by Julie Kenner
I tell myself I’m being stupid. That Ryan will be mad, yes, but he won’t leave me stranded. I’m his boss’s new wife’s best friend, after all. So even if he doesn’t come himself, he’ll send someone else.
Besides, odds are the text will never go through.
I spend a few moments thinking about it, then decide on the message.
Sorry I bolted, but I need help. Stranded on the 15 just past Yermo. Please?
I read it once more, then press “send” before I can talk myself out of it. Then I put in my headphones, turn my music back on, lean back in my seat, and wait.
If nothing else, I figure I’ll be rescued come morning. There will be more traffic, for one thing, and maybe even the highway patrol.
As it turns out, I don’t have to wait that long.
Not even five minutes have passed when I see the flash of lights in the rearview mirror. I turn off the music and watch the car approach. I can’t tell what kind it is; all I can see is the glare of the lights as it crawls closer and closer, moving at a snail’s pace now.
It is still on the highway, but as I watch it slides to the right, pulling off onto the shoulder. Then it eases forward until it is right behind me.
I expect the driver to kill the lights, but he or she doesn’t, and I am left sitting there in my Please Carjack Me Now Ferrari with sex fiends on my mind.
My pulse starts to beat more quickly, and I curse myself for not getting the tire iron out of the trunk. Because there’s not a damn thing I can use as a weapon inside the vehicle—not unless I intend to beat someone senseless with my iPhone.
I am astounded at my naiveté and pissed off at my own stupidity. I passed through Barstow with its stretch of gas stations and I was so busy trying not to think that I didn’t think. And now here I am, trapped in a car with Ted Bundy parked behind me.
I check the phone once more, but it still shows no signal.
Fuck.
I see the door to the car open, and someone gets out. A man, I think, though I can see very little in the dark in my mirror.
I check the door locks again and am relieved to find them secure.
He is approaching the car now, walking with the light at his back so that he appears as only the shadow of a man. I tell myself to be calm, that he is probably just a Good Samaritan. That most serial killers are not trolling the interstates.
I know it. I believe it, and I’m still scared shitless. Terrified that Ryan will get my text and two hours later will arrive at the Ferrari to find me battered and bloodied and very much dead.
Stop it. Just stop it, already.
And then he’s there—his torso right by my window—and his firm rap on the door combines with my nerves to rip a scream from my throat.
The man bends down, and I suck in a gasp that is part surprise, part fear, part wonder.
Because I’m staring at a man who can’t possibly be there.
I’m staring at Ryan Hunter.
Chapter Seven
I fly out of the car, then pound my fists on his chest. “Dammit, Ryan! Goddammit, you scared me to death!”
He pulls me close and strokes my back, waiting for me to calm down. I breathe him in, letting his familiar scent soothe me, letting his strength calm me. “It’s okay, kitten. You’re fine. Come on, Jamie. You’re safe.”
I hold tight, breathing deep until the terror has passed and I feel calm again.
Calm and mortified.
I ease out of his arms, taking a step backward. The night is so thick that I can see his face only in the thin light from the Ferrari’s interior that spills out from the still-open door. I see the concern. The hint of worry that is fading in his eyes now that I am steady again.
I don’t want to see the anger that I know is coming, and yet I can’t stand here and pretend to still be scared just so that I can put off the inevitable.
I draw in a breath, tilt my head back so that I can see him, and whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I expect anger. I expect fury. But the soul-deep sadness that fills his eyes is more than I can handle.
“Hunter,” I say, my voice choked. “Please, just let me—”
He nods at the car parked behind the Ferrari. “Get in,” he says in a voice that broaches no argument.
“But—” I lick my lips. “I can’t go back. I have to get to Vegas.”
“I’ll take you where you need to go, Jamie,” he says, and now I hear the anger bubbling up from somewhere dark and deep. “Now get in the goddamn car.”
Since he is more than capable of simply picking me up and tossing me inside—and since at the moment he looks prepared to do just that—I do as he says.
