License to Thrill

by Lori Wilde

  “Wonder if this was what it was like back in the free love era of the sixties.”

  “Seems very decadent.”

  “And very arousing.”

  His brown eyes crinkled at the corners and he gave her a come-hither look that had her knees liquefying and her pulse leaping over tall buildings in a single hop.

  You’re digging yourself a deep one, Charlee. Remember Gregory. Everything was all fun and games with him too, in the beginning.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed. “We shouldn’t.”

  And then he reached for her again.

  Sometime around midnight, Mason woke with a start to find Charlee curled snugly against him, her head resting on his shoulder. His arm had gone to sleep and tingled with an achy numbness but he hated to disturb her slumber by moving.

  The bus was silent except for the steady strumming of the tires rolling against the asphalt. Everyone around them was sacked out, cuddled together under sweaters or blankets. The sight was touching and darned romantic. For one brief moment he actually wished they were Skeet and Violet Hammersmitz on their way to compete in the Newlywed Game.

  He studied Charlee’s face in the light of moon glow slipping through the bus windows. She looked so relaxed, so peaceful. Her lips were parted slightly and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders in an inky cascade. He shifted, turning to relieve the numbness in his arm without waking her. Snuggling with her had its advantages and disadvantages.

  It felt so right to have her tucked into him, to feel her soft, warm breath fanning the hairs on his forearm, to experience the comfort of her body heat.

  “Mason,” she mumbled dreamily in her sleep and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  Something tightened in his heart. An emotion he was afraid to name. Closing his eyes, he bit down on the inside of his cheek.

  What was happening to him? He was a disciplined guy. He didn’t allow unwanted emotions to rule his life. That was one of the things he liked about his relationship with Daphne. She never made him feel wild or crazy or out of control.

  Daphne.

  Guilt as tall as Hoover Dam stacked his conscience. He had never done anything remotely dishonest and now he was sneaking around behind his girlfriend’s back kissing Charlee. He was being unfair to both women.

  He had no excuse. He’d gotten caught up in the moment. All the old rules of order had been turned topsyturvy. Add to that the powerful pull of sexual attraction between him and Charlee and well…he’d been weak.

  But his greatest fear was that his attraction to Charlee went far beyond the physical. He was scared to explore the thoughts, nervous about prodding the emotions growing inside him. Most of all, he was afraid to trust his feelings. Afraid to let go.

  The last thing he wanted was to hurt either her or Daphne. But the fact that he could feel something so intense for a woman he’d known less than two days told him what he’d already begun to suspect. He simply could not ask Daphne to marry him as he had planned.

  And as for Charlee?

  He owed her an apology. A big one.

  Plus, he needed to keep his hands and his mouth to himself for the remainder of their trip. Easier said than done when her body was entangled with his.

  “Charlee,” he whispered and gently shook her shoulder.

  “Hmmph.”

  “Could you let me out? I need to visit the facilities.”

  She sat up blinking and he felt weirdly sad once the weight of her was gone from his body. She stretched her hands over her head, giving him a delightful view of the soft curve of her upper arms. In spite of himself, he stared.

  God, but she was compelling. Her hair was tousled and her eyes narrowed into a cute little squint. She splayed a palm over her mouth to suppress a yawn.

  He climbed over her knees, his shins brushing against her jeans in the process. Sudden heat hit him like an explosion.

  What was it about her that commanded such a spontaneous response in his unruly body? Perplexed, Mason rotated his numb shoulder, trying to shake out the pins and needles.

  He stumbled toward the back of the jostling bus in the darkness and scrambled for a handhold when they smacked into a pothole. He missed the back of a seat he grabbed for and found himself propelled forward onto his knees.

  His face made contact with the back window glass. The bus leveled out and he pulled himself to his feet but what he saw out the back window shoved his stomach right into his throat.

  There. In the darkness. On a long, lonely stretch of arid desert highway, the bus was being followed.

  By a white Chevy Malibu.

