because the atmosphere threatened to fill up with dead air, he asked what he thought was the obvious. “Stay in touch much? With your father?” he asked.
“As much as I can.” She broke a bread stick, nibbling on one end. She hadn’t realized that she was as hungry as she was. The urge for an unscheduled pilgrimage to the land of used, overpriced possessions had come before she’d had anything for breakfast. She counted herself lucky that her stomach hadn’t rumbled. “My parents live on the West Coast. California,” she added.
West Coast and California were synonymous to her, but that was only because she’d grown up there. Everyone always felt that their home was the epicenter of everyone’s focus, she mused just as the food server returned with their orders.
“Fast,” Ian commented in a low voice.
“They like to keep things moving here,” she said as she dug into her food with unabashed relish. “Dimitri’s thinking of buying out the store next door and expanding.” He made no comment on the information. Big surprise. Dakota retreated to the previous topic. Her family. “My mother’s Joanna Montgomery.” Watching his expression, she saw no sign that the name might have meant something to him. Sorry, Mom, not everyone’s a movie buff. “She’s an actress.”
He raised one eyebrow at the information. His late mother had been a homemaker, struggling to create harmony between two men who had nothing in common aside from their surname and choice of profession. She was the rock of the earth. Actresses, he felt, were the complete opposite. “Your whole family is in show business?”
“My older brother, Paul, is an accountant.” She didn’t bother adding that he worked for a major studio.
Ian nodded. “Good for him.”
There was something about the tone that rubbed her against the grain. She silently took offense for both her mother and her father. “But my grandfather’s in the business,” she informed him. “Waylon Montgomery.”
Her almost-silent eating companion’s head jerked up. By the surprised look on his face, Dakota knew she’d hit pay dirt. So the man did watch television. A sliver of triumph worked its way forward.
Ian’s fork was suspended in midair. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s in my official bio,” she deadpanned.
“Savage Ben’s owner is your grandfather?” Ian asked. Savage Ben had been a cult favorite TV program in the early eighties and was still living happily in reruns around the world.
He couldn’t believe it. Waylon Montgomery had a face that had been lived in years before his hair had turned white. Not that he’d ever given the matter any thought, but if he had, he would have imagined that the man would have fathered rather homely children, not someone who took men’s breath away in a wheelbarrow.
“One and the same.” Impulse put the words in her mouth. “He’s coming out at the end of the month to do an interview. I could arrange for you to meet him if you like.”
“I—my son and I used to watch that on Saturday mornings together.” The last thing he wanted was for her to think of him as one of those people without a life, who faithfully attached themselves to celebrities and went out of their way to see them.
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