But in all honesty, it was the vile story about her which was soon to appear in Glitter Magazine which riled and hurt her the most. Casey had been able to get her hands on the rough draft of that spicy, crude article. They had later met with the publisher and the writer; they had argued the scandalous, vulgar slant to the story. They had threatened them with a lawsuit, all to no avail. Brandy had offered to grant them an interview, including all the pictures they needed, if they would cancel the article which was scheduled for release in only two more months. That generous offer had been a terrible mistake, for it had been misconstrued as a desperate attempt to conceal the truth of Laura McGavin’s fictitious story. Brandy had left their office in a near rage at such a gross misuse of their press. She deeply resented how that story would be widely circulated and innocently accepted as truth. The damage would be irreparable before the lawsuit could be written out. Such a malicious act! Such a misguided writer and cruel publisher! Somehow they must be stopped!
Until recently, Brandy had been so carefree, self-reliant, and happy. She had survived the battles to become a known writer. She had covered her loneliness by raising beautiful, intelligent horses. She had learned to bend with her demanding schedules and fame. She had made it on her own. She didn’t owe anyone, except Casey, anything. She had worked long and hard for her success and happiness—things now threatened by uncontrollable forces.
It seemed as if some ominous clouds had moved over her tawny head. No matter where she turned, a new problem jumped up to slap her in the face. Her talent was being tampered with; her name was being smirched; her peace-of-mind was being torn asunder; her life had been carelessly endangered; she was being annoyed by two odious men. If that weren’t enough trouble, now her very heart was being subjected to the whims and powerful allure of a bedeviling man she didn’t even know and might never see again. Damn these feelings of indecisiveness and vulnerability!
She feared and despised this sudden loss of control and her diminishing self-confidence. She resented the idea of pursuing a man who obviously wasn’t interested in her. Worst of all, she hated these feelings of weakness and dejection—both emotional and physical. She needed to get well and to return to those inviting, protective hills of Kentucky. No, she wanted more . . .
That afternoon, Brandy received a special delivery letter from Casey. The moment of truth had arrived sooner than anticipated or desired. She read the contents a second time, then placed a call to her agent in New York. The answering machine was on, allowing her sixty seconds to give her decisions and messages after the mechanical “beep.”
“Casey, Brandy. Accept Arrow terms. Make certain they list the scriptwriter’s name in bold lettering and subtly splice in my name where least noticeable. I have no desire to assist with the movie rewrites. It’s their baby if you agree to their terms. Be out soon.”
She inhaled deeply, then called again to finish her message before the recording halted again, speaking swiftly. “Doing fine. Work on Twilight going great, but slow. Try to halt that Glitter story by any means necessary or available. We might as well play dirty too! I’ll do Tom’s show in August. Valley revisions progressing. Deal for Pendulum super. Be in New York or at home in a week. Take care; you work too hard,” she ended on a lighter note, knowing Casey would read her melancholy mood like an open page, hoping the answering machine was still receiving.
She ended the call and tried to forget her previous decisions. Thank goodness she had someone like Casey to handle such things for her. Before she could slip into a pensive mood, there was a knock upon her door. After she called out permission to enter, a laboratory technician came in.
“If you’re ready, Miss Alexander, we’ll do those other tests now. It’ll take about two hours.”
“A wheelchair? I can walk,” she teased him.
“Hospital rules. Enjoy the ride,” the freckle-faced youth advised in a boyish tone.
Ross came to her room while she was having her “sweating process,” EEG, and EKG tests run. Realizing where she was, he sat down beside her bed to wait. His eyes touched on her briefcase. He grinned mischievously and picked it up, intrigued by a peek into her next novel and private life. He read her notes on the Valley of Fire, notes for a new novel by the famous Brandy Alexander. He could hardly trust his luck or his senses. In fact, he was surprised no one else had guessed her identity. After all, that lovely face and shapely body had graced many a television screen and magazine or newspaper article. He was perplexed by her desire to maintain her privacy. Evidently her modesty was phony, something she used to feign the innocent and softly seductive female.
