Читать книгу High-Stakes Bachelor - Cindy Dees - Страница 9

Chapter 3

Jackson’s cell phone rang just as he was heading downstairs. He didn’t give many people his private number, so he was surprised when he pulled out the device and didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. Normally, he would ignore it, but he was in a good mood in anticipation of dinner with Ana.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Prescott?”

“Who’s this?” he demanded.

“San Placido County Hospital emergency room. Are you familiar with a woman named Anabelle Izzolo?”

“Is she all right?” he burst out in alarm.

“There’s been an incident, sir. We couldn’t find any emergency contacts for her, but we did find your phone number in her purse.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap. What had happened? He ran for his motorcycle and flung it out of the driveway like a stunt driver. It was more like a ten-minute drive down to the county hospital under normal conditions, but his five-minute estimate turned out to be fairly accurate. He charged through the swinging doors to the emergency room, helmet still on his head.

“Where is Ana Izzolo?” he demanded of the nurse behind the admissions counter. “Is she okay? What happened to her?”

“And you are?” the nurse asked.

“Jackson Prescott. You called me.” He tore off his helmet and the nurse gasped in recognition. What the hell good was it being a movie star if he couldn’t turn it into preferential treatment now and then?

He leaned forward and murmured low, “I would rather not sit here in the public waiting room until the paparazzi show up. Is there any chance you can take me back to be with Ana and avoid a scene?”

“Of course. Come with me.” The woman stepped out from behind the counter to escort him personally.

“Thanks, so much—” he glanced down at her name tag “—Nurse Simpson.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, Mr. Prescott. I loved you in that movie about everyone having to leave Earth.”

“Thanks.” It had been the success of that movie that had led him and Adrian to produce the space Western they were working on right now.

The nurse led him into a tiny vestibule crammed with machines and a big hospital bed. A young police officer looked up as they entered. Jackson’s gaze riveted on Ana, small and pale in the big bed. “How is she?” he demanded. He still had no idea what had happened to her and how serious it was.

The cop answered, “She’s just coming around. Maybe she can tell us what happened. I found her in a parking lot, unconscious.”

Alarm gripped his chest in a vise so tight he had trouble drawing his next breath. “Was she mugged?” Or worse?

“Based on her abrasions, I’d say she was knocked down from behind. A guest at the motel heard her scream and called us. Her purse was still on the ground beside her and her clothes were intact, so it looks like she fought the guy off or scared him away. She’s just coming around. Talk to her and see if she’ll respond to your voice.”

Jackson moved to her side to pick up her hand. “Hey, babycakes. It’s me. Jackson. You’re late for our date.”

Ana groaned. He encouraged her to wake up and talk to him for a few more seconds, and she eventually mumbled, “My head hurts.”

The nurse nodded in approval at him and then unceremoniously elbowed him aside, “How many fingers am I holding up, Miss Izzolo?”

Ana squinted and got the number right. That was a good sign, right? Jackson fretted in the corner he’d been relegated to, where he would be out of the way. If only there was something he could do for her. He felt so damned useless. But he didn’t have the slightest bit of medical training. Hell, he didn’t have training to do anything practical. He could act. That was it. Sure, it had made him a boatload of money, but he figured it was as much a win of the genetic lottery as any real talent he might have. His brothers were soldiers—a helicopter pilot and a Marine officer. Accomplished men with distinguished careers. And he...he was pretty.

Jackson waited impatiently while a doctor came in and peered into Ana’s eyes, asked her a bunch questions, poked her some more and declared her basically unharmed. She apparently had a mild concussion that went with the lump on the side of her head over her ear.

A cop came into the room. Good-looking guy—blond, blue-eyed, deep surfer tan, lanky physique to go with it. Introduced himself as Brody Westmore.

Jackson was deeply relieved when she told the cop she’d been mugged but nothing more. She glossed over the details of the attack and finished by describing screaming her head off and then passing out.

Officer Westmore had apparently already interviewed the motel guest who’d called 9-1-1. Enterprising guy. Surfer cop concluded that, given the timing of the call to the police and their arrival shortly after the scream, her mugger had fled the scene soon after knocking her out.

The cop asked her to check if anything was missing from her purse. A pitifully small amount of cash in her wallet was apparently intact, but her cell phone had gone missing. She was upset about it, but Jackson intervened quickly. “The studio will replace it for you. We’ll need to be able to get in touch with you on short notice.” Or more to the point, he would need to be able to get in touch with her on short notice for his own peace of mind.

The police officer asked, “Ma’am, is there someone we can call to let them know you’ve had an accident? A family member? Spouse?”

