The Full Story. Dawn Stewardson

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СКАЧАТЬ but he had a reputation for disregarding laws. He apparently fancied himself this generation’s Clint Eastwood, and she’d heard that he had trouble preventing his screen roles from blurring into his real life.

      Of course, he was such hot box office that there was always someone to bail him out of trouble. Otherwise, if even a quarter of the stories about his antics were true, his current residence would be prison.

      She tucked her cell phone into her purse and got out of the car, then retrieved her camera bag from the trunk and considered whether she should take anything else with her.

      Billy had specified no tape recorder, and her laptop wasn’t always essential for this type of interview; often the notebook she kept with her camera was enough. And it didn’t make sense to overload herself when she had a gate to climb and heaven only knows how far to walk.

      Deciding that if she did need the computer she could always come back for it, she stashed her purse in the trunk, next to her carry-on. After locking up, she slung the camera bag over her shoulder and told herself to get moving. She had an appointment to keep.

      Besides, she thought with a final glance at the sign, a moving target was harder to hit.

      Trying not to imagine Billy Brent lurking on his porch with an AK-47, she clambered over the gate—having been a tomboy had left her with numerous handy skills—and started down the driveway. She’d only walked about a hundred feet before a couple of crows went into scream mode overhead.

      Seized by the horrible feeling that they were yelling, “Watch out for the bear,” she picked up her pace. A second later she was tackled from behind.

      She landed facedown in the dirt and dizzy from the impact, with someone straddling her and pressing what had to be a gun against the back of her head.

      Her life didn’t flash before her, but the fear sweeping through her was so strong she figured cardiac arrest was imminent. Before she could make her voice work, her assailant said, “Just lie still while I check for weapons. Then I’ll let you up.”

      Okay. Take a slow, deep breath and try to reduce the amount of adrenaline rushing through her. As terrified as she felt, he’d sounded so matter-of-fact that she probably wasn’t a mere instant away from death. He was more likely Billy’s bodyguard than a crazed mountain man, which meant she’d be okay. Except for the humiliation of his patting her down.

      She gritted her teeth as he ran one hand thoroughly over her body—while keeping the gun to her head with the other.

      Evidently satisfied that she was clean, he reached over to where her camera case had landed beside her and began rummaging through its contents.

      “If you broke my Nikon…” she muttered into the ground.

      “It’s fine, but you’re lucky I didn’t break your neck. You’re trespassing.”

      He pushed himself up, then grabbed the back of her belt and hauled her to her feet.

      “Who are you?” he demanded, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and turning her around to face him. “And what are you doing here?”

      She hated being manhandled, and the urge to kick him in the shin was almost uncontrollable. However, since his gun looked even bigger than it had felt, she settled for merely scowling at him while she brushed half a pound of dirt and pine needles off herself.

      He scowled right back, his eyes the color of cold blue steel and filled with suspicion. But growing up with three older brothers had taught her everything she needed to know about glaring contests, so she stood her ground and sized the guy up.

      He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, with dark hair that was far too short for her taste.

      And he wasn’t exceptionally tall—only about an even six feet.

      As for his face, he had a crescent shaped scar above his upper lip that she’d guess had been carved by a knife. Aside from that, he resembled a young Richard Gere. Sort of. A young Richard Gere with a marine haircut.

      In fact, Mr. Scar-face probably wouldn’t be bad looking if he smiled. And if his eyes held even a hint of warmth.

      “I asked who you are,” he reminded her at last.

      He’d stuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans, but he still wasn’t exhibiting the slightest trace of friendliness. So if she had any hope of actually getting to see Billy, she’d better try being at least reasonably pleasant.

      “My name’s Michelle Westover,” she told him. “Mickey Westover.”

      “To your friends,” he said, his tone suggesting that wasn’t what he’d be calling her.

      “Yes. To my friends.”

      She forced a smile, then bent to retrieve her camera bag and checked her camera. It really did seem okay.

      “And you’re here because…?”

      “Mr. Brent is expecting me.”

      “Yeah?”

      She nodded. “I have an appointment.”

      “Oh?”

      “I made it a week ago. I called his agent, his agent contacted him, and Mr. Brent phoned me. I gather he didn’t mention anything about it to you?”

      “That’s right. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here to see him.”

      “And who would I be telling?” she said, trying not to let the question sound too snotty.

      “I’m Dan O’Neill. An associate of Mr. Brent’s.”

      “A bodyguard-type associate?”

      He shrugged. “Something like that. So this appointment is to…?”

      The man was focused, she’d give him that.

      “I’m a photojournalist with The San Francisco Post. The Arts and Entertainment section. We’ve been running a series called Hideouts of the Stars, and Mr. Brent agreed to an interview.”

      O’Neill eyed her for a moment. “If you do a spread on somebody’s hideout…doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of having one?”

      That was exactly what she’d initially thought, but since the party line was that everything the Post’s senior editors decided on made perfect sense, she merely said, “We never get specific about exactly where a place is—just publish photographs of it along with an article based on the interview.”

      O’Neill still seemed skeptical, but all he said was, “I’ll have to see some ID.”

      “I left my purse in the car. Locked in the trunk,” she elaborated when his expression suggested that only an idiot would leave her purse in a car.

      But what was he thinking might happen to it out here in the wilderness? That a deer would lift it and take a trip to Mexico on one of her credit cards?

      He didn’t tell her what he was thinking, just said, “Let’s go,” and started СКАЧАТЬ