Hollywood Blackmail

by Jackie Ashenden

  Seemed like she really didn’t want to talk about it. “As long as you were the one to administer them I have no problem with it, either.”

  “What are we? Seven? Look, the past has nothing to do with this. I’m actually very busy and don’t have the time to administer your treatments, let alone dodge any press if it gets out. But you’ll be pleased to know that we have many other nurses who are all perfectly discreet, who can do that for you.”

  Ash flexed his fingers on her hips. “You think I’m going to take no for an answer?”

  “Why not?” She raised an eyebrow. “Break the habit of a lifetime.”

  Stubborn, but then that had always been Coco.

  Well, if she thought he was going to meekly stand by and have some other nurse treat him when he could have her, she was mistaken.

  He’d gone eleven years without knowing what had happened to her, eleven years without knowing she was safe. He wanted answers and he wasn’t going to wait another second without them—or at least the promise of them at some point in the very near future.

  Ash released her. Slowly. “I’m not sure your boss would agree with you.”

  “What do you mean?” She took a step back from him, her narrow fingers white where they gripped her upper arms.

  Yeah, he was going to be a bastard about this, but he couldn’t let her go again, he just couldn’t. Not without knowing she was okay. That she was happy. That she was safe.

  “I mean, I’ll tell her you’re not willing to comply with my very reasonable requests to safeguard my privacy while I have medical treatment involving this clinic.”

  The full line of her lower lip tightened, full and pink and kissable. Just as he remembered it. “So let me get this straight. If I don’t do what you want, you’ll tell Helen.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  “It is if she values Seacliffe’s reputation for patient confidentiality.”

  “But that…that’s blackmail.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Maybe. It depends on how badly you don’t want to administer these treatments.”

  Her mouth tightened even further and she shifted on her feet. “But you…that’s….I can’t…”

  “All I’m asking is that you give me the medical treatments and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself all this time. Nothing more. And when the fuss has died down then you can go back to your life as if nothing happened.”

  Lizzie’s face was set and pale, her freckles a sweet scattering of gold dust. But if looks could kill he’d be carried home in a bucket.

  “I see,” she said stiffly. “And how long, generally, does a fuss take to die down?”

  “I don’t know. But given that the general public tends to have the attention span of a gnat, I’m thinking not long.” This was, perhaps, sugarcoating it. Especially when his experience of the general public had been that they remembered things he’d thought long forgotten about and forgotten things he wished they wouldn’t. Like the way they kept talking about his street fighting days and how he’d put some guy in hospital, years and years after he’d actually stopped fighting. And yet did they remember him donating a good portion of the box office takings from his last movie to kids’ charities? No, they did not. That got two lines in the media—if he was lucky.

  Lizzie frowned at him. “What about me? What do I get out of this?”

  It had been a long time since he’d had to think about anyone other than himself. Too long. Ash shifted on the bench. His face was beginning to throb, the physical stress of the evening taking its toll.

  “While you’re with me, I’ll protect your privacy. You’ll be completely safe. No one will know you’re there.”

  “Well, that’s big of you.” She began peeling the disposable gloves off her hands. “First you drag me into the spotlight then generously agree to protect me from it. You’ll forgive me if I don’t prostrate myself adoringly at your feet.”

  He didn’t often feel bad about the demands he made. He’d worked too hard to get where he was and had put up with a lot of shit to get there. But he did now. In fact now he felt selfish and that wasn’t a good feeling.

  “What else do you want?” he asked. “Money? A car? Jewelry?”

  Her lip nearly curled. “Oh, please, you really think that kind of stuff matters to me? It doesn’t. No, if you’re going to be offering me incentives then a guaranteed excellent reference once the treatment is over would do it. Glowing is fine.”

  “I can do that.”

  “No can about it. You are going to do that.”

  He sighed. “I’m not doing this to hurt you, understand? We have unfinished business, Coco. You feel it, I know you do.”

