Slow Burn (6 page)

Ashley stared at it and the hand holding it
and then leaned back to glance at the man. Not only did he catch
her indulging in self-pity, he was very much aware of her present
predicament. No tissue. Served her right for leaving her studio bag
at home.

“I promise you it’s clean,” he said,
misunderstanding her hesitation.

“Thank you.” She accepted the piece of cloth,
dropped her chin to lift up her sunglasses and wipe her eyes. “This
is very kind of you.”

“No problem.” He stepped away from her
car.

Ashley scowled when he pulled off his
glasses. A vague sense of having met him before washed over her
then quickly disappeared. Must be her heightened senses playing a
trick on her. She’d have remember such a handsome man if their
paths had crossed. Then he removed his jacket, gave it to his
driver and went to stand in front of her car.

“What are you doing?” she asked when he
removed his cuff links and started to roll up his sleeves.

“Getting ready to inspect your car.” He
loosened his tie with his left hand, his gaze alternating between
her and the hood. “It’s the thing to do when a car stalls. Did it
stop by itself or just refuse to start?”

“No. No please.” Ashley gripped the dashboard
and pulled herself up until she could rest one knee on the driver’s
seat. “It’s not the car. I…uh…” She thought of a way to explain the
situation without appearing even more pathetic. “I got something in
my eye, and I pulled over to, you know, take care of it. But I’m
okay now.” When he squinted and continued to study her, she nodded.
“Really. I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure.” He stopped fiddling with
his tie and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you for the use of your hanky, though.
It was kind of you.” She wasn’t sure whether to give it him or
offer to mail it after washing and ironing it.

“My pleasure.” He flashed another boyish
smile and moved closer to her. “May I at least know your name?”

“Ashley. Ashley Fitzgerald.” Surprise flashed
in his eyes, but it happened so fast she could have been
mistaken.

“Vaughn Ricks.” They shook hands. Instead of
letting hers go, he held on to it and added, “It’s a pleasure to
meet you, Ms. Fitzgerald.”

Ashley grinned. “Oh no. The pleasure is mine.
It’s not often someone charges to my rescue with handkerchief in
hand.”

“Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?” He laughed,
sounding even younger than she’d thought.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ricks,” the driver
interjected. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. You’ll be late for the
meeting if we don’t leave now, sir.”

“I know, Manning,” he answered without taking
his eyes off Ashley. But he finally let go of her hand. “I hope our
paths cross again.”

He was nice, but she doubted that would
happen. “Is there a way I can send this back to you?” She waved his
handkerchief.

He shook his head. “Keep it.” There was a
pause as though he was debating with himself. “Or you can give it
to me when we meet again.” He smiled again, pivoted on his heel and
started for the limo.

***

Ron paused in mid-stride to stare at the
security booth in disbelief. He changed directions and hurried
toward the gate. “What are you doing, Johnson?” he asked the
guard.

The man jerked and turned to face him. “Just
doing my job, sir.”

He indicated the high-powered binoculars the
guard was holding. “Spying on the neighbors is now part of your
duties?”

“Mrs. Noble asked me to watch the activities
at the house down the street.”

What the hell was his mother up to now? Ron
glanced at the envelope with photographs he still held in his hand
and grimaced. Things were complicated enough without antagonizing
her with questions about binoculars and spying on her
neighbors.

“Put it away,” he instructed the security
guard. “I’m sure there’s a law somewhere against doing that sort of
thing.”

“What do I do if I notice any funny business
at Mr. Doyle’s residence?”

A frown crossed Ron’s brow. “Doyle?”

“Yes, Ryan Doyle. Your mother said something
about not liking him living too close to her. Wanted to know what
he and his son were up to.”

When did Doyle buy a house in the
neighborhood? After his father died, Doyle had tried to hit on his
mother, appearing everywhere she went and stopping by the house
uninvited. The man even tried to use Ron to get to her. Ron wasn’t
sure what Nina told him, but Doyle disappeared from their lives.
“Regardless of what my mother told you to do—”

“But it’s a good thing I did too, sir. I saw
the lady who just left…Ms. Fitzgerald…talking with Doyle’s son only
a few seconds ago.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“She pulled up a little past their gate.”
Johnson brought the binoculars to his face and peered through the
lenses. “She’s still there.”

