invited to your brother's wedding, the pressure from the press is going to heat up. You're the only one in your family who lives on Earth. And the only one who's single. You're a natural target."
Ilana felt the unfairness of it all overwhelm her. "I don't want to be a target. I just want to live my life. And you didn't let me tell them that."
"You're whining."
Ilana gripped the steering wheel. "Damn right, I'm whining. I deserve to whine." The flying clinic, the invitation, and now this? All she wanted to do was crawl home and hide, order Chinese and listen to the surf. "Besides, I've always been able to whine to you," she added with a pleading smile.
Linda pushed aside Ilana's hair so she could see her face. "And you always can," she agreed. A second later she added, "I'm sorry about the whetting. I just said the first thing that popped into my mind. I'm a book reviewer and your personal assistant. A retired teacher. I never said I was a press agent."
Keeping her eyes on the road, Ilana shook her head. Then she reached across the seat and squeezed the woman's hand. "I'll drive around a bit, give the news folks a chance to clear out. Then I'll take you back to your car."
"Whatever it takes. I'm in no hurry."
Ilana gave Linda's hand one last squeeze. "Thanks."
They drove up and down the backstreets. She merged onto the freeway, heading back in the opposite direction, blankly, as if she were driving on autopilot.
Her heart skipped a beat. Autopilot. Airplanes. Spaceships.
Stop!
The beginnings of a headache pressed behind her eyes. Cheesecake and a glass of Chardonnay were hell on an empty stomach. The last thing she needed was a carb overdose when she was stressing.
Her thoughts swung back to the news people. "She called me Earth's Cinderella-heiress."
"Well, you are, technically, an heiress, Ilana. To the galaxy's richest family."
Ilana frowned. She'd never thought of herself as an heiress. It wasn't denial, exactly; she just hadn't made that mental leap with regard to her identity. Heiresses were people whose names ended in Woolworth or Rockefeller, not women who bought supermarket shampoo and used those dryer sheets to save on dry cleaning bills.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "Word on the street. The reporter said that, too. What the heck did she mean? I haven't heard anything."
"Neither have I, if it makes you feel better."
Ilana had been combing newspapers, magazines, TV, and the Web, looking for inspiration for a new film, but nothing had yet sparked her interest. She'd felt so… uninspired. Scriptwriters suffered writer's block. This must be filmmaker's block. But if there had been gossip about her, she would have seen it.
She hoped tonight's incident didn't mean that her privacy had come to an end. Other than an unlisted number and an assumed name on her mailbox, she hadn't needed to do much to stay anonymous, despite her family's high profile. Had that now changed?
A strange suffocating sensation enveloped her.
"Are you okay?" Linda asked.
Ilana huffed, "If they think they're going to discover any gossip-column tidbits about my social life over the next six months, they're going to be very disappointed."
And if they expected to see her hanging on some alien prince's arm, they were dreaming.
It was after eleven when Ilana finally pulled into the carport below her building, across the street from the beach in Santa Monica. Twenty condominiums had been salvaged from what used to be an old office complex. Although the building had a chronological age of seventy years, remodeling had made its age feel closer to five. Ilana had lived in her condo for three.
It was early for a Friday night. Most of the other tenants' spaces were empty. Ilana gathered her purse, slipped her shoes back on. Then she noticed an unfamiliar car parked by the curb.
Its engine was off. Its interior lights were on. A lone man sat inside, watching her.
Darkness shadowed his features. Cole? No. Cole didn't
Ilana felt the unfairness of it all overwhelm her. "I don't want to be a target. I just want to live my life. And you didn't let me tell them that."
"You're whining."
Ilana gripped the steering wheel. "Damn right, I'm whining. I deserve to whine." The flying clinic, the invitation, and now this? All she wanted to do was crawl home and hide, order Chinese and listen to the surf. "Besides, I've always been able to whine to you," she added with a pleading smile.
Linda pushed aside Ilana's hair so she could see her face. "And you always can," she agreed. A second later she added, "I'm sorry about the whetting. I just said the first thing that popped into my mind. I'm a book reviewer and your personal assistant. A retired teacher. I never said I was a press agent."
Keeping her eyes on the road, Ilana shook her head. Then she reached across the seat and squeezed the woman's hand. "I'll drive around a bit, give the news folks a chance to clear out. Then I'll take you back to your car."
"Whatever it takes. I'm in no hurry."
Ilana gave Linda's hand one last squeeze. "Thanks."
They drove up and down the backstreets. She merged onto the freeway, heading back in the opposite direction, blankly, as if she were driving on autopilot.
Her heart skipped a beat. Autopilot. Airplanes. Spaceships.
Stop!
The beginnings of a headache pressed behind her eyes. Cheesecake and a glass of Chardonnay were hell on an empty stomach. The last thing she needed was a carb overdose when she was stressing.
Her thoughts swung back to the news people. "She called me Earth's Cinderella-heiress."
"Well, you are, technically, an heiress, Ilana. To the galaxy's richest family."
Ilana frowned. She'd never thought of herself as an heiress. It wasn't denial, exactly; she just hadn't made that mental leap with regard to her identity. Heiresses were people whose names ended in Woolworth or Rockefeller, not women who bought supermarket shampoo and used those dryer sheets to save on dry cleaning bills.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "Word on the street. The reporter said that, too. What the heck did she mean? I haven't heard anything."
"Neither have I, if it makes you feel better."
Ilana had been combing newspapers, magazines, TV, and the Web, looking for inspiration for a new film, but nothing had yet sparked her interest. She'd felt so… uninspired. Scriptwriters suffered writer's block. This must be filmmaker's block. But if there had been gossip about her, she would have seen it.
She hoped tonight's incident didn't mean that her privacy had come to an end. Other than an unlisted number and an assumed name on her mailbox, she hadn't needed to do much to stay anonymous, despite her family's high profile. Had that now changed?
A strange suffocating sensation enveloped her.
"Are you okay?" Linda asked.
Ilana huffed, "If they think they're going to discover any gossip-column tidbits about my social life over the next six months, they're going to be very disappointed."
And if they expected to see her hanging on some alien prince's arm, they were dreaming.
It was after eleven when Ilana finally pulled into the carport below her building, across the street from the beach in Santa Monica. Twenty condominiums had been salvaged from what used to be an old office complex. Although the building had a chronological age of seventy years, remodeling had made its age feel closer to five. Ilana had lived in her condo for three.
It was early for a Friday night. Most of the other tenants' spaces were empty. Ilana gathered her purse, slipped her shoes back on. Then she noticed an unfamiliar car parked by the curb.
Its engine was off. Its interior lights were on. A lone man sat inside, watching her.
Darkness shadowed his features. Cole? No. Cole didn't
Similar Books