  The look she gave him was glass sharp and colder than an icicle on Pluto. “The only business I have with you, Ash, is medical business. And when Dr. Lazarus comes to take your temperature, I’m going to suggest he doesn’t stick the thermometer in your mouth.”

  “You’ve really got a thing about my ass, haven’t you?”

  “Given the fact that you keep talking out of it, is it any wonder?”

  His face felt numb and the tiredness was beginning to bite, but oddly enough he felt better than he had in a long while. As though something restless inside him had calmed. Ash grinned. “I’d forgotten how pretty you are when you’re mad.”

  Lizzie snorted. “Oh, and one other thing. Don’t call me Coco. Ever.”

  Then she turned on her heel and walked out.

  …

  Lizzie stopped in the corridor outside the treatment room, her heart slamming around in her chest like runaway roller coaster.

  Calm. Be calm. Deep breaths.

  Nope. Wasn’t going to work. She was too damn angry. And the fact that she could still feel the press of his hands on her hips did not help either. Like if she looked down, she’d see two red, glowing hand-shaped marks on her body from where he’d touched her.

  She didn’t look down. She stared at the wall in front of her where a big piece of abstract art hung instead. A Jackson Pollock paint-splatter thing with lots of red paint. As if someone had ritually sacrificed a chicken in front of a canvas.

  Lizzie glared fiercely at the chicken blood painting as she tried to get herself under control. Because control was important.

  Not only had Ash turned back up in her life right when she’d thought the past was as good as dead, the bastard had also blackmailed her. Using the one thing that mattered to her most of all—her professionalism.

  Damn Ashford Hernandez. Damn him to hell.

  Actually, what was she thinking? The man in the treatment room wasn’t Ashford Hernandez, the gentle, protective guy she’d fallen for all those years ago. The man in the treatment room was Ash Kincaid, Hollywood’s biggest bad-boy star. The guy who’d totaled at least three different kinds of sports car in three consecutive months. Who’d been known to start bar fights when he was drunk just so he could try out his latest moves. Who threw the wildest and most legendarily debauched parties in LA. And who’d never met a woman he couldn’t and didn’t seduce the panties off. A hard, demanding, selfish man.

  A douche bag, in other words.

  Not that that should come as any surprise. She’d dealt with enough stars to know that most of the time, the people they’d once been before they were famous got lost under the weight of fame and adulation and power. Or at least buried so far down that they never came out again.

  Struggling with her temper, Lizzie glanced down toward the reception area. It was empty apart from the security guards.

  Voices drifted down the hall, coming from Helen’s office. She could hear Ash’s agent talking loudly, going on about privacy being of the utmost importance. Helen would be agreeing and that meant any chance of wiggling out of Ash’s demands was virtually nonexistent.

  She cursed under her breath.

  Boy, had staying in LA ever been a big mistake. She should have gone to Mexico. Or Paris. Or maybe Outer Mongol
ia. Pity she hadn’t. After she’d left the Misty Mansion—her mother’s affectionate name for her god-awful seventies Hollywood villa—lack of money had stymied her plans to get the hell out of Dodge. Oh, she’d had an allowance, but as far as she was concerned, that money was tainted and she wasn’t touching it.

  Eventually, she’d gotten the job cleaning at Seacliffe and then Helen had taken a shine to her, and suggested she try nursing, even paying her tuition fees. Lizzie had ended up loving it. Nursing gave her direction, the chance of a career, and she’d decided that one day she was going to be known for her contribution to health, not for being the daughter of an infamous porn star who’d just about lost her virginity on national television. Which meant keeping a low profile, keeping her past firmly hidden.

  She’d gotten complacent in her job, though. Gotten too comfortable thinking no one would find out about her past. What an idiot. In LA no secret was safe for long.

  Helen knew her past but no one else did, and she wanted to keep it that way. Sure, eleven years was ancient news when it came to public memory, but she didn’t want to take any chances, not when every couple of months there were “whatever happened to” specials on TV. Because she knew that one day, if she wasn’t careful, one of those specials was going to concern her.