He was irrationally offended by her secrecy and disdain. So, she was really here for research. Would any of them recognize themselves in this upcoming novel? He was anxious to learn more. He read her notes again, angered by the vivid description of her next hero. So, the sensuous romance writer was more interested in a wealthy playboy than in a doctor . . . He wondered if she planned to personally research those handwritten love scenes with the prototype for them. Childish spite filled Adam Ross. He was amused by the many problems which were roughly outlined in that long letter from her agent back East. Yet, he was envious of her success and popularity, the ease with which she earned a fortune and completely fooled people.
Obsessed with this tempting woman, he boldly searched her room. He knew the risk he was taking; but at that moment, he didn’t care. He grinned as he fingered the luxurious gowns in her closet, guessing the purpose for them: to ensnare the Romeo who had rescued her. Or—he chuckled aloud—was she plotting more than her next book, perhaps the enchantment of Reynolds, her new hero? How would Reynolds feel about a guinea pig role? How would he react to being romantically exposed and exploited in her Valley book? Did he even know who she was?
Adam left her room to continue his rounds but only after trying to return everything to its proper place. He didn’t want her to know he had gone through her things. He had already endangered his reputation and pride where Brandy was concerned. Once she was taught a lesson, he would dismiss her from his mind.
Ross had only gone a few feet when he encountered Lance on his way to visit Brandy. Ross glared at the huge bouquet of flowers in his powerful grip; he noted the playful smile which was tugging at the corners of Reynolds’s lips. Did she want him? Was she only using him? No matter, the path for his long-awaited spite lay right before his eyes! If it wasn’t for Reynolds, he would be recorded in her notes!
“Mr. Reynolds! What a surprise to see you again!” he stated as if totally flabbergasted by his presence there.
Lance’s brows lifted quizzically. “How is Miss Alexander?”
“Oh, she’s doing just fine. She’ll be released in a few days. I know she’s mighty anxious to get back to work, especially now that her research is finished. Sure was lucky to meet you,” he remarked with some definite meaning which was unclear.
“Really?” came his lazy reply, mistaking his implication.
“Tell me, how does it feel to be the real-life model for a literary hero? She’d never see me as a new Rhett Butler,” he muttered in feigned dejection, then turned to walk away.
“Exactly what does that mean?” Lance inquired, catching up with him in two, easy strides.
“Surely she’s told you who she really is and why she was out there! I mean, I assumed you were cooperating with her research,” he stammered effectively, faking embarrassment at his rival’s ignorance.
“What research? I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re talking about. You are referring to Kathy Alexander?”
That name told Ross all he needed to know, that and Lance’s behavior. “I have rounds. Forget what I said. I don’t meddle in the affairs of other people. I thought you knew the truth.”
“What I will forget is your reluctance to tell me what you’re talking about, Ross,” he stated in a tone which alerted Ross to his volatile f
orce and impatience.
Nervous and undecided, Ross fidgeted as if debating some vital issue of national security; yet, it was too late to back down now. “If you insist, Mr. Reynolds. But I would appreciate it if you don’t let on who told you about her. You can bet I’ve been treading lightly since I learned her identity! I’m not one to want to pick up the next bestseller and see myself exploited and exposed! I assumed you knew her,” he stated foolishly.
Lance came to full alert with those clues. “What are you jabbering about, man? Who is she? What research? How could she exploit me?” The mere sound of that word savagely attacking him.
“She’s the famous writer Brandy Alexander. You know, the one who writes all those juicy romances! Whew, the questions she’s asked about you and that night you brought her here! What an imagination! She’s had that young state patrolman in several times to fill in her gaps. She had him check out your bike, the style and such. She asked me hundreds of questions! She’s using those details in a book entitled Valley of Fire. Looks like you’ll appear as the mysterious, irresistible hero! I’d gladly trade places with you; that’s what I call real research . . .” he declared with a suggestive leer. “When she turns on her hypnotic charms, you won’t stand a chance of saying no to her! Damn, what a lucky fool you are! While I was checking her over, I grabbed a peek at her notes; there’s no doubt she’s describing you and your little romantic escapade.”
