License to Thrill (13 page)

“Ah hell,” Mason muttered when he spotted the giant fiberglass hamburger perched atop a square little diner located next to a truck stop.

He was irritated with himself for his lack of self-control and annoyed with her for making him want to embrace that recklessness. His fickleness put him in a bad mood.

The pungent aroma of diesel fumes mixed with the smell of lard long past its prime filled the air. And all the vehicles in the parking lot were either pickup trucks or eighteen-wheelers.

“What?”

“This is the last food for one hundred miles? Deep-fried grease?”

“You were expecting maybe the Russian Tearoom?”

“I was hopeful to find something with fresh vegetables.”

“This
is
the desert, Gentry.” Charlee pulled into the parking lot.

“You can’t park here.”

“Why not?” She blinked at him.

“It’s in the direct sun.”

“Everything in Arizona is in the direct sun.”

“Park under the shade cast by that giant hamburger.” He pointed.

“Sheesh, Gentry, sometimes you can be a real pain in the butt. Anybody ever tell you that?” Charlee complained but backed up the Bentley and moved it under the shade of the hamburger.

Actually no one had ever spoken to him so frankly and he appreciated her for it. She deflated his ego with one prick of her sharp observations and unstuffed his stuffiness with her down-to-earth common sense. Mason unclenched his jaw. Maybe he was acting too persnickety. Lighten up.

“Thank you for moving the car,” he said contritely.

Charlee seemed surprised by his apology. “You’re welcome.”

The wind gusted, sandblasting them with red Arizona topsoil as they got out of the car and entered the diner Men in dusty jeans, boots, and cowboy hats sat on stainless-steel stools at the front counter. A fry cook in a dirty white apron doubling as a waiter leaned against the counter, a spatula gripped in one hammy hand. A country and western song twanged from the jukebox in the corner.

Every eye in the room turned to give them the once-over as the door closed behind them. The locals sent Charlee an appreciative stare, sizing her up as one of their own.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” she whispered, leaning in so close he caught a whiff of her unique scent. “Be right back.”

Charlee took off for the ladies’ room. The men’s gazes narrowed on Mason and classified him for what he was—rich, well heeled, and as out of place as Shaquille O’Neal at a midget wrestling match.

Ignoring them, he picked out a red plastic booth in front of the big picture window. He wanted to sit where he could keep an eye on Matilda. He noticed the men had spun around on their stools and were gawking at the Bentley.

A few minutes later Charlee returned and slid across from him, the chipped Formica tabletop sandwiched between them. She’d taken her braids down and her dark hair spread across her shoulders in a cascade of curls. She plunked her hat on the seat beside her.

He stared, dumbfounded. She was bewitchingly beautiful and he couldn’t stop eyeballing her.

She flicked a long dark corkscrew of hair off her shoulder in a gesture so feminine he wondered if she was subconsciously flirting with him. He’d read somewhere when women were interested in a man they fiddled with their hair. Some kind of primal mating call.

“What?” She rubbed at her cheeks. “Have I got something on my face?”

“No, no.” Mason forced himself to look away.

The fry cook wandered over and thrust two grease-stained menus at them. “What’ll ya have to drink?”

“Coffee,” Charlee said.

“Water. Lots of ice.” Mason opened the menu.

The fry cook/waiter grunted and went after their beverages.

“Gotta have some Java,” Charlee confessed and suppressed a yawn. “I’m having trouble staying awake after not getting any sleep last night.”

“Now you tell me. I should have driven.”

She shrugged. “I like driving the Bentley.” She consulted the menu. “I think I’m going to have the cheeseburger basket. What about you?”

Mason searched the list of options looking for anything remotely healthy, finally admitted defeat, followed suit and ordered the cheeseburger basket when the fry cook arrived to deliver their drinks.

Charlee stretched out her feet and her boots collided with his shin. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled and jerked her legs away.

But the damage was done. The contact, even through the dual barrier of her boots and his pants leg, launched a rocket of desire straight through him.