Ron wanted to grab the binoculars and see for
himself, but restrained himself.

“Doyle’s son is entering his limo right now.
He’s paused…looks back. She’s—”

“Let me see.” He accepted the binoculars from
the guard and trained them on the road. It wasn’t hard to find
Ashley’s red sports car. Anger, disappointment and jealousy zapped
through him in quick succession when he saw her smile and wave at
the limo. A hand waved back through an open back window before the
limo disappeared around a bend in the road.

Smoldering anger replaced all other emotions.
Why would Ashley stop to talk with Vaughn Doyle? Had she lied to
him about not knowing the Doyles were after Carlyle House? He could
have sworn the woman was a straight shooter, but it could be the
attraction between them blinding him to reality. He didn’t know
what her game was, but he intended to find out.

Ron set the binoculars down, and without
saying a word to the guard, stepped out of the security booth and
hurried back to the house.

***

“She still refuses to sell the house to me,”
Ryan Doyle said.

Frankie didn’t respond, but his alert
expression said he knew who Doyle meant—the only woman Doyle had
ever wanted but couldn’t have, Nina Noble.

A man in Doyle’s position, a man of his
wealth and connection should not have to ask for anything. Over the
years, he’d bought properties and women whenever it suited him. But
his billions, offices and homes across the country couldn’t
guarantee him the one thing he’d always wanted, a willing and
devoted Nina by his side.

Born in Culver City, Doyle had been drawn to
the stately homes on the north with their pristine swimming pools
and neatly trimmed lawns. The most impressive of them was Carlyle
House, owned by the Neumann family. At first, he would climb the
trees and peek into their compound. Later, he became their yard and
pool boy. Often, he would watch Nina and her friends by the pool
while he trimmed hedges, or look at her with longing as she danced
and laughed at her birthday parties. She would flaunt herself on
the pool deck in her bikini, glancing his way whenever she thought
he wasn’t looking. And when he could afford it, he bought her
presents and left them on top of the deck table. She never failed
to look at him and smile as she opened them. She’d loved him as
much he’d loved her.

Everything changed the day she slipped on the
wet deck, hit her head and fell into the water. Doyle had gone by
instinct, rescuing her and administering CPR. A heated kiss had
followed. All her parents saw was the pool boy on top of their
precious daughter. He saved Nina’s life that day, yet he ended up
in jail on sexual assault charges. Nina never told the truth about
the incident, but he forgave her. She was young at the time, only
seventeen, and scared. By the time he was released from jail, Doyle
had learned an important lesson—the rich got away with everything.
He made a vow to amass as much wealth as possible.

Doyle studied the thin, bumpy skin that ran
from his right middle finger and disappeared under his pale blue
custom-fitted shirt with detachment. It was a scar from the day he
rescued Nina. He even wore a ring on the finger to draw attention
to it. He could easily have taken care of the blemish and the
occasional twitch with surgery, but it was a reminder of what he
was owed. Nina Noble belonged to him.

A sneer touched Doyle’s mouth. He’d watched
over her as she grew from the pampered girl to the beautiful
actress adored by all her fans, but it had given him a great deal
of satisfaction to punish the bastard who’d been her first lover
and the next ones, too. They had hurt her. He was the only man who
could make her truly happy. Robert Noble did for a while, which
hadn’t sat well with Doyle. But in the end he made the bastard pay.
Dead or alive, no man who’d touched Nina ever escaped him. Ten
years ago, she’d said she was in mourning and needed time to get
over her husband’s death. He was tired of waiting.

“Do you want me to do something about her?”
Frankie asked.

“No. Nina is my problem,” Doyle warned. One
minute in front of a computer and Frankie could make a person
disappear without a trace. Having no bank account, no social
security number, no credit history and no birth certificate wasn’t
his plan for Nina.

Doyle rested his elbows on the polished
mahogany desk and formed a steeple with his short, thick fingers.
His gaze locked on the older man seated opposite him—Francis
‘Frankie’ Higgins. They first met on the streets of L.A., before
Doyle’s mother married his brute of a stepfather and moved them to
San Bernardino. Frankie bailed him out when he got in a tight spot
with a local drug lord, and even though he paid back every cent to
Frankie, Doyle never forgot the deed.

