He looked up at the ceiling and then back at me, his frustration evident. “And when I win you promise you won’t beg, stalk, or attempt to blackmail me anymore?”
“Right.”
He shook my hand.
And it was foolish, I know, but I couldn’t help the tingling sensation that I felt where he touched me. I thought: Steve Raleigh is holding my hand.
Chapter
11
We set up the target behind the trailers, then Steve and I stood about sixty feet away. Steve nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring without looking at me. The muscles in his arms flexed, and his eyes narrowed in on the target, examining it. He held the arrow in position for a moment, then let it fly. I knew it was a good shot even before it hit the target, just inside the bull’s-eye.
It would be hard to beat him but not impossible.
He handed me the bow and an arrow. “I’m sorry, Annika.”
“Don’t apologize until you know what you’re sorry for.” I nocked the arrow onto the string. Steve’s bow was bigger than mine, and I hoped that wouldn’t throw me off. I held the bow steady and judged the distance. I’d made thousands of shots, made more bull’s-eyes than I could count, but none ever mattered as much as this one. I could hit the mark if the nervousness didn’t make my hand shake.
This is for Jeremy, I told myself. It has to be good.
I released the arrow, willing it to fly straight. It was almost a prayer, but not quite.
The arrow sang as it flew through the air. It hit, dead center in the bull’s-eye.
I smiled and handed Steve back his bow. “Now you know what you’re sorry for. You’re sorry you have to drive to Nevada with a stranger.”
He stared at the target openmouthed and then turned to me. “How did you do that?”
“I’m president of my high school archery club.” I shrugged and gave him a smirk of my own. “Well, you didn’t think I watched your show because of the sophisticated drama, did you?”
The guards walked up, simultaneously shaking their heads. “That was some fine shooting,” Crew-cut said.
“Thanks.” I smiled over at Steve. “And I’ve changed my mind about your shirt. It might be lucky after all.”
Steve waved a hand in my direction. “She’s president of her high school archery club! She never got around to mentioning that fact.”
“Must be a good club if she can beat you,” Crew-cut said. “How many hours do you practice a week?”
Steve crossed his arms and gave the guard a dark look. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I shrugged again. “If it’s any consolation, I’m sure you could beat me at fencing.”
His dark look turned on me. “You want a rematch, then?”
“No. We made a bet, and I won. Do you want to take your car or my minivan? Although I probably should warn you there may be doves and rabbits inside. I’m not sure whether Madison’s managed to get rid of those or not.”
Steve ran his fingers through his hair, then held his hands out to me as though showing me something. “I can’t go. I’ve got things I need to do here. I’ve got scenes to shoot tomorrow, and the awards ceremony is a very big deal. A producer I need to talk to will be there—”
“You promised.” I put my hands on my hips. “Do you keep your word or not?”
“I can’t just leave with you. I don’t know anything about you. Do your parents even know you’re here doing this?”
I sent him a slow grin. “I guess those are things you should have thought about before you promised to come with me.”
Steve looked heavenward for a moment, then back at me. “Fine. You have me for eleven hours and only eleven hours. Less, if it doesn’t take that long. I will talk to your little brother, and I will leave. I won’t chat with your friends, pose for pictures, or give an exclusive to your hometown newspaper. I’m there and I’m gone. Understood?” He walked back to his trailer, gripping the bow. I followed after him, pulling out my cell phone to check the time. It was a little after three-thirty.
“Fine. I don’t care about the other stuff. But, um, can you bring your costume? Because you’ll need to dress as Robin Hood.”
He glanced over at me, his jaw muscles tight. “You want me to pull up to your house wearing a blond wig, a tunic, and green tights?”
“Jeremy is in first grade. He doesn’t realize you’re an actor. He thinks you’re really Robin Hood.”
“This just keeps getting better.” Steve swung the trailer door open. I followed him.
The first thing Steve did when we got inside was phone his personal assistant and explain the situation to him. He came to the trailer right away. Steve introduced him as Ron Bosco, and called him Ron while they talked, but it was clear from the moment he stepped inside that everyone else called him Mr. Bosco. The man was all seriousness. In fact, he may have been a calculator in a former life. I got the sense that his entire existence consisted of rows and columns of numbers.
