Anne Stuart - Star Light, Star Bright

by Star Light, Star Bright

“I understand that. And none of us will help these vultures. But it won’t take long for them to find out where the Jackson place is. It’s a matter of town record. Hell, if they went to BK’s Grocery they could even buy a map of the area with everyone’s house marked on it.”

  “I’ve got to go.” Angie couldn’t shove the table back any farther against Junior, but she slid out, grabbing her packages. “Tell Mort I’ll be back with the pies in a few hours.”

  “Where are you off to? Or need I ask? You’re going to warn him, aren’t you? You always had a soft spot for Brody.”

  “I never had a soft spot for anyone but Jeffrey since I was a kid and you know it,” she said stoutly. “I just happen to hate seeing anyone hounded.”

  “Sure you do,” Patsy said with a smug smile. “Say hi for me, will you?”

  The men at the counter watched her as she headed toward the door, and she forced herself to slow down, not scramble desperately. It was none of her business. If Brody and his older brothers had ripped off thousands of people—no, hundreds of thousands, Patsy had said—then he deserved everything that happened to him.

  But she had a natural aversion to the tabloid press in all its various guises. Besides, she had to get home anyway, she reminded herself with a fair amount of righteousness. She had to make two more pies to go with the ones she’d already finished. And she found she was in sudden, dire need of a little exercise. A short walk down toward the lake would be just the thing.

  There were still no tire tracks on Black’s Point Road except her own. The town had plowed down to the Jackson compound, but so far she hadn’t seen anyone else drive past her house. No sign of Brody Jackson at all.

  Well, that wasn’t strictly true. There’d been a sign, all right. The morning after her arrival back in Crescent Cove she’d found a huge pile of freshly cut evergreen branches on her porch, with her missing clippers on the railing. No note, but then, there was no doubt where they’d come from. She’d scooped them up and inhaled the fragrance. Not a cat spruce among them.

  The whole house had smelled like Christmas ever since. He’d brought her more than she’d needed—she’d made the Advent wreath, setting the Christmas candle in the middle of it, a wreath for the front door, a wreath for the fence at the end of the driveway, and if she’d been able to figure out how to do it she would have made a wreath for the front of her Jeep. She made a kissing ball to hang in her living room—not that anyone would be kissing her in the near or even distant future, but she’d always liked them. She made boughs for her mantel and the arched doorway into the parlor, and she had still had enough greenery left to make one more wreath and kissing ball. The wreath would be a simple thank-you to her invisible neighbor, and the kissing ball would be for…Maybe sour old Mort might appreciate one in the diner. Anything was possible.

  She jumped out of the car, leaving her purchases piled in the back seat, and grabbed the extra wreath off the front porch. She hadn’t planned to deliver it in broad daylight—after all, he’d dropped his unexpected gift off when she’d been asleep. It would be easier if she didn’t have to see him at all, but with the media hot on his trail she figured she owed him that much, if for nothing more than old times’ sake, which he’d forgotten long ago.

  She’d planned to walk down to the Jackson place, but at the last minute she got in the car again and drove the quarter mile down the road to his driveway. She pulled her car across the front of it, effectively blocking access, and climbed out, then headed down the narrow, snow-covered path to the house.

  There was no sign of him, no sign of a car, but the snow on the front deck was freshly shoveled, and she knew he was still there. For a moment she almost chickened out—he was hardly her responsibility, and sooner or later he’d have to face what he’d done.

  But then, Patsy was right. She’d always had an irrational soft spot for Brody Jackson, even though she and Jeffrey had been practically joined at the hip. For the sake of that long-ago, almost indecipherable feeling, she owed him this much.

  She didn’t even have to knock on the door. She was halfway across the snow-packed deck when the glass door opened and Brody stood there, a mug of coffee in one hand, an unreadable expression on his face.

  It was the first real look she’d gotten—when she’d run into him a few nights earlier he’d been nothing more than a huge, dark figure. In the light of day he was startling.

