style="font-size:15px;"> The anger in her tone had him looking over at her. “You don’t care for it? I’ve always thought it was pretty country.”
“It can be pretty. I like the ocean. I just don’t always like—the storms. They can get downright mean.”
He had the idea she wasn’t talking about the weather. He stared down into his cup and felt the quick slice of pain as he remembered. “I know a little about storms.”
She was watching the fire, unaware that her voice took on an even harder edge. “I’ve ridden out a few of my own. But lately, I find myself sick of them.”
“Yeah. Well…” He drained his cup, stood. “I need to unpack and get some sleep.”
When he looked toward the master bedroom she shook her head, reading his mind. “I’ve already staked my claim on that room.”
“Is there another bedroom?”
She shrugged. “Not exactly a bedroom. But there’s a loft. I think there’s a bed up there.”
He glanced up, then without a word picked up his bags. As he did she spotted the sophisticated digital camera and laptop computer. An alarm went off in her mind. “Tell me, Jace Lockhart. Just what is it you were doing while you were traipsing…here and there?”
He settled the strap of the bag over his shoulder. “I reported on the world in crisis. The latest dictator’s madness. The latest terrorist bombings.”
“You’re a reporter?” She was suddenly on her feet, her hands twisting the sash of her robe with furious energy. This was slowly becoming her worst nightmare. Trapped in a cabin with a reporter.
He looked up, wondering what in the world had set her off. “That’s right. A TV reporter.”
Her tone hardened. “And you want me to believe you just arrived here tonight by accident, without any knowledge of the fact that I was here?”
He didn’t bother to hide the weariness in his tone. “That’s right. Am I supposed to care that you’re here?”
“Are you saying you don’t know who I am?”
“Should I? You told me you’re…”
She saw the look that came into his eyes the moment he made the connection. Heard the disdain in his tone.
“I guess I’m even more tired than I realized. Oh, yeah, I know who you are. The actress. Even in wartorn countries your face regularly makes the headlines. So what are you doing up here? Slumming?”
“Getting away from people like you. I’m not feeling very friendly toward reporters these days. They’ve been hounding me unmercifully.”
“Isn’t that what you Hollywood celebrities thrive on?”
“Some do. I just don’t happen to want them in my life right now.”
“Right now? Does this mean you’re involved in some sordid little scandal?” When she didn’t say anything more, he shook his head. “Well, you can relax. I’m not that kind of reporter.” His tone hardened. “Believe me, I’m not the least bit interested in who you are or what you’re up to.”
“That’s what you say now. But when some tabloid TV show offers you a quarter of a million dollars to tell the world that you spent the night with Ciara Wilde, you’ll be just like all the rest.”
He gave a snort of disgust. “A quarter of a million? You put a pretty high price tag on your scandals, don’t you, Hollywood?”
She bristled at the demeaning nickname. “You’ll take the money. And you’ll give them every juicy little detail you can dream up.”
“Like I said, I wouldn’t waste my time reporting on some…unsavory Hollywood gossip.”
“That’s what they all say. But I’ve been betrayed by too many so-called friends to trust anyone. Do I really look that gullible?”
“What you look like is—” He clamped his mouth shut and gave her a long, insolent look before he turned to climb the stairs.
Stung, she gritted her teeth. She knew what she looked like to men like Jace Lockhart. He didn’t have to say it. His expression had said it all. It was something that had been made abundantly clear from the moment she’d arrived in Hollywood. The bimbo. The slut. And all because of the body that nature had given her, and the characters she’d portrayed in her films.
To his retreating back she called, “I don’t care who you are or what your connection is to this cabin. I want you out of here in the morning. Is that understood?”
Jace paused. Over his shoulder he said, in a cool, controlled voice, “As soon as the storm lets up, one of us will be leaving. And you can bet that quarter of a million you think you’re worth that it won’t be me, Hollywood.”
Two
Ciara huddled under the blankets and listened to the howling of the wind outside the cabin. She’d slept badly. She wanted to blame it on the storm, but the truth was, the fault really lay with the man asleep in the loft. Jace Lockhart. She despised reporters. All of them. But especially those arrogant snobs who thought themselves above the people they preyed upon. They were the worst kind of all. They held themselves above the fray, while selling out anyone they thought beneath them.
She’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d finally figured out who she was. He considered her lower than the characters she portrayed in her movies. Not that she was particularly proud of all the parts she’d played. But she was an actress, after all. She was playing a role, not living it. The trouble was, some people couldn’t tell the difference. They expected all actors to behave exactly as their characters did.
She shoved hair out of her eyes and sat up. Now that Jace Lockhart knew who she was, he’d figure a way to use this situation to his advantage. Ambitious reporters like him always did. She could already see the TV news filled with all sorts of unflattering photos of her in the cabin, while news anchors led off with teasers such as “Distraught actress sheds her clothes and her dignity.” Or maybe he’d try to seduce her, so that the story would begin “While fiancé frets, actress seeks solace in another man’s arms—two weeks before the wedding!”
She tossed aside the blanket and climbed out of bed. At least she was wise to him. She knew all the tricks of his despicable trade. She’d learned the hard way. She was going to see to it that he didn’t unearth a single juicy fact that he could twist into a sordid news piece. She’d show Jace Lockhart that she could be as closemouthed and mysterious as he’d been last night.
That air of mystery about him was intriguing. Where had he been, and what had he been involved in these past years? What had happened to make him so reluctant to talk about himself? How had he gotten that scar on his right cheek? Maybe she’d just unearth a few juicy details about his past. That way she’d have some ammunition if he decided to attack her in the media.
She slipped into jeans and a T-shirt and tied her hair back into a ponytail. Shivering, she pulled on a flannel shirt for warmth, then crossed to the window and peered out. Her heart fell. The snow had drifted up over the
