License to Thrill (27 page)

Nolan untwisted the lid and the round plastic ring separated from the cap and came off in his hand. He passed the water to Maybelline but found himself staring intently at the white plastic ring.

Rings were symbols.

Of unity. Of eternity.

Of marriage.

Deep, long-buried emotions swept through him. From the time he could remember he’d been accused of being a hopeless romantic and now he knew it was true. He believed they would get out of here. He believed they had many long and lusty years ahead of them. He believed they would solve the Oscar dilemma facing them.

But most of all, he believed, with all his heart, that he was in love with Maybelline Sikes and had been for the last forty-seven years.

And he was going to ask her to marry him again. This time for real. Right here, right now, with the white plastic ring.

Holding the ring between his forefinger and thumb, he got down on one knee.

The sound of his knee hitting the ground resonated wooden, hollow.

He and Maybelline looked at each other in surprise.

“Wood floor under the dirt,” she said.

Simultaneously, they began to dig.

CHAPTER 17

M
ason sat in Daphne’s rented Mercedes next to a vineyard outside Figero, California. It was a small town in the very corner of the state near the Arizona/Mexico border. He waited for the cover of darkness. The Malibu was parked in the driveway of a weather-scarred farmhouse a quarter mile from where he had stationed himself.

Apparently, the goons in the Malibu never realized they were being followed. When they’d pulled into the farmhouse, Mason had driven past, and then circled back. He’d caught a glimpse of the two men hustling Charlee inside.

Sitting still and doing nothing had never been so excruciating. The minutes ticked by. His stomach grumbled because he hadn’t eaten since the seafood buffet at the hotel the night before, but he ignored the hunger pains. His own needs were inconsequential. Charlee was in trouble.

He wished for a pair of binoculars. He wished for a spy camera. He wished for a gun.

He’d thought briefly about going to the police but the idea of explaining everything and the fact that he had no identification on him, plus the terrible fear that if he left for even a moment the thugs might disappear with Charlee, kept him rooted to the spot.

He wished regretfully that he had commandeered Daphne’s cell phone as well as her vehicle but unfortunately, the urgent need to follow the Malibu had overridden careful planning. He had to do the best with what he possessed.

Which meant he had his brains, his tae kwon do training, a tire iron, and the burning desire to make those guys pay for stealing his woman.

His woman.

He liked the sound of that. Liked it so much in fact that he grinned. He also liked the kick-ass, Vin Diesel attitude stoking through his veins.

He couldn’t wait for nightfall.

Except he had no choice but to wait. Other than a dilapidated barn located a few hundred yards from the house, the surrounding field was vacant, barren land. They would see him approaching from all four sides. No bushes, no shrubs, no trees.

Darkness was his ally. Even though it was killing him, he would wait.

Briefly, he closed his eyes and saw Charlee. The way her face glowed when she laughed. The way she fit so snugly into the curve of his arm. The way she smelled like no other woman on earth. The way her lips tasted of honeyed sin. The way she teased and goaded him to fulfill his highest potential.

How had she managed to embed herself under his skin so quickly and so permanently? Instead of getting her out of his system as he’d hoped, making love to her had drawn him even closer to her.

He missed her with an ache so severe a fistful of Percodan wouldn’t cure it.

His eyes flew open. Dammit. He had to see her. Had to touch her. He had to know she was all right. He clenched his fists to control his impulse to storm the farmhouse and risk killing them both.

Five minutes after sunset, he was out of the car, tire iron in hand, even though streaks of purple and orange still illuminated the sky behind him. The silence was eerie. He heard nothing except his pumping blood roaring through his ears.

Charlee. He had to rescue Charlee. Nothing else mattered. He’d die for her if he had to.

Driven by that one relentless thought, he crouched low and sprinted toward the run-down farmhouse. When he reached it, he paused to catch his breath and pressed his back flush against the wall.

Cocking the tire iron like a baseball bat, he waited, listening.

When enough time had passed so that he could be certain he hadn’t been detected, Mason inched toward the bedroom window located a few feet to his left. Cautiously, he eased his head around and peeked through the curtainless window.

