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“Just how much do you know about horses?”
“Enough to know what I want to work with in front of the camera.”
She could already see the headlines: Kelleran Killed By Kick To Head. Actor Dragged To Death. “And just what would that be?”
“An animal that’s going to be still when I want it to be still. To respond the way I want it to, to move the way I want it to move.”
He leaned forward a bit, not enough to make her feel as if he was crowding her, but enough to make her want to take a step back. She held her ground.
“Something with a little life in it,” he said. “A little fire. A little backbone. I don’t like things to come too easy.”
Suddenly she wasn’t sure they were still talking about horses.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Terry McLaughlin spent a dozen years teaching a variety of subjects, including anthropology, music appreciation, English, drama and history, to a variety of students before she discovered romance novels and fell in love with love stories. When she’s not reading and writing, she enjoys travelling and dreaming up house and garden improvement projects (although most of those dreams don’t come true).
Terry lives with her husband in Northern California on a tiny ranch in the redwoods. Visit her at www.terrymclaughlin.com.
Dear Reader,
The first time I saw a movie at the cinema, I was six years old. I remember I wore my Sunday dress, and I got to stay up past my bedtime. As I sat in that dark, cavernous cinema absorbed in Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, I fell in love with more than the sparkling fantasy, the breath-robbing danger and the fairy-tale romance on the screen. I fell in love with the movies.
I simply adore watching larger-than-life characters live their larger-than-life stories, all played out on a larger-than-life canvas.
And I’m sure a nice, fat dollop of my film-fed dreams has dropped into this story. I hope you’ll find movie star Fitz Kelleran every bit as fun to know as he was to write.
I’d love to hear from my readers! Please come for a visit to my website at www. terrymclaughlin. com, or find me at www.wetnoodleposse.com or www.superauthors.com, or write to me at PO Box 5838, Eureka, CA 95502, USA.
Wishing you happily-ever-after reading,
Terry McLaughlin
TERRY McLAUGHLIN
MILLS & BOON
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For the Wendys
CHAPTER ONE
FITZ KELLERAN WANTED TO VAULT over the side of his Ferrari 360 Spider convertible, the way a thirty-four-year-old movie star should, but all he could manage was a creaky-kneed wobble out the door. Had he ever been this tired? Oh, yeah…last night. Same time, same place, same worn-out reasons.
He braced himself against the leather upholstery for a moment and let waves of disgust break over him. Disgust with the rock music throbbing from the balcony of his Malibu mansion and the strangers framed in the tall windows, sipping his booze. Disgust with himself for the music, the moochers and his careless tolerance of it all.
God, what a mess. He sure had a talent for it. But someone had to keep the fast food on all those tabloid press tables. Might as well be John Fitzgerald Kelleran.
He straightened and winced at the catch in his lower back. Bucking hay wasn’t the kind of exercise regimen Hollywood trainers recommended. A soak in the hot tub would loosen him up a bit, but he’d still be feeling some twinges come tomorrow morning.
Good. He welcomed the pain. The little creaks and cramps, the dried sweat and streaks of dirt, the specks of alfalfa and manure that clung to his work shirt and jeans made him feel somehow cleaner and more alive, more real than he’d felt in a long while. Gramps had always said there was nothing better for the inside of a man than the outside of a horse.
Samantha, his current lover, would hate it. She’d take one look, one whiff, and toss her $10,000 rhinoplasty in the air.
“No romp in the hay tonight for this cowboy,” he muttered, shoving the car door shut.
And did he really care? Not anymore. She’d siphoned off enough celebrity from their relationship, and he’d satisfied his craving for her particular flavor. Time to rustle up the backbone to end the affair. Later tonight, when they didn’t have an audience, he’d—
No, not tonight. She’d headed into the valley at noon to tape her guest spot on The Tonight Show and dine with her new agent, basking in the glow of her televised glory. No, he wouldn’t dim her spotlight. Not tonight.
