Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (35 page)

“Let go of
me this instant,” Jenna hissed into his ear, ignoring the tango beat of her
pulse, “or I’m leaving you here to rot.”

Ryan heaved
a put-upon sigh and released her. Jenna didn’t waste any time in getting
vertical. She breathed a lot easier after she’d regained her own space and
removed her body from contact with his.

The nurse
recited a long list of instructions for everything from medications to the
amount of bed rest he’d need before he began extensive rehabilitation. Jenna
checked the time, as anxious as Ryan to be on their way.

“Understand?”
Marley asked.

“Sure.”
Jenna clutched the sheaf of papers. She’d give the list to Abby when she
arrived, or to the absent Zoey-Baby, or to whomever he conned into taking care
of him.

“He needs
to be up with moderate movement, but the most important thing is to keep him
off stairs for the next few days, and make sure someone’s with him for the next
forty-eight hours.”

“Why?”
Jenna asked.

“These
manly types don’t like being flat on their backs, tied to their beds.”

“Sometimes
we do,” Ryan cracked.

“If someone
doesn’t keep an eye on him,” Marley continued, “he’ll do too much and reverse
the entire surgery.”

“I’ll
behave,” Ryan promised with a raised-hand vow. “Just get me out of here.” He
directed a meaningful glance at Jenna. “We’ll work out the specifics later.”

Remaking Ryan is available for pre-order now!

Book 2 of the
Good
Riders

Chapter One

“And the winner of this year’s Community First award is—”
Annabel heightened the imaginary suspense with a mental drum roll as she pulled
into the local television station’s parking lot. Beelining for an empty spot at
the end of the row, she allowed hometown favorite George Clooney to announce,
“Challenging Destiny, Lasting Productions, Annabel Morgan and Howard Lasting,
producers!”

Normally, she only
conjured up her favorite career fantasy in dark and private moments, but today
she’d paraded it out in bright sunlight to distract herself from a raging case
of stage fright. After all, she didn’t appear on an afternoon talk show every
day. Or in front of a television camera ever. Her nerves were stretched tighter
than her budget.

Easing through the
tandem parking slot from one side to the other, she pictured herself at the
upcoming award ceremony. Dressed to impress in something sophisticated and
expensive, she’d step up to accept the award that would change her life. Just
as George took her in his arms for a meaningful exchange of glances and a long
congratulatory kiss filled with infinite possibilities, a sickening crunch
jolted her back to reality.

The front bumper of her
ten-year-old Saab was metal-on-metal with a small, flashy vehicle attempting to
back into the space she’d been sliding into headfirst.

Grimacing over her carelessness
and the certainty of another insurance claim on the heels of her
seventeen-year-old stepdaughter’s mishap the month before. Annabel shifted her
car into park. She clutched the hem of her mini-skirt to keep it from rising to
indecent heights as she stepped out to meet her victim. Good thing it was May,
not January, or she’d freeze her butt off.

“Hey, lady,” a
testosterone-laden voice growled over the slam of a car door. “You should keep
your mind on your driving when you’re behind the wheel.”

Fresh from her bout of
daydreaming, Annabel bit back the urge to tell the chauvinist where to stick
his opinion. She glanced at the slight crease in her fender and the deeper dent
in his, relieved that the damage hadn’t been worse. Shoulders squared, she turned
to exchange info with the other driver and admit her guilt.

Damn. Investigative
reporter ‘Mad Max’ Williams. An apology died on her lips. Even though he worked
at the television station, he spent most of his time out on assignment. She’d
hoped she wouldn’t run into him today. And now she had. Literally.

She crossed her arms
and studied him with a chilling look. Professional acquaintances and personal
opposites in work habits and lifestyles, he was her biggest rival for the
community service award she coveted.

Aside from their award
competition, she’d worked with him on several projects for Lasting Productions.
Her work involved insignificant details like scriptwriting, casting, editing,
and scheduling. His duties included the more challenging tasks of sitting in a
booth and recording the voiceover, flirting with female assistants, distracting
male interns with assorted hijinks, generally creating chaos, getting paid the
big bucks, and receiving most of the recognition.