  He was the same man, yet entirely different. His shaggy, bleached-blond hair was now a definite brown, and didn’t seem to have been cut in months. His eyes were still blue, but they were shadowed now, and his face was lean, drawn. He’d had the most remarkable mouth—smiling, lush, ridiculously kissable.

  She should know—she’d kissed him. Twice.

  But that mouth was drawn in a thin line. His blue eyes were expressionless and he only opened the door a crack. Enough for her to see the faded jeans on his long legs, the bare feet, the old flannel shirt with several buttons missing.

  Oh, he was still gorgeous—there was no question about that. Bad luck and bad behavior couldn’t change that much, and the scruffy stubble and shaggy dark hair only made him appear more real.

  “Why are you here?” he greeted her in a wary, unwelcoming voice. “And what’s that?”

  For a moment she forgot why she was there. He was still distracting, even in his current downbeat state. “I made you a Christmas wreath. You were so nice to bring me all that greenery that I wanted to thank you.”

  “I brought you the greenery so you wouldn’t come traipsing around my house,” he said. “And I’m not in the mood to celebrate Christmas.”

  “Tough,” she said. There was a cast-iron hook beside the door, one that held a hanging plant in the summer, and she dumped the wreath over it, against the house. “I’ve got more than enough Christmas spirit to spare. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “I assume you’ll tell me sooner or later.”

  The cynical, world-weary tone was so unlike that of the Brody Jackson she’d once known that she was momentarily silenced. But only momentarily.

  “There are camera crews in town, searching for you. I saw at least half a dozen of them in Mort’s Diner, as well as trucks from CNN, Fox and a couple of the networks.”

  Brody’s response was swift and obscene. “Why aren’t they here yet?”

  “They don’t know where you are.”

  “And you didn’t tell them? Why?”

  She considered it for a moment. “I’m not really sure. It’s not as if we’ve ever been particular friends. I guess I don’t like people being hounded. Or maybe I just don’t want a bunch of people crawling around Black’s Point.”

  “I think you’re too late.” They could both hear the sound of the trucks and cars, noisy in the winter stillness, as they left the main highway and started down the narrow road.

  “Not necessarily. I don’t give up easily.”

  “And you’re implying I do?” Brody said.

  She didn’t answer that. “Where’s your car?”

  “We have a garage, remember?”

  “Then go back in the house and stay put. I’ll get rid of them.”

  His expression was dubious. “You think you’ll be able to accomplish something the best lawyers in the country couldn’t? They’re like barracudas—they won’t be satisfied till they tear the flesh from my bones.”

  “Very melodramatic,” she said, her voice brisk. “They’re only trying to make a living. I just don’t want them doing it in my backyard.”

  “And you imagine you can stop them?”

  “Watch me.” She thought twice. “I mean, don’t watch me. Get back in the house and don’t come out until they’re gone.”

  “Fine with me, but I don’t need you fighting my battles.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It’s my battle. I came here for peace and quiet, not 60 Minutes.”

  “Actually, I don’t rate that high. I usually land on some tabloid show on Fox.”

  “How the mighty
have fallen.”

  “Do you have a reason for disliking me? Apart from my charming behavior last week? I’d been drinking.”

  “How reassuring,” she said sweetly. “If I have to choose between a drunk and the paparazzi I’m not sure—”

  “I’m not a drunk.”

  The vehicles were drawing closer. “Go back inside, then, and I’ll get rid of them.”

  For a moment it seemed as if he might argue, but he simply nodded and disappeared into the house, closing the door behind him.

  She’d reached her car before the first truck pulled up, and she leaned against the back of it, arms folded across her chest, effectively blocking access to the driveway.

  “Can I help you?” She used the tone that had always been effective on frat-boy athletes who thought they could coast through English lit, and the reporter who was approaching her hesitated. Probably a frat boy in his youth, Angie decided dispassionately.