Embarrassment flashed through her transparent gaze and she mumbled, “No. No one.”

“I’m the significant other,” Jackson blurted, leaping to the rescue of the damsel in distress. Apparently, he had a heretofore untapped knight-in-shining-armor complex. Not to mention a bizarre possessive streak where Ana was concerned.

She looked startled and the cop looked skeptical until Jackson added defensively, “She was on her way to dinner with me when she was attacked.” He took satisfaction in the way Surfer Cop’s expression fell in disappointment.

The nurse interjected, “Then you’ll be with her tonight, Mr. Prescott? We can’t release her with a concussion unless she won’t be alone.”

Ana struggled to sit up, looking freaked at the idea of spending the night in the hospital. Or maybe she was freaked at the idea of spending the night with him. He frowned. “Of course. I’ll take her home with me. I’ll wake her up every two hours or whatever I need to do.” He’d been in a movie last year where his female costar had to be woken up periodically after a concussion. It had been a plot point that they made love each time he woke her up. Fun couple days of shooting—

The nurse broke his train of thought. “She won’t require anything that extreme. Just keep an eye on her for nausea, vomiting, disorientation, slurring of speech, balance problems, mood changes, restlessness, excessive light or sound sensitivity, or trouble focusing her eyes.”

Well, okay then. He followed the nurse out front to deal with the discharge papers, and he wrote a check for the cost of the E.R. visit. He remembered what it had been like to be a struggling young actor couch surfing and living from hand to mouth between jobs.

After all of the paperwork was taken care of, he headed back down the hall to collect Ana. He wasn’t thrilled to see the cop still there, perched on the end of her bed chatting her up. She was his dinner date, dammit.

“Ready to go home, Ana-banana?”

He caught the glimpse of wistfulness that passed through her expressive eyes before she masked it. It tugged at his heart. An orderly shooed him aside to help Ana into a wheelchair. The cop walked out beside her while Jackson cooled his jets behind the procession. He wasn’t used to having competition for women, and he didn’t particularly like it.

At least he got to put the hot girl on the back of his bike and peel out of the parking lot while the cop climbed into his piece-of-junk Crown Vic cruiser. There was a little justice in this world, after all.

He murmured over his shoulder, “Hang on tight, baby. I’ve got you now.”

* * *

Ana leaned into Jackson’s back and wished desperately that his comment could be true. She was so tired of fighting her own fights and looking out for herself. Particularly since she didn’t seem to be doing that hot a job of it.

His bike accelerated onto the Coast Highway, and it felt phenomenal to breathe in clean, ocean air as the wind whipped past. It had been a scorching-hot day and warmth still lingered in the evening. She reveled in having survived the attack. In having her arms around this man. Euphoria overtook her at having cheated death for real. In her stunt training, she’d done plenty of risky things, but all of that paled before the danger of real life.

“You okay?” Jackson asked over the comm system between their helmets.

She replied, “Um, yes. Why?”

“You tensed up.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She consciously relaxed each major muscle group in her body one by one and let herself flow with the movements of the motorcycle and the man confidently maneuvering along the moonlit ribbon of asphalt.

Jackson pulled into the parking lot of her motel. She slid out reluctantly from behind him, startled by how sexy it felt to rub her body across his like that. His gaze snapped to hers, and for a second, his eyes blazed white-hot. Yowza.

Embarrassed as all get-out, she made a production of taking off her helmet and passing it to him. He stayed seated on his bike for a few extra seconds, securing first her helmet and then his before climbing off the Harley and following her up the stairs to her second-floor room.

Except as they approached her door, she spied something odd about it. The whole thing looked...crooked. Jackson shoved past her abruptly, hooking an arm around her front and simultaneously pushing her behind him and jumping in front of her. What the heck?

“Get back,” he ordered low and hard.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your door’s busted.”

“It was probably like that before—” she started.

“Jamb’s broken. Boot print by the doorknob,” he interrupted. “Stay out here.”

“What?”

He stopped in front of the door and spared her a glare. “You heard me. Don’t come in until I tell you it’s clear.” He used his forearm to push open the sagging door. She frowned until it occurred to her he was intentionally not leaving fingerprints on the doorknob. Sheesh. Paranoid much?

He disappeared into the dark interior of her dingy room. Ignoring his instructions, she stepped into the doorway to see what he was doing. She caught sight of him just spinning into her bathroom in a low crouch. Whoa. Where did he learn a move like that?

That was when her eyesight adjusted enough to really see the interior of her place. What. The. Heck? It was trashed. As in totaled. As in a tornado had shredded the place. Every piece of furniture was knocked over. Every cushion was gutted, and stuffing was all over the place. Drawers were pulled out and thrown on the floor. The TV was smashed. Curtains yanked down off the rods and sliced into rags.

