Force of Nature

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Did you warn him about the cars?” Annie asked. “Here and at my place? If Burns is watching us…”

  “That’s actually the biggest news flash of all,” Martell told them. “Those cars? They aren’t Burns’s men. They’re the FB freakin’ I.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Robin should have been ecstatic.

  Riptide was dominating the buzz at every film festival they attended. His team of wranglers—publicists and agents and God knows who all they were—had just informed him that he’d received an invitation to appear on Oprah, the day the movie was set to open wide.

  But the best news of all was the mention of that other big O-word—Oscar. The Oscar rumblings were deafening—as was the barrage of phone calls, e-mails, and huge floral arrangements sent to his hotel room from a wide variety of Hollywood actors, directors, and agents, most of whom wouldn’t have returned his call last week.

  His own agent, Don, had phoned with an offer for a three-picture deal. No way were they going to take it, he’d told Robin. They were going to wait—and they were going to get a whole lot more.

  This was what he’d always wanted, what he’d worked for.

  So why did he feel like shit?

  It was partly Janey’s fault. Robin hadn’t spoken to his sister or her towering hulk of a husband since he’d left L.A.—since she’d told him she didn’t want him watching Billy. Like what? He was going to get plowed, strap the kid on the hood of his Speedster, and drive a hundred miles an hour down the Pacific Coast Highway?

  Robin knew his limit. He could hold his liquor. He wasn’t even close to being an alcoholic. There were entire stretches of time during which he kept his intake to a meager drink or two with lunch and dinner. Maybe a nightcap after that. But yes, there were also times like these, where his sole purpose was to attend festivals and parties—some in the homes of backers or potential backers. His job was to be eye candy—to stand around and get gaped at and brushed up against, whispered about, photographed, and sometimes even hit on.

  It was definitely easier to endure those events with a very solid swerve on.

  Plus, it gave him something to do in the morning, when he woke up in yet another hotel room, with nothing on his agenda until the evening’s screenings and parties.

  He’d lie in bed, nursing his hangover, trying to remember where the hell he was today.

  Tonight’s party had included an unscheduled interview with a kid writing a story for his college newspaper, a local theater director who wanted to cast him in his upcoming production of Oliver!—it was hard not to run screaming from that one—and a seriously cool discussion about American Hero, the movie that had put him on the map as an actor, with a group of older women who were clearly movie literate.

  That was different. It was amazing how many of these parties he went to, only to find that the attending Richie Riches didn’t have any interest in movies beyond the stock market.

  As he waited at the bar for another rum and Coke, he saw Dolphina navigating her way through the crowd, toward him.

  She was one of his wranglers—the staff hired by HeartBeat Studios to see that he was comfortable, got from point A to point B on time, and yes, behaved himself along the way. Unlike the others, this new girl, Dolphina, didn’t even try to pretend that she liked him.

  “Time to go,” she announced grimly. Gorgeous, with long dark hair, a willowy dancer’s body, and the face of an angel, she could outscowl the Grinch. “Limo’s waiting, Mr. Chadwick.”

  Whoa. “I haven’t been into the kitchen yet,” Robin told her. He’d asked the entire staff to call him Robin—she was the only one who refused.

  “Sorry, we’re out of time.” She intercepted his drink, pushing it back toward the bartender. “He won’t be needing that.”

  “You’re going to have to give me at least ten more minutes,” Robin said, his patience starting to fray. He could live without the drink, but he was going into the kitchen before he left.

  Tonight’s old ladies had been a giant exception. Usually when he attended one of these things, the people who really wanted to meet him were hard at work in the kitchen, or serving hors d’oeuvres or drinks—one of the reasons he always made a point to hit each and every bar station around the room.

  “I’ve asked—repeatedly,” Robin told Dolphina—and who the hell named their daughter after a fish, anyway?—“for a ten-minute warning. If you’re unable to get that straight, maybe you should find a different job.”

  “I knew it.” The amount of drama in her voice was usually reserved for Spanish-language soap operas or thirteen-year-olds. “I knew it was just a matter of time before you had me fired.”

  People were starting to look. Robin leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I’m not going to have you fired. I just want ten minutes to say hello to the serving staff and the caterers. Sign a few autographs. I really don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

  She blinked up at him. “That’s…why you want to go into the kitchen?” she asked, her disbelief heavy in her voice. “To sign autographs?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “What did you think I would be doing in there?”

  “Lining up your next one-night stand,” she accused him. “Giving some hardworking girl your key card, so she can meet you later. I know all about you—how you take advantage of women—how all you want is sex—and how easy it is for you to get it.”

  Oh, angel cake. If you only knew…

  Dolphina squared her shoulders. “It’s not going to be so easy for you anymore. Not on my watch.”

  Robin stared down at her. She really was quite lovely, with those big, dark brown eyes. And up close like this, it was obvious that part of her anger came from her own attraction to him. Oh yes, he’d been around long enough to recognize it in all shapes and forms. It was part of his appeal, his success—and nothing he could really take credit for. He was just the right amount of handsome—not too pretty, nor too rugged either. And his face combined with his generally upbeat, friendly attitude and his willingness to get the party started, had always drawn women to him.