It’s a Mercedes, smooth and sleek with a leather interior and that incredible new-car smell. I put the seat belt on, kick off my shoes, and draw my knees to my chest.
I watch as he leans into the Ferrari, then emerges with the keys and my phone. He comes to the Mercedes, opens the door, and gets in without saying a word.
For a moment, he just sits there, and I think that he is finally going to speak. Then he presses the button to start the car, puts it in gear, and pulls onto the highway. In seconds, the Ferrari is behind us, and I twist in my seat to watch it disappear in the distance.
“We can’t just leave it.”
He looks at me, and I swear if he stays silent I’m going to scream. Thankfully, he answers. “I’ll take care of it.” His words are clipped. Measured. “I’ll have someone get her to Vegas.”
“Good,” I say. “Perfect.”
He looks at me curiously, but doesn’t ask why I’m determined to reach Vegas before Texas, and so I decide not to tell. Instead, I ask what is on my mind. “How did you find me?”
“I’m the head of security for Stark International. Do you really think I’d allow Damien to drive a car that doesn’t have a tracking device installed?”
“Oh.” I frown. That hadn’t occurred to me. And I suppose if it had, I would have assumed the device had been removed once Damien gave the car to me. “Okay, then.” I lick my lips. “In that case, why did you follow me?”
The muscle in his jaw tightens, and I brace myself for the explosion. But when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly soft. “You left in a hurry, without any of your things. I was worried,” he says, taking his eyes off the road to look at me. “Turns out I had reason to be.”
I nod. “Thank you,” I say. And then I add, “I really am sorry.”
He doesn’t answer, and a thick, uncomfortable silence fills the car.
I want to reach for him, to put my hand on his.
I want to give him comfort, but I know that is something I am no longer entitled to do. So instead I lean my head back and close my eyes, giving in to the sudden, cloying exhaustion that has settled upon me.
I don’t plan to sleep, but I must have dozed off because I am jerked awake when the car slows and the texture of the pavement beneath the tires changes.
I blink out the window and see a small, squat building in front of us.
“Where are we?” I ask sleepily.
“Baker,” he says. “We’re staying here until morning.”
“What? But I need to get to Vegas.”
“Not past midnight you don’t. And I’d rather you get there alive.” He pulls into a parking space and kills the engine. Then he turns to face me. “I’m tired, Jamie. I was up all night before the wedding, and then throughout the party. I didn’t get much sleep after that, either,” he adds.
He looks at me, his expression cool. “I’m running on fumes, and I know you are, too. So we are staying here, and we are going to sleep.”
“Fine,” I say because what else is there to say?
As far as I can tell, this is the only motel in Baker, and it’s tiny. It’s also almost completely sold out, which I find surprising. There is only one room, and it has a king-size bed. When Ryan tells me this, I stoically nod my head. Secretly, though, I am worried. I ran because I believed it was the right choice—and bec
ause I am weak.
I am still weak, and simply having him nearby makes me weaker. I cannot remember ever being as affected by a man as I am by Ryan Hunter. And if he makes a move during the night, I’m not at all certain I will have the strength to say no.
Because the truth is, though I am certain that going back to Texas is the right thing, I regret the way I ran from him. I regret even more the nights I lost with him.
Maybe The Plan really is only about Texas. And maybe taking the memory of Ryan Hunter back with me would have made me stronger.
And maybe I’m pulling rationalizations out of my ass to justify sleeping with him in this tiny hotel.
Right. Best to just not go there.
The room is small and dingy and smells like old socks. There is a lumpy bed and a threadbare armchair.
I sit in the armchair.
Ryan doesn’t sit at all. Instead he paces, and I know him well enough to see that he is debating something. I presume it’s whether or not to yell at me.
I decide to dive in. I figure I owe him that much. “I’m sorry,” I say for about the four millionth time.