The room was empty.

Pulse strumming, he crept down the side of the house to the next window that turned out to be a bathroom with those watery panes you couldn’t see through.

Sucking in his breath, he wiped his damp palms on the front of Skeet’s purple hula girl shirt, reapplied his steel grip to the tire iron, and moved on.

Another bedroom.

He darted a glance inside the window.

And spotted Charlee.

Bound and gagged and reclining on her back in a pink and orange paisley plastic beanbag chair.

For one brief impossible second, his heart literally stopped.

She was alive. Thank God.

Now what? He paused to ponder his next move, his mind racing at a startling clip as he formed and rejected one plan after another.

“Ahem.”

At the sound of a throat being cleared behind him, Mason froze.

Slowly, he turned his head and came face-to-face with one of his own ilk.

The tall, distinguished-looking gray-haired man wasn’t one of the two goons who’d kidnapped Charlee. That much was clear. The man standing before him sported a hundred-dollar haircut, a thousand-dollar designer suit, and a very large handgun pointed right at Mason’s head.

“Ah, the younger Mr. Gentry.” The man gave him a cold, false smile. “I suggest you put down the tire iron and come with me.”

Charlee had to pee bad. She’d been holding it for hours. If Sal and Petey didn’t let her go to the bathroom soon she would have to wet her pants or suffer irreparable kidney damage.

Unfortunately, the two men were in the other room playing gin and she lay in the stinky beanbag chair that obviously had not been cleaned since 1975, her hands and feet bound and her mouth still covered with duct tape. Her captors had only been in to check on her once since they’d arrived at the farmhouse several hours earlier.

She knew she should be devising some clever plan for escape, hatching some kind of brilliant detectivish scheme, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything except the persistent ache in her bladder. Not even when she tried to evoke Mason’s visage just so she could hate him.

About the time she had decided to surrender to nature and just pee her pants, she heard the front door slam and a new voice inside the house. Someone else was here.

Her pulse rate spiked. Who could it be?

She heard the sounds of an argument but couldn’t make out what was being said.

Then came the footsteps. Several of them, headed toward the bedroom.

Oh, crap. This was it. They’d brought in the terminator. Would they let her pee before they killed her? she wondered idly.

The door flew open and Mason stumbled inside, pushed ahead of a dapper man with a thin mustache, cruel black eyes that belied his oily smile, and a nasty-looking forty-five in his hand. Petey and Sal stood in the doorway behind him.

Mason!

Their eyes met. She saw relief and a sweet tenderness swimming in his chocolate eyes.

Her treacherous heart leaped with joy at the sight of him when it should have been condemning the wretched scumbag. She’d never been so happy to see anyone in her entire life.

Even though she shouldn’t be, she was glad, glad, glad he was here and she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Mmghphm,” she mumbled through the duct tape.

“You”—the man motioned to Petey with his gun—“take the tape off and let her speak. And you”—he frowned at Sal—“tie this guy up.”

Sal went to fetch some rope while Petey squatted beside her and ripped the tape off her mouth.

“Ouch!”

“Payback’s a bitch,” Petey said. “That’s for biting my thumb.”

Oh, well, at least she’d gotten a free lip waxing out of the deal.

“I need to pee,” she squawked. “Now.”

Petey looked to the man with the gun. He nodded.

“But you go with her.”

Charlee winced. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of having Petey in the bathroom with her but at this point her eyeballs were swimming and her modesty had pretty much disappeared.

Petey untied the rope from around her ankles so she could walk, but the well-dressed man wouldn’t let him untie her hands. She almost fell when she put weight on her feet but Petey caught her by the elbow and held her steady.

“How am I supposed to get my underwear down?” she grumbled.

“Just consider me your third hand.” Petey grinned lewdly and wriggled his fingers at her.

Charlee wished she hadn’t asked.

“If you do anything to her…” Mason started to threaten before the man in the suit shoved the gun against his temple and commanded, “Shut up.”

When she returned from the bathroom with Petey, who’d actually been a perfect gentleman and averted his eyes after skimming her panties to her knees, she felt like a new woman. Pain-free and ready to start kicking some big thug butt.