“Damn.” Fitz angled his wrist beneath the beam of a security lamp and squinted at his Rolex. Too late to catch Leno’s opening monologue, but he’d sure better catch Sam. If he didn’t, there’d be hell to pay. Up-and-coming starlets demanded close-up focus on every detail of their self-absorbed lives. Tonight, for one last time, he’d play the supporting role.
He took a deep breath, chuffed it out and shouldered his way through the exotic tiled entry.
“Dude.”
“Hey, Max.” Fitz nodded a greeting at Sam’s yoga instructor and edged past him, swinging by the wet bar to snag a Corona.
“Fitz. Finally.” Burke Elliot, his personal assistant, perched on a bar stool, looking more stressed than usual. If Burke would ditch the type-A routine and the college prof glasses, his version of tall, dark and British would cut a wider swath through the single-and-available female population.
But Burke lived to nag, and he was just getting revved up. “I was wondering when you’d get around to checking in,” he said. “Greenberg’s been calling, nonstop.”
Myron Greenberg, Fitz’s pit bull of an agent. Probably itching to crack a few bones and suck the marrow out of the Eastwood project. “I was out at the ranch.”
Burke’s nostrils twitched. “Something told me that might be the case.”
Fitz had once passed an empty afternoon trying to imitate the precise level of disdain conveyed in Burke’s nasal twitch, but had failed to perfect it. “Didn’t want the cell phone to spook the mare I was working with. Guess I forgot to turn it back on.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t need to know the details.”
No one knew the details, and that’s the way Fitz wanted to keep it. His ranch, his legacy. His escape from reality and his link to the past, all tangled up in a few tumbledown acres near Thousand Oaks. He wasn’t sure why Gramps had hung that millstone around his neck when he’d died last year. But because it had been Gramps’s place, and Gramps’s doing, Fitz would likely drag it around until the day he died.
He took the edge off his exhaustion with a swig of cold beer before facing the news. Burke had slipped off his stool to hover, so it was probably bad.
“What’s up?” Fitz asked.
“You can see for yourself after the next commercial break.”
Fitz followed him through the house, past the clink of ice in cocktail glasses and the clack of billiard balls on felt, past wafting perfume and drifting cigarette smoke. He didn’t recognize too many faces. This was Sam’s set, Sam’s friends and hangers-on, come to watch her go shoulder to chin with Leno.
He slipped into the crowded media room behind Burke and sank into an empty spot on one of the oversize sofas. Before he could draw his next breath, surgically enhanced cleavage pressed against his arm. The blond head above the bosom purred. “Hi, Fitz.”
“Hi.” He took another sip of beer. “I’m sorry… you are…?”
Collagen-stung lips pouted. “Sunday? The barbecue?” A fingernail dagger stroked down his shirt front. “You told me to be careful of the sun.”
“Oh, yeah.” He’d made the mistake of mentioning sunscreen and had been roped into smoothing a bottleful on several bathing beauties. Nameless, numberless, interchangeable beauties.
One of Sam’s fans across the room called out, “There she is!”
Fitz glanced up to watch Samantha Hart, the former Miss Venice Beach currently tempting James Bond in wide release, saunter across The Tonight Show set. Air kisses for all, myopic wave to the studio audience. A tug at the too-short skirt to draw attention to the gorgeous crossed legs. Wet the lips, flash the dimples, giggle for Jay.
Down to business, baby: promote the movie, promote yourself. Wait for Jay’s cue for a quotable sound bite. Here it comes: your special relationship with Fitz Kelleran, Hollywood bad boy and box office superstar. What’s he like at home? Does he do the dishes, or just hurl them against the wall the way he did in The Madison Option?
Another pretty pout. God, did they teach that at the starlet studio? Fuss with the necklace—great delaying tactic, and draws attention to the cleavage. Tongue against the upper lip, slight frown between the perfect waxed brows.
Come on, Sam, what game are you playing now? The question wasn’t that hard.
“Actually, Jay, things at home haven’t been all that…well, you know,” she said. “Fitz just doesn’t… do it for meanymore, you know? Like, we’re not together now. I walked out on him. A couple of days ago.”