Mr. Bosco eyed me over, clearly displeased, then stepped into the kitchenette with Steve and gave him a hushed lecture about why this was a bad idea. Steve kept saying, “I know, I know, but I made a promise. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
Mr. Bosco opened his laptop and insisted on checking the internet to see if it would be faster to take a plane to Las Vegas and drive to Henderson, which it wasn’t. And besides, Steve didn’t want to have to deal with the crowds at the airport. Mr. Bosco then checked into renting a charter plane, which was even more complicated and expensive, but he couldn’t get a hold of anyone at the company he wanted, and wasn’t sure when they’d return his message. Still, he thought the best idea was to charter a plane tomorrow after work and try to fit it in before the awards ceremony.
Steve vetoed that idea since they hadn’t been able to get a hold of the plane company, and besides he thought that would be cutting things too close. He didn’t want to be late for the awards ceremony.
I responded to this by obsessively looking at the clock and biting all of my fingernails off. Mr. Bosco wasted a half an hour trying to save Steve time. Finally Steve walked away from the computer and said it would be simpler to just drive there right now.
When Mr. Bosco had resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t talk Steve out of going with me, he eyed me over again, this time with a sour expression, then had me sign a nondisclosure form. I’m serious. He had the paperwork in his briefcase. It basically said I would never talk to any tabloids or reporters about anything Steve said or did in my presence. I also could not sue him for any reason.
How paranoid do you have to be to carry those sorts of papers around?
Steve called the wardrobe department and asked them to bring him a new Robin Hood costume. I also asked them to bring my clothes over, since I’d shoved them into a corner of the wardrobe trailer when I’d changed into a medieval dress.
Steve went into the back room to pack a travel bag and change into regular clothes, but before he left, he told me to wait in the living room. “Ron will keep you company,” he said.
In a voice I wasn’t supposed to hear, he said to Ron, “Don’t let her get into trouble, and whatever you do, don’t make any bets with her—especially ones involving archery or Rock, Paper, Scissors.”
A lady from wardrobe came over with Steve’s costume but reported that someone had found my clothes earlier, figured they were Esme’s, and sent them out with the other dirty laundry to be dry-cleaned. She said she’d have them mailed to my house when they came back.
To tell you the truth, I didn’t mind wearing Steve’s clothes. I sort of liked his lucky poker shirt.
Before we left—and by this time it was almost fourthirty—Mr. Bosco gave Steve a wad of cash. Television stars apparently don’t go to the ATM themselves; that is the sort of thing their personal assistants do for them. The money was for gas and food. I felt bad Steve had to pay for anything, but my purse was with Madison, and Steve had already rejected my offer to drive him to Nevada in my minivan. His exact words were, “I’ve got to meet Karli at five, and I’m not pulling up to the restaurant in a minivan with two teenage girls and an assortment of wildlife.”
He had tried to call Karli to cancel, but she didn’t pick up her cell phone, and he didn’t want to stand her up. He told me he’d just stop by the restaurant and tell her he couldn’t stay.
I tried to give him the money the security guards had given me to pay for the gas, but he had looked at me incredulously, like I’d insulted him. “I’m not taking your money. Not now. Not ever.”
During Mr. Bosco’s investigation of flight times, I’d called Madison and told her she could head home because I’d be traveling with Steve. It wasn’t that I really wanted to spend time with Mr. I-must-have-a-nondisclosure-form-before-you-can-hang-out-with-me. I just thought it would be too easy for him to break his promise if I wasn’t there in the car with him.
Madison was all concerned about me going off on a four-hour car trip with a stranger, although mostly she was concerned I wouldn’t be able to find my way home. I had to assure her that Steve’s BlackBerry had GPS and he’d already programmed my address into it.
“Call me every once in a while so I know where you are,” she’d said, and then added, “Oh, wait, I have your cell phone charger in my car. Is your battery about to run out? Does Steve have a phone?”