  Of course now, with his genuine Navy SEAL–toned body, his attractiveness quotient had spiked off the charts.

  A few years back, he would have charmed Dolphina’s pants off—literally. In a mere matter of hours, he could have wrapped her around his little finger and taken her to his hotel room. Where she would have soon been naked and willing.

  And completely convinced that she would be the one woman who had what it took to tame his inner bad boy. And for a while—a very short while—he’d get just drunk enough to convince himself that she might be what he was searching for so desperately.

  A few years back, they’d have had sex. And it would’ve been disappointing. For both of them.

  Sex had become far less disappointing for Robin ever since he’d started having it with men. Which was not to say he’d had a lot of sex with a lot of different men. On the contrary.

  For the past few years, he’d had a now-and-then relationship of sorts with a fellow actor named Adam, but Robin had ended it months ago when it became clear that the other man was becoming too attached. Robin didn’t love him. Hell, at first he didn’t even like the son of a bitch.

  But when Adam considered turning down a really great role in a movie, merely because his on-location shoot wouldn’t line up with Robin’s schedule and they wouldn’t see each other for four months…

  Robin knew it was time to say goodbye.

  Since then, he’d had sex exactly zero times—at least as far as he could remember.

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t had the opportunity—because he had.

  He just…hadn’t wanted to start something new with someone else that he didn’t and would never love.

  His problem was that he was a hopeless romantic. Even though he’d broken a lot of hearts through the years, his intentions had always been good. He’d begun each new relationship with a spark of hope that this would be it—that this wou
ld be the one.

  His problem now was that he’d already met his “one.”

  His problem was that the one man Robin wanted to be with—the one person on the planet that he hadn’t been able to forget—didn’t deserve to be jammed into Robin’s closet with him. He didn’t deserve a relationship that would have to be kept hidden. He deserved better than that, better than Robin.

  So Robin didn’t call him. He didn’t even e-mail. He just spent a lot of time drinking to stop thinking about him. And thinking about him anyway.

  He spent a lot of time not having sex.

  “Come into the kitchen with me,” Robin told Dolphina now, “and I’ll show you the best part of being a movie star.”

  She followed him warily, still unconvinced.

  It happened the way it usually always did—at least at parties outside of Hollywood. As soon as he opened the kitchen door, people started to laugh and even scream. His arms were almost immediately filled with two hundred pounds of excited pastry chef.

  There were about twenty apron-clad women and three men in the kitchen. He shook hands with them all. He signed aprons, signed menus, signed arms. He gave them his full attention, listening as they spoke, laughing and chatting with them.

  Until Dolphina tapped him on the shoulder. “We should find the host and hostess—say good night.”

  He let her drag him away, back down the hall, toward the room where the so-called real party was still going strong.

  “It sort of makes up for it,” Robin told Dolphina. “You know, the sleeping alone.”

  She was looking at him now—really looking, and for one heart-stopping moment, Robin was afraid that she understood the subtext of what he’d just told her. But she didn’t say more than “I’m sorry” as she forced a smile, a genuine apology in her eyes.

  And no, she just wanted to comfort him. By going back to his room with him and rubbing her naked body against his—an experience intended to be life altering and extraordinarily special, which would, she no doubt believed, bind them together for the rest of their lives.

  And if she were a man named Jules Cassidy, she damn well might have been right.

  “Poor me,” Robin said as he turned to wave goodbye to the still-hyperventilating pastry chef, who stood watching him go from the kitchen door, adoration in her eyes. “Poor, pitiful, movie-star me.”

  Something wasn’t right.

  Ric sat behind his desk, listening as Martell recounted his phone conversation with the FBI agent.

  “This Cassidy guy said he’d take care of the overabundance of surveillance vehicles,” Martell told Annie and Ric. “He apologized if they drew too much attention—he’s very aware of how dangerous Burns can be.”

  No kidding. Ric looked pointedly at Annie, but she purposely gave Martell her full attention.

  “He said to open up the office as usual,” Martell told them. “Just…have a regular day. He expects to get here sometime in the early afternoon—which is great because I’m available then, too. You know, as your attorney.”

  Wait a minute. Now something really wasn’t right. What was that sound he’d just heard? Over on the couch, next to Annie, Pierre lifted his little mutant head, ears up, and looked over at Ric.

  Martell kept going. “I’ve got a court appearance first thing this morning, but I should be back by then. If I’m not, don’t start without—”

  “Wait a minute. Shhh.” Ric quieted his friend, and sure enough, from out in the driveway came the sound of a car being started. “Damn it!” He slapped his forehead. “Handcuffs!”

  He bolted from his office, and sure enough, the conference room was empty.

  “How the hell…?” Martell couldn’t believe it. “I locked her up—”

  “With her own handcuffs,” Ric finished for him. “The ones on Annie’s desk, right?”

  “Yeah. Those were…?”