Fitz glanced at the occupants of his media room. Predatory consideration gleamed in the eyes staring back at him from the flickering semidarkness.
“I can’t believe she dumped you, man. On the freakin’ Tonight Show.”
“That’s so like, whoa, you know?”
“Cold, man. Subzero.”
“Dude.”
“Sam’s always been such a bitch,” said Fitz’s sofa mate. She ran her French manicure over his hand in sympathy and pressed her advantage. He wondered if her nipple would leave a permanent dent in his arm.
Then he wondered if Sam’s PR bomb would leave a permanent dent in his offscreen image. As messes went, this one was Oscar worthy. Greenberg was probably hunched over his calculator at that very moment, running projections and figuring percentages.
Fitz was surprised he didn’t feel something. Betrayed, relieved, angry, set free to go forth and sin again. Something.
Something other than this emotional flatline.
Burke’s cell phone chirped. He checked it, frowned and shoved it back in his pocket before standing to shoo Sam’s leftovers out the door. “Okay, party’s over.”
Fitz waited, calmly sipping his beer, while Sam’s people scattered into the Malibu evening. He waited until the big front door slammed shut and the thumping music switched off, until the only sounds he could hear were the whispers of the surf beyond the windows and the echoes of Burke’s shuffling steps coming down the hall. He waited until his assistant—his friend—came back into the darkened room and sank into a nearby chair, and then he said, “You knew about this.”
“Yeah.” Burke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Greenberg’s been on my back all night. And Sam’s new agent called after the taping. What a bastard.”
“Because of the call, or because he took her on?”
“No, he really is a bastard. A twenty-four-karat bottom feeder. Those two deserve each other.”
“Speaking of people who deserve each other…” Fitz stared at the bottle in his hand. “What were all her fair-weather friends and slight acquaintances doing here? Helping her pack?”
“Making the scene, raiding your bar.” Burke picked up a magazine and rolled it tight. “Watching the train wreck, up close and personal. I thought I’d keep them here, liquored up, away from the press. Postpone the collateral damage for a while.” The magazine tapped a nervous staccato against his leg. “I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.”
“Yeah.” Fitz pulled up short of a shrug. “I know.”
Burke leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you’d be.” He started to say something else, but nipped it off. Instead, he wound the magazine more tightly and squeezed.
Fitz tilted the bottle toward his mouth, hesitated, lowered it. “Okay. So, things have gotten a little out of control lately.”
Burke lifted one skeptical eyebrow.
“And,” Fitz added, “I should keep my name out of the tabloids if I’m going to get anyone with serious clout in this town to executive produce. I won’t let this…this kind of thing happen again. I can’t. I want to see this deal come together. I want it, bad.”
He set the bottle on a table. “But it’s not just the deal. I’m getting too old for this, Burke. God knows I feel too old tonight.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and let them fall in his lap. “From here on out, the only offscreen role I’m playing is Boy Scout.”
He angled his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. “So, has she packed yet?”
“Not that I can tell.”
Fitz sighed. Suddenly he was too tired to climb into the hot tub. Maybe he’d just sleep here for, oh, twenty years or so.
Burke was tapping again.
“Relax.” Fitz stretched out on his side, crunched a throw pillow under his head and tried to burrow deeper into the leather. “I can deal with it.”
“You won’t have to deal with it. You won’t be here.” Burke cursed and threw the magazine down on the coffee table. “The scheming shrew had perfect timing.”
“What do you mean, I’m not going to be here?”
“There’s been a schedule change on the location shoot. We leave for Montana on Monday. Bright and early.”
Bright and early. An extra-loud alarm and extra-strength caffeine. LAX and paparazzi on an empty stomach. “Aw, shit.”
Burke sniffed and twitched. “You got it.”
ELLIE HARRISON REINED IN her mare on the bank of Whistle Creek and frowned at the construction project turning the facade of her family’s Montana ranch house into Hollywood’s version of a Montana ranch house. Saws shrieked, air compressors whumped, dust whirled, cords twisted, crew members swore. So much money to waste, so many people to waste it. Seemed like everyone had a tiny slice of some ridiculous job, and each of those folks had an assistant.
