The Full Story

She pulled up to the intercom speaker and said, “I’m here to see Mr. Brent.”

There was no response, although she was sure she’d found the right place. According to Billy, the road dead-ended at his property. And this was clearly the end of the line.

After combing her fingers through her hair, she climbed out of the rental to check the gate—and wasn’t at all surprised when she found it locked, even though the risk of riffraff banging on Billy Brent’s door had to be minimal up here.

When a second attempt to rouse someone via the speaker failed, she tried a couple of honks on the horn. That did no good, either. So what was her next move?

Glancing at her cellular, she wished Billy had entrusted her with his number. Then she could simply phone to say she’d arrived. But since she couldn’t do that, there seemed to be only one option left.

She absently rubbed her palms across her jeans, thinking she’d feel better about the idea of climbing over the gate and hiking down the driveway if she didn’t know that Billy had a hundred acres here. Or if she could see exactly how far his hideaway was from the road.

For all she knew the drive was miles long, winding its way through forest that looked just as dense inside the fence as outside.

Her gaze drifted uneasily back to the sign.

No Hunting obviously implied there were things to hunt. And since she’d been warned that the woods were full of bears and cougars, she wasn’t thinking in terms of bunny rabbits.

Still, surely the odds of becoming some animal’s lunch weren’t very high. So she’d simply be glad the sign’s third line didn’t read Trespassers Will Be Shot.

And that there wasn’t a fourth one saying Even Expected Visitors Are At Risk.

She wouldn’t have been shocked by either. Billy’s retreat might be in Canada, where the gun laws were strict, 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?”