“That’s what you’ve got?” Rafe asked. “Weak.” And saw the flash again. “I could do this all day,” he added, “but it’s getting boring.”
“You don’t wish to be warned,” Antonio said, “but I’ll warn you anyway. Use a condom. You don’t know where she’s been. Or maybe she provides her own? Hold it to the light. Check for the little pinpricks. She is full of surprises.”
Beside Rafe, Lily had gone stiff. Now, she said, in a voice that had a faint tremble in it, “You want me to cry. You want me to hurt. You want me to run. You aren’t going to get any of it. I’m not that woman anymore.”
“No?” Antonio said. “And yet you were always that woman. Crying. Running. Weak.” A pause, and then he dropped his final word into the pool. “Diseased.”
Rafe hadn’t been in a fight for years. He had a feeling one was coming, but he kept his voice casual. The winner was the one who cared the least. Also the one who hit the hardest. “Do me a favor, mate,” he said. “This is about Lily? Take a look at her. Look at how beautiful she is. Look at her house and her shop. She left you. You had all this, and you lost it. Do you really want to remind everybody of that?”
“You think?” Antonio said. “But then, you only know what she told you. You weren’t there when she was apologizing for not being able to give me a baby. What was I thinking, though? If you want her?” He waved a hand. “Take her. What is it to me? I have the better of our little deal. America’s Sweetheart, not America’s Nothing. Kissing her goats in a barnyard in Montana, running to her lesbian sister every time she’s sad, because she cannot handle life. A woman who couldn’t have a baby, because she is a baby. I couldn’t wait to leave her behind. Why should I care? Why should I stay?”
He walked away, toward the cameras. Rafe could let him go. Or he could hit him.
He wanted to hit him.
One step past them. Two. He was walking away. And Lily said, to his back, “You gave me syphilis. You gave me syphilis. You could have killed our baby, and you wouldn’t have cared. Except we didn’t have a baby after all, did we? Why was that? Because you couldn’t even make a contribution. Any man can be a sperm donor. Except you. You couldn’t even do that. Not much of a hero. Not much of a man.”
The words were out there. Swallowed up by all those fuzzy microphones, recorded forever. And two steps beyond Lily, Antonio’s back went rigid.
It was a hot afternoon, and beads of sweat had formed along her hairline. Antonio wasn’t sweating, though, even in his black jacket. She’d thought he was cool, once. He wasn’t. He was cold. He cared about one thing. Himself. He had one true emotion. Anger.
Even as she thought it, he whirled, stepped, and lunged. His hand striking like a snake, knocking her sideways.
She fell hard against the steps and rolled into the fetal position, her hands covering her head, her knees against her chest, her elbows against her ribs. Waiting for the kick.
It didn’t come. She heard something instead. A thud. A grunt. She opened her eyes and saw it.
Not her face this time. Antonio’s. His arm was protecting his face, and she saw blood there. As she watched, Rafe’s fist landed in his solar plexus. Antonio doubled over like he’d been folded in two, and then he staggered and fell, with Rafe right after him, looking to end it.
Lily was scrambling to her feet, getting to Rafe, pulling his arm, saying, “No. Rafe. Stop. It’s not worth it.” The cameras were recording. What had he done?
No trace of her laughing, casual Rafe now. Antonio was still on the ground, still doubled up, retching, holding his abdomen, a trickle of blood from his nose running down his cheek. When Rafe spoke, he was The Beast, the mask stripped back. “News for you,” he told Antonio, whose beautifully lashed dark eyes were squeezed shut. “Army kids learn to fight. Australian Army kids learn to hurt. Bad. Stay away from Lily. Stay away from Kylie, too. Or I’ll hurt you so much worse. That’s a promise. Mate.” He grabbed the shotgun and told the assembled crew, filming for all they were worth, “Show’s over. I’m telling you one more time. Get off this property, and stay off. If you don’t, you’d better hope the sheriff is the one who throws you out. If it’s me, it won’t be pretty.”
They were moving at last. Lily went for her bag, found her purse, her keys, with trembling fingers. Inside the house, Chuck was still barking like a metronome. Her face throbbed, her ribs hurt with every breath she took, and she was trying not to breathe. Trying not to think. She just wanted to get out. To get away. To crawl into a hole and hide.
