Finally, he settled on a rutted dirt road that was little more than a wide hiking path. He’d bottom out the Porsche on rocks if he was fool enough to drive it. Parking off the pavement, Oz jogged through the piñon and sage, not caring if anyone saw him. He was banking on the lady not owning a gun, although that was probably a stupid notion on his part. Anyone with fists as lethal as hers knew how to kill.
For Donal’s sake, he hoped she used her weapons for the purpose of good, not evil.
The path curved at a stone outcropping and then descended at a rate requiring a goat or a helicopter. Oz stood on a boulder and gazed down the mountainside. Amid the rubble of rock and scrub grass below gleamed a white geodesic dome. He knew a music studio when he saw one. Syrene could easily afford her own.
The secluded, soundproof building would also provide excellent concealment for kidnap victims, but he wouldn’t go there. The woman he’d met was a head case, but he wouldn’t accuse her of crime. Yet.
He headed back to the car, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
“Conan!” he growled when his brother answered. “I hope I’m interrupting something interesting.”
“Wouldn’t tell you if you were.” Computer keys clicked in the background.
His youngest brother was a geek. Oz doubted that Conan ever did anything interesting.
“I’ve found Syrene, and I want to know more. Where did she come from? Who’s her family? Boil down all the gossip into facts. She’s a hot wire, and I need to ground her somehow.”
“Why?” Conan asked, not unreasonably. “You can hire any number of other babes. Why a volatile bitch?”
Closer to Syrene’s age than Oz, Conan was apparently more aware of her public image. Oz tried to find some way around the real reason for his fascination in the singer/author. His family would call an intervention if they knew his desperation was driving him to follow leads provided by email freaks.
“Just a hunch,” was all he revealed. He had no other good reason for choosing a prima donna for a children’s show beyond his stubborn obsession with finding his son. The day care aspect of Syrene’s life held possibilities. Maybe she’d seen Donal there.
“She’s still gorgeous, then,” Conan concluded. “Wish you well. I’m going out to play now.”
Conan wouldn’t, of course. All Oswins were overachievers for a reason—their curiosity, intellect, and energy could not be contained. Conan would be at his computer, sipping black coffee and digging into Syrene’s life well into the night, if only to figure out why Oz wanted to know about her.
Such aggressive competitiveness made for intense family gatherings, which might be the reason Oswins seldom bothered to gather. Alys, Oz’s late wife, had attempted to reel his brothers in for the holidays the first year of their wedded life. The Christmas tree had ended up lengthwise on the family room floor after an impromptu football pass led to full-fledged sibling rivalry and a flying tackle.
He had belatedly remembered that their mother used to tie the tree to the wall and carried a fire extinguisher all through the holidays.
Alys had died the year after that party, so that had been the last time all the Oswins had been in the same house. He’d been a fool to try marriage, given his family’s bad luck in the relationship department, but there for a little while, Alys had made a difference, and he’d had hope.
It was probably smarter that the Oswins each found a different coast or country to occupy than pretending they could live in the same space. Conan was making noises about moving to Hawaii. Their middle brother, Magnus, was currently in Alaska.
Oz made a few more calls before taking the Porsche back on the road. He didn’t need Conan’s report to know Philippa Malcolm James had trust issues. One of his calls was to hire a grunt to keep an eye on her movements.
His BlackBerry beeped before he turned on the engine. Oz glanced at the incoming message.
Syren must sing Th…
The text cut off. Swearing, Oz checked the call back number, but it was blocked. He tried it anyway and got a disconnect. Swearing, he studied the text again. The sender had used a capital T, as if she was about to name a song. Ten bloody million songs began with The.
He couldn’t curse away the spookiness of the message. Did the sender know where he was? Know he’d met with Syrene? Why had they cut off so abruptly?
He waited to see if another message would come through. The phone remained silent. Maybe the message was too long to text and the sender had given up and decided to email.
Oz checked his email online. Just the usual work messages. Nothing from the Librarian.
Apprehension niggled at his gut. The person who knew he was hunting Syrene had been interrupted trying to reach him. After these last few years fraught with disaster, disconnects left him itchy.
Trying to work out the knots of tension, he rotated his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. The damned black shirt was fine for the air-conditioned office but too warm for the sun.
Why would singing a particular song help find Donal? He assumed that was what the Librarian had been trying to tell him. Would the song somehow lure the kidnapper from his lair?
His phone number and email address were on his website, so it wasn’t difficult for every nutcase in the universe to reach him. But there was something more urgent about these Librarian messages…
Of course, part of the problem awaited him just a few yards ahead. Mothers were already slamming the doors of their SUVs, picking up their toddlers at the day care. The sight of all those tiny, helpless little kids had him breaking out in a cold sweat. Donal couldn’t defend himself. That had been Oz’s job. And he’d failed.
The images of what could be happening to his boy had given him ulcers and kept him awake at night. He’d never sleep until he knew Donal’s fate.
The contract and his hot date could wait. Oz called the office and told them to let the accountants review the documents and he’d be in to sign them tomorrow. He left a message on Rita’s machine and then blocked her calls. She wouldn’t take kindly to being stood up, and he didn’t have the patience for more tantrums today.