He secretly glanced up at the moody, darkened scowl on Lance’s face. “I don’t understand why she keeps her name and job a secret. Course it might make people nervous or mad if they know she’s only using them for research and ideas. She’s going to appear on the Tom Hadley Show in August to talk about this trip and book. I’ll be certain to catch it. Can you take it, a famous writer?”
Ross paused effectively before adding, “But I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes when Glitter finishes with her next month. She’s seething over that wicked exposé. She’s determined to halt it.”
Knowing he had scored many points and fearing to overdo this perilous trick, Ross quickly left the pensive and scowling Lance standing in the middle of the hall, totally ignorant of the effect of his last statements. Wanting to witness the possible results of his cunning ruse, Ross hesitated just around the corner.
Ross observed the striking figure before his envious eyes. He wished he possessed the natural flair for impeccable, suave presentation which this lusty man portrayed without even trying. He glared at the man dressed in sensual earth-tones: the sandalwood, pleated, tapered slacks; the soft brown, revere-collared shirt; the buff-colored, single-breasted sport coat; and the deep brown Cabretta sheepskin side-zip boots. Ross wondered which of Lance’s traits would surface to deal with this situation: bruised pride, vengeful wrath, or defensive desertion? Would Reynolds challenge and defend, attack and punish, ignore and tempt, or forgive and yield? Reynolds’s pride was the key.
Lance’s raven-black hair was casual and vital, ruffled from the wind and his Ferrari 308 GTS. Ross grinned satanically as he watched Lance angrily fling the fragrant flowers into a nearby trash container, then storm off down the hallway as he muttered curses to himself, something about not being able to trust any female.
“So much for you, my high and mighty Miss Alexander!” Ross sneered as he calmly strolled away, whistling jovially. On second thought, he retrieved the expensive flowers which Lance had discarded; no need to waste them, now that his competition had fled. He would unselfishly grant Brandy another chance to redeem herself, but only one more.
Chapter Four
The day came for Brandy’s release. She donned a lilac dress with simple lines, belted with a deep purple sash. She allowed her hair to fall freely around her shoulders in natural waves; its shorter sides and top tossed in carefree, artistic abandonment. At times she could almost pass for a tawny-haired gypsy.
Brandy bid farewell to Kay and several others. She was disheartened by Lance’s failure to show up again. She sadly concluded that Lance wasn’t interested in her or he had too many women after him. Her pride was stung deeply by his treatment. Candidly, he did have reasons to dislike and resent her.
Brandy returned to her hotel. She was pleased and surprised to discover several vases of flowers in her room, sent from the hotel and from friends. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the roses and studied the wild beauty of the waxy red Hawaiian passion flowers. She lifted the card from that arrangement and smiled as she read its message.
If there was ever a time when she needed to have dinner with a best friend, this was the night. She rang Nigel’s room. “Hello, stranger. It’s Brandy. Dinner sounds marvelous. How did you know I was here?”
“Casey phoned me when she heard I was doing a show out here. She suggested I look in on you. Said you were depressed. Now what does a beautiful, talented woman like you have to be depressed about?” he teased lightly. “Vegas no fun without me?”
“I’ll tell you over a prime rib and a glass of wine,” she parried.
“How about ten o’clock after the show?”
“How about if I tag along to see the show? I haven’t seen you perform in such a long time. Any new songs? I loved Roses at Midnight. Did you write it?” she chatted brightly, shoving her tension and memories aside for the time being.
“Did you write Love’s Cruel Arrows?” he mocked. Light laughter came over the phone. “I’ll pick you up about six. I only have the first show.”
“Marvelous, Nigel. See you then. Bye.”
Brandy fretted over her unforgettable encounter with Lance. If she had known of the trouble she caused him, she could have apologized.
