She pushed in silent panic against the gravelly asphalt, trying to turn over. To get her hands or feet free to defend herself. Something hard and heavy slammed into her right temple, and the world went black for a few seconds. She didn’t quite lose consciousness, but she was dazed and had to work to stay conscious, let alone fight back.
Her years of self-defense classes finally caught up with her and one more cardinal rule belatedly registered in her brain: never give up. She struggled weakly beneath her attacker.
“Bitch,” a male voice ground out in her ear, dripping with vitriol.
She fought harder. But trapped on her stomach like this, there wasn’t much she could do. All her martial arts training was negated by her inability to move. Her purse was gone, the mace container inside it useless. The motel’s parking lot had no light in it and was usually deserted, anyway. Fat lot of good noticing all that did her now.
She should have been more aware of her surroundings. But she’d been so caught up in fantasizing about Jackson Prescott that she’d failed to pay the slightest attention to anything around her. She almost deserved whatever happened next.
She didn’t want to die, dammit. And that was when the rest of her self-defense training finally, belatedly, came back to her. She opened her mouth and screamed as loudly and bloodcurdlingly as she could.
Her attacker swore as a door opened nearby. A hand reached for her mouth but she bit the salty palm as hard as she could and screamed again.
“Hey! Are you okay, lady?” somebody called.
“Help!” she screamed.
And that was the last thing she remembered before something slammed into the side of her head again, and she did pass out this time.
Jackson’s cell phone rang just as he was heading downstairs. He didn’t give many people his private number, so he was surprised when he pulled out the device and didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. Normally, he would ignore it, but he was in a good mood in anticipation of dinner with Ana.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Prescott?”
“Who’s this?” he demanded.
“San Placido County Hospital emergency room. Are you familiar with a woman named Anabelle Izzolo?”
“Is she all right?” he burst out in alarm.
“There’s been an incident, sir. We couldn’t find any emergency contacts for her, but we did find your phone number in her purse.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap. What had happened? He ran for his motorcycle and flung it out of the driveway like a stunt driver. It was more like a ten-minute drive down to the county hospital under normal conditions, but his five-minute estimate turned out to be fairly accurate. He charged through the swinging doors to the emergency room, helmet still on his head.
“Where is Ana Izzolo?” he demanded of the nurse behind the admissions counter. “Is she okay? What happened to her?”
“And you are?” the nurse asked.
“Jackson Prescott. You called me.” He tore off his helmet and the nurse gasped in recognition. What the hell good was it being a movie star if he couldn’t turn it into preferential treatment now and then?
He leaned forward and murmured low, “I would rather not sit here in the public waiting room until the paparazzi show up. Is there any chance you can take me back to be with Ana and avoid a scene?”
“Of course. Come with me.” The woman stepped out from behind the counter to escort him personally.
“Thanks, so much—” he glanced down at her name tag “—Nurse Simpson.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, Mr. Prescott. I loved you in that movie about everyone having to leave Earth.”
“Thanks.” It had been the success of that movie that had led him and Adrian to produce the space Western they were working on right now.
The nurse led him into a tiny vestibule crammed with machines and a big hospital bed. A young police officer looked up as they entered. Jackson’s gaze riveted on Ana, small and pale in the big bed. “How is she?” he demanded. He still had no idea what had happened to her and how serious it was.
The cop answered, “She’s just coming around. Maybe she can tell us what happened. I found her in a parking lot, unconscious.”
Alarm gripped his chest in a vise so tight he had trouble drawing his next breath. “Was she mugged?” Or worse?
“Based on her abrasions, I’d say she was knocked down from behind. A guest at the motel heard her scream and called us. Her purse was still on the ground beside her and her clothes were intact, so it looks like she fought the guy off or scared him away. She’s just coming around. Talk to her and see if she’ll respond to your voice.”
Jackson moved to her side to pick up her hand. “Hey, babycakes. It’s me. Jackson. You’re late for our date.”
Ana groaned. He encouraged her to wake up and talk to him for a few more seconds, and she eventually mumbled, “My head hurts.”
The nurse nodded in approval at him and then unceremoniously elbowed him aside, “How many fingers am I holding up, Miss Izzolo?”
Ana squinted and got the number right. That was a good sign, right? Jackson fretted in the corner he’d been relegated to, where he would be out of the way. If only there was something he could do for her. He felt so damned useless. But he didn’t have the slightest bit of medical training. Hell, he didn’t have training to do anything practical. He could act. That was it. Sure, it had made him a boatload of money, but he figured it was as much a win of the genetic lottery as any real talent he might have. His brothers were soldiers—a helicopter pilot and a Marine officer. Accomplished men with distinguished careers. And he...he was pretty.
Jackson waited impatiently while a doctor came in and peered into Ana’s eyes, asked her a bunch questions, poked her some more and declared her basically unharmed. She apparently had a mild concussion that went with the lump on the side of her head over her ear.
A cop came into the room. Good-looking guy—blond, blue-eyed, deep surfer tan, lanky physique to go with it. Introduced himself as Brody Westmore.
Jackson was deeply relieved when she told the cop she’d been mugged but nothing more. She glossed over the details of the attack and finished by describing screaming her head off and then passing out.
Officer Westmore had apparently already interviewed the motel guest who’d called 9-1-1. Enterprising guy. Surfer cop concluded that, given the timing of the call to the police and their arrival shortly after the scream, her mugger had fled the scene soon after knocking her out.
The cop asked her to check if anything was missing from her purse. A pitifully small amount of cash in her wallet was apparently intact, but her cell phone had gone missing. She was upset about it, but Jackson intervened quickly. “The studio will replace it for you. We’ll need to be able to get in touch with you on short notice.” Or more to the point, he would need to be able to get in touch with her on short notice for his own peace of mind.
The police officer asked, “Ma’am, is there someone we can call to let them know you’ve had an accident? A family member? Spouse?”
Embarrassment flashed through her transparent gaze and she mumbled, “No. No one.”
“I’m the significant other,” Jackson blurted, leaping to the rescue of the damsel in distress. Apparently, he had a heretofore untapped knight-in-shining-armor complex. Not