Collision (2 page)

I unlocked the door, slid it open, and walked to the edge of the balcony.

Instant screaming.

Noise—it was everywhere I went and never ending.

The bright sunlight made it difficult to see, but I didn’t really need to be able to see. I knew exactly what was on the sidewalk below me. A throng of young girls and women mixed in with several photographers. I gave them a quick wave (which brought out more screaming) and then dashed back into the room, locked the door behind me, and threw the curtains shut.

I knew better than to walk outside, but in my grogginess—and to the delight of those waiting below—I hadn’t thought things through. Pictures of my messy morning look would be zipping around the Internet before I could count to ten. Worse, I was shirtless and wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. My mother would be horrified, my agent thrilled.

“Room service,” a voice outside the hotel door announced.

I threw on some jeans while checking through the peephole to make sure it was actually a waiter and not a fan. I opened the door and let him wheel the cart into the room and neatly place the plates, silverware, and glasses on the dining room table. Once everything was in place, he pulled off the lids, revealing an egg white omelet, turkey bacon, and perfectly toasted wheat bread with no butter.

“Have you enjoyed your time in Australia?” he asked as he poured a cup of coffee.

“I don’t even think I left the hotel.”

“Oh.” He set the carafe down and then motioned toward the food. “Is this satisfactory?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Thank you, sir.” He bowed slightly before sneaking out the door and leaving me alone in the huge, overly decorated room.

I took one look at the food and put the cover back on. I was sick of hotels and hotel food. I wanted Lucky Charms with 2 percent milk, although if I did eat that particular meal and admitted it to my trainer, I’d end up spending an extra hour or two in the gym.

My exit from the hotel was as perfectly choreographed as a dance number in a hip-hop video. The limo driver called when he was less than three minutes out, at which time I threw on my ball cap and sunglasses, threw my sweatshirt hood over my head, left my room, and jumped onto the elevator, where Andrew, my bodyguard, and three other men were waiting so that they could come between me and whoever decided to throw themselves at me as I walked through the lobby.

Against the urging from my security detail, I detoured from the plan and walked to the reception desk as we made our way out. My appearance startled the small brunette standing behind the counter.

“Hello,” I said, leaning on the counter.

“Uh…uh…h-h-hello. How can I help you, Mr. Stone?”

“I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed the hotel and staff.”

“Well, thank you.”

“No. Thank you. I—”

Before I could finish my thought, Andrew shoved me toward the exit. We raced through the lobby, out the front door, and into the screaming masses. I scribbled my signature on the photos that people held in front of me, said a few hello’s and thank-you’s while avoiding returning any I love you’s. As crazy as some fans were, if I were to say the magical three words, they might actually believe I meant them.

The three words have zero effect on me. How many I love you’s can one person hear in their lifetime before every voice starts to sound the same and the words themselves become meaningless? I’ve often wondered if even hearing them from someone I wanted to hear them from would have any effect on me, if I’d be able to let it into my heart and into my mind while at the same time keeping all the other proclamations of the same thing from others outside. Could I believe it and accept it from one while ignoring it from the masses?

It was funny because the fans didn’t know me enough to really love me, and if they really knew me, they wouldn’t love me at all. They loved the idea of me or the characters I portrayed. Me, on the other hand, they didn’t know a thing about; and honestly, I’m not so sure I did either.

Andrew announced that I’d given enough autographs and had to leave before shoving me into the waiting limo. We drove off, leaving the screaming mob to run after us until the driver gained enough speed to leave them in our dust.

More screaming fans lined the airport entrance, and paparazzi stood and snapped picture after picture as I placed my bags on the conveyer belt at the security station. Again, I tried to ignore them as they yelled my name in hopes that I would look their direction. The sounds of camera shutters increased in speed when I triggered the alarm on the metal detector and had to pull everything out of my pockets, hold my arms up, and spread my legs so I could be searched by a civilian employee wielding a metal-detecting wand.

I’d seen my picture splashed across enough magazines to know what type of shot they were looking for. These pictures would be a hit, and the paparazzi would be able to feed their families for months simply because I got stopped and wanded at the airport.

Finally through the security barrier, I was in the clear. If I lowered my cap over my eyes and kept my head down, I could remain relatively unknown until I was safely on the plane. In normal everyday clothes and with my head covered, I blended in with everyone around me. There was nothing extraordinary about me.

I waited for the plane to arrive by hiding out in the airline VIP lounge and waited until the final call before finally boarding the plane, strapping myself into my first-class seat, and stretching my legs out.

I couldn’t wait to escape the madness.

C H A P T E R

2

Oliver’s vacation home was hidden on several acres of tree-filled land far away from the city limits. After driving through the gate off the main road, it was still an extra quarter of a mile drive up to the house and away from the attention of others. Once the taxi dropped me off, it was just me. I was alone, and it was quiet. I liked it a lot.

I never used to like to be alone, but now, given the circumstances, I couldn’t wait to get away from people. Time to get away from the noise and the distraction, time to think clearly and contemplate life, something I hadn’t had time to do in over a year. Life was moving at such a fast pace that I didn’t have time to think about what I’d eat for breakfast, let alone what I wanted to do for the next five years of my life. I hadn’t chosen this life; it chose me, and now I was left with trying to get on board and enjoy the ride.

After giving myself a tour of the main house, I grabbed my luggage and carried it to the guesthouse, which would be my home for the next few months.

The front door and window off the main room looked on to the elaborate pool, and the bedroom, which was at the back of the small house, looked into the forest. There must have been good nature viewing, because an overstuffed chair was situated in front of the window and binoculars sat on the small side table, along with a book about birds and other animals that wandered the forests in this part of the country. I hoped the slower pace never became so underwhelming that I’d actually make use of the book or binoculars. I couldn’t imagine anything being more boring.

