloth.
Chapter 2
“A bow drill is my favorite way to start a fire in a survival situation when I don’t have a flint handy.” Phoebe glanced over her students’ faces and smiled, looking for anyone who might be confused, but didn’t want to speak up. She believed understanding her classes was important for anyone who enjoyed the outdoors. If lost, they’d be able to fend for themselves until help arrived. “You can make them with a simple stick, some dry tinder, and a length of sturdy line, leather, sinew, or even your own braided hair.”
The class looked on as she put together her bow drill then kneeled before the flat plane of wood she’d stripped of bark and nestled in dried grasses. She demonstrated the sawing motion needed to get a coal started. Students clustered closer, oohing and ahhing as she worked. Phoebe grinned, happy with their rapt attention and interest, despite the small group. Class size had been shrinking in the passing months. Phoebe worried what another year might bring. Wilderness guiding wasn’t nearly as lucrative as the sudden interest in survival training.
Sweat beaded on her top lip and her arm ached, but soon a tiny waft of smoke drifted up with the friction between the two wood pieces. She lowered herself and blew a soft breath over the coal, breathing life into the fire. Orange flames licked up, devouring the dried grass. Several students clapped as she sat back on her heels and wiped sweat off her forehead.
“It takes practice and muscle, but you’ll get the hang of it,” she said to her class. “Any questions?”
Several hands shot up. In the background, a new woman had joined them. The stranger stood apart from the others, watching closely. Phoebe waved her over, but the woman shook her head, returning her grin. After answering the class’s questions, she dismissed them for an hour long lunch. Afterward she walked over to greet the newcomer.
“Are you here for training?” Phoebe asked.
“Not exactly,” the woman said, flashing a huge smile. “I’m Shawna Jones, and I’d love a few minutes of your time if you have it.”
“Sure.” Phoebe glanced at her watch. “We’ll start class back up at one.”
She guided Shawna to the small cabin on the fifty wooded acres Phoebe owned. The place was Phoebe’s very own heaven on earth. She offered her guest a bottle of water. Shawna took it and gave her a nod of thanks before putting the bottle to her lips. Phoebe smelled a sales pitch coming, and she tried to guess what it might be for.
Shawna lowered the bottle. “I’ll get to the point, Phoebe. I’m with Moonrise East Productions—”
“Mom, my e-reader died.”
Shawna turned toward the young girl’s voice.
“I remembered the car charger for it, sweetie, look in my purse,” Phoebe told her daughter. Sarah gave Shawna a cursory look and walked back inside the cabin.
“Ten year olds,” Phoebe said as an apology for her daughter’s somewhat rude behavior. “She turns eleven next week.”
Shawna laughed. “No problem, I have a stepdaughter of my own. Sixteen. Just wait for puberty.”
Phoebe nodded. Yes, she’d seen the glimmer of coming puberty already in her little girl. She’d shot up four inches nearly overnight and had become stubbornly independent. What was happening to her precious baby? Phoebe sighed and turned back to her guest. “What were you saying?” she asked.
“I’m with Moonrise East Productions. We were recently brainstorming ideas for a new show that would enthrall American audiences. They’ve grown tired of the same ol’ same ol’ television scripts. Well, my partner Mark came up with something I think you’ll find intriguing.” Shawna took another sip of water as if in dramatic pause.
Phoebe lifted her eyebrows, at a loss what a television producer would want with her. “Me? Why would my opinion about a TV show matter?” Phoebe asked.
“Because you’ll be the star, of course.”
Phoebe blinked once, twice, three times. “Uh, what?”
“Now hear me out,” Shawna said. “It’s a survival series called Paradise. You’ll be on a tropical island for twenty-five days, using your wits to survive. It’s not the worst of locations, we’ve already scouted it out. You’ll have access to fresh water, and the weather will be mild. It’ll be a vacation for you to be honest. We wanted the perfect woman to make this show a success, and who better than the best trained survivalist on the West Coast? Probably all of the US.”
Phoebe’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “You want me on some TV show?”
“I mean we could have gone with Amy Fischer. She’s competent, and had her own reality series a few years back.” Shawna tapped a finger to her chin. “Can’t recall the name of it now. Which is the problem if you think about it. She sort of faded away. Seems to be the men who get all the attention in the survivalist arena, don’t you think?”
