here tomorrow.” Turning, he met her lovely, now narrowed, aquamarine eyes. “That’s the final word on it.”
Oh, yeah? Dinah thought as His Highness bent down to pick up the larger pieces of glass. His denim shirt strained against his back and nearly separated from his low-riding, dusty blue jeans. Urban cowboy. Dirt-bag. Slimy Hollywood ass-kisser. All producers were ass-kissers and John Callahan was no exception.
In measured silence, she waited until he’d turned on one booted heel and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Then she exhaled a short, angry sigh. A detached part of her mind seemed fixated on those dangerously low blue jeans, the “cowboy” sway of his hips, his long legs. The man dressed as if he’d stepped out of a western film himself, a look he clearly cultivated.
He was so damnably cool, whereas she was shaken to the core.
Could he be telling the truth? Did he own this house? His certainty had knocked her sideways, and she still felt unsteady.
Could it just be an elaborate lie on his part? Because he sensed how off balance she was?
No. There was no point. What was the truth?
“Arrogant ass,” she muttered under her breath, furious with herself for being such a coward. Where was her anger now? Where was that wave of indignation she’d been riding? How had he turned his own actions into a dissection of hers?
She heard him rummaging in a cupboard and then the clink of glassware. That’s right. Pour yourself another drink. Drink every last drop of liquor in the world and die of cirrhosis of the liver, you slimy, shit-kicking bastard.
Dinah drew a breath. She had to talk to Denise. Immediately. She needed answers. She needed help. She was running blind and it was a distinctly disadvantageous position to be in with the likes of John Callahan.
But she had a terrible feeling this was exactly the kind of pickle Denise had envisioned. That’s why Denise had lied. That’s why she’d deliberately left her cell phone behind. To get her sister to commit to all this because there was no way Dinah would have allowed herself into this position if she’d dreamed for one second that John Callahan would show up and demand possession.
And Denise had wanted Dinah to fix everything for her. Again. Just like always.
With a supreme effort of will, Dinah swallowed back her emotions, tiptoed around the remainder of the broken glass, and headed for the sanctity of her bedroom.
Scottsdale, Arizona. Hot, ugly—unless you were into saguaro cacti, which she definitely was not—and full of resorts and scattered housing developments. The landscape was so barren, it could have been on the moon. Hell, even the saguaros looked otherworldly. It once was the chi-chi thing to buy a clay replica of one and top it with a little western hat and sling a scarf around its center finger, but now Denise found them slightly obscene. If one were into phallic symbols, the way these guys thrust their stuff skyward, prickly with thorns or no, you couldn’t hope to miss the open come-on.
The Mercedes slid to a halt in the circular brown-tile drive beneath the hotel entry awning. Two attendants rushed out to help her. Denise slid out, touched one attendant’s waiting hand, and was jolted with enough static electricity to stand her hair on end.
“Electrifying,” she muttered ironically as the attendant’s eyes widened in recognition.
“Denise Scott!” he exclaimed.
His thrill at meeting her was just the medicine Denise needed right now. No tricks. No guile. Just honest excitement at meeting a film star.
Yesterday’s film star . . .
With an effort she ignored her own nasty conscience. Gesturing to the landscape, she asked, “Is this place really as ugly as it seems?”
“You don’t like the desert?” He looked stricken.
“I don’t like anything,” she admitted, her lips twisting to take the sting out of it.
The other attendant was searching vainly in the backseat for some sign of
Oh, yeah? Dinah thought as His Highness bent down to pick up the larger pieces of glass. His denim shirt strained against his back and nearly separated from his low-riding, dusty blue jeans. Urban cowboy. Dirt-bag. Slimy Hollywood ass-kisser. All producers were ass-kissers and John Callahan was no exception.
In measured silence, she waited until he’d turned on one booted heel and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Then she exhaled a short, angry sigh. A detached part of her mind seemed fixated on those dangerously low blue jeans, the “cowboy” sway of his hips, his long legs. The man dressed as if he’d stepped out of a western film himself, a look he clearly cultivated.
He was so damnably cool, whereas she was shaken to the core.
Could he be telling the truth? Did he own this house? His certainty had knocked her sideways, and she still felt unsteady.
Could it just be an elaborate lie on his part? Because he sensed how off balance she was?
No. There was no point. What was the truth?
“Arrogant ass,” she muttered under her breath, furious with herself for being such a coward. Where was her anger now? Where was that wave of indignation she’d been riding? How had he turned his own actions into a dissection of hers?
She heard him rummaging in a cupboard and then the clink of glassware. That’s right. Pour yourself another drink. Drink every last drop of liquor in the world and die of cirrhosis of the liver, you slimy, shit-kicking bastard.
Dinah drew a breath. She had to talk to Denise. Immediately. She needed answers. She needed help. She was running blind and it was a distinctly disadvantageous position to be in with the likes of John Callahan.
But she had a terrible feeling this was exactly the kind of pickle Denise had envisioned. That’s why Denise had lied. That’s why she’d deliberately left her cell phone behind. To get her sister to commit to all this because there was no way Dinah would have allowed herself into this position if she’d dreamed for one second that John Callahan would show up and demand possession.
And Denise had wanted Dinah to fix everything for her. Again. Just like always.
With a supreme effort of will, Dinah swallowed back her emotions, tiptoed around the remainder of the broken glass, and headed for the sanctity of her bedroom.
Scottsdale, Arizona. Hot, ugly—unless you were into saguaro cacti, which she definitely was not—and full of resorts and scattered housing developments. The landscape was so barren, it could have been on the moon. Hell, even the saguaros looked otherworldly. It once was the chi-chi thing to buy a clay replica of one and top it with a little western hat and sling a scarf around its center finger, but now Denise found them slightly obscene. If one were into phallic symbols, the way these guys thrust their stuff skyward, prickly with thorns or no, you couldn’t hope to miss the open come-on.
The Mercedes slid to a halt in the circular brown-tile drive beneath the hotel entry awning. Two attendants rushed out to help her. Denise slid out, touched one attendant’s waiting hand, and was jolted with enough static electricity to stand her hair on end.
“Electrifying,” she muttered ironically as the attendant’s eyes widened in recognition.
“Denise Scott!” he exclaimed.
His thrill at meeting her was just the medicine Denise needed right now. No tricks. No guile. Just honest excitement at meeting a film star.
Yesterday’s film star . . .
With an effort she ignored her own nasty conscience. Gesturing to the landscape, she asked, “Is this place really as ugly as it seems?”
“You don’t like the desert?” He looked stricken.
“I don’t like anything,” she admitted, her lips twisting to take the sting out of it.
The other attendant was searching vainly in the backseat for some sign of
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