Pain. Shame. Humiliation.
Again.
Rafe followed Lily up the stairs, took the keys and her bag from her, opened the door, and dropped everything but the shotgun, which he broke open and set against the wall. Unloaded or not, those firearm safety lessons had been drummed into him too hard to forget. Chuck had stopped barking at last and came galumphing forward to meet them, his tail wagging furiously. Bailey, though, was nowhere to be seen. Her bike, he belatedly realized, had been gone as well, hadn’t it?
He put his arm around Lily and led her to the couch, saying, “Sit down. I’ll get you ice. You hit the stairs. How bad?” The mark from Carrera’s hand stood out red on her cheekbone, her eye was puffing already, and she had her upper arm pressed to her ribs. She still hadn’t said anything, though. She was shut all the way down.
“I’m OK,” she said. “Where’s Bailey? She said she’d stay all day. Where did she go? How scared must she be? She left her helmet here, but took her bike? She must have left in a hurry, then. I want to kill him. Why would he do that? I just hope you didn’t hurt him. Rafe. How hard did you hit him?”
“Ice,” he said firmly, and went into the kitchen to get some. He had to use cubes in a plastic bag wrapped in a tea towel, and when he came back in, she was up, searching in her tote. “Sit down,” he said. “Put this on your face.” The top of his head was about to blow off, and he was trying not to show it. Calm down, mate, he told himself. Take it down a notch.
“I need my phone,” she said. “I need to call Ruby. And would you pull the curtains? Telephoto lenses.” But at least she put the ice pack on her face.
“I’ll bring the phone to you,” he said, going around the living room and closing curtains, turning the warm afternoon dim. “I’m ringing the sheriff, too. And please. Would you sit down?”
“Not the sheriff. Chief of police. It’s a city limit deal.” She smiled, winced, and laughed. “Ow. You were all the way into your character there. Good job.”
Minimizing, he recognized, and let her do it. For now. He brought her the tote, then did some searching on his phone, walked into the kitchen, sorted out an ice pack for himself, and put the kettle on for tea while he rang the police.
It took a wee while. “You say they’re reporters, sir?” the male voice at the other end said skeptically, once Rafe had explained. “Are you sure?”
Oh, Rafe realized. He thinks it’s some nutter calling in. Away with the fairies, thinking he’s a movie star. “I’m sure,” he said. He didn’t look outside. The journalists may or may not have retreated off the property, but they’d still be out there with their cameras aimed at the house. Especially if Carrera hadn’t left, though Rafe couldn’t imagine he’d hang about. A bully and a coward. He’d have been off with his tail between his legs. “I really am Rafe Blackstone,” he said. Anonymity be damned. “The actor. And Jason Blackstone’s brother. If you care to look it up, he has a cabin up here, and I’m living in it. And they really are here for me. Antonio Carrera was here as well, if you know who he is. He and I had a dispute in front of those reporters. Call it a problem between coworkers.” Let Lily stay out of it for one more night. It wouldn’t be longer than that.
“Sir,” the voice said. Not excited a bit. Still cautious. “Do you have somebody else I could call?”
“I’m not the missing Tsarevich, last of the Romanovs,” Rafe said. The control was slipping a bit now. The first time in his life he’d wanted to be recognized, and it wasn’
t happening. “Ring my assistant. Martin Avondale.” He gave the bloke Martin’s mobile number. “He’ll establish my bona fides. But do it now. Otherwise, somebody could get hurt up here.”
“I’ll ask you, sir,” the bloke said, “to leave enforcement to the police.”
“Then get the bloody police up here,” Rafe said, “and provide it.” He rang off, breathed, and thought, What would Jace do?
This was the trouble with real life. You couldn’t transform into a beast, take care of the problem by killing a few people, and conveniently end up in the next scene. You were stuck in this one, with all its questions and consequences and recriminations.
And a woman who’d been hit in the face. He made the tea, and he put sugar in it.
He needed to ring Martin. More importantly, though, he needed to ring his agent. He considered making the calls in here, but if today was any example, Lily’d had enough of being kept out of things. He went back into the living room and handed her a mug. She was still on the couch holding her phone, sitting back now and looking tired, her ice pack abandoned beside her, in her pretty pink dress with the ties at the side.