Restlessly, she shook a package of Sweet ‘n Low into her coffee. “So,” she said after taking a long sip of what looked as if it could have passed for forty-weight motor oil. “Do you have any idea why our grandparents are going to L.A.?”

Mason shook his head. “No. Only thing I can think of is our family owns controlling interest in an accounting firm in Hollywood. But why Gramps would go there I have no idea. He’s been retired for two years.”

“That’s the same accounting firm that’s responsible for counting the Oscar votes.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Charlee gave him a smug smile. “I’m a private investigator, remember.”

“You ran a profile on me.”

She shrugged. “I had to make sure you were who you said you were. A girl’s gotta protect herself.”

Mason smiled. Smart and pretty. A deadly recipe. He was going to have to watch out for this one or end up regretting their trip through the desert.

And he never wanted to regret having known her.

“Okay,” she said, resting her elbows on the table and propping her chin in her hands. “Let’s suppose your grandfather
is
going to check on the accounting firm, although it’s highly possible something completely unrelated is going on.”

“Agreed.”

“What does that have to do with my grandmother? I mean, why is she involved?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ve assumed that they met each other years ago when they both worked at Twilight Studios. Then my father kidnaps them and takes them to an abandoned Twilight Studios movie lot. Doesn’t that seem awfully coincidental to you?”

“You’re saying there’s a connection.”

“Seems odd is all I’m saying.”

He tended to agree, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what Twilight Studios had to do with his grandfather embezzling half a million dollars from Gentry Enterprises and taking off to Vegas to meet Charlee’s grandmother without a word to anyone. It was totally out of character for Nolan. Maybe his father and Hunter were right. Maybe Gramps was simply going senile.

Yeah? Then explain the men in the Malibu.

Maybe they hadn’t been following him, but Charlee. Maybe the gunshot through the window had been meant for her. It made perfect sense. She was a private detective and over the years she had probably collected more than her fair share of enemies. Maybe chaos theory did indeed rule and nothing was connected.

Too bad he was so tired and hungry. He was missing something here and in his dulled haze of sleep-deprived starvation he couldn’t think straight. Food. He needed food. Even a greasy hamburger would help.

Mason rubbed his eyes and stared out the window, checking on Matilda. The wind tossed dust eddies across the desert. He cringed as a small whirlwind passed over the Bentley. First chance he got, they were pulling into a carwash.

“When did your grandfather disappear?”

“What’s today? I’ve lost track of time.”

“Thursday.”

He looked at his watch. Five-thirty in the evening. The trip to the movie studio had cost them a good three-hour detour. “My brother Hunter discovered the missing funds on Monday evening. When we went to confront Gramps on Tuesday, we discovered he was gone. I left for Vegas right away.”

“Driving instead of flying so obviously you didn’t feel as if the matter was that urgent.” She peered at him over the rim of her cup.

“I told you I don’t like to fly. And we did figure Gramps was probably just letting off some steam. Retirement doesn’t suit him.”

“So why not just leave him be?”

“He did steal half a million dollars from the family business.”

“And then you arrived in my office yesterday afternoon,” she said.

Had it only been a little more than twenty-four hours since he’d first laid eyes on Charlee Champagne? It seemed he had known her for years. Of course they had been together pretty well nonstop for the last twenty-four hours. If you averaged that up in dating time, saying a typical date lasted four hours, they would be on their sixth date.

Date? What the hell are you talking about, Gentry?

He had to stop this. His hormones were messing with his emotions. He was letting the circumstances wreak havoc on his brain. He needed to stop reacting from his gut and his heart and start thinking with his brain.

Pronto.

“Okay, so your grandfather takes off and in his room you find my grandmother’s name and address.”

“Well, actually, it was the address to the detective agency.”

“Come to think of it, Tuesday morning was when Maybelline said she was leaving for her fishing retreat. Usually, she spends weeks preparing and talking about it and then, just out of the blue, she tells me to hold down the fort and takes off.”

“I’m thinking that Gramps had hired her to work on a case for him.”

“But what case?”

Mason shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“Of course now there’s a bigger question.”

