by Lori Wilde
Somewhere along the way, however, his attention shifted from respecting Charlee’s interrogation skills to admiring the way her faded jeans curved tight over her perfect butt.
Maybe it was the desert heat, maybe it was lack of sleep and food, maybe it was sheer desire, but without warning, Mason was lost in a very sexy vision of his own and it startled him. He wasn’t driven by sexual impulse. At least not usually. But something about tough, irreverent Charlee Champagne tapped into his baser instincts and made him want to throw back his head and howl with lust like a lonesome desert wolf.
What in the hell was the matter with him? Why, after twenty-seven years, had his libido chosen this particular moment to go haywire?
But even more disturbing than his physical desire for her were the other, more subtle feelings she roused in him. Affection. Tenderness. Happiness.
Dear God, he realized with a jolt. He was happier when he was around her. Happier than he’d been in years. Even when they argued, even when things went haywire, even when she was so stubborn he wanted to wring her sweet neck, he was happy.
Stunned, he could only gaze at her in wonderment. Surely he was mistaken. It had to be something else.
“Pepsi tastes real good,” Waylon said. “Ain’t had a soda pop in close to five years. The stuff costs too much.”
“The older couple,” Charlee gently nudged him back on topic. “And Elvis?”
“Oh, yeah. Where was I?”
“Elvis took them out of the camper.”
“Yeah and the lady was saying he better untie them or he’d be sorry and you could tell Elvis wasn’t about to untie her ‘cause she looked like she was going to put her foot to his backside real hard. Feisty she was.”
Mason wanted to yell at the old man to “get on with it” even though he wasn’t in the mood to dodge more tobacco juice. In his normal life, he was a take-charge guy, accustomed to maintaining a tight rein over both his job and his body, but out here, tempted by Charlee’s unexpected appeal, away from the defining manners and mores of his world, he was clearly a guppy on parched soil gasping for oxygen and he hated feeling out of control.
But Charlee was running the show and she merely nodded patiently at Waylon. “Go on.”
“The lady and Elvis got into a shouting match and when Elvis wasn’t looking, the older man got loose from his ropes, sneaked up on him, and cracked Elvis on the head with one of those big Igloo thermoses from the back of the camper. Elvis went down like a sack of sand.”
Way to go, Gramps! Mason mentally cheered.
Charlee winced. “That must have hurt. What then?”
“Well, sir, I mean, ma’am…the older man untied the woman and then they hopped into the camper. They spotted me as they were driving off and they stopped and asked me if I needed a ride. Said they was on their way to L.A. Hell, I ain’t got any use for that city. Left there in nineteen and eight-one when my ex-wife kicked me out and I ain’t regretted it for a second. I told that nice couple thanks, but no thanks.”
“What happened with Elvis?” she asked.
“Well, not long after the couple left, Elvis came to, got on his cell phone, and called somebody. I guess it was about an hour later, though it might have been longer, this black limousine pulls up and guess who gets out?”
“Who?”
“Go on, guess.”
Charlee shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Take a guess.”
“Marilyn Monroe,” Mason spouted and got to his feet.
Waylon frowned at him. “Don’t be dense. Marilyn Monroe is dead.”
“So is Elvis.”
Waylon needed a minute to process that before resuming his dialogue. “Anyway, one of them old-time western movie stars gets out of the limo. I can’t remember his name but I know his face.”
“John Wayne?”
Charlee glared at Mason. What was she getting testy about? She was the one who had sacked the old guy and now she was acting like they were best buds. “Don’t pay him any mind. He’s from a big city and doesn’t know any better.”
“No, not John Wayne,” Waylon said, a waspish note in his voice. “You think I don’t know the Duke?”
“Okay, if it wasn’t John Wayne, who was it then?” Mason asked.
The old coot had spent way too many years baking his brains in the Arizona sun searching for some nonexistent gold mine. He didn’t know if they could trust a single word the guy said.
Waylon snapped his grizzled fingers three times, trying to jog his memory. “He was in that movie with Walter Brennan. He played a gunslinger.”
“Oh, that narrows it down,” Mason said.
Charlee speared him with a do-you-mind expression. Actually, he did mind. He was hungry and hot and horny beyond all common sense. He needed a meal, a bath, and a bed. But mostly, he needed to find his grandfather and get the hell back home where he belonged before he did something irrevocably stupid like have crazed monkey sex with Charlee and ruin his family’s best-laid plans for his future.
“It’s okay, Waylon,” she said. “You don’t have to remember the guy’s name. It’s not important.”
“Give me a minute, I know I can think of it.”
“Let’s just say some famous movie star showed up in a limousine to pick up Elvis and then they drove away together. Is that how it happened?”
Waylon nodded his shaggy, unwashed head. “Yep. That’s it exactly.”
“You know.” Mason glanced at his watch and tapped his foot impatiently. “Now we know our grandparents have eluded Elwood and are on their way to L.A., we should get back on the road. Let’s roll.”
Forward motion. He had to regain control. Move things along. He’d allowed Charlee free rein but now it was time he took charge. If he didn’t…Helplessly, Mason found his gaze drawn back to Charlee’s curvy rump.