“We’ll be fine,” I told her. But after I hung up with her, I turned off my cell phone to conserve the battery.
As it turned out, we didn’t actually take Steve’s car. Steve, like most of the cast, had a driver that chauffeured him to the set, so he borrowed one of the studio’s cars, a beige BMW. Apparently this is one of the perks of being a star: You can borrow expensive vehicles on a moment’s notice.
At first Steve didn’t say anything as we drove. I figured he was ticked off about having to do this favor for me, so I listened to the radio and didn’t say anything either. We were nearly in Beverly Hills before Steve told me again that he’d make his meeting with Karli as short as possible.
“I thought you and Karli broke up,” I said.
“We did. I’m mostly picking up some books she borrowed.”
I turned in my seat and looked at him. “Really? What sort of books?”
He glanced at me. “Are you surprised I read?”
“No, I’m surprised she does.”
He sent me a questioning gaze.
“Well, people who record videos of themselves rolling around in the sand with an entire platoon of lifeguards generally aren’t very literary.”
“Lifeguards don’t come in platoons.”
“You didn’t answer my question about the books.”
He looked out at traffic and not at me. “History books, mostly.”
“Impressive. I take back everything I said about her.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Well, it might have been impressive if she ever read them, but she didn’t.”
I smiled because I’d been right. “I’m still impressed you read them.”
“Don’t be. I started reading up on the Middle Ages to prepare for my role, then found I liked history.” He glanced down at the car clock and grimaced. It read five o’clock. “I’m going to be ten minutes late.”
“Sorry.” I felt a stab of guilt for taking him away, and then a worse thought came to me. “You were trying to work things out with her, weren’t you?”
He turned to look at me. “No. Why would you think that?”
“Usually if you’ve broken up with someone and then you want to get together with them for dinner, there are ulterior motives.”
He shook his head. “Not this time. In fact, she’s the one who suggested we meet for dinner.”
“Oh, no.” I put my fingers over my mouth. “That’s even worse. She wants to get back together with you, and I’m ruining it.”
His eyebrows drew together. “No, she’s just returning my books. It’s a friendly, clear-the-air sort of dinner.”
This didn’t relieve my guilt, as he was obviously ignorant about how women tried to recapture men. “You could offer to bring her with us. On the drive you’d have plenty of time to reconnect.”
“We’re not reconnecting,” he said firmly. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” And then he didn’t say much for the rest of the drive to the restaurant.
Every once in a while I sneaked a look at him, at his tan hands resting on the steering wheel, his muscled arms, his faultless profile. It seemed unfair to the rest of humanity that his features should be so perfect. It was especially annoying to me because my mind kept drifting in that direction and then it was hard to think about anything else. His looks could intoxicate even a rational girl, and the last thing I needed was to start having a crush on a guy I would never see again after a few hours.
I made myself look out the window and stop glancing at him. He didn’t seem to notice.
We pulled up to the Holland Grill, a quaint sidewalk café with baskets of hanging flowers, large shuttered windows, and music drifting out onto the sidewalk. Several couples ate on a large patio, which was surrounded by a picket fence. Tablecloths fluttered in the breeze. It was a perfectly romantic setting, and I wondered if Karli had chosen the location.
Cars lined the road in front of the restaurant, so Steve parked on the other side of the street a little way down. Before he shut the door, he turned back toward me with serious eyes. “Don’t get out of the car. I’ll try to make this fast.”
I leaned toward him. “At least reschedule with her so she knows you’re not blowing her off.”
“We are not reconnecting.” As he shut the car door, he tilted his head down and gave me a half smile. “While you’re waiting, you can work on that whole jumping-to-conclusions thing we talked about.”
He turned away from me and strode across the street.
I watched him and had to admit he had a nice walk. Confident. Masculine. Poor Karli. I bet when she saw him she wished she had never broken up with him.
Karli stood waiting in front of the restaurant. I hadn’t noticed her at first because she wore sunglasses and, well, because she wore normal clothes—jeans and a blouse—as opposed to the black leather miniskirt and fishnet stockings sort of thing she’d taken to wearing since her last CD came out.