License to Thrill Read online

  And don’t be getting any wise ideas about becoming his teacher.

  Oh, but wouldn’t he make a glorious teacher’s pet.

  Stop it!

  Her palms grew sweaty on the wheel and her heart reeled drunkenly against the wall of her chest. She was headed for deep trouble, entertaining such thoughts. She was not going to fall again. No way, no how. No, no, no.

  Who was she kidding? It was all she could do not to pull the car over and jump his bones right here and now.

  Damn her hide but she’d always been attracted to sophisticated men who were so far out of her league she couldn’t reach them with a high bounce on a trampoline. She knew better than to tumble for another rich brown-eyed handsome man.

  They were opposites in every way. He was the kind of guy who’d dip a toe in the water, testing the temperature before going for a swim. She dove right in and took what she got. He was a linen napkin kind of guy. She was paper towels. His life was planned, well ordered. Hers was chaos and she liked it that way.

  Unfortunately, something about him whispered to the soft feminine side of her she’d stuffed down deep a long time ago. He made her feel smart and savvy and admirable. He respected her. That was a first from guys like him.

  And he made her want things she had no business wanting.

  Rather than think about the potent male beside her, Charlee jammed her sunglasses back into place and returned her focus to the road. White-hot heat poured from the cloudless blue sky and bounced a shimmer of radiant waves up from the asphalt. She studied the desert, the wide expanse of dry barren land most people eschewed but which an intrepid few embraced.

  While some might find the desert a lonely, desolate place, she felt differently. The desert was alive with nature. You just had to know where to look for it. To Charlee the desert was home. What made her feel lonely and desolate was not water-starved land but the emptiness gnawing at her when she was in a roomful of people.

  She imagined Mason’s busy life was jam-packed with people. His parents, his brother, his grandfather, his, friends. His business partners, his colleagues, and high-society debs. He hailed from a foreign place where she did not belong and could never fit.

  Shaking her head, she forced herself to think about something else and speculated on the men in the Malibu. Who were they and why had they been following them? She tried to tie everything together—their grandparents, the half mil Mason’s grandfather embezzled, her father, the men in the Malibu, Maybelline’s ransacked trailer, the bullet through the trailer, Elwood’s 1 apartment fire, but no matter how hard she tried, Charlee couldn’t paste together the link. Too many pieces of the puzzle were missing.

  What concerned her right now was their destination. Were they on a wild-goose chase? Since Mason had turned the keys over to her, she’d driven a steady eighty-five miles an hour hoping against hope to spot the red and white camper.

  Maybe Elwood and their grandparents weren’t on this road, she fretted. What then? They might not even be in Arizona.

  Charlee nibbled her bottom lip. Up ahead she spied a small crossroads with a gas station and a convenience store. Noticing the gas gauge had slipped to almost a quarter of a tank, she pulled over.

  Mason didn’t wake up when she stopped. Poor guy must be exhausted. She filled up the tank, and then sauntered into the convenience store. She grabbed a couple of packages of Twinkies and snagged a six-pack of iced Pepsis from a barrel next to the checkout counter.

  “Hey,” Charlee asked the pimply-faced clerk as he rang up her purchases. It was a long shot, but what the hell? “By any chance has a red and white camper stopped by here in the last few hours?”

  “Some guy in an Elvis suit at the wheel?”

  “Yeah.” Charlee arched her eyebrows in surprise. “You saw him?”

  “Who could miss him?” The clerk shrugged. “He paid for his gas with quarter rolls.”

  “About how long?”

  The clerk scratched his goateed chin. “Maybe three, four hours ago.”

  “Hey, thanks. Keep the change.” Charlee gathered up her drinks and Twinkies and started for the door.

  “He didn’t get back on the road to Tucson though,” the clerk said, stopping her in mid-exit.

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Took the back road up to the old movie studio lot.”

  “What movie studio lot?” Charlee frowned.