As long as a fair share of all that money trickled into her pockets, she’d keep her mouth shut and her opinions to herself. Except for sharing her disgust with Will Winterhawk. She’d shared that and plenty more with the ranch foreman over the past twenty years, while she was growing up and he was helping to make sure she did it right.
She shifted in her saddle and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Wonder what Tom would have thought about what’s going on up there.”
Sometimes it seemed she spent most of her waking hours second-guessing what her dead husband—or his dead father—would have done with the family’s land. The weight of all that responsibility to do things the Harrisons’ way wore her down more than the job itself.
Will fingered the rope slung over his saddle horn and squinted at the scene across the creek. “I’m thinking he might have appreciated the irony of it. All that fuss and bother to make things look pretty much the way they looked before all the fuss and bother.”
“Well, all that fuss and bother is helping me pay the bills.”
“Yep.” He nodded solemnly. “There’s that, too.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning…another kind of irony, maybe. Keeping up appearances, keeping up the ranch.” His squint narrowed, and the wrinkles at the corners of his dark eyes deepened. “Maybe using Hollywood like this’ll keep Hollywood out.”
Too many of her neighbors had already sold out to L. A. millionaires, turning productive ranch lands into extravagant wilderness playgrounds. She wasn’t going to let that happen to Tom’s inheritance—or to his daughter’s future.
Will was right. Every bit of the sawing and hammering and painting, the electrical wiring and the headphone yammering, the helicopters swooping and the trucks lumbering back and forth, the dust and the noise and the confusion—none of it was anything to get herself in a twist over. Every bit of inconvenience meant dollars in the bank.
If everything went well and on time. If nothing interfered too much with normal ranch business. If no one got hurt.
She pulled herself up and out of her slump in the saddle, straightening her spine and ignoring the stitch between her shoulder blades. This phase of the filming of Wolfe’s Range would be finished in six weeks, and then the cast and crew would head back to California for the studio work. Life could get back to normal, with fodder tucked away for gossip during long winter nights and a tidy sum tucked away for making the balloon payment on the mortgage and the next round of taxes.
Debt, and the means of easing out from under it, made her stomach churn and her head pound. Sometimes it seemed financial concerns had dogged her every step for the past thirty-one years.
Thirty-one. She was still a young woman, but today she felt as old as the land she managed. “Best get on over there and play wrangler for a couple of hours,” she said.
“Don’t think they see it as much of a game.”
“I know. All that make-believe is serious business.”
“Why, Eleanor Louise,” Will said, tipping his hat back with his thumb to squint at her. “Just when I thought you didn’t have an ironic bone in your body.”
“You may be a dozen years my elder and the closest thing I’ve got to an uncle, Will Winterhawk,” she said, “but you don’t know every little thing that goes on in here.” She pointed at her chest.
“Don’t want to, most of the time. I like keeping things clean and simple.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I know when to shut the hell up and make my exit, stage left.” He kneed his piebald down into the creek bed and splashed across into Montana Movieland.
Ellie sighed and followed. She’d busied herself with early summer chores to put off an afternoon check-in with Trish Cameron, the young production assistant in charge of making things difficult. Might as well get it over with. She dismounted and carefully led Tansy, her mare, into a circus campground of big white vans, through a tangle of cables and wire and people scurrying about on mysterious tasks.
“Ellie!” Trish raised her clipboard in greeting as she approached. “There you are.”
Ellie nodded. “Just wanted to let you know we’re all set for that sunrise scene tomorrow. Got the extra stock in and a temporary corral set up for the second unit folks.”
“Uh-huh, okay, I… No, damn it,” Trish snapped at some invisible person over her headphone set. “I said— What does he mean, we’re— Oh, right, like I give a shit what he— Okay, good.”
Trish fiddled a bit with the little gray ball stuck at her ear and checked the gizmo clipped to her waist and then flipped the clipboard over to slap another scrawled sticky note on top of a wad of fluttering litter before smiling at Ellie. “All set, huh? Good. That’s great. Only now they want ten more.”