I unpacked my stuff, threw all my clothes into a pile on a chair, slid the suitcases under the bed, and then stood, looking around the room. I’d been waiting months for a chance to relax, and now that I had the opportunity, I didn’t have a clue what to do with myself. I had books I could read, but I wasn’t really interested; business to do, but I certainly didn’t want to do that; nature to watch out the window; movies I could watch on pay-per-view; or I could sleep.

I chose sleep and evidently needed it, because I didn’t wake up until midmorning the next day.

A quick search through the small kitchen revealed stocked cabinets but no coffee, which, at that moment, was what I wanted most in the world. Coffee was my life-blood, and survival without it felt close to impossible.

Oliver gave me permission to help myself to anything on the property, so I walked to the main house and forged through the kitchen. I didn’t fail to realize that it was the first time breakfast hadn’t been prepared for me in over six months.

I’d just found the coffee maker when a fiery redhead stumbled into the kitchen, wearing nothing but an oversized sweatshirt that hit her mid-thigh. Even with her hair in total disarray, she was stunning—stunning and surprised to see me.

I wonder if Oliver gave me permission to help myself to her?

“I didn’t think anyone was home,” she grumbled.

“Only me.”

“Only you?” Her legs were long and lean but not too skinny like the girls back in Los Angeles. They had some muscular definition to them. And they were white, very white, like they rarely saw sunlight.

She tried to run her fingers through her rat’s nest hair but gave up and somehow managed to tie it into a knot on the back of her head as she wandered aimlessly around the kitchen. Her eyes were only partially open, and she looked a little worse for wear.

“Hung over,” I assumed.

She stopped wandering and looked over at me, her eyes squinting. “Pardon?”

“A few too many drinks. I’ve been there, done that…a lot.”

She shook her head and laughed, showing bright white teeth. “No. Not quite. It’s jet lag. I just got in a few hours ago, and I feel like rubbish.”

She sounded British. “Then you might want to get outside,” I said.

Some of the hair she’d just tucked behind her head fell back in her face as she flipped her head, looked toward the glass doors off the kitchen, and squinted more heavily.

“Get outside and do what exactly?”

“Get some sunlight. That’ll help with your jet lag.”

“Hmm.” When she looked back at me, her eyes opened enough to reveal that they were hazel. She re-tucked the loose piece of hair.

Does she really not know who I am? Is that even possible? Everyone knows who I am. My God, I’m an arrogant jerk.

“Are you a physician?” she asked.

No. I’m an arrogant jerk.
“Not even close. I’ve just done some travel of my own,” I told her.

“I see. Splendid.” Rummaging through the refrigerator, she pulled out some eggs before turning back to me. “In hopes of clarification, would you be so kind as to tell me who are you and why you’re in my uncle’s kitchen?”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes. Oliver is my uncle.” She picked the fry pan off the stove and cranked up the heat before turning to me. “You haven’t answered my question. Who are you, and should I deck you with this pan instead of cooking with it? I pray to God I don’t have to deck you, because I really don’t have the energy for it.”

Is this girl from another planet?
“I’m Cabot. Oliver’s letting me live in his guest house for a while.”

Her face lit up a little. “Oh. You’re him,” she said with a nod as she dropped the pan back onto the stove.

So she does know who I am but just doesn’t give a rip?

“I apologize. I’m feeling a bit daft this morning. Not thinking properly at all.” She cracked an egg into the skillet, but most of it ran down the outside of the pan. With a moan, she grabbed the skillet and scraped the egg into the trash with her finger. “I’m about to nod off. Why am I trying to cook?”

I walked toward the stove and, afraid that she might actually hit me, carefully grabbed the skillet out of her hands while leaning as far away from her as I could. At least if she was going to hit me, she wouldn’t get my face. “Here. You sit. Let me do this.”

She leaned back and pulled the pan away from my grasp and up into the air. I think I might have cowered. I do know for a fact that I threw my hands in front of my face in defense and waited to get pounded. As she tried to figure out whether or not to hit me with the pan, I studied her face. Her skin was pale, smooth, and covered with light red freckles.

Finally, she relaxed and even smiled a little. “Lovely. Thank you.”

“Sure.” I snatched the pan out of her hand and tossed it onto the stove. “So you’re Kei?”

She nodded as she leaned against the counter.

“You’re a girl,” I added.

“One moment.” She pulled out the neck of her shirt, looked down at her chest, and cocked her eyebrows. “Yes. I do have bits, although not very large ones, so I suppose I am.”

Bits?
Her frankness caught me completely off guard, and I didn’t know if it was safe to laugh or not, so I just pretended it didn’t faze me. “Um…um…they told me that someone named Kei was coming for a visit, but I didn’t realize you were a girl.”

“I apologize for disappointing you.”

“I’m not disappointed. How do you want your eggs?”

She left my side and sat down at the kitchen table. “Over easy. Thank you.”

“So why the jet lag? Where’d you come from?”

“Uganda.”

“Uganda, Africa?”
It practically
is
another planet!

“Yes.” She laid her head onto the table and watched me from the corner of her eyes. “I attempted to sleep on the flight, but it was bloody uncomfortable. Nineteen hours crammed in the middle seat of an aircraft is my definition of hell. Not literal hell, of course. I presume that’s much, much worse, but it’s close enough to hell for me on this planet. And unfortunately, I experience that particular hell on a yearly basis. It’s atrocious, simply and utterly atrocious.”