  They arrived in Los Angeles a couple of hours later. Even at two-thirty in the morning, the indomitable Edith Beth was perky. If he’d had a gun, Mason would cheerfully have shot her.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she chirped over her microphone as Gus turned on the interior lights. “Welcome to the City of Angels.”

  Everyone squinted and grumbled.

  “Wakey, wakey!” She clapped her hands like a seal on uppers. “We’ll be at the studio lot soon. And I know it’s the middle of the night, but we’ve got to get you sorted out into your bungalows where you can finish up your naps, shower, and change clothes before the welcome breakfast at seven-thirty.”

  “Will there be lots of coffee?” Jerry asked.

  “Oh, six or seven different flavors.” Edith Beth beamed. “You’re our stars. Twilight Studios has done an all-out media blitz promoting the contest and our New Millennium Newlywed Game contestants. We’re expecting a huge media turnout because reporters from all around the country are already in Hollywood for the Academy Awards on Sunday night.”

  “Ah,” Charlee whispered to Mason. “So we’re the warm-up act for the Oscars.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Mason craned his neck toward the back of the bus to see if he could spot the Malibu, but their seats were too far away from the back window and if he made another trip to the bathroom Charlee was going to start thinking he had a bladder problem. Sooner or later, he would have to tell her they’d been tailed from Nowhere Junction.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look jittery. Nervous about being on the Newlywed Game?”

  “We’re not actually going on the game show, Charlee. Soon as we hit the studio lot we’re getting a taxi out of there. ASAP.”

  “At two-thirty in the morning? Why can’t we sleep at the bungalow for a little while first?”

  “Because we don’t have time.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  He sighed. No pulling one over on her. She didn’t miss a single thing. How was a guy supposed to protect a woman like that? So much for his vain attempt at handling the matter on his own.

  “The Malibu is behind us.” He jerked a finger at the back of the bus.

  “They figured out we got on the bus.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine it was that hard to put two and two together. Smashed Bentley, only couple at the truck stop, and then we disappear at the same time the tour bus does.”

  “I’ve got half a mind to walk right up to them and ask them who the hell they are and what they want.”

  “Don’t you dare,” he growled, but kept his voice low so the other passengers wouldn’t overhear them. “They’re armed and dangerous.”

  “You were all for tackling them when you realized they were the ones who stole your wallet.”

  “That was me, not you.”

  “Oooh, Gentry, you’re getting all protective on me.” She lightly traced a finger over his bicep. “That is sooo sexy.”

  “Knock off the teasing, Charlee. I’m serious.”

  “Me too.” She gave him an impish grin.

  Fresh guilt assaulted him. Obviously she’d read more into last night’s kisses than he intended. He had to set things straight with her.

  “About last night…” he started to say but then Francie leaned across
the aisle and interrupted him.

  “Aren’t you just over the moon excited?” she enthused. “This is the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened in my entire life. I bet I won’t be able to sleep a wink after we get to the bungalow.”

  “What about our wedding night, babe, that was pretty thrilling,” her husband Jerry interjected.

  Francie waved a hand. “That was fine, sweetie, but this is live television. Imagine. Common ordinary everyday people like us on TV.”

  Charlee and Francie chatted up a storm and Mason never got the chance to apologize for kissing her. A few minutes later, the bus pulled up to the studio lot and checked in with the guard at the security gate.

  A spotlight shone on a large banner spanning the entrance. It read: TWILIGHT STUDIOS CONGRATULATES BLADE BRADFORD ON HIS SECOND OSCAR NOMINATION.

  Blade Bradford.

  Hmm. Mason had completely forgotten that Blade Bradford, the actor who had beaten out Gramps for best actor, had recently made a silver screen comeback with a small budget film the previous year that had earned him a best supporting actor nomination.

  Charlee nudged him. “Twilight Studios? Is this just happenstance or could this have something to do with Maybelline and Nolan?”