She jumped as Jackson reappeared in the doorway of her bathroom. “I told you to stay outside.” He sounded irritated.

“Is anyone here?” she blurted, her heart pounding.

“No. But if a crook had been in here, you could’ve put yourself in the line of fire and gotten hurt.

She flipped the switch beside the door that turned on the lamp across the room. Nothing happened. What on earth was going on? It was as if someone was targeting her. But who? The only person on earth who wanted to kill her was in jail.

Jackson moved to her side and reached past her to close the broken door as much as it would go. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a phone number without answering her question. “Hello, I’d like to report a break-in.” He gave her room number and the name of the motel, but he gave the person on the other end of the line his cell phone number.

“I understand, Officer. The room is secure, no one’s injured and I’m taking the owner to a safe location. I’ll have her make a list of stolen property, and when you’re ready to come by and have a look, call me.”

Jackson called the motel’s manager on his cell since the rotary phone in the room was currently in pieces, none of which were still attached to each other or the wall. He pocketed his phone and then asked her, “Did you have anything valuable in the room like jewelry or cash that someone could have taken?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Can you think of anything someone might toss your place to look for?”

“No.”

“You got a torqued-off ex?”

“No!”

“How about an ex you didn’t know is pissed?”

“No exes,” she admitted reluctantly.

“None at all?” he blurted, sounding surprised.

Well, wasn’t this just too embarrassing for words? “I don’t date,” she mumbled.

“Why the hell not?”

“This from the guy who has no female friends whatsoever?” she replied a shade defensively.

The manager showed up, blessedly ending Jackson’s uncomfortable line of questioning. The man confirmed that this had been the only room broken into and commenced shooting her suspicious looks as if this was all her fault.

Jackson must have picked up the guy’s hostility because when she started to ask the manager if he had another room she could move into, Jackson cut her off with “I’m taking you to my place to stay until we find out who trashed your room.”

“That won’t be necessary—” she started.

“Nonetheless, that’s what’s going to happen. Do you want to grab your toothbrush and some clothes, assuming they aren’t destroyed, too?”

She headed for the closet and gasped as she peered inside. It was just like the locker at the studio. Every piece of clothing inside was in tatters. Even her shoes’ heels were broken off. The rage behind the attack stole her breath away. “Who would do something like this?” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes and throat.

“Screw the toothbrush,” Jackson said gruffly. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

A sob rattled up out of her chest and escaped.

With urgency approaching panic, Jackson grabbed her elbow and bodily dragged her out of the motel room. A fog descended over her brain, dulling sound and sensation as he led her back to his Harley and installed her on it. He slid onto the bike in front of her and the engine roared to life.

“There’s a hotel at the beach. If you could take me there, I’ll grab a room until I head back to Los Angeles,” she yelled over the engine.

“Negative. You’re coming to my place,” he called back.

“I’m not shacking up with you, Jackson.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on the topic. I’ve got plenty of room.” She started to object, but he interrupted. “Someone has to keep an eye on you for a day or two after your concussion.”

The doctor at the hospital had given her some sort of industrial-strength painkiller, and she’d actually momentarily forgotten her pounding headache from before.

“Besides,” Jackson continued firmly, “I’m worried about you. Until we figure out who trashed your place, I want you close by where I can protect you.”

She subsided, speechless. Other people didn’t protect her, particularly big hunky movie stars whom she had giant crushes on. But she had to admit it felt kind of nice to let somebody else worry about things for once. She was wiped out by today’s events. And it wasn’t like she could actually afford to pay for a decent hotel room. That was why she’d been at the crappy motel outside town in the first place. Still, she’d imposed on him too much. If she wasn’t mistaken, he had already paid her hospital bill.

His rich, soothing voice echoed inside the helmet. “Relax, Ana, and let me do the worrying.”

She hadn’t slowed down enough to get around to worrying about herself until he mentioned it. Who had attacked her? Did it have to do with the attack at the studio, or was it just a terrible coincidence that she had been attacked twice in the same day? What the heck was wrong with her? Did she have a giant V for victim on her forehead or something? All of a sudden, mountains of worry crowded in on her, crushing her beneath their weight.

She wrapped her arms around Jackson’s waist and huddled against his back, letting him be her bulwark against all of it for a few minutes. His muscular contours felt solid, real, safe. For just a minute, she lost herself in him. She let him be the only real thing in her universe, which had otherwise been knocked completely off its axis.

His next words came to her as if spoken across a long distance. “I’ve got you, Ana. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise.”

If only.