He sighs, then sits on the edge of the bed facing me. “Just tell me why. Because honestly, Jamie, I’m baffled. I thought we were having a good time. I know damn well that I was.”
“Me, too,” I say, my voice small but earnest.
“And I thought we’d reached an understanding. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I wasn’t going to be one of the men you tossed away. And I sure as hell thought that we were on the same page about you not simply sneaking away.”
“I fucked up,” I say. My breath shudders and I feel tears sting my eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt you. Or piss you off.”
“You managed both,” he says, and when I look at his face, I see something vulnerable in his eyes.
I open my mouth to say that I’m sorry again, but then I stay silent. I have said those empty words too many times already.
“Dammit, Jamie.” He sounds ripped up, and I force myself not to reach for him when he kneels down in front of me, his hands on my knees. “I want you, make no mistake. But if I can’t have you in my bed, I still want you in my life.”
My heart stutters. He’s speaking words of friendship, not just sex. Of a connection that’s more than just physical. It scares me—but even as I want to shrink away, I also can’t deny the little spark of hope that is now dancing inside me.
He reaches up and strokes my cheek. “I care about you,” he says. “And I thought—”
“What?” I’m breathless.
“I thought you felt the same.”
“I do. It’s just—” I stand up and run my fingers through my hair, trying to find the words. “You’ve seen me. And I know you’ve heard stories. It’s not like I keep my private life a secret, and that whole fiasco with Bryan Raine was all over the tabloids.”
Raine is an up-and-coming movie star, and it hadn’t ended well. Primarily because he was a selfish, self-absorbed prick who decided to dump me because it would be better for his career to screw an actress with clout.
“I fuck around,” I say, which pretty much sums up my entire adult life. “And it’s messed me up a lot. Bryan messed with my head. And then I went and slept with one of my best friends, and we managed to fuck that relationship up, too.”
I’m rattling my thoughts out, not sure if I’m revealing too much or too little, if I’m pushing him away or driving him closer.
“But then with you,” I continue. “I’ve never felt so—” I shake my head because I’m not going there. “It was amazing,” I say, backtracking. “But the timing was completely messed up. I was already supposed to go back. I was already deep into The Plan.”
“The Plan?”
“The whole reason I moved back to Texas in the first place. I need to get my head on straight. I’ve done a hell of a lot of dumb stuff.”
“Everyone’s done dumb stuff, kitten,” he says. “Running isn’t going to make you smarter. It just puts more distance between you and the problem.”
I shake my head. “It’s not about distance. It’s not even about avoiding sex. Not really. But sex knocks me off track, and I need to stay strong.”
“All right,” he says. “But if it’s not about distance and not about sex, then what is it about?”
That’s a good question, and not one I was sure I had the answer to. “It’s about...I guess it’s about figuring out who you are. Who I am. Does that sound foolish?”
He shakes his head, then moves to sit back on the bed opposite my chair. “No,” he says. “It doesn’t. Do you think you’re going to figure it out in Texas?”
“Yeah,” I say. “By way of Vegas,” I add, and then tell him about the job.
“It sounds like an excellent opportunity,” he says.
“It is. And I think I’ll be good at it.”
“I know you will.” He stands up, paces the room, then stops in front of me. “All right,” he says.
I’m confused. “All right?”
“I’m not going to argue with you, and I’m certainly not going to force you. If you think you need to make a quest and go home, then I won’t stop you.”
His expression is warm but intense. “I already know who you are, Jamie Archer. But I also know you have to figure it out on your own.”
His phone chimes, and he pulls it from his pocket, then glances at me, amused. “You texted me to rescue you?”
“I—oh. Yeah. Sorry. I realize it’s a little weird seeing as how I walked out on you, but...” I trail off in a shrug. “You were the first one I thought to text, so I tried to think of other people. But I couldn’t, and so...at any rate, it doesn’t matter. You rescued me even before I asked.”
He moves back in front of me, then reaches down and pulls me to my feet. “Thank you,” he says simply.