  “They used to make westerns there in the forties and fifties. My grandmother claims John Wayne was once a regular around these parts. He even autographed the back of a movie ticket for her. Rio Lobo I think it was.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Studio lot is closed down now. Abandoned. Boarded up. Except local kids go up there sometimes to drink, smoke weed, and get laid. Don’t know why the Elvis guy went up that way. Road dead-ends in the studio lot. Nothing else up there but rattlesnakes and tumbleweeds.”

  When Charlee got back to the car, Mason was awake. She climbed in and tossed him a Twinkie.

  “What’s this?” He held the cellophane wrapper gingerly between his index finger and thumb as if it would jump up and bite him.

  “Thought you might be hungry.” She ripped into her own Twinkie and sank her teeth into the sponge cake. “Yummm.”

  “These things are filled with preservatives and bleached white flour.”

  “So?”

  “They are not part of a healthy diet.”

  “Oh, my, call the food police.”

  “Go ahead, make fun.”

  “Jeeze, Gentry, lighten up. One Twinkie isn’t going to kill you.”

  “I think I’ll pass.” He sat the snack cake on the console between them.

  “Okay fine. I’ll eat it.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “How in the hell do you stay so slender eating junk?”

  Charlee brushed cream filling off her chin with the back of her hand and grinned. “Lucky I guess. I’m blessed with a high metabolism.”

  “I need real food,” he grumbled.

  “Well, Joe’s Stop and Sack isn’t the place for five star cuisine, sorry. It’s Twinkies or nothing until we hit Tucson. Unless you want me to go back in and get you a bag of pork skins.”

  “No thanks. I can wait.”

  “Suit yourself.” She spun the Bentley out of the parking lot and took off down the narrow dirt road a few yards to the right of the store, a rooster tail of red dust kicking up beneath the tires.

  “Hey.” Mason sat up straighter. “Where are we going?”

  She told him what she had found out from the clerk.

  “Why would your father whisk our grandparents away to an abandoned movie set?” He scowled.

  “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Come up with anything?”

  “Well…” Her suspicions weren’t pretty and she didn’t want to alarm Mason but he had a right to know. “I’m thinking he might be holding them for ransom.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “It crossed my mind. He’s kidnapped before.”

  “What!”

  “Settle down. It’s not as bad as it sounds. He snatched a Vegas headliner’s Yorkie. The little dog was vicious, chewed his fingers up. He had to go to the emergency room and of course that’s when he got caught. The Yorkie’s owner dropped the charges for old times’ sake because she and Elwood used to be lovers way back when, so he never did any time or anything.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I didn’t want you to bust a gut. Like you are now. Besides, it was just a dog. Not a person.”

  “Well, it looks like he’s made the jump from kidnapping canines to holding humans hostage.”

  “Don’t worry. Elwood’s not violent or anything. He won’t hurt them.”

  “How can you say that? My grandfather’s life is at stake!” Mason hollered.

  “So is my grandmother’s and you didn’t hear me raising my voice or the veins on my forehead getting purply and popping out.”
r />   “For all I know”—Mason glowered—“you and your grandmother are in on the scheme. Nothing but bad things have happened to me ever since I met you.”

  “I resent that. You’re the one who turned my life topsyturvy. I was perfectly happy sitting in my office minding my own business until you strutted into my life.”

  He paused. “All right. I was out of line with that last comment. I really don’t believe you and your grandmother are in on it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She really did like the way he could admit when he was wrong. Most of the men of her acquaintance were busy trying to find someone else—usually her—to blame for their unhappy circumstances.

  Mason reached over and lightly touched her arm. “I can get rather aggressive if I think my family is in danger.”

  Yeow! His touch sent a brush fire of emotions sweeping through her body. Desire, excitement, restlessness, and fear. Yep. Mostly fear.

  “Mmmm,” she mumbled, unable to speak past the lump of terror in her throat. He was touching her again and she was feeling way too susceptible.