  The others with him were busy unloading the van, but she wasn’t about to move, and there was no other way they could get down to the lake. The early snows were thigh-high in some places, the other driveways weren’t plowed and the trees grew so thickly that anyone venturing down there would probably end up walking around in circles. It was a nice thought, but she couldn’t take a chance on their stumbling across the Jackson compound.

  “Rex Hamilton, Fox news,” he said with a showy smile, and Angie kept a deliberately stony face. Brody had known exactly who his stalkers were likely to be. “We’re looking for Brody Jackson…”

  “I’m sure you are, but he’s not here.”

  “Come on, miss. We know he is. He flew into Burlington eight days ago and he hasn’t flown out. Passenger lists are simple enough to trace.”

  “I’m sure they are. He was here for one night, picked up a few things and then left. Driving, not flying.”

  Rex Hamilton didn’t appear convinced. “Where was he headed?”

  “I have no idea, and I don’t care. Probably someplace warmer.”

  “That’s easy enough to do,” the man said, shivering. “Randy, set up a shot of this nice young lady and we’ll go from there.”

  “You’ll go nowhere but back into your van and on the road again.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the man demanded, affronted.

  “You told me. Rex Harrison.”

  “Hamilton!” he snapped.

  “Of course you are,” she said in a soothing voice. “But you’re not filming me, and you’re going to get back in your truck and drive away. This land is private property, and posted against hunters, trappers and trespassers. I’m sure you fit in at least one of those categories.”

  Hamilton waved the cameraman off, fixing a disgruntled stare at her. “You the new girlfriend?” he asked.

  She had to laugh. “Not likely.”

  “Because he goes through women like water. He’s used and dumped supermodels and A-list actresses in the blink of an eye.”

  “Not really in his league,” she drawled.

  Hamilton tilted his head to one side. “Oh, I’m not sure about that.”

  “I am. Go away. If you’re as good a reporter as you seem to believe you are it won’t take you long to pick up his trail.”

  “Why are you defending the man? He and those brothers of his ripped off thousands of people.”

  “Then why isn’t he in jail?”

  “Because he can afford the best lawyers.”

  “Then why have his brothers left the country? Can’t they afford the same lawyers?”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about the case for an innocent bystander.”

  “Actually, I know very little. But as a gesture of goodwill I’ll tell you what he was driving, and maybe you’ll be able to track him down. He was in a Ford Explorer, dark blue or green, headed south.”

  “I don’t suppose you have his license plate number.”

  “I don’t even know which state issued it. All I can tell you is he drove out of here last week and I haven’t seen him since. And as I’m the only person living out here in the winter, I’d know.”

  “And you are…?”

  “Extremely tired of talking to you. Go away or I’ll call the police.”

  “On what? Cell phones don’t work in this godforsaken place.”

  “Where do you come from, Mr. Hamilton? New York City?”

  “L.A. Why?”

  “And you call this place godforsaken? Go back to the City of Angels, Mr. Hamilton. Or go chasing after Brody Jackson—I really don’t care. Just go.”

  During their conversation three more vehicles had pulled up, blocking the narrow road. There was no place for them to turn around, and they were going to have a hell of a time backing out. Rex Hamilton looked at her for a moment longer, then shook his head in defeat. “We’ll find him. I promise you that. He can’t rip off the American public and get away with it.”

  “I don’t care whether you find him or not. I just don’t want you finding him here.” Not the best choice of words, because Hamilton gave her one last, assessing stare.

  Apparently, her innocent, self-righteous demeanor convinced him. She half expected him to make like The Terminator and say I’ll be back, but he spared her.

  By the time the last truck had headed south on Route 100 Angie was freezing. Two of the vehicles had gone into a ditch, and the film crews had shown a surprising spirit of cooperation in helping push each other out. By the end they were wet, tired, cold and frustrated, and it was evident that nothing short of a prearranged interview would get them back out there. Crescent Cove in the winter wasn’t made for the faint of heart. She leaned against the hood of her car, listening to the sounds of the trucks as they faded into the distance, letting the peace of the snow surround her.