Everything about his
flamboyant image and overbearing self-confidence rubbed her the wrong way. It
annoyed her to admit that the broad shoulders and rugged good looks the
television camera loved were even more compelling in person than they were on
the small screen. But the less-than savory details she’d witnessed and heard
about from others prevented her from lusting after the exterior packaging that
rivaled Clooney’s.

Smoothing down her
skirt, she waited for Max’s leisurely perusal to move from her new pointy-toed
high-heeled shoes and past her uncustomary form-fitting outfit to her face. As
expected, the interested gleam dimmed from his eyes and switched to disbelief
as recognition kicked in.

“Nice legs, Morgan.
First time I’ve seen you in anything but your Iron Maiden costume. You should show
that figure off more often.” He lounged against the hood of her car and let his
gaze travel her body a second time. “This new look is almost enough to excuse
you from rear-ending me. But not quite. What had you so distracted?”

“What do you mean?”
Like she’d be willing to share her hopes and dreams with him.

“You sure weren’t
thinking about your driving, and you couldn’t have been preoccupied with your
love life since everyone knows you don’t have one.”

“Whereas you,” she
countered, poking a finger into his rock-solid chest, “were probably thinking
about the bevy of mud wrestlers, rodeo queens, and strippers you’re currently
dating.”

“Hey!” He straightened
up with mild indignation. “Candy LaBar’s not a stripper. She’s an exotic
dancer. Her act’s very artistic.”

Already running late,
Annabel didn’t have time to trade childish insults with Max. She dismissed the
response with a flick of the wrist. “I’ll bet.”

He whipped his phone
out, then took pictures of the damage to both bumpers. As she stepped toward the
television station’s main entrance, his fingers clamped around her elbow.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He jerked a thumb toward his car. “Damage?
Repair? Insurance?”

“It’s just a scratch.”

He shook his head at
her dismissive attitude. “It’s just a scratch on the bumper of a vintage
Porsche I’ve spent two years restoring. Whether they fix it or replace the
bumper, it’s not going to come cheap.”

That figured. “I’ll
have my insurance company contact you.”

“They better, or I’ll
send the repair bill straight to you.”

“Fine, fine.” Annabel
marched forward, eager to leave Mad Max behind. But he fell into step alongside
her with his customary swagger.

“By the way,” he said,
“congratulations on the Community First nomination.”

She slid a peek at him
from the corner of her eye and examined his comment for sarcasm. His expression
remained suspiciously sincere. “You, too.”

“Who’d have thought
we’d be nominated in the same category?”

“Not me. The mind still
boggles over my documentary about inner-city high school students competing
with your four-part exposé on botched boob jobs.”

“That’s one way of
describing them,” he said before urging, “Just remember what they say.”

“What do they say, Max?
Sex sells?” Why does he always manage to bring out my inner bitch?

“No-oo. It’s an honor
just to be nominated.”

She coated the smile
she turned on him with pure sugar. “You remember that when they call out my
name from the podium.” She prayed they’d call out her name. Her professional
and financial future hinged on winning the award.

“Yeah, right. I’ve got
the award all but in my hands.” He raised her show of bravado with an ante of
overconfidence.

“And how many judges
did you sleep with to make that happen?” The accusation almost shamed her as
she made it.

“Talent earns its own
reward.” A glint of real pride moved behind his dark brown eyes as he veered
away from her, toward the news team’s entrance. “See ya later, Morgan.”

“Not if I see you
first,” Annabel muttered to his retreating back.

Against her better
judgment, she watched him stride masterfully toward the building. Then, he
looked over his shoulder and caught her watching him. Lifting her chin, she
turned to glide into the main entrance. Her face flushed when she twisted her
ankle on the new heels.
Damn
,
he probably saw that
.

Putting the incident
behind her, she hurried into the lobby where Carly waited. Her stepdaughter
bounced in anticipation of their joint television appearance. A quick hug went a
long way toward banishing Max from Annabel’s thoughts and quelling her preshow
anxiety. “Been waiting long?”

“Long enough to find
out everything we need to know.” Excitement widened Carly’s bright blue eyes to
saucer-size. “First, sign in here, then follow me.”

Annabel had visited the
station many times and knew her way around, but she allowed the bouncing teen
to lead her the makeup room anyway. After they’d settled into chairs, an
energetic elf with purple-streaked hair introduced herself as “Voila!” then set
to work. She dabbed foundation on their faces, swiped blush on their cheeks,
and applied goop to their eyes.