“Which is?”

“How do we find them once we get to L.A.?”

He paused a moment, pondering the question. “Gramps has a few old friends there. He doesn’t see them much anymore, but we could give them a call and find out if they’ve heard from him. In fact, when we get back to the car I’ll give them a ring. I can also phone home to see if Gramps has touched base with the family. Plus I’ll check my voice mail to see if he’s tried to contact me.”

“It’s a start,” Charlee said. “I can check my answering machine too. And once we get into LA. I can start calling hotels, see if our grandparents checked in anywhere. I’m assuming they’ll stay somewhere upscale if your grandfather is anything like you.”

“He’s got five hundred thousand dollars in cash, he can pretty much stay at the most expensive hotel in town if he chooses.” Mason’s eyes met Charlee’s and he could tell she was thinking the same thing he was. Their plan was lame but it was all they had.

“Maybe they’re on some kind of trip through memory lane,” she mused. “Recalling their misspent youth.”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t explain why Gramps stole the money or why your father kidnapped them or why the guys in the Malibu were following us or why some old western actor showed up in the desert in a limousine to give Elwood a lift.”

“Touché.”

“Something big is at stake.”

“Yeah, like half a million dollars.”

“It feels bigger than that. The whole thing makes me uneasy.”

“How come your family sent you to Vegas?” Charlee asked. “Especially since you’re not keen on flying.”

“Pardon?”

“Why didn’t your brother come after your grandfather or even your father?”

Mason shifted against the hard plastic bench and toyed with the paper wrapper from his white plastic dinnerware. “Because it’s my job.”

“It’s your job to baby-sit your grandfather?”

“No. It’s my job to play cleanup. Hunter is the front man. The mover, the shaker, the deal maker. I tie up the loose ends. It’s up to me to maintain customer service. Make sure everyone is happy.”

He tried hard to keep the bitterness from his voice. He was resigned to his position in the family hierarchy, but sometimes he couldn’t help but begrudge the fact that he’d been relegated to second place simply by birth order. No matter how hard he tried, Mason always seemed to fall short in comparison to his older brother.

“So essentially you’re the family janitor. Mop up the messes and whatnot.”

“It’s not like that,” he protested.

She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not.” He could hear the defensive tone in his voice. Who was he trying to convince? Charlee or himself?

“And what about you?” she prodded.

“What about me?”

“Are you happy, Mason?” She peered deeply into his eyes in a maneuver that made his gut hitch. “Do you like being the janitor?”

When I’m with you, I am.

Her perceptive question took him off guard. He had no idea how to answer. “Sure I’m happy. Why do you think I’m not happy?”

“Well, for one thing you’re glowering.”

“I’m not glowering,” he denied and smiled purposefully.

“Now that’s just plain wrong.”

“What is?”

“Denying how you feel. Pretending to be happy when you’re not. What happens in your family when you express your displeasure?”

“What is this? Twenty questions? We’re talking about our grandparents here, not me.”

“What happens?” she persisted.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What does that mean?”

Good Lord, the woman could worry a wart off a frog. “I’ve never openly expressed my displeasure.”

“For real?”

“My parents aren’t emotional people. We Gentrys prefer to stay reserved. It facilitates peace.”

“Peace at all cost, huh. Explains a lot.”

“Explains what?”

“Why you’re so screwed up.”

“I’m not screwed up.” Annoyance surged inside him at her half-baked psychobabble. “You think I’m screwed up?”

“How old are you?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Thirty-two, thirty-three?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She looked chagrined. “You seem much older.”

Before she could elaborate on her theory concerning his supposed screwed-up-ness, their cheeseburger baskets arrived, sidetracking them from further talk.

In spite of himself, the aroma of grilled onions made his mouth water and when he bit into the cheeseburger he sighed involuntarily at the delicious flavor.

“Good, isn’t it?” Charlee grinned and dunked a french fry in ketchup.

Good? The fatty cheeseburger was sheer heaven but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. Not after all the bitching he’d done. Feeling contrite, he dabbed his chin with a paper napkin.