The Full Story

There was a short silence before Mickey continued speaking into her cell phone. “It’ll be the mother of all stories and we’ll have an exclusive. We’ll scoop the Chronicle and the Examiner. Hell, we’ll scoop the New York Times.”

She lapsed into silence, obviously listening to whatever her boss was saying. Dan felt his blood pressure rising. He wished he could hear both sides of the conversation.

“I know I’m not the best candidate.” She was speaking again. “But the critical thing is I’m up here with Dan O’Neill, and I’m the only person he’s willing to take along.”

Willing to take along? That was hardly the way he’d put it. There was another silence, and Dan couldn’t keep himself from whispering, “Is he going for it?”

She smiled at him. “I’m on hold. He’s running it past the editor in chief.”

Dan held his breath. Surely an editor in chief would recognize the insanity of this.

And then Mickey said, “That’s great. Tell Mr. Edwards I’ll come through. Neither of you will be disappointed.”

Dammit. Dan should have realized how persuasive she could be. After all, she’d convinced him to go along with this ridiculous scheme.

Dear Reader,

For my January 2003 Harlequin Superromance novel, Finding Amy, I created a company called Risk Control International—which turned out to have so many exciting people working for it that Harlequin will be publishing a miniseries of stories featuring various RCI operatives.

According to its director, RCI is in the “survival business,” a phrase he prefers over saying that people come to RCI because their lives are in danger. The only rule the company has is “Don’t let the client get killed,” and in The Full Story the client is Hollywood superstar Billy Brent.

A contract killer is after Billy, and it’s up to RCI’s personal security advisor, Daniel O’Neill, to keep Billy alive while learning who the hit man is and who’s paid him to whack Billy.

However, Dan’s plan for doing that runs into trouble when photojournalist Mickey Westover appears on the scene.

She’s arrived to interview Billy, but when she discovers that his life is in jeopardy she realizes a front-page story has fallen straight into her lap—and she has no intention of letting it go, despite the fact that Dan O’Neill is bound and determined to be rid of her. And the sooner the better.

Sparks fly between Mickey and Dan from beginning to end, and I hope you enjoy the way their romance is spiced with both humor and danger.

Warmest wishes,

Dawn Stewardson

The Full Story

Dawn Stewardson

To John, always.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE MOUNTAINS OF Vancouver Island were home to some of the biggest trees Mickey had ever seen, and the air smelled so heavenly that she was driving with the windows down. Imagining herself a thousand miles from civilization was no challenge at all—until she reached her destination.

Then she was treated to a reality check. An eight-foot wrought-iron fence and a sign that read:

Private Property

No Hunting

Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted

Hmm. That certainly got the point across. And it was probably a lot more likely to discourage potential intruders than the fence. If it had razor wire it would give people pause, but as things stood it didn’t look like an insurmountable obstacle.

She pulled up to the intercom speaker and said, “I’m here to see Mr. Brent.”

There was no response, although she was sure she’d found the right place. According to Billy, the road dead-ended at his property. And this was clearly the end of the line.

After combing her fingers through her hair, she climbed out of the rental to check the gate—and wasn’t at all surprised when she found it locked, even though the risk of riffraff banging on Billy Brent’s door had to be minimal up here.

When a second attempt to rouse someone via the speaker failed, she tried a couple of honks on the horn. That did no good, either. So what was her next move?

Glancing at her cellular, she wished Billy had entrusted her with his number. Then she could simply phone to say she’d arrived. But since she couldn’t do that, there seemed to be only one option left.

She absently rubbed her palms across her jeans, thinking she’d feel better about the idea of climbing over the gate and hiking down the driveway if she didn’t know that Billy had a hundred acres here. Or if she could see exactly how far his hideaway was from the road.

For all she knew the drive was miles long, winding its way through forest that looked just as dense inside the fence as outside.

Her gaze drifted uneasily back to the sign.

No Hunting obviously implied there were things to hunt. And since she’d been warned that the woods were full of bears and cougars, she wasn’t thinking in terms of bunny rabbits.

Still, surely the odds of becoming some animal’s lunch weren’t very high. So she’d simply be glad the sign’s third line didn’t read Trespassers Will Be Shot.

And that there wasn’t a fourth one saying Even Expected Visitors Are At Risk.

She wouldn’t have been shocked by either. Billy’s retreat might be in Canada, where the gun laws were strict, but he had a reputation for disregarding laws. He apparently fancied himself this generation’s Clint Eastwood, and she’d heard that he had trouble preventing his screen roles from blurring into his real life.

Of course, he was such hot box office that there was always someone to bail him out of trouble. Otherwise, if even a quarter of the stories about his antics were true, his current residence would be prison.