  Lizzie composed herself, jerking the top of her uniform straight. Then, feeling a tad more in control, she walked down the hallway to Helen’s office and poked her head around the door. “Just letting you know that Mr. Kincaid is all cleaned up now. I’ll just go and prepare the cottage for him.”

  The agent got to his feet, still talking, while Helen waved an acknowledgment.

  Lizzie opened her mouth to tell them about Ash’s little blackmail scheme, then decided not to. He could do it himself, the bastard.

  She went back down the corridor to the reception desk and sat down in front of the PC to finish the paperwork.

  Goddamn Ash and his stupid blackmail. And goddamn that stupid whale music too.

  Lizzie jabbed viciously at the CD player and the whales fell silent. Feeling only slightly better, she turned to grab the card key for the cottage she’d gotten out earlier. But it wasn’t there. Frowning, she glanced around the desk but couldn’t see it. A neat stack of papers that she’d left beside the pen holder looked as though it had been shoved to one side, a couple of sheets now on the floor.

  How weird. Perhaps Laz or Helen had used the computer and disturbed the papers or something?

  Still frowning, Lizzie picked up the papers from the floor and restacked the pile. Then she hunted for the card key and found it in the box where all the others were kept. Bizarre. She could have sworn she’d left it beside the keyboard.

  Oh well, she couldn’t worry about that now. She had to get this stupid cottage sorted out for stupid Ash.

  Grabbing the key card, she headed out of the clinic to prepare the room for their newest guest.

  Small paths wound through beautifully tended gardens lit by discreetly placed outdoor lights. The cottages bore the same architecture as the clinic—white stucco walls and red clay roofing tiles that gave a Mediterranean feel. They were set back from the clinic for privacy but not so much that they didn’t take advantage of the clinic’s position overlooking the Pacific Coast Highway. The cottages were renowned for their spectacular views.

  Lizzie nodded to the security guards who patrolled the cottage area at night as she unlocked the doors of number twelve and let herself inside.

  The clinic’s spa was a little tired and in need of updating, but the cottages were the ultimate in luxury. Helen and her late husband had designed them, the Mediterranean feel echoed in the tiled floors, plastered walls, and heavy furniture in dark wood. Each cottage had its own special color scheme and number twelve’s was white, with accents of blue in the rugs on the floor and in the cushions on the couches and chairs.

  Lizzie hummed softly as she bustled about making sure all was in order. The cottages were aired daily and fresh linen put on the beds regardless of occupancy, so there wasn’t a whole lot to prepare. But Helen liked to have certain things done before a client arrived, such as having the aromatherapy candles burning and the complimentary minibar well-stocked. Usually this was filled with each client’s favorite drinks and snacks, but there hadn’t had enough notice this time.

  You remember what he liked. Soda in a glass bottle. And Twinkies. And chocolate.

  Lizzie pulled a face at the minibar in the lodge’s living area. Yes, she remembered that. Ash had a sweet tooth, especially after a fight. But that had been years ago. He probably liked Cristal now. Or Grey Goose. With a starlet on the side.

  “Nice,” a deep voice said approvingly.

  Lizzie set her jaw. Turned around. And the cottage’s massive living room abruptly shrank to the size of a broom closet as Ash sauntered into the room. He was still dressed only in his leather jacket and his jeans, sitting low on his hips, all the sharply defined muscles of his chest and stomach on show. A tribal tattoo curled over one pec and she knew from his movie posters—which often, coincidentally, showed him with no shirt on—that it covered most of his shoulder as well.

  Sexy.

  Uh. No. Not sexy. She’d never liked tattoos. She’d seen far too many of them at the Misty Mansion, and in places where no tattoos should ever be.

