L.A. Caveman (14 page)

He laughed, a deep amused chuckle. In
a fluid movement, he was sharing her rock and rubbing arms with
her. He looked down sideways at her, curved his arm around and
tucked a stray blond lock of her hair back behind her ear. "We'll
go at your speed." His voice sounded very masculine for all its
softness. His eyes glowed with a warm heat.

Stanna was all too aware of the heat
radiating from his body. His strong upper arm was a warm, welcome
solid pillar against hers. It felt deliciously hard, and she had
the sudden unreasonable urge to nuzzle against his chest and feel
that arm folding her to him. She moved slightly away from him,
trying to clear her mind.

He seemed aware of her thoughts. He
looked at her evaluatingly. Another gust of wind blew his shaggy
golden chestnut hair back from his face, and he raised his head
suddenly to the west and frowned, distracted.

"It hardly ever rains heavily in
L.A.," he murmured almost to himself. He shrugged on his backpack.
"But those look like they might be serious rain clouds. How badly
do you want to see the peak?"

"Pretty badly," she answered, her
voice more breathy and sultry than she intended.

He smiled, and cute laugh-lines
appeared at the corner of his eyes. He gazed into her own eyes
teasingly. "Then the next question would be, do you mind getting a
little wet?"

She didn't laugh, but it was an effort
not to. "No. I don't mind getting a little wet."

His mischievous smile went well with
his speculative gaze. He leaped up from the small boulder, bowed
before her and held out his hand, palm up. "Come then, my lady. For
there are sights worth seeing further up yonder trail." He was the
very image of an old-fashioned knight for a moment, his broad
shoulders bent to her service, his bearing gallant.

Laughing and delighted with his
antics, she grasped his hand. The touch tingled through her as he
pulled her to her feet.

He didn't let go, but kept her hand
enfolded in his larger one as he paced beside her. The connection
warmed and centered her.

She'd never felt more safe.

Ian had never felt more
furious.

After more than a month of
miscellaneous dirty tricks, from petty vandalism to promoting
Men's Weekly's
bad publicity… from agitating the feminist
groups to calling in favors from his shadier contacts… from
Internet discussion group trolling to emails sent off wherever they
might do the most damage... the stupid magazine was showing no sign
of stumbling.

Jake
was showing no signs of
stumbling.

How he hated that damn usurper. Jake
was using the money Ian himself had once easily embezzled to launch
the magazine into national prominence.

His latest trick, paying off that
Mexican actress to make her suicide call to Stanna, was diabolical
if he did say so himself. Keeping Stanna primed against Jake and on
Ian’s good side was key to his success. The key that got Jake out
of the way for good.

He was running out of time.

The thugs were becoming persistent.
Just last night he'd discovered all four tires on his beautiful
Jaguar punctured. How they’d managed to do it while he dined at the
famous French restaurant L'Orangerie he didn't discover. Probably
bribed the valets.

The note was more ominous. Tucked
under his wiper as if it was a ticket, the note read simply,
"Thirty days. Then we turn you into geezer pate."

He could’ve done without such
unpleasant, not to mention nauseating, reminders.

Yet he owed enough money they’d never
let him go with a slap on the wrist if he defaulted. Outrageous
that after so many years of power and ease, he found himself at
such a disadvantage.

Ian bared his teeth. If he worked
quickly, he might still pull this chestnut out of the fire. He
might take quite a bit of additional profit for himself besides, if
all went swimmingly.

His grimace broadened into a fierce
smile. The lipless grin of covetous greed was that of an
intelligently watchful, ravenously hungry vulture.

Soon
, he thought. He would make
his next move very soon.

If the cute guy across the room didn't
make his move soon, Telly reasoned, then she'd be justified in
making one of her own. She'd give him exactly one more minute of
her high-powered smiles and subtly provocative poses.

Subtle was the name of the game here
at the Saturday night church social. She probably should have
slicked her white-blond hair back, stuck in a few barrettes or
something instead of the spiky punk look she currently sported. But
how could she have known it'd be so drably conservative? She'd
never been to church in her life, but “social” to her meant
talking, dancing, flirting… all the things not happening nearly
enough here.

Looking around the large room, Telly
noticed lots of gray, blue, and white preppy styles. The men and
women were around her age, but they looked older due to their dress
and demeanor. Books and inspirational pictures lined the walls, and
Christian rock music played softly over the PA system. Nobody
danced. Nobody flirted. And the talking… Telly shuddered. She’d had
more rousing conversations with herself.

She shook off her displeasure. She was
here in a quest to explore new places for the elusive Mr. Just
Right. Someone with good morals. Someone sincere and sweet and not
sleazy. The guy she envisioned had to be a decent sort of fellow.
What better place than a church to screen out the lecherous,
spittley types?

The cute, tall, and sincere-looking
guy she watched most closely had dimples when he smiled, and he
smiled often, with a cute shy dip to his head. His blond hair was
cropped short in tiny ringlets, like a Greek statue. He wore
inconspicuous wire-rim glasses that made him look like a beautiful
scholar.

Trouble was, he didn't seem aware of
her existence as a woman.

That was about to change. Telly
regarded him with fox-like interest, knowing her big black-lined
eyes sparkled deviously. Setting down her empty punch cup, she
grabbed two more full ones and made a beeline for his small
group.

Telly parked herself next to him and
fixed her eyes adoringly on his face. She smiled up at him when he
glanced at her, and held out one of the punch cups to
him.

"I'm Telly," she stated with what she
hoped was affectionate directness. She batted her eyes and smiled
winningly up at him.

"Hi," he said softly, but equally
direct. His even white teeth revealed themselves quickly in a shy
smile. "I'm Ernest." He looked down at the punch cup in her hand
and back at her face. "Is that for me?"