She tucked her cell phone into her purse and got out of the car, then retrieved her camera bag from the trunk and considered whether she should take anything else with her.

Billy had specified no tape recorder, and her laptop wasn’t always essential for this type of interview; often the notebook she kept with her camera was enough. And it didn’t make sense to overload herself when she had a gate to climb and heaven only knows how far to walk.

Deciding that if she did need the computer she could always come back for it, she stashed her purse in the trunk, next to her carry-on. After locking up, she slung the camera bag over her shoulder and told herself to get moving. She had an appointment to keep.

Besides, she thought with a final glance at the sign, a moving target was harder to hit.

Trying not to imagine Billy Brent lurking on his porch with an AK-47, she clambered over the gate—having been a tomboy had left her with numerous handy skills—and started down the driveway. She’d only walked about a hundred feet before a couple of crows went into scream mode overhead.

Seized by the horrible feeling that they were yelling, “Watch out for the bear,” she picked up her pace. A second later she was tackled from behind.

She landed facedown in the dirt and dizzy from the impact, with someone straddling her and pressing what had to be a gun against the back of her head.

Her life didn’t flash before her, but the fear sweeping through her was so strong she figured cardiac arrest was imminent. Before she could make her voice work, her assailant said, “Just lie still while I check for weapons. Then I’ll let you up.”

Okay. Take a slow, deep breath and try to reduce the amount of adrenaline rushing through her. As terrified as she felt, he’d sounded so matter-of-fact that she probably wasn’t a mere instant away from death. He was more likely Billy’s bodyguard than a crazed mountain man, which meant she’d be okay. Except for the humiliation of his patting her down.

She gritted her teeth as he ran one hand thoroughly over her body—while keeping the gun to her head with the other.

Evidently satisfied that she was clean, he reached over to where her camera case had landed beside her and began rummaging through its contents.

“If you broke my Nikon…” she muttered into the ground.

“It’s fine, but you’re lucky I didn’t break your neck. You’re trespassing.”

He pushed himself up, then grabbed the back of her belt and hauled her to her feet.

“Who are you?” he demanded, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and turning her around to face him. “And what are you doing here?”

She hated being manhandled, and the urge to kick him in the shin was almost uncontrollable. However, since his gun looked even bigger than it had felt, she settled for merely scowling at him while she brushed half a pound of dirt and pine needles off herself.

He scowled right back, his eyes the color of cold blue steel and filled with suspicion. But growing up with three older brothers had taught her everything she needed to know about glaring contests, so she stood her ground and sized the guy up.

He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, with dark hair that was far too short for her taste.

And he wasn’t exceptionally tall—only about an even six feet.

As for his face, he had a crescent shaped scar above his upper lip that she’d guess had been carved by a knife. Aside from that, he resembled a young Richard Gere. Sort of. A young Richard Gere with a marine haircut.

In fact, Mr. Scar-face probably wouldn’t be bad looking if he smiled. And if his eyes held even a hint of warmth.

“I asked who you are,” he reminded her at last.

He’d stuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans, but he still wasn’t exhibiting the slightest trace of friendliness. So if she had any hope of actually getting to see Billy, she’d better try being at least reasonably pleasant.

“My name’s Michelle Westover,” she told him. “Mickey Westover.”

“To your friends,” he said, his tone suggesting that wasn’t what he’d be calling her.

“Yes. To my friends.”

She forced a smile, then bent to retrieve her camera bag and checked her camera. It really did seem okay.

“And you’re here because…?”

“Mr. Brent is expecting me.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “I have an appointment.”

“Oh?”

“I made it a week ago. I called his agent, his agent contacted him, and Mr. Brent phoned me. I gather he didn’t mention anything about it to you?”

“That’s right. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here to see him.”

“And who would I be telling?” she said, trying not to let the question sound too snotty.

“I’m Dan O’Neill. An associate of Mr. Brent’s.”

“A bodyguard-type associate?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. So this appointment is to…?”

The man was focused, she’d give him that.

“I’m a photojournalist with The San Francisco Post. The Arts and Entertainment section. We’ve been running a series called Hideouts of the Stars, and Mr. Brent agreed to an interview.”

O’Neill eyed her for a moment. “If you do a spread on somebody’s hideout…doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of having one?”

That was exactly what she’d initially thought, but since the party line was that everything the Post’s senior editors decided on made perfect sense, she merely said, “We never get specific about exactly where a place is—just publish photographs of it along with an article based on the interview.”

O’Neill still seemed skeptical, but all he said was, “I’ll have to see some ID.”

“I left my purse in the car. Locked in the trunk,” she elaborated when his expression suggested that only an idiot would leave her purse in a car.

But what was he thinking might happen to it out here in the wilderness? That a deer would lift it and take a trip to Mexico on one of her credit cards?