  “Glad it’s up to your exacting standards,” she said, with only the faintest hint of sarcasm. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He began a restless investigation of the room, picking up bits and pieces, putting them down again, moving with a powerful feline grace that had her heart skipping a beat. “You’ll have to give me a minute to check.”

  Quelling a strange impulse to run and keep on running, Lizzie went over to the couch and began to rearrange the cushions instead. No, she would not be unnerved by all that restless prowling. And she wasn’t going to watch him, either. The cushions were way more interesting. Way more. “Did Dr. Lazarus sort out your treatment for you?”

  Ash paused beside one of the windows, twitching aside the curtain and giving a quick look outside. “He did. He was also quite happy for you to administer it.”

  Oh, damn. “It’ll have to go past Helen Ridgeway first—”

  “It has.”

  Double damn. She’d have to see Helen later this morning. Talk to her. Maybe once she’d explained Ash’s egregious blackmail behavior, her boss might change her mind.

  Ash dropped the curtain and turned, frowning at her. “So, are you going to tell me why you dyed your hair that color? And why you’ve got brown eyes instead of gray? It’s a lousy disguise.”

  “Luckily your opinion isn’t important.” Lizzie tweaked the corner of a cushion. “And if you think about it hard enough, I’m sure you can figure out why.”

  “The press?”

  “Excellent. You win the prize.”

  His dark brows twitched. “Still? It’s been years since that episode aired.”

  “Surely you of all people should know that the Internet is forever, Ash. And of course, about seven years ago, a certain person suddenly started getting famous and it was all dragged back up again.”

  Ash’s rise to fame had set the press out digging and sure enough, they’d soon turned up the dirt on Ash’s time at the Misty Mansion. He was outed as “Coco’s mystery boyfriend” and there had been a minor frenzy as they’d tried to track her down.

  She’d managed to keep herself hidden but it had only reinforced for her that her fame, or rather, her infamy, wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.

  He was silent a long time. “You should have said something. You should have come to me. I would have helped.”

  “Contacting the most famous man in Hollywood about getting a bit of anonymity seemed rather a contradiction in terms. Anyway, it’s all in the past now.” She didn’t want to talk about this anymore and certainly not with him. It was all old news and it could stay that way. Giving him a critical once-over, she pursed her
lips. “Hmmm, you’re looking a bit cold.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “And you’ve gone a bit pale, too. That anesthetic will start to wear off soon enough and you’ll probably be needing some pain meds.” Lizzie moved over to him and tucked her hand under his leather-clad elbow. “Here, sit down. Would you like something to eat? Drink?”

  But it was like shifting a mountain. He stood there, immovable. “What did I tell you about all that nursey crap?”

  “Thank you so much for dismissing my entire profession as crap.”

  “Goddamn it, Lizzie. I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”

  “You’re looking a trifle agitated, Mr. Kincaid. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a little something to help calm you down? I could get security to help administer it.”

  Ash glared down at her from beneath dark brows. He stood uncomfortably close, that bare chest of his mere inches away, his hands now thrust in the pockets of his jeans, his gaze focused on her with such intensity it made her skin feel tight enough that she wanted to claw right out of it. With the scar on his face and the glitter in his black eyes, he looked every inch the dangerous, bad-boy movie star he was reputed to be.

  “Sexy” didn’t even begin to cover it.

  “Stop managing me.”

  “I’m not managing you. I’m just seeing to your care.”

  “My care is fine.”

  Lizzie ignored the way her insides were tying themselves in knots. And it wasn’t with fear. Some long-forgotten part of her wanted to get closer to him. Feel all that bad-boy heat for herself. The one night they’d made love he’d been so gentle. Patient. When a girl’s “birds and the bees” talk had been her mother sticking an X-rated version of Pride and Prejudice in the DVD player—which involved a rather surprising star turn from Misty’s hottest male costar as Mr. Darcy—she’d needed gentle and patient. And normal.

  You don’t now, though.

  She pushed aside that thought. And stomped on it for good measure. “I’m just trying to do my job.”