“Not so much, please.”
Annabel pushed Voila’s hand away. She didn’t want to look like a clown, and
Carly’s fresh appeal didn’t need much enhancement.

Voila frowned. “You’ll
look sickly without it.”

“You know she’s right,
and I want you to look awesome. Please?” Her stepdaughter’s coaxing did the
trick after the makeup artist’s opinion had failed to win Annabel over.

Voila hurried to apply
a few finishing touches. Annabel assessed her reflection in the mirror then
blotted off a coat of shiny magenta lipstick. She tugged the lapels of her snug
teal jacket together. As soon as she released them, they separated into a wide
V that exposed the barely-there cleavage created by her new push-up bra.

“I don’t know how you
talked me into buying this suit. I’m touched by the attempt to update my image,
but I have plenty of other, more suitable clothes.”

 “More boring, you
mean.” Carly brushed Annabel’s hands away from the lapels. “You’ll be in front
of a camera instead of hiding behind one for a change. You should wear
something that makes you look young and hot, instead of old and frigid.”

“Let’s take your hair
down to really boost your image.” Voila pulled pins out of the bun at the base
of Annabel’s neck.

“No.” Annabel covered
her hair with her hands to keep Voila’s busy fingers out of it. “It’s too curly
and flies around when it’s not pulled back.”

“Hmmm.” Voila cocked
her head and considered for a moment before sweeping Annabel’s locks into a
French twist with just a few loose tendrils. The style softened the angles of
her face and enhanced the shape of her light-gray eyes.

If her stepdaughter
weren’t sitting right there beside her with Carly’s own brand of youthful,
natural beauty, Annabel wouldn’t have recognized herself.

“You look gorgeous,”
Carly enthused as they made their way to the green room next door. “Super hot!”

“You look fabulous,
too.” Annabel pulled the girl’s long French-braid in front of her shoulder as
they stepped into the waiting room. “But we’re going on a program to discuss
successful stepparent/stepchild relationships. We’re not trolling for guys on
the internet.”

“Close enough,”
murmured a pencil-thin woman nibbling a carrot stick by the snack table.

As they took seats on a
lumpy sofa, Carly refused to meet Annabel’s eyes. Never a good sign. Annabel
studied the seven other sets of parent/teen duos.

While a couple of
parents glanced at her curiously, the others flicked pitying looks her way.
None of the teenagers managed to look her in the eye.

A wary tingle replaced
stage fright as the reason for her damp palms. “Close enough to what?”

Before anyone
responded, a chipper production assistant buzzed in, wearing a headset and
clasping an electronic tablet. “My name’s Justine. On behalf of Tess Hartley,
I’d like to welcome all of you to
Let’s Talk
. We’re going to open with
the kids on camera. If you’d head that way, please...” She motioned the younger
group toward the door. “I’ll come back for the parents shortly.”

Carly squeezed
Annabel’s hand. The teenager’s excitement fizzed palpably between them like a
carbonated cola.

“Good luck, Anna,”
Carly whispered. “Please don’t be mad,” she added before slipping away.

Don’t be mad?
That simple plea put
Annabel’s parental alarm system on full alert. She was all too familiar with
the way the high-spirited girl’s best intentions frequently misfired. “Mad
about what?”

From the doorway, Carly
flashed a mischievous smile and escaped with the other teenagers. Except for
the gurgle of an espresso machine in the corner, the room swirled with awkward
silence. Annabel thought of all the editing waiting for her back at the
production studio and longed for the safety of her ordinary routine.

A military-type with
ramrod-straight posture and square jaw stopped at the end of the sofa. “When
you came in,” he said, “I wasn’t sure if you were a parent or one of the kids.”

The flattery tickled
Annabel. Only fourteen years older than Carly, people occasionally guessed they
were sisters. But she couldn’t imagine anyone mistaking her for a teenager.
Maybe the kick-ass outfit Carly chose for her had shaved off some years.

“Stepparent.” She
glanced around the room, trying to interpret the spike in atmosphere. “Aren’t
we all?

A couple of “Not me’s”
mingled with one “I am.”