Bad Influence

Another surprise. No biker buddy, no bar fight. “Is she all right?”

“Nothing she won’t survive. She’s a tough one. How about yours?”

“A little dinged up. They’re keeping him overnight for observation.”

The clerk called out a name.

“How about that?” The bandito rose. “And just when things were getting interesting.”

“That you?”

“Looks like I’m getting out of purgatory.”

“I guess I’ve got a few more sins to work off.”

He stopped and looked at her. “Now there’s a thought that’ll keep me up tonight.” He started to walk away and turned back. “Hey, listen, I play Thursday nights at Eddie’s on the waterfront. Maybe you could come by.”

Paige blinked. Not a biker, not a bandit. A musician. She looked again at those hands and, despite herself, she was intrigued. Too bad it wasn’t possible. “I’ll try to do that if I’m still in town,” she said.

“Here’s hoping you wind up with a reason to stick around, then.” And he grinned, stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away.

2

M ORNING GENERALLY had a way of making things feel better, even if they didn’t look it. Paige studied her grandfather from a chair in his room. A purplish-red bruise blossomed on his left temple, but the blurry, unfocused look was gone from his eyes. Under protest, he’d stayed in his hospital gown and in bed, tapping his fingers impatiently as they waited for the doctor, the hot-pink cast gaily incongruous against the white coverlet.

“Your idea?” He nodded at his arm.

Paige’s lips twitched. “I thought you could grow to love it.”

“I’m never taking pain medication again. God only knows how I’ll wake up next time.”

“Look at it this way—it could have been argyle.” She grinned, relieved to have him back to his old self.

“I spoke with your father this morning,” he said.

“I called him last night before I went to bed. I thought he ought to know.”

“I suppose you’re right,” her grandfather said grudgingly. “But it’s not like I’m really hurt. Now he’s making plans to come over in a month or two.”

“Is he?” she asked, pleased. “It’ll be good to see him.”

“No sense in him leaving his work. I’m fine—or I would be if they’d let me out of here.”

Paige grinned. “I don’t think U.S.-Czech relations are going to be destroyed if Dad leaves for a week, Granddad. He cares about you. Besides, if the positions were reversed, you’d be the one dragging me to get on a flight to Prague.”

“I suppose. We’ll have to see if we can all manage to get together while he’s here.”

“Definitely. I’ll give him a call next week to see if he knows anything about when he’ll—”

“Good morning.” The hazel-eyed doctor walked in, clipboard in hand. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” her grandfather said. “A little sore but ready to leave.”

“I’m not surprised,” the doctor said and ran Lyndon through a brisk exam, like a mechanic running an engine through its paces. “Sit up a little.”

Lyndon winced.

“Chest hurt? That’s the torn cartilage. It’s going to take time.” He handed Lyndon a prescription. “This is for the pain. They should take the edge off for the first couple of weeks. They’ll help with the ankle, too. You’re going to want to keep off that as much as possible. Rent a wheelchair and use it.” He turned to Paige. “Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes settled again on her grandfather. “Other than that, you’re cleared to go. Just be sure to come back here Friday for a follow up. I assume you’re going to take care of that?” He looked at Paige inquiringly.

Lyndon cleared his throat. “Paige lives in Los Angeles. I’ll get a driver to take me around.”

“You’re going to need more than a driver,” the doctor told them. “For a couple of weeks, you’re going to need help with everything—getting in and out of bed, standing up, sitting down, all of it. You need someone full-time.”

“He’ll have someone,” Paige said assuringly and looked at her grandfather. “I’ll stay until you’re up and around.”

“But you have a business to run,” Lyndon protested.

She smiled. “I think my boss will understand.” Whether her clients would be prepared to brook a month or more delay on their projects was another question, but she didn’t consider staying a matter of choice. For her grandfather, she’d do just about anything.

“I’ve got Maria,” Lyndon said.

“Maria’s a housekeeper and a cook, not a nurse. And, anyway, you know it would drive you crazy to have her underfoot all the time.”

“It’ll drive me crazy to have you underfoot,” Lyndon grumbled, but beneath the bluster he looked grateful and more than a little relieved.

Paige just laughed and pressed a smacking kiss on him. “You don’t have a choice, Grandpappy. You’re at my mercy. Come on, let’s get you dressed and out of here. It’s time to go home.”

T HE BIG TOWN CAR purred along the curving road that headed up the bluffs toward Lyndon’s home. There hadn’t been a chance in hell that he would have fit into Paige’s sporty little BMW, and his Cadillac was currently the worse for wear. Hiring a car and driver had merely been pragmatic, and if she enjoyed the luxury of being able to admire the city instead of watching where she was going, that didn’t make her a bad person, did it?

Santa Barbara perched between the steep backdrop of the Santa Ynez Mountains and the blue of the Pacific. In the sun that burned through the coastal morning overcast, the ubiquitous terra-cotta roofs gleamed.

One of the comforting things about Santa Barbara was that little changed. Forget about Spanish Revival, the city was original Spanish, right down to the two-hundred-year-old Franciscan mission tucked away in the heart of town. In most places, a major tourist attraction would be surrounded by shops and restaurants. In Santa Barbara, the mission and its accompanying greensward sat in the midst of homes and quiet streets, even as it had been surrounded by adobes in the eighteenth century.

The mission was one of her earliest memories, walking down the stairs from the Favreau estate, holding hands with her father and mother. The original mansion had been built on the bluffs overlooking the mission perhaps a hundred years before by Lyndon’s oil-magnate grandfather. Then the stock market crash of ’29 and the thirties had hit, decimating the Favreau family fortunes. Lyndon’s father had sold off the main house and most of the land, retaining only the mother-in-law’s cottage that he’d built in the twenties—if any ten-thousand-square-foot home could properly be called a cottage.

Only one reminder of the long-ago glory days remained—the gate in the wall between the two properties. Once, it had been open so relatives could come and go. Now it was just a locked door between Lyndon’s house and his neighbor’s.

He stirred as they drove up to his estate. “That’s what caused it all.”

“What?”

“The sign.” He pointed.

“You got into a car accident because of a sign?” Paige stared at her grandfather.