His hired grunt would go to work in the morning, keeping an eye on the singer so she didn’t escape. Tonight, Oz would cover the bases.
Releasing the parking brake, he turned the Porsche onto the road, back into the tiny town of El Padre. He’d seen a B&B sign when he’d driven through earlier.
***
Tossed to the red mat in her family room, Pippa retaliated by lashing out with her heels. Lying with her back to the mat, she caught Park in the abdomen and tossed him over her shoulder with her legs. Her quads were stronger than her biceps.
As their instructor gracefully rolled into a ball and sprang back to his bare feet, Lizzy clapped. “You got some hostile mojo working for you tonight, girl!”
Park, their five-foot-four instructor, bowed in agreement. He was nearly seventy, but until Pippa’s day from hell, he’d easily kept his students in line. “Miss James is ready to teach her own classes.”
“Not me.” Winded from the moves Park had put her through, she sat cross-legged on the mat. “I’m not trustworthy.”
At Park’s puzzled expression, Lizzy explained. “She’s afraid she’ll beat the crap out of her students if they don’t behave.”
Pippa enjoyed Lizzy’s blunt honesty. Her friend’s brashness could be painful, but Pippa always knew where she stood with her, and that made it easy to relax in her company. Liz was nearing thirty, divorced, mother of two toddlers, and thought she had life figured out. Pippa didn’t disabuse her of the notion.
“My temper is not trustworthy,” she amended, for Lizzy’s sake. “And teaching a class would be a responsibility I’m not ready to assume.”
“Like making a TV show?” Liz asked, feigning wide-eyed innocence.
Pippa threw one of her floor pillows at her. “Bertha doesn’t know the meaning of quiet.”
“Television pays very well,” Park said, rolling up the mat. “But you are not an actress.”
“You’re a man who knows how to be polite.” Pippa unfolded from the floor and drifted to the bar where she’d left a prepared vegetable juice and ice cubes.
“But he’s wrong,” Liz said. “You put on a clown act for the kids, a sophisticated one for the mayor, a strong one for me and Park, and the list goes on. You were born an actress.”
No, those were all hard-earned lessons—like not arguing with friends. Pippa sipped her drink and hoped the conversation would move on.
“Real acting requires exposing emotion,” Park argued. “Dressing in costumes hides the heart. But why would a TV producer expect a children’s author to act?”
“He doesn’t. He wants me to read my books, but that’s idiotic. I write books for toddlers. They would sound ridiculous on TV. Besides, writers weren’t meant to be on stage. We’re introverts.”
“He’s awful cute,” Liz said suggestively. “You could at least talk to him over drinks, pretend you’re considering the idea.”
“You were at work today. How could you have seen him?” Pippa curled up on the sixties Danish modern couch she’d rescued from a garage sale. She’d had the upholstered cushions refurbished in bright sunset colors. She liked giving new purpose to old things.
“He was leaning against his Porsche in the parking lot, working his CrackBerry, when we came in.” Liz added a swig of rum from her flask to her juice glass. Pippa’s guests were accustomed to bringing their own alcohol. “Nice abs. I didn’t think TV producers worked out.”
“He’s what?” Pippa slammed to her feet and strode to the window, but of course, she couldn’t see beyond her courtyard wall. “Now? He’s out there now?”
Unusual for him, Park lingered after rolling up his mat. “He bowed to us. He has had training. Do you have reason to fear him?”
Yes, but Pippa couldn’t say that aloud or she’d have to explain why. She paced between the two open rooms, swearing inwardly. “I told him no. I told him in no uncertain terms. He should be back in L.A. What is he doing out there?”
“Protecting his investment?” Liz suggested helpfully. “Bring him over to the Blue Bayou and let him woo you with pretty promises.”
“So you can tell the entire town that a famous TV producer is here and have them all crowding into the bar?” Pippa knew her friend’s ways too well. “And encourage drunkenness? Let me just give you the hundred bucks you’ll profit. I don’t need the bad karma.”
“This is a farm town,” Park reminded her. “Men like that have much money that would go far here.”
“He doesn’t want to film me here,” Pippa protested. “He wants me to go to L.A. And I can’t. I won’t.”
The very idea was sufficient to send her running for the hills. But she heard the longing behind her friends’ words. Wealthy people might have homes hidden in the hollows and hills above L.A., but they rarely spent their time or money in farm towns like El Padre.
Liz shot Pippa an angry glare for the blow to her pride and ambition. She’d inherited the Bayou. It was her only income. Park didn’t need money, but he had a large family who did. And they all had friends who were struggling.
Pippa was the only rich person in town, although most people didn’t realize why. They just assumed writers made money. That was a joke.
“Talk to him, Pip,” Liz urged. “Maybe he’d film here if you insisted. He could rent out the church hall during the week, and maybe they’d make enough to repair the roof. And his people would eat at Dot’s and stay at the B&B.”
Pippa wanted to tell her that wasn’t how the entertainment world worked, but she couldn’t tell her how she knew. Even her best friend didn’t know about her Syrene past.
