Except, maybe, for the one the night before.
Trish. He couldn’t figure out why she’d hit him so hard. Sure, she was gorgeous. Sure, she’d been dressed to attract attention. Then again, he was surrounded often as not by beauties dressed to impress. There’d been something more about this one, something that had pulled at him. She didn’t have the forgettable California blond look, but a delicate beauty that caught at his imagination, and an elusive wariness that made him wonder.
And brought her into his dreams.
It might have had something to do with their power-house kiss. It might have had more to do with laughing in the kitchen, watching the play of expressions over her face. Watching the stunned amazement writ large in the starlight as he’d trailed the leather of his whip over her shoulder.
His history with women had been checkered, at best. But he’d gotten tired of being a staple joke on the comedy circuit for having affairs with his costars. He’d made a vow nearly a year before to avoid relationships altogether until he figured out once and for all how to keep from making the same mistakes.
He had a feeling he was going to break his promise.
Ty followed the trail as it began winding back up the canyon. This early in the day, the October air held a crispness that gave him more energy as he went on, not less. The idea of body-sculpting in a glossy gym with some high-profile personal trainer did nothing for him. Better the peace and solitude of a morning run where the only noise was the thud of his footfalls and the whistle of an occasional bird. Ty glanced up at the walled house at the top of the hill, and sped up, knowing he was almost home.
Walls. Even in the canyon, you had to take personal security seriously, at least if you vied with Tom Cruise for top box-office draw around the globe. The little pulse of annoyance was so familiar he’d almost stopped feeling it. He’d known before he’d ever started acting what the price of fame could be, as he’d watched his uncle, Michael Pantolini, struggle with it. But when a college buddy had persuaded Ty to act in his senior project, everything had changed. Ty remembered the heady rush of those few short days, that sense of a previously unknown power surging through him.
He could no more have turned away from it than he could have stopped breathing.
And so he lived behind a wall and considered it a trade off. Ty slowed to a walk and turned down his asphalt driveway to see a bright-red Prius parked at the gate and a stocky, dark-haired man standing next to it, a camera slung around his neck. Speaking of privacy…
“Give us a smile for the hometown fans.” The man gave a cocky grin, lifting the camera up to his eye.
“You know, the last paparazzi who tried to shoot me here were picking up their cameras in little pieces at the bottom of the hill,” Ty told him, walking closer.
“No kidding?” The camera clicked and whirred as the photographer shot frame after frame.
“Once they finished picking themselves up, of course,” Ty said pleasantly. “Want me to demonstrate?”
The intruder lowered his camera and smirked. “You ain’t so tough.”
“Try me,” Ty suggested and took a step forward.
For a long moment they gave each other flinty-eyed stares. Then the intruder shook his head and waved the hand without the camera. “Cut.”
Ty narrowed his eyes. “You directors, you’re all alike. Never satisfied.”
The “paparazzo” patted one of Ty’s cheeks gently. “Ty, sweetie, you were fabulous, but if this goes any further you’re gonna need a stunt double.”
“You’re just cranky because you’re up on a Saturday before ten, Charlie.”
Charlie snorted. “You forget I have kids. Eight o’clock is sleeping in.”
Ty laughed and shook hands with Charlie Tarkington, college buddy and the person responsible for getting him into film. “I thought you hated leaving Santa Monica for the wilderness.”
“I figured it was about time I brought your camera back.”
“I was just going to put a call into the stolen property division. You could have gone through the gate, at least.”
Charlie shrugged. “I forgot the code.”
“It’s the date of the premiere of our first movie, dork.” Ty pressed his thumb on the security pad scanner and the gate glided noiselessly open to reveal the house beyond.
The structure was perched at the edge of the hillside. Sleek and white, the building’s clean lines were banded with glass. The high wall might have been for the privacy a man in Ty’s line of work had to fight for; the broad swathes of windows were for the freedom and openness he craved. When they stepped through the front door, it was to a flood of light, a room that stretched out and flung the viewer directly out into the canyon.
Charlie, as usual, went straight to the glass and stared out at the view. “You ever get nosebleeds up here?”
“Hey, when you make the big bucks you can afford lots of cotton balls. Want something to drink?” Ty turned off into the kitchen to rummage in the refrigerator. He knew some actors who had cooks, maids, an entire staff to take care of them. So far, he’d resisted anything beyond a weekly housecleaning service and the occasional visit from a landscaping crew to keep the yard from getting too out of control. Outside, he was fair game for the public. Here, he jealously guarded his privacy. “What do you want, O.J.? Soda?”
Charlie wandered into the kitchen after Ty, idly surveying the brushed aluminum Sub-Zero appliances and granite counters. “I’m tempted to ask you for a cappuccino just for the entertainment value of seeing Mr. People’s Choice Award figuring out how to use the knobs on that machine.”
“For that, you get water,” Ty said, grabbing two bottles from the refrigerator and tossing one to his friend.
Out on the deck, they relaxed in redwood Adirondack chairs and watched the morning mist burn away, until they could glimpse the sea in the bright distance.
“So, you into preproduction for Dark Touch yet?” Charlie asked idly, leaning back with a sigh.
“We start rehearsals next week.”
Charlie turned his head to study Ty. “And you’re not looking too thrilled about it.”
“It’s got problems, especially with the dialog.” And unless Ty did something about it, he’d be the chump stuck mouthing the bad lines. “The concept’s solid, it’ll definitely play, but the script needs tightening.”
“And?” Charlie prompted.
He shrugged. “And it’s just another Ty Ramsay hero. You know, the strong, quiet outsider who comes in and saves the day against the terrorists or the mobsters or the counterfeiters or whoever. Same guy, different movie.”
“They’re not all the same.”
“You’re right.” Ty gave a humorless smile. “They’ve each got their signature flaw: one smokes, one has anger management issues, one’s a rule-breaker, one—”
“Dresses in women’s underwear?” Charlie offered.
“Only in your movies. Admit it, Charlie, I’ve been one-tracked.” Ty fell broodingly silent and stared out at the canyon.
“So ask your agent to get you some other kinds of scripts.