“Horses?”
“Yeah. And make ’em, you know…” She waved her hand in tight, tense circles. “Mixed.”
“Mixed?”
“Like, different colors.” Trish pulled a cell phone out of a back pocket and frowned at the screen. “More white ones. A couple of those spotted ones. Some lighter browns. You know—something that’ll be a stronger contrast on film.”
Ellie’s stomach turned to battery acid and flowed into her boots. Ten horses, in some crazy crayon assortment pack, to beg and borrow from her neighbors, round up before dark, settle in the paddocks tonight, and then move before dawn to a pasture fifteen miles, one river and a tricky stand of timber away.
Piece of cake.
Probably the piece she wouldn’t be eating for dinner tonight. No time for dinner when there was stock to wrangle for idiots who couldn’t make up their minds from one minute to the next what in the hell it was they wanted.
She bared her teeth at Trish in something resembling a smile, only because the production assistant looked slightly more harassed than Ellie felt at the moment. “Okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I— Shit.” Trish slammed her clipboard under one elbow and cupped her hand over the headphone at her ear. “No, Frank, he said—no, Friday, latest. Whatever it takes, man. Fitz is here.”
It took Ellie a second to realize that last bit had been addressed to her. “Fitz?”
“Kelleran? The lead?” Trish headed toward the barn, scrawling another note. “He got here earlier than we expected. He’s asking about his horse.”
Ellie tugged at Tansy’s reins and followed. “His horse? What about it?”
“I don’t know,” said Trish. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “You’ll have to ask him.”
And there he was, leaning against a nearby van with not a care in his millionaire movie star world, his chambray shirtsleeves rolled back and his hands shoved into his pockets: Fitz Kelleran.
Ellie simply couldn’t prevent the shock to her system, the stagger in her step, the sudden intake of breath. He was taller than she’d expected, and leaner, his face more angular, his features more chiseled. He was much, oh, so much more handsome than the movie-screen Fitz—and that should have been an impossibility. She’d assumed the make-up, or the lighting, or the magic and mystery of film would make reality disappointing.
But the reality of Fitz Kelleran was that no human being should look that good. It was impossible for one head of thick hair to contain so many variations on the theme of blond. It was impossible for two eyes to match the kind of perfect blue that nearly hurt to look at when it blazed overhead.
It was impossible not to stare, not to study each feature, not to commit to memory the fascinating slide of expression over bone and muscle and skin. She tried not to stare, in that first breathless moment. She swore, in the next, that she’d defy his threat to her composure.
But then he smiled, all even white teeth and craggy edges and hollows, all sexy crinkles and teasing eyes, and another thunderbolt streaked through her.
And in that final moment of her first impression, she decided Fitz Kelleran was going to be a pain in the ass.
She knew it wasn’t fair, but the conclusion bubbled up through a stew of resentment and basic animal attraction. And—God help her—there was a dash of infatuation, slapping her upside the head and stinging her private parts with little needle pricks of desire.
Yep, a literal pain in the ass.
“Fitz Kelleran,” Trish said. “Ellie Harrison. Damn it, Jeff, I told you—” She stalked off, waving the clipboard.
Ellie looked up—way up—and hoped the flutter in her middle wouldn’t spread to her lashes. She stuck out her hand, and he took it in one that was big and warm and rough with calluses.
“Welcome to Granite Ridge,” she said. “I’m head wrangler.”
“So I hear.”
His voice was more than it was in the movies, too. Deeper, smoother. It rumbled right through her, from her tingling scalp to her twitching toes.
Damn him for that, too.
“I’ve got a nice gelding picked out for you, Mr. Kelleran.”
“Fitz.”
“He won’t give you any trouble.”
“I don’t expect any.”
“Okay, then.”
“But I’d like to pick out my own mount,” he said with that teasing smile, “if it’s all the same.”
Ellie stiffened and scrambled for patience. “I chose that mount for you. Specifically.”
“I’m sure you did an excellent job.”
“He was approved by the art director.”