She grinned and nodded, projecting
friendliness and interest. He was so serious. So earnest. She
swallowed giggles.

"You are very kind to bring me a
drink." His pronunciation was so exact, she wondered if he thought
she was hard of hearing. He regarded her with an innocent scrutiny
and sipped his cup of punch, waiting for her to speak again. Behind
his spectacles, blue eyes the color of a still summer sky blinked
slowly and with childlike simplicity.

A few minutes of silence passed,
filled by nothing more than smiling and waiting. Weird, thought
Telly, keeping the smile on her face. But maybe church guys were
less aggressive than the norm. That would make sense. She’d just
have to take the lead.

"Why don't we go for a
walk?"

He immediately nodded with a pleased
smile, letting her lead him to the front porch and beyond, to a
well groomed and prettily lit little garden near the building's
parking lot. She checked the lot for her red Mustang out of habit.
Once one had had one’s car "borrowed" by a weasel jerk of an ex
boyfriend, one just monitored vehicle whereabouts more closely. But
there it still was, her beautiful steed.

She sighed. Why couldn't men be as
beautiful, reliable, and powerful as her Mustang?

This man was beautiful, anyway. She
snuck a peek. Chiseled profile, flawless skin, tall...

"You're seeking something here, aren't
you?" The gentle query wasn't a come-on line. It was too serious.
Interesting.

"Well... I suppose so." She ran a long
nail down her own bare white forearm slowly. "
You
could say
so," she growled, sultry, nudging him playfully. See what he did
with that, she thought.

He was already nodding. "You've found
it, here. With me."

She did a double take. Was Ernest
conceited?

"The church eagerly embraces seekers
such as yourself. Those who are sincerely seeking God's love, as
you are." He had a youthful smile on his face. He stepped closer
and took her hand gently into his cool one. She felt no sparks.
"I'm the Pastor's son and I know he'd love to meet you." His
tugging her back toward the building reminded her of an eager
golden retriever she'd once owned.

"Whoa," she said, extricating her
hand. "I'm really not especially religious."

"You're not?" His voice reflected his
shock. For the first time, his gaze obviously crept over her
attire, taking in the black skirt and punky hair and make-up,
lingering on the tiny edge of cleavage she’d let show. “But you
want to be, right? To be forgiven your trespasses? You’re seeking
Divine grace.” His eyes telegraphed his sudden caution. He moved
three steps back from the chummy proximity he'd had when he took
her hand.

"No, not exactly. But I don’t mind
people who’re into religion. It could be sort of different." But it
was a lost cause. He kept eyeballing her outfit and she could read
him as clearly as one of Stanna's columns. He was thinking she was
one of
them
, one of those godless heathen sluts from
Hollywood. He'd been warned about women like her.

It was suddenly hard not to laugh.
There he was, looking a bizarre combination of crestfallen and
enguard
, and all she'd wanted was to get to know him better,
maybe flirt a tiny bit, possibly set up a date.

He clearly wanted to flee, but just as
clearly didn't want to be rude. The poor guy visibly re-gathered
his composure and tried again. He spoke sincerely, but kept his
distance. "I know you'd like my dad. I know he likes to meet people
like you too. We could go and meet him before we all head down to
the Pleasant Pastures retirement home to play checkers. That’s the
charity for this evening, and it makes the seniors so happy. Won't
you join us?"

"Thanks, Ernest. That's really sweet
of you." She pointedly looked at her watch. "Oh, gosh, look at the
time. I have to be going. Have fun with the checkers and
everything." She spoke over her shoulder as she darted across the
path, over the grass and to the parking lot to escape.

It was tremendously strange, Telly
thought as she drove from the church social at a speed that
doubtless reinforced Ernest's opinion of her, that someone so
beautiful could be such a bore.

Okay. So, bar boys weren’t for her.
And, church boys weren't for her.

Telly popped Blondie's "One Way Or
Another" into her cassette deck and narrowed her flawlessly made-up
eyes. The hard-driving tunes pumped her up.

There were other places to look for
Mr. Just Right, and she'd search every one of them if
necessary.

Jake and Stanna hiked up Sandpiper
Peak together, holding hands and talking shop. Stanna listened with
fascination as he actually confided in her.

"We've been getting bomb threats," he
told her. “Well, I have, anyway. And that's not all. Magazine hate
mail addressed to me. Then my house was spray-painted. Who has
nothing better to do than follow me home and spray paint my
house?

“
Then, it was a
double-whammy: a dramatic, unexplained rise in Standard's paper
prices combined with Marshall Distributing's union strike. That
suicidal woman's phone call was par for the course,
Stanna."

His lips pursed thoughtfully. "It's as
if someone's determined to make me fail with
Men's Weekly
,
but of course that's silly. Who would have the time, influence, or
motivation to go to all that trouble? Why would they do it? It's
all just bad timing for me, I guess." His words were fatalistic,
but his thunderous glare at the trail in front said
otherwise.

"I don't remember business being so
difficult with Ian," Stanna mused aloud. Then, blushing, she added,
"I don't mean to say he was better than you or anything. But it's
weird that things are going wrong all of a sudden with him gone.
Maybe there's something suspicious about that. Yesterday when he
called--"

"He called you?" Jake's thunderous
expression turned on her suddenly. As if to punctuate, a low rumble
of thunder echoed across the hills.

"Well... yes." She eyed him
warily.

"That will stop. It's entirely
inappropriate for the former editor to be consulting with you
still," he told her stiffly.

"And what you and I are doing is so
proper and appropriate?" she bit back immediately, wondering why
he'd donned the "boss" persona all of a sudden. It was strange
hearing it while they held hands. She sang cavalierly, tauntingly,
"I guess I'm just not an 'appropriate' kind of girl," and gave him
a sweet smile.