He didn’t tell her what he was thinking, just said, “Let’s go,” and started off toward the gate.

She followed along, unable to force the cliché—a lean, mean, fighting machine—from her mind.

His shoulders were ridiculously broad, and the way his T-shirt pulled tautly across his back left no doubt that there were a whole lot of muscles beneath the black cotton.

Yes, she had to give him points for being in good shape. And for his voice.

It was nice and deep, with a barely there drawl that was just enough to make her sure he’d grown up somewhere in the South. She doubted he ever got accused of being a Southern gentleman, though.

He didn’t strike her as a ladies’ man—almost definitely not married and probably didn’t even have a serious girlfriend. Her intuition about that sort of thing was seldom wrong, and his body language clearly said loner.

But what did she care about any of that? All she cared about was getting past this guy to Billy Brent.

AFTER MICKEY WESTOVER took her purse from the trunk, Dan checked every piece of ID that she had, ignoring the way she was doing a poor job of concealing her annoyance. That done, he had a careful second look at both her driver’s license and her Post staff card.

The pictures on them definitely matched the woman—long hair the color of a good cigar, big brown eyes, Julia Roberts lips. And nothing else in her wallet was obviously phony. However, any self-respecting killer would carry top-quality fakes. And since the only visitor he’d been expecting, aside from a courier, was the person out to whack Billy…

He’d assumed it would be a man. But, hey, this was the twenty-first century. There were more and more hit women out there all the time. And Mickey Westover—if that really was her name—could easily be one of them.

Or maybe she was a forerunner for the killer. Sent to check the lay of the land and report back.

But, hell, every now and then his suspicions got the better of him and this was probably one of those times. Most likely, she was exactly who she claimed to be and Billy just hadn’t thought to mention their appointment.

He might not even have remembered making it. With Billy, you could never be sure what he’d deposited in his memory bank and what had just slipped on by it.

“So?” Mickey said. “You’re satisfied I’m legit?”

“Uh-huh. Regardless of that, though, Mr. Brent isn’t here right now.”

“Then why,” she said, gesturing toward the wallet he was still holding, “have we been playing this little ID game?”

She was so clearly pissed off and trying not to show it that he almost laughed.

Resisting the impulse, he handed over her wallet and said, “I had to be sure who you were—whether Mr. Brent was here or not.”

“Yes. Of course,” she said, sticking the wallet back into her purse. “And at least, now, you’ll be a step ahead when he gets back.”

She stood watching him after she’d finished speaking, looking more suspicious by the second and finally saying, “He will be getting back, won’t he?”

Damn. He couldn’t say no. With everyone from Billy’s agent to his PR handler claiming that he was up in Canada, enjoying a little time at his island retreat, if he admitted the man wasn’t here at all…

Well, he could just imagine how Mickey Westover’s cute little journalistic nose would start to quiver.

But if he told her Billy would be back, he’d bet that she’d want to wait right here for him.

“Look,” he said at last. “He won’t be home until late. And you’ve got a long drive from here back to…I assume you’re staying in Victoria?”

“That’s where I stayed last night. But I checked out of my hotel this morning, thinking I’d be flying back to San Francisco tonight. I can’t go home without the interview, though,” she added quickly.

“No, of course not. So let’s play things this way. I’ll wait up for Billy and we’ll reschedule your appointment. And you can find a motel that’s a lot closer than Victoria. Then, if you call me first thing in the morning, I’ll tell you what time to be here.” Dan did his best to look sincere even though what he’d really do, come morning, was tell her that Billy had changed his mind, had decided he didn’t want pictures of this place in any newspaper.

After that, if she was the real thing she’d get on a plane and head home. And if she wasn’t the real thing…well, he certainly knew what he’d do then.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could wait here for him,” she finally said, just as he’d known she would.

“Sorry,” he told her, trying to sound as if he really meant it. “But Mr. Brent’s liable to be very late. And the thought of an overnight guest he’s never even met… There are some things he just doesn’t go for.”

“I understand,” she murmured.

He watched her climb into her car and set her purse and camera bag on the passenger seat, surprised that she was giving up so easily.

Apparently she didn’t have the bulldog tenacity of most reporters, which probably explained why she got handed dumb assignments like…what had she said the series was called?

Oh, yeah, Hideouts of the Stars. Not much doubt she wouldn’t be winning a Pulitzer for that one.

It was just as well she wasn’t tenacious, though. The sooner she was gone and he could get back to those monitor screens—and resume watching for the real killer—the better.

He waited while she turned the car around. Then she gave him a little wave as she started off.

No hard feelings, it seemed to say.

But that wasn’t what she’d be thinking come morning, when he told her there wouldn’t be any interview.

