The Full Story. Dawn Stewardson

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