A woman any man would have felt lucky to hold, proud to protect. A woman who’d been hurt instead.
Dial it down. Transforming into The Beast wasn’t always easy. Transforming back was even harder.
“Bailey’s grandma said she wasn’t home,” Lily told him. “She thought she was with me. She said that if she isn’t, she’s probably at the beach. When she can’t even swim. ‘Or roaming around somewhere,’ she said.”
“Which is probably true.”
“I guess.” She still looked troubled. “It bothers me that she left. I can’t do anything about it now, though, I guess. I asked Ruby to have Bailey call me, but who knows. She was coughing a lot. How aware is she, even? I don’t know.” She looked at his ice pack and asked in alarm, “What happened? Did Antonio hurt you?”
“Do me a favor,” Rafe said, and got her to crack a smile. He sat beside her, picked up her ice pack, and pressed it gently to her eye. “Bruised my knuckles on his ugly face, that’s all. That’s why I hit him in the gut on the second go. It was softer. Drink your tea.”
“If you broke anything,” she said, “he’ll sue. He loves his face. It’s his favorite thing. He also loves to sue. Hit first, he always said.”
“I didn’t break anything,” he said. “I went easy. He could be spewing his guts out from that belly shot, but other than that? Nothing but a bruise. But it’ll be worse than yours, no worries.”
“You really do know how to fight,” she said.
He had to smile. “I really do. What do you think happens when you’re an Army kid, your dad gets a new posting, and you’re in a new school once again? Not to mention if you do have a pretty face. Where do you think Jace got all that toughness, anyway?”
“No. Where did you get it?” She leaned over and pressed her lips to his cheek, and his arm went around her. “Thank you,” she said. “Really. You protected me. Thank you for that.”
He sobered up fast. “Of course I did. You hate that your peaceful place is gone. I hate it, too. I’m sorry I brought it.”
“You didn’t bring it. Twenty bucks says Antonio brought it. Call your agent.”
“It can wait.”
“No,” she said. “Do it first. Then talk to me.”
He did. Alan picked up right away and said, “I’ve been trying to get you for two days.”
“You’ve got me now,” Rafe said. “Tell me why there’s an army of reporters in Montana.”
“Did you have to pick Antonio Carrera’s wife?” Alan asked.
“Ex-wife. Yeah. I did. Also, I hit him.”
Alan exhaled. “Oh, boy. How bad?”
“Not that bad. But on camera. If it bleeds, it leads, right? He could be bleeding a bit. It was after he hit her, I’ll just mention.”
“You’re kidding. He hit his ex? On camera?”
“Her name is Lily Hollander, and yeah, he did.”
Another exhale. “What about the police?”
Oh. “Hang on.” Rafe asked Lily, “Do you want to press charges?”
“No,” she said immediately. “Not unless Antonio does. I want him gone. I want it over. It’s happened before. I’m not going to change him. I don’t care. I just want it never to happen again.”
Rafe asked Alan, “Did you get all that?”
“Yeah,” his agent said. “I’ll call Carrera’s agent and see what I can find out. Talk about your problem clients. Not you. Him. You’re a piece of cake in comparison.”
“So tell me,” Rafe said. “What happened? How was I learning to ride a horse one minute, being Clay Austin, and the next, Antonio bloody Carrera is bashing my new girlfriend in front of a tribe of tabloid journos?” All right, he was losing it a little on the “calm” front.
“Best I can tell,” Alan said, “somebody called him for a statement yesterday, because they found out you were up there, post-Kylie, and involved with his ex. He decided to make a stronger statement, apparently. That was a messy divorce on his part, a messy broken engagement on your part, you’re his co-star, and it’s Antonio Carrera, publicity whore. It looks fairly incestuous, or like there were points being scored. Rumor has it there was no love lost between the two of you. Rumor also has it that this is why.”
“Whose rumor?”
“Isadora Grant.”
“Sleeping with Carrera,” Rafe pointed out.
Alan sighed. “You know how this goes. It’s part of the business.”
“It’s not part of Lily’s.”