MICKEY HEADED back toward the Trans-Canada Highway, which struck her as a grandiose name for a twisty-turny, two-lane mountain road. On the drive up here, she’d wondered several times what the secondary highways must be like.

At any rate, she drove more than far enough from Billy’s hideaway to insure that the sound of her engine had faded from Mr. Dan O’Neill’s range of hearing. Then she pulled over.

The man hadn’t been straight with her.

She wasn’t sure exactly what clue she’d picked up on. There’d been nothing in those cold blue eyes of his to tip her off.

But she was certain he’d been lying. And since her sixth sense seldom failed her, she suspected that Billy Brent was actually right there in his retreat. Exactly where he was supposed to be.

So had he simply changed his mind about the interview and told his bodyguard to get rid of her?

The more she considered the possibility, the more convinced she grew that that was precisely what had happened.

Billy wasn’t known for his concern about others. The fact that she’d flown all the way up from San Francisco, then risked her life on a killer of a road, wouldn’t count for diddly with him.

But he’d promised her an interview and she was damn well going to get one.

If she expected to ever be assigned serious stories, she had to come through on the lightweight ones. So, if Billy Brent had changed his mind, she’d just have to change it back.

The first step, though, would be getting to him without Daniel O’Neill intercepting her again. And how was she going to manage that?

Trying to march down the driveway a second time was obviously out. And for all she knew there were surveillance cameras mounted in half the trees on Billy’s property. So even if she avoided the driveway and made her way through the woods, O’Neill might spot her.

Besides, if she didn’t stay within sight of the driveway she wouldn’t know where she should be making her way to. Which would not be good.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on trying to sketch a blueprint for action. When not a single good idea came to her, she opened her eyes again—and discovered that the god of happenstance was smiling down.

Heading along the narrow road toward her was a courier truck that had to be going to Billy’s.

Well, actually it didn’t have to be. She’d passed two or three private roads between the highway and his place. But she had a feeling that was where this truck was heading. So all she had to do was make the most of her chance.

After grabbing her purse and camera bag from the seat beside her, she rapidly climbed out of the car and waved at the driver—doing her best to act and think at the same time.

As he slowed to a stop, she offered up a little prayer that she could pull off a plan that had barely begun to germinate in her mind.

“Problem?” he said through his open window.

She did a half-second assessment and decided she had a good chance. His expression was one of fatherly concern.

“Yes,” she said. “Definitely a problem. I turned off the highway just to see what was down here, but it’s a dead end.”

He nodded.

“Then, on the way back, my car died.”

“Want me to look under the hood?”

“Thanks, but it’s a rental and I’ve already called the roadside emergency number. There’s a tow truck on the way, only…” She tried her hardest to look extremely frightened before adding, “I just saw a cougar.”

“Really? You don’t often spot them this time of day. Usually it’s early morning or dusk.”

Good Lord! He sounded as if cougar sightings were downright routine.

“Ah,” she said. “Well, the thing is…seeing it scared me half to death and I’m afraid to stay here alone. So I wonder if I could catch a ride with you to a gas station or…anywhere there’d be people.”

She waited, willing him to say “Sure.”

Instead, he said, “As long as you sit tight inside your car you’ll be just fine.”

“I can’t,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to produce a few tears. “I’m too frightened. I’m sorry to seem like such a wuss, but…”

The driver eyed her unhappily.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last. “There’s a rule against picking up passengers. But if you wait here until I’ve made my delivery at the end of the road…”

Ah-ha! She’d known he was heading for Billy Brent’s.

“What if I sat in back while you did the delivery?” she said. “Out of sight? I don’t want to get you in any trouble, but if I have to stay here much longer by myself I’m going to start hyperventilating. I can feel it coming on.”

The man looked even more unhappy; she tried the willing trick again.

“All right,” he finally said. “Climb in.”

“Oh, thank you so much!”

She took half a minute to retrieve her laptop from the trunk—if she ended up needing it, she wouldn’t want to walk back all this way—then she got into the truck.

FROM HER POSITION in the back, Mickey heard Dan O’Neill say “Just a minute” not more than three seconds after the courier spoke into the intercom.

She assumed that the relatively friendly greeting, as opposed to being tackled and patted down at gunpoint, meant he’d been expecting this delivery.

The gate opened, creaking a little in the process, and the truck started forward again.

She quickly finished the note she’d been writing and read it over.

Dear Courier,

Thank you very much for the ride. I didn’t want to inconvenience you any further, so I’ve gotten out.

I’ll just tell these people that my car broke down and I walked here to wait for the emergency road service.

I won’t breathe a word about your helping me, but I really appreciate it.

Your grateful passenger.

As the truck slowed to a stop, she snuck a peek out. And there was Billy Brent’s retreat. Or rustic mansion might be more accurate.