  “It is weird but I don’t see how this Newlywed Game thing and our grandparents are connected.”

  “I don’t trust coincidences,” Charlee said. “Keep your eyes open for a link.”

  Edith Beth got on the microphone and started in on her spiel. “Blade Bradford’s Oscar nomination has resurrected not only his own flagging career but has been the saving grace of Twilight Studios that until the unexpected hit of The Righteous was on the verge of bankruptcy. Between Blade’s coup and developing television shows like The New Millennium Newlywed Game, Twilight is poised to return to its glory days of the 1950s. So see, you guys are part of a history-making event. So give yourselves a big hand.”

  On cue, the bus broke out into applause.

  Gus pulled the bus to a stop under bright security lights outside a collection of bungalows.

  “Back in the early days, actors actually lived in these bungalows while they were making movies,” said Edith Beth. “You’ll be rooming two couples to a bungalow. I’ll call out your names and your bungalow numbers and give you the door key as you get off the bus.”

  Mason reached over and squeezed Charlee’s hand. “Here’s where we make a break for it.”

  Charlee giggled. “You sound like an escapee from some cheap prison flick.”

  “I feel like an actor with a third-rate script,” he said. “Keep an eye out for the Malibu. I’m hoping they weren’t allowed on the lot.”

  They stood in the aisle and waited their turn to disembark. Edith Beth herded everyone outside while Gus unloaded luggage from the right side of the bus.

  “When you get off,” Mason instructed, “head around the front of the bus and go left.”

  “Wow. Gentry, taking control. I like your macho side.”

  “Charlee, this is no joke.”

  “Sorry. Just trying to lighten the tension.”

  She was right. He was tense. If he clenched his jaw any tighter, he’d snap off a tooth. Charlee climbed off the bus in front of him and immediately darted to the left. Mason followed right behind.

  “Skeet, Violet!” Edith Beth snapped her fingers. “This way. You’re in bungalow five with Jerry and Francie.”

  “Hurry,” Mason said. “Before Edith Beth gets hold of us.”

  Charlee sprinted ahead and rounded the corner of the closest bungalow before he did, but he hadn’t taken more than two long strides when she did an abrupt U-turn and almost plowed smack-dab into him.

  “What?” Startled, he put out an arm to stop her forward momentum and grabbed her wrists between his fingers.

  “Go back, go back.” Charlee moved her hands in a shooing motion. “They’re here.”

  “Who are here?”

  “Our Malibu buddies and they’re coming toward us and they don’t look happy. Move it.”

  That’s all it took. He grabbed her arm and hustled her back round the front of the bus to face the frowning Edith Beth.

  “You two enjoy being mavericks, don’t you?” the tour director asked in a snippy tone. “Now pick up your suitcases and go to your bungalow.”

  Two suitcases remained on the curb. Everyone else was shuffling off in the dark toward the row of cottages. Charlee looked at Mason. “Do you suppose that’s Violet and Skeet’s luggage?”

  “Who else would it belong to?”

  “But how come their luggage got on and they didn’t?”

  Mason shrugged. “Who knows? People and their luggage get separated all the time.”

  “Maybe they were making out in the bathroom of the bus terminal.”

  “Maybe.”

  Mason hurried over to pick up the suitcases. When he bent down, he darted a quick glance under the bus and spied two pairs of legs on the other side.

  “Skeet, Violet, hurry up,” Jerry called. “We’re waiting for you guys.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Make the best of a bad situation, Charlee told herself. As long as the Malibu goons were lurking outside, they might as well get some shut-eye. They could worry about escaping after daylight. Sensible advice until she saw the size of the bed she and Mason were expected to share.

  “Oooh,” Francie called out from the bungalow’s other bedroom. “Aren’t these beds nice and cozy. Just perfect for snuggling.”

  Cozy, hell, in that twin bed wanna-be, they’d be stacked on top of each other like Pringles in a can.