  Whatever you do, Charlee Desiree Champagne, do not make eye contact with those dreamy brown peepers of his. Don’t you dare.

  She wished he would take his hand away but he kept touching her. She felt that sudden, wild, almost irrepressible urge again to pull the car over, fling herself into his arms, and kiss him like there was no tomorrow.

  It had been a very long time since she’d been with a man. His touch made her desperate to feel something hot and wild and womanly. She’d been hiding her femininity under her boots and jeans and cowboy hat for quite some time and her hormones were rebelling.

  She batted his hand away roughly.

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. I can tell by the way you shoved me away.”

  “I’m not mad. Your hand was just hot. This car is hot.” She fiddled with the air-conditioner vents. “Are you sure this heap has freon?”

  “Charlee,” he said, his voice sounding extra deep and throaty. “Would you look at me, please?”

  No! No!

  “I apologize if I offended you in any way.”

  “I accept your apology,” she whispered. “Okay?”

  “I can’t believe you until I can see your eyes.”

  “Look, Gentry,” she snapped as panic surged through her. “I’m driving here. I’m not in any mood to gaze into your eyes.”

  “All right.”

  Thank God. Charlee sighed in relief as he let the issue go.

  She gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers cramped. Flexing first one hand and then the other, she realized they had driven almost thirteen miles with nothing in sight but cactus and rocks and a Gila monster or two.

  “Are you sure the clerk wasn’t pulling your leg?” Mason asked.

  “Maybe it’s on the other side of the mesa.”

  “How far are you going to drive before you admit defeat?”

  Charlee hardened her jaw. “I never admit defeat.”

  “Never?”

  “Ever.”

  “Determination is an admirable quality, Charlee, but sometimes you gotta cut your…” Mason’s voice trailed off as they rounded the mesa and the road dead-ended at a padlocked iron gate.

  They spotted a weathered, barely readable sign proclaiming: TWILIGHT STUDIOS. Then below it, a smaller, newer sign printed in thick block letters. PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  They looked at each other.

  Twilight Studios. The same movie studio Nolan and Maybelline had once worked for.

  Happenstance?

  Charlee didn’t think so. But what was the bond? Why had Elwood brought them here?

  A high wooden fence divided the studio lot, but time and the desert had eroded the once stately planks into slumping, thin gray posts staggering across the red dirt like teeth sliding forward in an aging mouth. Several boards were missing from one area and a narrow trail told the story. Someone or something entered frequently through the opening.

  Charlee parked the Bentley beside the fence.

  “If your father brought our grandparents here, then where is the camper?”

  “Inside the studio lot?”

  “How did they get in? The padlock is rusted shut.”

  “Maybe Elwood knew another way in.”

  “What now?” Mason asked.

  “We go in.”

  “The sign says no trespassing.”

  She stared at him. “What planet are you from?”

  “Are we going in on foot?”

  “Unless you’ve been holding out on me and you’ve got a magic carpet in your back pocket, yes, we’re going to trespass on foot.” Charlee opened the car door.

  “But I’m wearing loafers and I left my sunscreen back at the hotel.”

  “That’s why I have on cowboy boots and a hat,” she replied tartly.

  “Oh, yeah?” he retorted. “I thought it was because you wanted to look tough.”

  “That too,” she confessed. “Come on.” She was halfway to the hole in the fence before he even got out of the car.

  He shut the door, shaded his brow with his hand, and looked around. “Do you think the Bentley will be safe parked here?”

  “I don’t think any gangbangers will be stealing your mag wheels if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No, it’s just if anything were to happen we’d be stranded.”

  “What about your cell phone?”

  “That’s assuming I can pick up a tower.”

  “You’re unnaturally attached to your car, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he grumbled. “I’m aware I place too much value on a car. Can we get on with this, please?”

  “Oooh, hit a touchy spot.”

  “Do you want me to bring up your towed Corvette?”