  “How’d you manage that?”

  She turned, startled. Of course the snow muffled everything, but she still thought some preternatural instinct might have warned her.

  “I told them you were gone. It took some convincing, but they finally believed me. And you were supposed to stay put until I gave you the all-clear.”

  “I was curious. Maybe I should hire you as my bodyguard. You accomplished what few others have managed.”

  “I’m not interested in your body.” That came out all wrong, and she could have kicked herself.

  “No, I’m sure you’re not,” he said. “More’s the pity.”

  She jerked her head around to stare at him. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.” He walked past her to the end of the driveway, peering down the road. “You think they’ll be back?”

  “I doubt it. Once you get that badly stuck in the snow it pretty much ruins things.” She could get a good look at him with his back turned to her. He was thinner than she remembered—instead of the buff golden boy she’d once been uneasily aware of, he was now wiry, almost tough, wearing rough winter clothes that had seen better days, and his unbleached hair was too long.

  She’d had a crush on him—she might as well admit it. She and Jeffrey had gone together practically since childhood, and she’d never really noticed anyone else, believing in their fantasy of soul mates, but she’d noticed Brody. Who could miss him, with his easy charm and effortless grace? He’d dated just about every age-appropriate, halfway-decent-looking female in the summer population, except for her, of course.

  And out of the blue, she suddenly remembered Ariel Bartlett.

  Fate hadn’t been kind to Ariel. She’d been plump, plain and hardworking, and had come from a family who’d farmed in Crescent Cove since the early 1800s. Her mother had given her that particularly unsuitable name, and she’d made her way through life, seemingly stolid and unimaginative, working as a waitress for Mort’s Diner, working as a checkout girl at BK’s Grocery, working at the Crescent Cove Harbor Club during the summers, while the teenage children of the vacationers played. She’d had a huge, embarrassingly obvious crush on Brody, and they’d all found it vastly amusing. Jeffrey in particular ha
d taken to calling her Brody’s pet cow, and he’d told Angie she was being a stick-in-the-mud when she’d tried to silence him.

  Not that it would have done much good. Everyone thought her calf-eyed devotion was a riot. Everyone except Brody.

  He’d never said a thing when people teased him, and he’d been unfailingly kind to Ariel. And at the Founder’s Day dance, which always signaled the end of the summer, he’d brought her as his date, treating her with exquisite sweetness, much to Jeffrey’s amusement.

  That should have tipped Angie off to the fact that her intended was a snake, but she’d been too busy living up to expectations. And trying to ignore the fact that some tiny part of her, for the first time in her life, wanted to be Ariel Bartlett.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  Brody turned to look at her. “Do what? Steal billions of dollars from the unwitting?”

  For a moment she was distracted. “Did you? Really?”

  He shrugged. “I was a major executive at Worldcomp, and I should have known what was happening. I’m responsible.”

  “But you didn’t do it, did you? Those slimy older brothers of yours did.”

  “Why would you care?”

  “Actually, I don’t. I was asking you about something else.”

  He didn’t move. “I’m waiting.”

  “Why did you bring Ariel Bartlett to the Founder’s Day dance?”

  She’d manage to surprise him, but he recovered quickly enough. “Maybe I thought she deserved to have a night where she wasn’t waiting on a bunch of spoiled kids who laughed at her. Or maybe I knew she had a crush on me and I decided to be condescending enough to give her the thrill of a lifetime. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought of her.”

  “You’ll be glad to hear she’s a very successful chef in Philadelphia. She’s happily married with two children.”

  “I know that. This is a small town, remember. Have you kept in touch with her?”

  He sighed. “What the hell does it matter to you, Angel?”

  She’d forgotten he’d called her Angel. The only one who ever had, it had been both mocking and oddly affectionate back in those days. “It doesn’t.”