The Full Story

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 off toward the gate.

She followed along, unable to force the cliché—a lean, mean, fighting machine—from her mind.

His shoulders were ridiculously broad, and the way his T-shirt pulled tautly across his back left no doubt that there were a whole lot of muscles beneath the black cotton.

Yes, she had to give him points for being in good shape. And for his voice.

It was nice and deep, with a barely there drawl that was just enough to make her sure he’d grown up somewhere in the South. She doubted he ever got accused of being a Southern gentleman, though.

He didn’t strike her as a ladies’ man—almost definitely not married and probably didn’t even have a serious girlfriend. Her intuition about that sort of thing was seldom wrong, and his body language clearly said loner.

But what did she care about any of that? All she cared about was getting past this guy to Billy Brent.

AFTER MICKEY WESTOVER took her purse from the trunk, Dan checked every piece of ID that she had, ignoring the way she was doing a poor job of concealing her annoyance. That done, he had a careful second look at both her driver’s license and her Post staff card.

The pictures on them definitely matched the woman—long hair the color of a good cigar, big brown eyes, Julia Roberts lips. And nothing else in her wallet was obviously phony. However, any self-respecting killer would carry top-quality fakes. And since the only visitor he’d been expecting, aside from a courier, was the person out to whack Billy…

He’d assumed it would be a man. But, hey, this was the twenty-first century. There were more and more hit women out there all the time. And Mickey Westover—if that really was her name—could easily be one of them.

Or maybe she was a forerunner for the killer. Sent to check the lay of the land and report back.

But, hell, every now and then his suspicions got the better of him and this was probably one of those times. Most likely, she was exactly who she claimed to be and Billy just hadn’t thought to mention their appointment.

He might not even have remembered making it. With Billy, you could never be sure what he’d deposited in his memory bank and what had just slipped on by it.

“So?” Mickey said. “You’re satisfied I’m legit?”

“Uh-huh. Regardless of that, though, Mr. Brent isn’t here right now.”

“Then why,” she said, gesturing toward the wallet he was still holding, “have we been playing this little ID game?”

She was so clearly pissed off and trying not to show it that he almost laughed.

Resisting the impulse, he handed over her wallet and said, “I had to be sure who you were—whether Mr. Brent was here or not.”

“Yes. Of course,” she said, sticking the wallet back into her purse. “And at least, now, you’ll be a step ahead when he gets back.”

She stood watching him after she’d finished speaking, looking more suspicious by the second and finally saying, “He will be getting back, won’t he?”

Damn. He couldn’t say no. With everyone from Billy’s agent to his PR handler claiming that he was up in Canada, enjoying a little time at his island retreat, if he admitted the man wasn’t here at all…

Well, he could just imagine how Mickey Westover’s cute little journalistic nose would start to quiver.

But if he told her Billy would be back, he’d bet that she’d want to wait right here for him.

“Look,” he said at last. “He won’t be home until late. And you’ve got a long drive from here back to…I assume you’re staying in Victoria?”

“That’s where I stayed last night. But I checked out of my hotel this morning, thinking I’d be flying back to San Francisco tonight. I can’t go home without the interview, though,” she added quickly.

“No, of course not. So let’s play things this way. I’ll wait up for Billy and we’ll reschedule your appointment. And you can find a motel that’s a lot closer than Victoria. Then, if you call me first thing in the morning, I’ll tell you what time to be here.” Dan did his best to look sincere even though what he’d really do, come morning, was tell her that Billy had changed his mind, had decided he didn’t want pictures of this place in any newspaper.

After that, if she was the real thing she’d get on a plane and head home. And if she wasn’t the real thing…well, he certainly knew what he’d do then.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could wait here for him,” she finally said, just as he’d known she would.

“Sorry,” he told her, trying to sound as if he really meant it. “But Mr. Brent’s liable to be very late. And the thought of an overnight guest he’s never even met… There are some things he just doesn’t go for.”

“I understand,” she murmured.

He watched her climb into her car and set her purse and camera bag on the passenger seat, surprised that she was giving up so easily.

Apparently she didn’t have the bulldog tenacity of most reporters, which probably explained why she got handed dumb assignments like…what had she said the series was called?

Oh, yeah, Hideouts of the Stars. Not much doubt she wouldn’t be winning a Pulitzer for that one.

It was just as well she wasn’t tenacious, though. The sooner she was gone and he could get back to those monitor screens—and resume watching for the real killer—the better.

He waited while she turned the car around. Then she gave him a little wave as she started off.

No hard feelings, it seemed to say.

But that wasn’t what she’d be thinking come morning, when he told her there wouldn’t be any interview.

MICKEY HEADED back toward the Trans-Canada Highway, which struck her as a grandiose name for a twisty-turny, two-lane mountain road. On the drive up here, she’d wondered several times what the secondary highways must be like.

At any rate, she drove more than far enough from Billy’s hideaway to insure that the sound of her engine had faded from Mr. Dan O’Neill’s range of hearing. Then she pulled over.

The man hadn’t been straight with her.

She wasn’t sure exactly what clue she’d picked up on. There’d been nothing in those cold blue eyes of his to tip her off.

But she was certain he’d been lying. And since her sixth sense seldom failed her, she suspected that Billy Brent was actually right there in his retreat. Exactly where he was supposed to be.