  Mason dropped the suitcases on the floor and turned to look at Charlee who hung back in the doorway.

  “We sleep in our clothes,” she decreed.

  “I’m not arguing.”

  “And no touching.”

  He cocked his head at the tiny bed. “Be reasonable.”

  “Okay then, we sleep back-to-back.”

  “Why? Afraid you’ll be tempted?”

  “Of what, kicking you out of bed?”

  “You can relax, sweetheart. I’m much too tired to even think about molesting you, much less work up the energy to do it.” He peeled off his shoes and flopped down on the bed.

  The truth of the matter was, she was very tempted and a little disappointed he wasn’t even going to try to molest her.

  What in the hell is the matter with you?

  It was the idea of lying next to him on that itty-bitty bed that had her thinking crazy thoughts. All she had to do was look at his long form stretched out on the mattress and her stomach performed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree loop-de-loop.

  She was not getting emotionally involved with him. She just thought he was kinda sexy and a very good kisser.

  Well, stop thinking like that, she chided herself and edged cautiously toward the bed. She left the bedroom door open just in case Mason changed his mind in the night and decided to get frisky. She could make a quick getaway if necessary.

  And speaking of getting away, concentrate on how you’re going to get away from the Malibu goons. That’s what’s important.

  She kicked off her cowboy boots, turned off the bedside lamp, and gingerly lay down next to Mason.

  He didn’t move. Propping herself up on her elbows, she peeked over at him. He appeared to be sound asleep already. Good. She would close her eyes for just a few minutes while she thought about how they were going to get out of this mess. She would plan for tomorrow. She’d plot a way to find Maybelline with or without Mason’s help.

  She was not going to think about how solid Mason’s body felt pressed against hers or how the steady sound of his breathing reassured her. Not for one single minute was she going to notice how his long legs hung off the end of the bed or how his beard stubble gave him a roguish appearance in the muted glow of the night-light. She was not going to remember how vulnerable he’d been back in the diner parking lot when that hamburger had smashed Matilda to smithereens or how angry he had go
tten just before he’d kissed her for the very first time.

  No siree. He was completely out of her head. She was giving herself a mental Mason vaccination. From now on, she was one hundred percent immune to his charms.

  Charlee paced the closet-sized dressing room where she and Mason had been told to cool their heels before the live broadcast began at nine.

  Before leaving the bungalow that morning, Mason had tried to make a phone call to his brother only to discover the cottages weren’t equipped with telephones. Charlee had peeked outside to see the Malibu still parked in the studio parking lot, although there were no signs of the two gun-toting men.

  Not knowing what else to do and faced with Edith Beth shooing them along, they had followed Francie and Jerry and the other couples to the breakfast buffet. The media had interviewed them and then the couples had been ushered over to the studio.

  And so, they waited.

  Charlee was dressed in the least offensive outfit she could find in Violet Hammersmitz’s suitcase. That meant she was stalking back and forth in a red flouncy-skirted micro-mini, a black faux leather shirt with shoulder pads and four-inch, scarlet, ankle-strap stilettos. She looked like a streetwalker version of Joan Crawford.

  She was within inches of putting her sweaty, two-day-old jeans and T-shirt back on and saying to hell with it. Especially since the stilettos were a size too big and she kept falling off them.

  Poor Mason hadn’t fared much better. He had gotten stuck wearing Skeet’s gaudy purple, hula girl print Hawaiian shirt, beige Bermuda walking shorts, and bright yellow canvas deck shoes.

  Must be hard, she thought with a touch of sympathy, for a pampered blueblood accustomed to the finest designer haute couture to find himself outfitted in Cheapo-Mart red-light-special duds.

  “I don’t want to go on the show,” he repeated for about the twentieth time in the last five minutes.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll be on national television. Representing ourselves as Skeet and Violet Hammersmitz.”

  “Don’t sweat it. You’ll live. I’ll live. Skeet and Violet will live.”

  “You just don’t understand. What if my family sees the show?”