She leveled a serious brown gaze on Phoebe as Sarah strode by to plug up her e-reader in the car. It was the truth,
women were considered second best when it came to survival skills. Phoebe hated being underestimated solely because she had a set of ovaries instead of testicles. She also hated to be manipulated. She stared at the producer.
“We want a woman that’ll put any man we could’ve chosen to shame,” Shawna pressed on. “And, Phoebe, you are that woman.”
The flattery didn’t mean much to her, being the child of a popstar had left her dubious of flowery compliments. People said whatever they needed to get what they wanted. Those in show business seemed the worst of the lot. She looked away from the producer, focusing on the thicket of trees beyond. This was her world—towering redwoods, the smell of dirt, even fighting the swarms of mosquitoes in the evenings. This was what Phoebe knew and thrived on, and the idea of being on camera left a sour taste in her mouth.
“I don’t think I’m the person you want,” she said finally.
“Oh my God, Mom! You have to,” Sarah shouted behind her. “You’ll be on TV!”
Shawna didn’t appear fazed by Phoebe’s rejection, and shot Sarah a beaming conspiratorial smile. “I know this is out of the blue. I can’t blame you for being hesitant. And I know you prefer to be your own woman, I swear this offer didn’t stem from the fact you’re the child of pop royalty.”
Phoebe cringed, any mention of Cybil always had that affect. Not that she didn’t love Cybil like a dutiful daughter would, but she preferred not to be reminded of her own claim to fame if she chose it. She’d spent a lifetime running away from the limelight and saw no reason to go back now.
“I don’t think I’m your woman,” she repeated, hoping Shawna took the hint.
“But Mom.” Sarah stamped her foot, and Phoebe shot her a warning look. “Seriously,” her daughter grumbled then stomped back to the cabin, her pretty face twisted into a pout.
Shawna dug in her handbag and produced a business card. “Should you change your mind,” she said after Phoebe took it. “I’ll be in touch. It’s an island of the Maldives. We want to start filming in two months, during the dry season.”
The producer disappeared. With thirty minutes left for lunch Phoebe grabbed the sandwich she’d packed from the cooler, but found she didn’t have much of an appetite. Her entire adult life had been spent separating herself from her mother’s fame. She’d even considered legally changing her last name to something inconspicuous like “Smith.” But of course that would most likely backfire and she’d find herself in the tabloids. Sleazy journalists would speculate she was ashamed of Cybil’s shenanigans, which often landed the aging singer in the headlines.
Most recently her mother’s affair with her married, twenty-something year old personal trainer had been plastered everywhere. Nothing much Cybil did could surprise Phoebe these days. Getting older hadn’t quelled her need for attention, only driving it to even more extremes. Last time it’d been a polyamorous relationship with a drag queen and another woman. She wouldn’t judge her mother’s lifestyle choices, because her mother had never tried to force her or Sarah into the glitzy world of pop fame-dom. Though Cybil had been disappointed, especially when she’d discovered Phoebe’s tone deafness and utter lack of musical talent.
Phoebe couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, which suited her just fine as long as she had the wits to survive anything else life might throw at her. And she had her blessed daughter, all the magic she needed in her otherwise routine life.
Phoebe chewed her sandwich, doing her best to keep her mind off of Shawna’s proposal. It would be absurd to be on television. All the years it had taken to separate herself from Cybil’s fame would be moot. No doubt the show would focus on the musical royalty she was descended from. A great hook to be exploited, comparing her to her talented mother.
Still, how nice it would be to show the world how capable she was as a woman to make it through any trial the producers might throw at her. And she could, regardless of where they put her. She couldn’t stop the little thrill that shot through her with the idea. How long had it been since she’d really been challenged? Her forests were as familiar as the back of her hand now.
Not to mention her class attendance was waning, thanks to another survivalist moving into the area. A huge, muscled man named Murphy; six foot four, with the attitude of a bear. People seemed to love him, and felt he was a better teacher than a petite woman only five foot four.
Her classes and wilderness treks paid her bills, and she had payments left on her chunk of land. If she couldn’t keep up the mortgages on both it and her house outside the neighboring town, she and her daughter would either end up homeless or she’d have to borrow money from Cybil. The idea made her shudder. While her mother wouldn’t mind, Phoebe would. Especially if she had to get a nine-to-five job, which nipped at her ego.
She let out a huge breath and plopped down on the top of the cooler, using it as a bench as she swallowed water, trying to wash the dry turkey sandwich down. TV notoriety would pump up her class attendance. If nothing else, over the years she’d learned how to work the spotlight from her mother. But it would be her own fame, not borrowed from someone else.