Brandy selected one of her favorite gowns. The rusty tangerine was becoming with her green eyes, sun-kissed tan, and amber hair. Its fluffed top enhanced her bustline and small waist, while its semi-flared bottom gave a jaunty sway when she walked and flattered her hips. The spaghetti straps revealed just enough flesh to be subtly teasing without being daring, and showed off her silky, golden shoulders. She completed her compelling image with black patent evening sandals and a black beaded evening bag.
She placed a matching silk flower in her golden tresses and secured a gold open heart on a cable chain around her neck and gold heart studs in her pierced ears. She stepped back from the floor-length mirror to view the finished product. Not bad, she decided, then with a musical laugh added, Very nice indeed . . .
The door buzzed. How she dearly loved these rooms with a door bell. She quickly raced to open it wide. She smiled, then hugged Nigel Davis. He was a man with a golden voice and a gifted hand for writing music. They had been close friends for several years, having met in New York at a party.
Tonight he looked so fresh and attractive in his black and gray flecked silk jacket, white ruffled shirt, black bow tie, and silver-gray slacks. His brown hair was a mass of small curls which always did as they wished. His hazel eyes glimmered with inner contentment and bubbly excitement. She hoped the right girl would soon come along to share this rare delight of a man.
They left for his engagement at a hotel on the fabulous Las Vegas Strip. She relished each song he sang and each joke he told. She desperately needed this relaxing distraction and warmth. After the show, they slipped out to dinner, surprised he had made reservations for a dinner show at another hotel on the Strip.
“Checking out the competition, Nigel?” she teased, her eyes sparkling like expensive emeralds.
“A circus act? Not hardly,” he replied lightly. His face grew serious, as did his voice, “What’s wrong, Brandy? That smile hasn’t been real all night. This is Nigel, adopted brother, remember? Give,” he ordered with a merry twinkle in his eyes. It brought an easy smile to her face, an honest one.
“Still recuperating from that accident,” she said to excuse her somber mood. “It isn’t every day one meets with the kind of fate one writes about. Facing real death can be most terri
fying.”
“How did you manage to keep it out of the papers?”
Astonished, she said, “I haven’t given it much—” She halted in mid-sentence as her gaze touched upon a handsome man and a sultry female across the room. Nigel followed her wide-eyed gaze with its surfaced look of anguish. His brow knit in confusion. His eyes flickered from one table to the next, until it halted on her point of interest.
“You know Steven Winngate? Who’s with him? Ah, Camille Blanchard,” he declared knowingly, seemingly annoyed at her.
She traced Nigel’s line of vision. Confused, she inquired, “Are you talking about the couple near the corner, the man in the dark dinner jacket and the girl in the red gown?” Was Lance already taken?
He laughed at the jealousy written within her emerald eyes. “Weren’t you?” he countered, taking her cold hand and squeezing it affectionately. “I’ve told you all about Steven Winngate.”
“Yes, but I thought his name was Lance Reynolds.”
“He’s been known to use that alias for privacy, but that’s Steven Winngate, oil tycoon and multimillionaire, a totally self-made man. The female is Camille Blanchard. She’s a world famous high-fashion model and aspiring actress, to hear her tell it. She’s probably trying to convince him to finance her next commercial campaign.”
Brandy recognized both names. Now she knew why that female was familiar—her face had graced many a magazine cover and commercial! Her every movement revealed her model’s training: graceful, fluid, and meaningful. Her expression and behavior suggested possessiveness and familiarity with the man at her table.
No wonder he had found her dull and uninteresting; when compared to such a beauty and sophistication, she was just a plain Jane, a backward country girl.
As for Lance—no, Steven—she could easily accept his true identity. He exuded wealth, polish, and power. Yet, this knowledge was still mind-staggering and painful. The dinner jacket fit him like a cover of magnetic allure, an allure which pulled at her at any distance. Had manners or intrigue inspired his visits and flowers? Had he found her boring, not worth his time and attention? How could a man be so devastatingly handsome, so charming, and so captivating? Desire and anger washed over Brandy.
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