Mason was tied up and sitting in the beanbag chair. Petey bound her ankles again and shoved her down on top of Mason.

She didn’t want to take solace in his hard, masculine body but damn her, she did. Her short skirt exposed her thighs and the material of his shorts rubbed comfortingly against her skin.

The new guy was leaning against the windowsill, flanked by Petey and Sal. He cleared his voice. “Now that we have all the amenities taken care of, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Spencer Cahill, CEO of Twilight Studios.”

Mason shifted beneath her and she sensed his confusion mirroring her own. Why had the head of Twilight Studios taken them hostage? Had he discovered they were masquerading as Skeet and Violet Hammersmitz and he was really pissed off about it?

But no, that couldn’t be. His henchmen had been following them since Vegas. Spencer Cahill obviously knew who they were.

“Let me assure you, if you do as I say, you will come to no physical harm and following the Academy Awards tomorrow night you will be released.”

“The Academy Awards?” Mason sounded as confused as she felt. What did the Academy Awards have to do with anything?

Cahill’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what this is all about, do you?”

“No.”

“Ah, that’s quite interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Humorous.” Cahill laughed a dry laugh suggesting he wasn’t the least bit amused.

“Let us in on the joke. We could use a good chuckle,” Charlee said.

“I suppose I should take comfort in the fact your grandfather has kept his mouth shut. It bodes well for your chances of getting out of this alive.”

“What are you talking about?” Mason’s muscles tensed beneath her fanny and his voice bristled.

“By the way, where is your grandfather?”

“You tell me, Cahill. You seem to be the grand Pooh-Bah around here.”

Cahill studied Mason for a long moment. “For all your traipsing from Las Vegas to Arizona to California you haven’t located your grandfather?”

“How could we with Frick and Frack over there riding our bumper?” Mason nodded at Sal and Petey.

“Hey,” Petey started, “I resent…” But Cahill cut him off short with a quelling glance.

“Never mind. We’ll find him.”

“I don’t get it,” Charlee said. “What’s the big deal about the Academy Awards?”

“This has something to do with Blade Bradford,” Mason said flatly.

“You’re an astute young man.”

“So clue me in, fellas,” Charlee said. “I wanna know what’s going on.”

Cahill pushed off from the windowsill, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked closer to the beanbag chair. “I see no harm in telling you what you’re up against. In fact, it might insure your cooperation.”

“Just tell us what’s going on,” Mason seethed.

“As you’re probably aware, Blade Bradford is up for his second Oscar for
The Righteous,
a film produced by Twilight Studios.”

“Yes, they kept yammering on and on about it while we were on the studio lot filming the
Newlywed Game.”
Charlee nodded.

“Oh, by the way,” Cahill said. “I applaud your ingenuity. Getting yourselves on my
Newlywed Game
in order to elude my assistants.” He shook his head. “Clever, very clever. And don’t think I missed the irony. Here I was footing the bill for your stay at the Grand Piazza, which by the way runs a thousand dollars a night, and I couldn’t touch you because of all the media coverage I’d arranged to promote the show.”

She wasn’t about to tell the guy they had stumbled into the deal. Let Cahill keep thinking they were brilliant strategists.

“A thousand dollars a night? You rich people are nuts.” Charlee shook her head.

“Go on about Blade Bradford,” Mason said. “What’s this got to do with my grandfather?”

“Ah, yes. Last year, while going through some old records, I discovered quite by accident that Mr. Bradford did not legitimately win his first Oscar.”

“No?”

“In fact, I’ve seen the original voting record from 1955. Your grandfather actually got the most votes.”

“Someone cooked the books,” Mason said.

“Of course,” Cahill continued. “It seems the same year he was nominated for his first Oscar, Blade Bradford married Sheila Jenkins, the daughter of the man who once owned the accounting firm that audits the Oscars.”

“The same accounting firm Gentry Enterprises now holds controlling interest in.”

“Precisely. To make his new son-in-law’s career, Max Jenkins cheated.”