Then again, she didn’t like the idea of thrusting her impressionable preteen into the spotlight. The back and forth in her mind played out like a tennis match until she groaned in frustration.
Students trickled in as she finished the bottle of water. The unseasonably warm day had her sweating already. Class ran until four, and she had a field trip left to do to show edible and medicinal plants of the northern California forest. One of her favorite things, she’d studied up on the subject, learning about the plants on different continents. Originally she’d gone to college to become a biologist. If stranded pretty much any place, she’d know what to eat, and what might help her stave off an infection if wounded.
She stood and stretched her tight muscles then rejoined her class.
The day ran long, thanks to many questions from her students, not that Phoebe minded. Exhaustion left her with a mild headache after she got home. She heated leftovers in the microwave then hit her shower. After she and Sarah ate, Phoebe grabbed a beer from the fridge and walked back down the hall. Sarah had already retreated to her bedroom, where she spent most of her free time glued to her laptop.
Phoebe poked her head into her daughter’s room. “Homework,” she said. “Let’s see it.”
Despite it being a Saturday, Phoebe wanted to make sure Sarah didn’t shun her studies over more fun things to do. Like ogling a teenie bopper rocker whose squeaky voice cracked as he sang on the radio in Sarah’s room.
Sarah hopped up and dug a textbook and several worksheets out of her backpack. She handed them to Phoebe. “I have my math done, I just have to write a book report.” Sarah loved math, but not so much reading and English class.
“Make sure it’s done by tomorrow afternoon.”
She kissed the top of her daughter’s head. We’ll be eye to eye soon, Phoebe thought. Then, God willing, she’d grow tall like Cybil. Or tall like Sarah’s father, who Sarah so closely resembled it made Phoebe ache with regret at times. Regret that perhaps she should’ve told him long, long ago about Sarah. But what if he doesn’t want her? The terror of putting her daughter through what she, herself, had been through always kept her from seeking the man out. So she avoided Sarah’s questions about him, did her best to redirect her curiosity, though deep down she felt the wrongness of denying her another parent. The genetic half giving her unique, startling eyes, and charm not even Cybil could pull off.
And the passing years only made it harder and harder to approach a man she’d had a college tryst with. Especially a man as infamous as Sarah’s father. Every time Phoebe turned on the television recently it seemed he’d found himself in one compromising situation or another.
Sarah rejoined her laptop on her bright pink and yellow comforter. Phoebe gave her a stern look. “You better finish the book for the report. I don’t want you skimming through it, that’s cheating. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is a great story.”
“I know. Ms. Unger said it’s her favorite book. I promised her I’d finish it. I’m on the last chapter.”
Phoebe grinned, knowing Sarah would do her best not to disappoint her favorite teacher. Ms. Unger was the only teacher that had ever gotten Sarah excited about reading anything but her math books.
“Well, you have an hour of internet—that’s it tonight. Okay, sweetie?”
“Fine,” her daughter mumbled.
Phoebe had done her best to curb Sarah’s internet time, and had educated her on the dangers of meeting strangers online. Regardless, she felt she’d lost a part of her kid to the wonders of the World Wide Web. She left the bedroom door open a crack, and walked back to the living room. She sat on the sofa and stretched her legs out onto the coffee table, letting out a big sigh.
Phoebe took a sip of the beer as a news broadcast had its segment “What’s New in Gossip”. Phoebe pursed her lips as a photo popped up of a man seated between two women, one who appeared she’d gotten sick all over a restaurant table.
“Playboy billionaire Jonathon Breck had his hands full recently,” a newscaster announced with a huge, too-white smile, “when one of his drunken dates got sick at a small Dallas restaurant. One of the identical twin supermodels he’s rumored to be dating.”
Phoebe frowned. Sarah’s laughter drifted from the bedroom as Phoebe stared at the still-shot of Jonathon’s shocked face. His gray eyes were shining with mischief, and his dark hair was tousled in just the right way. Phoebe blinked with the familiar but misplaced tug in her heart she always felt when she saw Jonathon in the news. Or when I look at my daughter…
“Recently,” the reporter continued, “Jonathon was purported to be offered his own television show—”
Phoebe changed the channel. The last thing a playboy like Jonathon needed was his own television show to stroke his ego. Most likely one of those God-awful reality dating series where actresses made fools of themselves solely for ratings. She definitely wouldn’t be caught dead doing the same.
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