Forget distractions. He had a goal. Find Gramps. Nothing else mattered.
Determined, Mason started for the car without even waiting to see if Charlee was going to follow.
CHAPTER 8
Nowhere Junction Next Exit. Last Chance for Food And Gas Next One Hundred Miles.
Nowhere Junction. Now that was truth in advertising. Mason figured the only place more isolated than here was the dead center of Antarctica.
“We gotta stop,” Charlee said as she blew past the sign at a good ninety miles an hour. “My stomach is about to eat a hole through the bottom of my feet and my bladder’s threatening to explode.”
Mason gripped the armrest with both hands and clenched his teeth. He shouldn’t have let her behind the wheel again after they left the abandoned movie studio lot, but she’d had the keys in her pocket and she’d simply slid into the driver’s seat without asking if he wanted to drive. He was conflicted about that on so many levels.
On the one hand he did hate driving without a license. Breaking laws, even small ones, went against everything he stood for. On the other hand, she drove like a banshee with a firecracker clenched between her teeth. But when he’d outrun the Malibu, the capricious thrill blasting through him unnerved Mason so deeply he had insisted she drive.
He didn’t like unplanned emotions. He was a cool, calculating guy, known in business for his unruffled aplomb. Faced with the evidence he could get just as embroiled in a car chase as some joyriding teenager had been a startling revelation to say the least. He thought he’d outgrown that irresponsible wildness after Kip’s death.
But now, because of Charlee, he found himself longing for freedom. She made him want to break with tradition. She made him want to stand up to his folks and tell them he was tired of living the life they’d chiseled for him. Dammit, but she made him want to have fun.
“Ah hell,” Mason muttered when he spotted the giant fiberglass hamburger perched atop a square little diner located next to a truck stop.
He was irritated with himself for his lack of self-control and annoyed with her for making him want to embrace that recklessness. His fickleness put him in a bad mood.
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The pungent aroma of diesel fumes mixed with the smell of lard long past its prime filled the air. And all the vehicles in the parking lot were either pickup trucks or eighteen-wheelers.
“What?”
“This is the last food for one hundred miles? Deep-fried grease?”
“You were expecting maybe the Russian Tearoom?”
“I was hopeful to find something with fresh vegetables.”
“This is the desert, Gentry.” Charlee pulled into the parking lot.
“You can’t park here.”
“Why not?” She blinked at him.
“It’s in the direct sun.”
“Everything in Arizona is in the direct sun.”
“Park under the shade cast by that giant hamburger.” He pointed.
“Sheesh, Gentry, sometimes you can be a real pain in the butt. Anybody ever tell you that?” Charlee complained but backed up the Bentley and moved it under the shade of the hamburger.
Actually no one had ever spoken to him so frankly and he appreciated her for it. She deflated his ego with one prick of her sharp observations and unstuffed his stuffiness with her down-to-earth common sense. Mason unclenched his jaw. Maybe he was acting too persnickety. Lighten up.
“Thank you for moving the car,” he said contritely.
Charlee seemed surprised by his apology. “You’re welcome.”
The wind gusted, sandblasting them with red Arizona topsoil as they got out of the car and entered the diner Men in dusty jeans, boots, and cowboy hats sat on stainless-steel stools at the front counter. A fry cook in a dirty white apron doubling as a waiter leaned against the counter, a spatula gripped in one hammy hand. A country and western song twanged from the jukebox in the corner.
Every eye in the room turned to give them the once-over as the door closed behind them. The locals sent Charlee an appreciative stare, sizing her up as one of their own.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” she whispered, leaning in so close he caught a whiff of her unique scent. “Be right back.”
Charlee took off for the ladies’ room. The men’s gazes narrowed on Mason and classified him for what he was—rich, well heeled, and as out of place as Shaquille O’Neal at a midget wrestling match.
Ignoring them, he picked out a red plastic booth in front of the big picture window. He wanted to sit where he could keep an eye on Matilda. He noticed the men had spun around on their stools and were gawking at the Bentley.
A few minutes later Charlee returned and slid across from him, the chipped Formica tabletop sandwiched between them. She’d taken her braids down and her dark hair spread across her shoulders in a cascade of curls. She plunked her hat on the seat beside her.
He stared, dumbfounded. She was bewitchingly beautiful and he couldn’t stop eyeballing her.
She flicked a long dark corkscrew of hair off her shoulder in a gesture so feminine he wondered if she was subconsciously flirting with him. He’d read somewhere when women were interested in a man they fiddled with their hair. Some kind of primal mating call.
“What?” She rubbed at her cheeks. “Have I got something on my face?”
“No, no.” Mason forced himself to look away.
The fry cook wandered over and thrust two grease-stained menus at them. “What’ll ya have to drink?”
“Coffee,” Charlee said.
“Water. Lots of ice.” Mason opened the menu.
The fry cook/waiter grunted and went after their beverages.
“Gotta have some Java,” Charlee confessed and suppressed a yawn. “I’m having trouble staying awake after not getting any sleep last night.”
“Now you tell me. I should have driven.”