I shake my head in confusion. “For what?”
“For knowing that I will always be there for you, no matter what.”
“Ryan...” My voice is soft and full of emotion. Because he is right. I do know that, and the knowledge wraps around me like a soft blanket.
He smiles in what I think is understanding. Then the smile intensifies, and a hint of amusement touches his lips. “If getting to Texas is what you need, then I’ll get you there. First Vegas, then on to Dallas.”
“I can drive myself,” I say.
“Maybe,” he says. “But do you really want to? I provide a quality transportation service,” he adds with a cocky grin. “And all for a very reasonable price.”
“Price,” I repeat, amused. “What kind of price?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “And since we’re going to Vegas, we’ll let roulette decide the terms.”
“I’m still not following you,” I say.
“Then let me be more clear. One spin of the roulette wheel. Black, you pay me. Red, you fuck me.”
I gape at him. “But I just told you. Getting my head straight. Sex. How it messes me up, and—”
“You said it wasn’t about avoiding sex. Just that sex knocks you off track. But I’ll be keeping you on track, Jamie. First Vegas, then Dallas, and then I go back to LA, no questions asked.”
“I—”
“We won’t be dating,” he says. “Nothing like that. Just the same terms as before.” The heat in his voice is unmistakable. “You. At my mercy.”
I swallow. My head says I should say no, but every other part of my body is screaming for me to say yes.
I lick my lips. “And the payment? If it’s black, I mean?”
“I’m salaried at Stark International. But I’ll calculate my hourly rate. We can start the clock when we arrive in Vegas.”
I narrow my eyes. “How much exactly,” I demand. He does a quick calculation and tells me a number that comes near to making me faint.
“Are you insane? I can’t afford that.”
“Well then,” he says with a wicked grin, “you’d better hope for red.”
&nbs
p; Chapter Eight
Because we slept until almost noon and then had an absolutely fabulous breakfast of greasy eggs, bacon, and melt-in-your-mouth biscuits at the motel’s dive of a coffee shop, it is already past four when we finally roll into Vegas.
Even in the daylight, the city feels alive.
If Manhattan is your snooty stepmother and Los Angeles your hippie brother, then Las Vegas is your crazy-ass cousin who doesn’t know what to be when he grows up.
Everything is gaudy, bright, and larger than life. Paris bumps up against Egypt, and the whole place has a Disneyland feel to it.
It’s probably terribly wrong of me to love it, but I do. Especially the Strip, where all the biggest and best casinos and hotels line up like a receiving line, welcoming everyone, from people with Stark-like billions all the way down to me, with my nearly empty checking account.
I gawk out the window as we drive, feeling a bit like an eager puppy taking in the sights. I don’t even gamble much, and I still love Vegas. I think I feel a camaraderie with it. We’re both a little bit tacky sometimes.
We pass the iconic Caesar’s Palace, and moments later, pull up in front of the magnificent Starfire Resort. The drive circles a fountain, and I watch, mesmerized as colorful columns of water rise and fall.
A bellman hurries to open my door while a valet takes the car from Ryan.
“Shall we?” Ryan asks, taking my arm.
“I’ve never stayed here before,” I say. “I’m pretty much a low-rent end of the Strip kind of girl.”
“You’ll love it. And I’m not surprised the producers are putting the actors up here. Starfire is one of the most luxurious hotels on the Strip.”
I’d received the follow-up e-mail from Georgia while we were on the road. The station has booked me a room at the Starfire, and I have an interview scheduled the next morning with Ellison Ward, a British actor who is all the rage now that he’s won an Oscar. They’ve even flown in a cameraman to do the filming. All I need to do is review the file, tweak the suggested questions, and not screw up.
When I first read the e-mail, I was surprised that a Dallas station could arrange a one-on-one with somebody of Ward’s stature. But after I read the research material, I understood. Apparently Ward’s mother lived in Texas for a few years and had a fondness for The Metroplex that she’d passed on to her son.