Years later, when Doyle started making a name
for himself on the streets, he’d gone in search of Frankie. Between
his business acumen and Frankie’s computer skills, they became a
formidable money laundering team for major drug dealers along the
west coast, until the day the Feds caught Doyle during a sting
operation and threw him in jail. He never fingered Frankie.
Although his businesses were mainly legal, he occasionally found
that he needed Frankie’s expertise, like now.

Physically, they were nothing alike except
for their dark hair. Frankie was taller and leaner. But what Doyle
lacked in height, he made up for with a wider girth, a presence and
a desire to leave his mark on this world. Outside his computer
skill, Frankie’s nondescript features and unassuming demeanor made
it possible for him to blend in crowds and shadows.

“What did you learn from Blackwell?” Doyle
asked.

“Ron Noble went to see him during the
convention and showed him the letters. Blackwell didn’t tell him
anything.”

Doyle’s eyes narrowed. For the amount he paid
off the former fire chief, he’d better keep his mouth shut. “And
the ex-firefighters?”

Frankie chuckled. “They know better than to
talk to the boy.”

“Good. Find the person who sent those
letters, Frankie. Nina’s boy would not be sticking his nose in
things that don’t concern him if it weren’t for those damned
letters.” Doyle sat back and loosened his tie. He just lost control
and didn’t like it. The fact still remained that someone was out to
get him. But who? Why now when things were finally going right for
him? He’d just discovered the existence of his only son, and now
had an heir to carry on his legacy. And he was in a position to
court Nina Noble.

He was already the main investor in her new
play, although he had no intention of letting her know it. He also
had a man on the inside making sure the expenditure kept shooting
up until the other sponsors backed off. He knew her well enough to
know she wouldn’t run to her family to bail her out, just as she
hadn’t ten years ago. She would become completely dependant on
him.

There was a discrete knock on his door, then
his assistant stepped inside the office. “Sir? Your son’s limo just
pulled up.”

“Thank you, Gayle. Ask him to come into my
office when he arrives upstairs.” He got up after the door closed
behind the woman and approached the bar at the corner of his
spacious office. He poured a slash of cognac in two crystal glasses
and offered one to Frankie.

“How’s Vaughn doing?” Frankie asked.

Instead of answering, Doyle sipped his drink,
savoring the woody taste, and walked to the window. He studied the
glass and concrete structures lining the street below with
indifference.

The offices of Doyle Enterprise were
temporarily in a high-rise in downtown Los Angeles. His company
owned the building and rented most of office space to other
businesses, including the L.A. branch of Neumann Security, which
presently occupied the top floor. He hadn’t needed the building,
but it had amused him at the time to outbid the boy. Now the
victory didn’t matter.

Acquiring new buildings, refurbishing and
then selling them had lost its appeal. The hunger that had pushed
him to the top on his field had waned. Simply put, he was bored. He
needed to diversify, try something new. He wanted a slice of
Hollywood, not in secret but overtly, with his name out there for
the world to see.

What did a producer tell him a few years ago?
Accepting his money was like lying in bed with a drug dealer.
Frankie had made sure the bastard paid for the slight. Pictures of
the producer with young boys had appeared online overnight. Within
a week, the man’s career was over. Still, the incident was a
reminder that his past mattered. No matter how much he tried to
clean up, his name was still linked to his old, money-laundering
activities. Being with Nina meant much more than fulfilling a
fantasy. With her by his side, doors that continued to remain
closed to him would open. He’d gain respectability, which would
flow to his son. Above all, Vaughn must not be tainted by the
past.

Doyle turned and studied the panel of screens
on the wall to his left. Two of them showed Vaughn inside the
elevator. At only twenty-two, the boy had a nose for business, a
chip off the old block. Charming and astute, he used his age to
disarm people before turning the tables on them. His next target
was the Fitzgerald girl and outbidding her on Carlyle House. Should
he mention the past to Vaughn? How her parents outbid Doyle? No,
his son was untouched by the ugliness from the past and Doyle meant
to keep it that way.