  She raised her palms. “I surrender. No more cracks about the car.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  Charlee led the way through the fence and into the lot. They walked side by side into the false facade of an Old West town. The first building they came to was an aged saloon with the obligatory hitching post, as dusty and weather-beaten as a real saloon might have been a hundred and twenty years before. The sheriff’s office came complete with tumbleweeds and had the windowpanes knocked out while the nearby livery stable hosted a rusted anvil and bent horseshoes. The town ended at the dry goods store with barrels of fake food sitting out front.

  “I think I’ve seen this set in an old western or two,” Charlee mused. “Ever see Shane?”

  “Twilight didn’t produce Shane”

  “They could have used the set.”

  “Don’t think so. According to Gramps, back in those days the studios were pretty territorial. They practically owned the actors.”

  “Yeah, Maybelline mentioned something like that.”

  The sun lasered down. Sweat collected along Charlee’s collar and a vague uneasiness settled in her belly. The place was dead quiet. Not even the scratch of a scurrying lizard. The eerie theme song from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly drifted through her head.

  “No one’s here,” Mason said.

  A dread of dizziness washed over Charlee. Something wasn’t right. If Elwood brought their grandparents here, then where were they? What if her father had crossed the line from small-time-get-rich-quick schemer to big-time felon?

  She simply couldn’t believe that. Regardless of his numerous faults, her father, no matter how much trouble he was in, would never hurt his own mother.

  But what if there were other people involved? Don’t forget the goons in the white Chevy. She didn’t know if they had anything to do with Elwood kidnapping Nolan and Maybelline or if they had been following the Bentley for some other reason.

  What if the Malibu goons were debt collectors and they’d been tracking her in order to get to Elwood? The possibility was a very real one. It wouldn’t b
e the first time her father had owed money to the wrong people. Once, he’d even ended up in the hospital following a debt-related beating. Her uneasiness grew.

  Elwood was here. He had to be. They needed to keep looking. She took off down movie-land street.

  “Where are you going?” Mason asked.

  “Every good western has a farmer’s barn. It’s gotta be around here somewhere.”

  They found the barn squatting at the end of the lot next to the facade of a farm house. The barn was for real, however, and the donkey’s bray that broke the silence was just as authentic.

  Charlee jerked her head around in time to see someone disappearing around the corner of the barn.

  Without dithering, she went in hot pursuit.

  She could hear Mason’s footsteps pounding close behind her. She rounded the barn in time to see a man desperately trying to scale the mesa. She tackled him at a dead run and knocked him to the ground. That’s when Charlee realized the guy was at least sixty and wearing ratty gold prospector clothes.

  “Please don’t hurt me, sister,” the old man panted. “I swear I don’t know nothing about these weird goings-on.”

  Mason, Charlee, and the old prospector, whose name turned out to be, oddly enough, Waylon Jennings, sat on moldy hay in the barn out of the direct heat of the relentless sun, sharing the Pepsis Charlee had bought at the convenience store.

  “Yep,” Waylon said, “I thought I was seeing things when Elvis Presley got out of the camper. Seein’ mirages are pretty common when you spend a lot of time alone in the desert but I couldn’t figure out why in the hell I’d be having a vision about the King. I never cared much for his music and as for his movies, well they flat stank. ‘Cept I kinda liked King Creole.”

  “Forget the movie criticisms,” Mason interjected. “What happened?”

  Waylon shot him the evil eye, then spit a stream of chewing tobacco juice at his shoes. Mason jumped aside and the old prospector turned his attention back to Charlee. “When Elvis pulls an older couple out of the back of his camper and I see he’s got them tied up I start thinking maybe it’s for real and I’m not imagining things, so me and Jackass—that’s my donkey—come down off the mesa for a closer look.”

  Mason watched Charlee’s face as she studied the old man. The woman was intensely focused. He could actually see her listening. He realized she was probably a very good private investigator.