“What are we doing, then?” Alan asked. “Denial?”
“No,” Rafe said. “No denial. No comment. Lily and I spoke for ourselves out there. You’ll see.”
He hung up. Lily said, “Thanks. Oh, man. Is this ever a mess.” She put her fingers to her forehead. He wished he knew how bruised she was from that fall onto the steps. Hip, ribs. She’d hit hard, and it all had to be hurting.
“You need a bath,” he said. “Do you have Epsom salts? And what about Tylenol?”
She laughed, though it didn’t sound too flash. “Rafe. We just did Epsom salts.”
“I know. And don’t you think you need some more?”
“Maybe,” she said, and went on looking tired. “But I don’t have any. Besides, I need to get ready for tomorrow, for the shop. For the week. I need…” She raised a hand, then dropped it. “Whatever. So many things. I need to get started on doing them. And you don’t have clean clothes.”
“Right.” He sat there another moment and thought. “Do you want me here? Or do you want me to leave?”
“Here,” she said at once. “Whoops.” Another shaky smile. “I didn’t mean that to sound so needy. But if you’re asking, then—please. Here.”
“Ah.” He’d have given anything to take that worried look off her face. One step at a time, mate. He punched a button on the phone.
“Who are you calling?” she asked.
“Martin. Fortunately—” He gave her a gentle kiss on her uninjured cheek. “Martin’s magic.”
The doorbell rang before Lily had finished her second cup of tea. Chuck jumped up, raced over, and started to bark, his tail wagging with wild excitement, like he’d heard journalists came bearing steaks for good dogs. Lily was just about to take a dive to the carpet when the ring was followed by a knock that sounded coded. Rat-tat-a-tat-tat. Rafe said, “Martin,” and went to open the door.
Martin blew in with his quizzical face, his black glasses, four grocery bags, and one suitcase, endured some ecstatic banging of the plastic cone against his legs, gave Chuck a few pats, and left the suitcase by the door. “Honey,” he told Lily, heading for the kitchen, “if some A-lister goes on a drunken tirade in Hollywood tonight, it’s going to be like a tree falling in the forest and nobody hearing it, because everybody’s up here. I wanted to pull my jacket over my head and do the Perp Walk, and then I remembered that they don’t care about me. And l
et me tell you from Assistant-ville—you’ve moved up in the world, partner-wise. Although it doesn’t look like I do need to tell you. Let me see that.” Lily, who’d finally gotten Chuck back onto his dog bed, pulled the ice pack away from her face, and Martin winced in a theatrical fashion that made her want to smile. “Ouch,” he said. “That’s got to hurt. I always knew he was an asshole.” He asked Rafe, “Didn’t I tell you he was an asshole? Drama queen. High maintenance. All the bad words. Did you hit him? Tell me you hit him.”
“I hit him,” Rafe said.
Martin was working as he talked, unpacking grocery bags onto the counter. Two cartons of Epsom salts, two bottles of white wine and one of red, what looked like three days’ worth of groceries, heavy on the steak and chicken, and a six-pack of local beer. Moose Drool. “Got to feed the werewolf,” he told Lily when he pulled it out of the bag. “Australians. I figured you had vegetables. Rafe told me about the garden. Hailey told me about the garden. Everybody told me about the garden. And now that I’ve seen it, they didn’t tell me enough. How many fruit trees do you have, anyway? What are you trying to do up here, feed the world?”
Lily climbed onto a kitchen stool, ignored the aches as best she could, and said, “Nope. Just myself and some of Sinful. Twelve trees. I like to make jam and freeze fruit for winter. It makes me happy. We all have hobbies. How did you possibly come up with all this and pack Rafe’s clothes in that amount of time? And you’re right about Antonio, of course.”
“Magical powers,” Martin said. “Or more like I’ve been stocking up, sensing that the powers would be needed. Rafe was never going to be able to hide up here, and I knew who you were, remember. And you don’t have to tell me I’m right. Carrera can’t keep an assistant, and he’s never figured out that we talk, because we’re about as alive to him as tree bark. Part of the furniture. Self-centered would be one word. Want to hear all my secrets, though? I hope so, because I’m dying to tell you. Also, do you want wine? I’d want wine.”
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