  “Hers.” And her keys were in her coat pocket. Ric threw open the door, and sure enough, Lillian was in her car, backing out of the drive. She floored it when she saw him, screeching to a stop as she pulled out onto the street. “Annie, give me your keys.” He caught the ring that she tossed to him, and ran for Annie’s car, which was parked on the street, facing the right direction for a hot pursuit. “Martell, stay with Annie,” he shouted. “Get inside, lock the door.”

  Boom. Crash!

  Shit! The windshield of Annie’s car had shattered.

  Lillian was shooting at them. “Get down!” Ric shouted, praying that Martell would grab Annie and take her to the floor.

  Boom. Her second shot took out the back windshield of Martell’s car with an equally resounding crash.

  Boom. His front office window exploded as, with a squeal of tires, Lillian sped away.

  Where was the legion of dark sedans when he needed them? Apparently Cassidy had done his job a little too well, and sent them all home.

  All over the neighborhood, dogs were barking and lights were going on. But no men in dark suits and sunglasses jumped out from behind the bushes to pursue the woman who, for the second time in one day, had unloaded a .44 in Ric and Annie’s direction.

  “Ric!” That was Martell, shouting from inside the house. Martell, not Annie.

  He’d more than expected her to blast out of the door, ready to come to his rescue, or at least make sure that he was okay.

  “Ric, you all right?” Martell shouted again.

  He raced back to the house, and threw open the door.

  For a moment, his heart stopped, because Annie and Martell were on the floor, directly between the broken window and the crater in the plaster wall where the bullet had struck. Martell was kneeling over Annie, and the tension in his body language scared the hell out of Ric.

  “Just stay down,” Martell was telling her, but she struggled even harder to sit up when she saw Ric.

  “Are you all right?” Ric asked it at the same time she did, and answered in unison, too. “Yeah.”

  There was no blood. Not on her, not anywhere.

  “She hit her head,” Martell told him. “That was my fault, too. I tackled her. We landed pretty hard.”

  Annie looked up at the hole in the wall. “I think you probably saved my life,” she said.

  “Man, I am so sorry.” Martell’s eyes were filled with self-recrimination. “I assumed the handcuffs were—”

  “It’s not your fault,” Ric told him. “I should have realized.”

  Annie winced as she touched the back of her head, using her other hand to drag up the top of that sarong Burns had given her.

  “I’ll get some ice,” Martell said, standing up. They’d been far enough away from the window to not have glass all over them. That, at least, was a plus.

  “Go upstairs,” Ric told him. “Into my apartment. In my freezer. There’s a bag of frozen peas.”

  “What I could really use are some clothes that actually stay on,” Annie called to Martell, who was already heading up the stairs. “Particularly before the police get here.”

  And, indeed, there were sirens in the distance, getting louder.

  “Damn it,” Ric said. He raised his voice so Martell could hear him, too. “Okay, here’s the story we give to the locals…”

  “She told me her name was Lillian Lavelle. I have a copy of her driver’s license, and no, now it doesn’t surprise me at all that it was a fake. At the time it never occurred to me to check to see if she was who she said she was.” Ric told the story for what had to be the tenth time to police detective Bobby Donofrio. “It was a simple assignment. Locate the whereabouts of a friend of her daughter—the only name she had was Brenda, no last name, which was not a lot to go on. But hey, if she wanted to pay…? Like I said, I didn’t find the friend—I’m not sure she existed.”

  Naturally Bobby D was tonight’s detective on duty. Martell inwardly shook his head at Ric’s bad luck. This entire evening had to be one of the most bullfuck-filled of his friend’s entire life. Although why the boy genius would mess around with Biz
arrina McAxmurderess when Annie was so clearly in the on-deck circle…He could not figure that one out.

  And okay, yeah, the lingerie thing had a certain appeal. And the woman was put together in a very yes-there-is-a-God way. But the waves of crazy coming off of her were so strong, they were visible to the human eye. That kind of shit was an instant soft-on in Martell’s book.

  Of course, Ricky had proved time and again that, as far as intimate relationships went, he sure knew how to choose ’em.

  His last girlfriend was some little blond Spanish teacher from Ohio. Yes, children, you heard that right. Oh. Hi. Oh. As in, she lived a thousand miles away. Apparently she enjoyed conjugating her verbs with Enrrrique, so she flew down for the weekend every few months or so. As for Ric, Martell suspected that, for him, the relationship was similar in nature to those of women who hooked up with lifers in prison. Ricky had the illusion of having a girlfriend, with relatively no-strings if not quite regular sex, without any of the day-to-day work.

  Of course, it was possible that Ric had really liked the girl. When she sent him that Dear John e-mail, he’d been pissed enough to tell Martell about it.

  Beeyotch actually wrote to tell him that she was going to be coming down to Sarasota with her brand-new fiancé, Vern—just like that. No Hello, how are you? I’ve been thinking hard lately and fear we’ve grown apart…

  Just Vern’s kind of old-fashioned, and Would Ric please get his things out of Daddy’s waterfront condo before she arrived? She didn’t want to freak ol’ Vern out.

  Of course, Ric being Ric, he didn’t plaster the walls of the place with poster-size reprints of the two of them doing the musicless mambo. He just quietly got his bathing suit and what-all, and left the key with the super.