But Pippa had a feeling the good-looking surfer boy wouldn’t give up, and she needed all the defenses she could summon—if only to keep from killing him for doing this to her. She’d already decided on the challenge she meant to present him if he returned. Adding another obstacle to his goals ought to really test his mettle. Why should she be the only one to suffer?
Draining her drink, Pippa nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
Chapter 4
Oz’s vigilance was rewarded the next morning when Pippa James emerged from her hideout and strolled down the town’s main street to Dot’s Café for breakfast. This morning she was wearing a diaphanous caftan of swirling pinks over a loose, white, ankle-length dress that might as well have been a burka except it had spaghetti straps. She’d covered her amazing eyes with rose-colored glasses.
After spending six hours in the B&B’s rock-hard, antiquated double bed, Oz figured he deserved this prize. Instead of heading for his Porsche, he fell into step with her.
“Good morning…” He hesitated, hoping she’d supply the name she preferred. When she didn’t, he smoothly continued, “Shall I call you Pippa?”
“That’s my name,” she replied curtly, not breaking her long-legged stride.
He refrained from arguing the point. “Do you mind if I join you? I have a meeting later, but I wanted to give you time to consider my offer.”
“You have a pretty face, Mr. Oswin,” she acknowledged, entering Dot’s Café, “but you’re slime underneath. I should have you arrested for stalking.”
“I see you wake up snarling. Let me buy you some caffeine.” Catching her elbow, he steered her away from the counter she’d been aiming for and toward a booth. He did so cautiously, ready to drop her arm if she whacked him again. “A double shot of espresso, maybe?”
“I don’t drink coffee. Back off, Mr. Oswin, or I’ll scream the house down. As you may have heard, I have a powerful voice.” Fortunately, once she’d jerked her arm from his grip she didn’t appear prepared to create a public scene. She slid into the booth and sat primly, hands crossed on the table, glaring at him through the ridiculous pink glasses that somehow worked with her red spiky hair.
“I apologize if I’m invading your space.” He took the seat across from her and mentally prepared his arguments while verbally smoothing the waters. “We’re a little more touchy-feely in the city.”
He glanced up at the waitress pouring tea into Pippa’s mug without being asked. Tea from a teapot, not a tea bag. She obviously ate here regularly, and they catered to her preferences. He nodded toward the coffeepot in the waitress’s other hand, and she filled his mug without a word.
“The usual, Dot,” Pippa said in the polite tones she reserved for everyone else but him. “How are the twins?”
“Doc says they’ll survive to wreak havoc another day. O’course, I’m gonna have to feed the doc for free for the next year to pay his bill. Pity I can’t do the same with the hospital.” The waitress turned to Oz. “And what’s your poison this morning?”
Assuming a Spanish omelet was out of the question, Oz ordered eggs over easy, bacon, and hash browns, keeping his eyes and ears open to the interaction between the two women and the other customers entering. There were things to be learned by observing people in their natural habitat.
Every customer noted Pippa’s place in the room when they entered. She acknowledged no one. Oz could attribute that to her being out of her usual place and curiosity about him. He supposed the buzz as people wandered about, gossiping, might be normal, but he was picking up vibes that said otherwise. Awareness in here was thicker than the coffee he was drinking.
“They all know what we’re discussing, don’t they?” he asked after Dot departed with their orders.
She tilted her head in curt agreement. “You’re sitting there in a jacket that would feed their kids for a month while wearing a watch that would pay their mortgages for a year. And they’re wondering how they can get some of what you ha
ve. It’s human nature.”
He hadn’t brought a change of clothes with him and knew he was grubby and wrinkled. He’d bought a cheap razor at the drugstore and still didn’t feel shaved. But the town had already seen dollar signs? Interesting.
She lifted her mug and sipped her tea with a half smile that was all cat in cream. That’s when the message clicked. She knew what the town wanted already, and she was preparing a bombshell that every person in here probably already knew about. Oz hated surprises.
He did a mental tally of all the possibilities and hit the most likely one immediately. “You want me to film the series here,” he stated without question.
He swore that her rose-colored glasses twinkled. She merely continued sipping her tea. “Rethinking your offer, Mr. Oswin?”
The computer he called a mind knew the numbers could work, but people were the flaw in any math. The best people for the project weren’t likely to spend half the year away from their homes, out of their sophisticated milieu in the city. Not for the shoestring budget the children’s network expected.
Besides, how would staying in this Podunk town help him find Donal? He didn’t mind ferreting out her secrets from the comforts of L.A., but his business would go south fast if he was stuck up here too often with no freeway to the office.
Yeah, he was rethinking his offer and resenting every minute that she forced him into this corner. But dammit, it was a good concept. And if she was as treacherous as she seemed right this minute, then she might very well know where his son was. He didn’t have time to follow his logic while she wore that smug expression.
“If you will read the books so I don’t have to hire an actress,” he retaliated, “it might be doable.” He disliked being manipulated. Let her be the one responsible for letting down an entire town if she refused him. See how she liked it.
Lure of Song and Magic Page 3