She shrugged. “I like driving the Bentley.” She consulted the menu. “I think I’m going to have the cheeseburger basket. What about you?”
Mason searched the list of options looking for anything remotely healthy, finally admitted defeat, followed suit and ordered the cheeseburger basket when the fry cook arrived to deliver their drinks.
Charlee stretched out her feet and her boots collided with his shin. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled and jerked her legs away.
But the damage was done. The contact, even through the dual barrier of her boots and his pants leg, launched a rocket of desire straight through him.
Restlessly, she shook a package of Sweet ‘n Low into her coffee. “So,” she said after taking a long sip of what looked as if it could have passed for forty-weight motor oil. “Do you have any idea why our grandparents are going to L.A.?”
Mason shook his head. “No. Only thing I can think of is our family owns controlling interest in an accounting firm in Hollywood. But why Gramps would go there I have no idea. He’s been retired for two years.”
“That’s the same accounting firm that’s responsible for counting the Oscar votes.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
Charlee gave him a smug smile. “I’m a private investigator, remember.”
“You ran a profile on me.”
She shrugged. “I had to make sure you were who you said you were. A girl’s gotta protect herself.”
Mason smiled. Smart and pretty. A deadly recipe. He was going to have to watch out for this one or end up regretting their trip through the desert.
And he never wanted to regret having known her.
“Okay,” she said, resting her elbows on the table and propping her chin in her hands. “Let’s suppose your grandfather is going to check on the accounting firm, although it’s highly possible something completely unrelated is going on.”
“Agreed.”
“What does that have to do with my grandmother? I mean, why is she involved?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ve assumed that they met each other years ago when they both worked at Twilight Studios. Then my father kidnaps them and takes them to an abandoned Twilight Studios movie lot. Doesn’t that seem awfully coincidental to you?”
“You’re saying there’s a connection.”
“Seems odd is all I’m saying.”
He tended to agree, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what Twilight Studios had to do with his grandfather embezzling half a million dollars from Gentry Enterprises and taking off to Vegas to meet Charlee’s grandmother without a word to anyone. It was totally out of character for Nolan. Maybe his father and Hunter were right. Maybe Gramps was simply going senile.
Yeah? Then explain the men in the Malibu.
Maybe they hadn’t been following him, but Charlee. Maybe the gunshot through the window had been meant for her. It made perfect sense. She was a private detective and over the years she had probably collected more than her fair share of enemies. Maybe chaos theory did indeed rule and nothing was connected.
Too bad he was so tired and hungry. He was missing something here and in his dulled haze of sleep-deprived starvation he couldn’t think straight. Food. He needed food. Even a greasy hamburger would help.
Mason rubbed his eyes and stared out the window, checking on Matilda. The wind tossed dust eddies across the desert. He cringed as a small whirlwind passed over the Bentley. First chance he got, they were pulling into a carwash.
“When did your grandfather disappear?”
“What’s today? I’ve lost track of time.”
“Thursday.”
He looked at his watch. Five-thirty in the evening. The trip to the movie studio had cost them a good three-hour detour. “My brother Hunter discovered the missing funds on Monday evening. When we went to confront Gramps on Tuesday, we discovered he was gone. I left for Vegas right away.”
“Driving instead of flying so obviously you didn’t feel as if the matter was that urgent.” She peered at him over the rim of her cup.
“I told you I don’t like to fly. And we did figure Gramps was probably just letting off some steam. Retirement doesn’t suit him.”
“So why not just leave him be?”
“He did steal half a million dollars from
the family business.”
“And then you arrived in my office yesterday afternoon,” she said.
Had it only been a little more than twenty-four hours since he’d first laid eyes on Charlee Champagne? It seemed he had known her for years. Of course they had been together pretty well nonstop for the last twenty-four hours. If you averaged that up in dating time, saying a typical date lasted four hours, they would be on their sixth date.
Date? What the hell are you talking about, Gentry?
He had to stop this. His hormones were messing with his emotions. He was letting the circumstances wreak havoc on his brain. He needed to stop reacting from his gut and his heart and start thinking with his brain.
Pronto.
“Okay, so your grandfather takes off and in his room you find my grandmother’s name and address.”
“Well, actually, it was the address to the detective agency.”
“Come to think of it, Tuesday morning was when Maybelline said she was leaving for her fishing retreat. Usually, she spends weeks preparing and talking about it and then, just out of the blue, she tells me to hold down the fort and takes off.”
“I’m thinking that Gramps had hired her to work on a case for him.”
“But what case?”
Mason shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Of course now there’s a bigger question.”
“Which is?”
“How do we find them once we get to L.A.?”
He paused a moment, pondering the question. “Gramps has a few old friends there. He doesn’t see them much anymore, but we could give them a call and find out if they’ve heard from him. In fact, when we get back to the car I’ll give them a ring. I can also phone home to see if Gramps has touched base with the family. Plus I’ll check my voice mail to see if he’s tried to contact me.”
“It’s a start,” Charlee said. “I can check my answering machine too. And once we get into LA. I can start calling hotels, see if our grandparents checked in anywhere. I’m assuming they’ll stay somewhere upscale if your grandfather is anything like you.”