Chapter 1
Jackson Stone was a mess. Blood was everywhere. And the
oozing wound on his leg wasn't exactly appetizing.
Maybe he should wash off the gore before lunch. But after
a morning chasing drug runners through the southern
Arizona desert, not to mention being beaten to a pulp by
said drug runners, his tanks were on empty. If he took
time to shower, all the salami sandwiches would be gone.
He'd be stuck with ham, or worse, bologna. You would think
a big film company working in the back of beyond would fly
in enough salami so that everyone who wanted salami could
have salami.
Right then the thought of any kind of a sandwich made his
mouth water. For the fifth time in the last hour he lay
down in the scorching sand, supposedly unconscious, while
his partner awaited his cue to leap to the rescue. When
this take was finally in the can, he decided, salami
first, then a shower.
"Cut!" Dave Goldman yelled. "Dammit, Rick! You missed your
goddamned cue again! What do you want? An engraved
invitation?"
Jackson opened his eyes in time to see Rick Carroll step
onto the set and pull a grimace.
"Sorry."
"Sorry," Goldman whined, dripping sarcasm. He was short,
rotund, and resembled a bald teddy bear, but his
unimpressive stature didn't keep him from being one of the
most intimidating directors in the film industry. In his
day he'd chewed up and spit out the likes of Harrison Ford
and Clint Eastwood. A pipsqueak rock star turned movie
actor didn't even make him blink. "He's sorry!" he
snarled. "How many times do we have to shoot this scene to
get a take? Goddamnedamateurs!"
The female lead tossed her tousled blond hair and a
sinister-looking drug lord leaned against a dusty Lincoln
Navigator, watching with a smile as one of the "good guys"
got his butt chewed. Reluctantly surrendering his visions
of salami, Jackson sprang up, carefully preserving the
fake blood splashed about his leg, chest, and
shoulder. "How about some water over here? I've got enough
dirt in my mouth to plant potatoes."
He and the director exchanged looks, and The Goldman
reluctantly abandoned his tirade.
"Ten minute break, everybody, and then we're going to
shoot this again. And I swear anyone who flubs a line or
ruins this take is going to get his ass fired. That's a
promise!" As a production assistant handed out cold
bottles of Aquafina, he growled, "Water! Dammit, where's a
bottle of whiskey when I need it?"
Jackson chuckled. "On the wagon again, Dave? That why
you're such a bear?"
"Watch it, Stone. The mood I'm in, I might even fire your
ass."
The production assistant looked horrified. Jackson smiled
and gave her a good-natured wink. No film director, not
even David Goldman, was going to fire Jackson Stone, and
Jackson knew it.
"Take it easy on Carroll, Dave. This film's his big break.
He's nervous."
"The kid's stupid."
"Rick Carroll has teenage hearts throbbing all over
America and Europe. Do you know how much money teenagers
spend on movies?"
"He's still stupid."
"I suppose you were never young and stupid?"
"Damned right I wasn't. Not that stupid."
Jackson smiled dryly. "Right. I wasn't, either."
Dave cast his eyes toward the sky, as if seeking help from
on high. "Two more days of good shooting. Just give me two
more days, and we'll wrap this puppy up on time and only
slightly over budget. Is that so much to ask?" He looked
sideways at Jackson and changed the subject abruptly. "The
scuttlebutt is, your wife is going to get an Oscar for her
Queen Elizabeth."
"Ex-wife, Dave. Very important. Ex-wife. Melanie was a
natural for that part. QE I was one of her former lives,
according to her."
"Whatever. It was a dynamite performance."
"I never said she doesn't have talent."
"So I would count it a favor if you'd put in a good word
with her for the script Dreamworks just sent her. I'm
directing."
"Mel doesn't listen to a thing I say, Dave."
"Ah, c'mon, Jackson. What about the rumor of you two
getting back together after all this time? What's it been?
Five years since the divorce?"
"Six. Been reading Josh Digby's column in the Star, have
you? Don't you know that son of a bitch makes up stories
out of thin air?"
Goldman grunted. "You and Mel are seen together a lot."
"We're friends. Sometimes. And sometimes we're not
friends. Right now, Mel would rather annoy me than do me
favors."
"Just employ a little of that famous Stone charm."
Jackson chuckled. "All right, Dave. For you, I'll try."
"That's my man. Now, you ready to get beat up again?"
"Bring it on."
Forty minutes later Dave had his take, and Jackson headed
for a cold beer and air-conditioning in his trailer. Late
July was hell in the southern Arizona desert.
His young co-star fell into step beside him. "Hey,
Jackson. Thanks, man. I overhead what you said to Deadly
Dave back there when I screwed up."
"Everyone screws up, Rick."
"Well, yeah, but I appreciate it, man. It was big of you.
You know, some guys would've taken the chance to stab me
in the back. Competition, you know. Not wanting to share
the spotlight."
Jackson grinned. "Didn't think of that. Maybe I'll go back
and tell Dave to toss you off the set."
Rick's baby blues widened for just a moment, then he
grinned. "Right." He gave Jackson a manly punch on the
shoulder and laughed. "I'm headed for the roach coach.
Wanna come?"
Somehow, that salami sandwich just wouldn't have the same
flavor eaten in Rick's company. "Not today. Got business."
"Yeah. I see you do."
A statuesque assistant to the assistant to the assistant
producer intercepted them.
"Nice business," Rick gibed. "Hey, Carrie."
"Hey, Ricky." The twenty-something redhead gave the
younger man a friendly smile, but when that smile settled
on Jackson, it heated up. "I have a pitcher of margaritas
in the motel freezer," she told Jackson. "Call me after
shooting if you're interested."
She gave him a simmering smile as she left. Jackson and
Rick both followed her retreating figure with appreciative
eyes.
"Man, how do you do that?"
"Do what?" Jackson asked as they came up to his trailer.
"Handle babes like that? Every one of the hot ladies on
this set has eyes for you, man. And not one of them seems
to mind that you spread yourself around like butter on
toast. They all know you're stepping out with everything
female in a ten-mile radius."
Jackson raised a brow. "I'm not quite that active."
"Don't get me wrong, man. I'm in awe. Abject admiration."
Jackson resigned himself. If he wanted his beer and air-
conditioning, he was obviously going to have to invite the
kid in for a few minutes. Rick accepted the invitation
with alacrity. Jackson popped two cold ones and handed one
to his guest.
"I wish I had your moves," Rick said. "You've got Carrie,
Kendra, and Shirley all drooling over you. And didn't you
take Sara Byron to the Golden Globe Awards? She is hot.
Absolutely volcanic."
"From what I've seen, you don't do too bad yourself, Rick."
"Oh, yeah. No complaints. But last time I tried playing
the field, I nearly got my eyes scratched out."
"There's a lesson there."
"What?"
"If you just want to have fun, go with women who want the
same thing. Stay away from the ladies who want commitment
until you're ready to commit. Simple as that. Be honest.
Be direct. Don't promise what you're not going to deliver."
"Sounds right."
Jackson took a long pull on his Michelob. "The women I go
out with are terrific. They're fun. They like good company
and a good time but want to keep their independence. And
they let me keep mine."
"And they stay friendly after you dump them."
"I've never dumped a woman."
"Well, for sure no woman is going to dump Jackson Stone."
"We reach a friendly mutual agreement." That was the way
he and Mel had broken up-friendly mutual agreement. They
agreed they weren't good for each other. Most of the time
they managed to stay on friendly terms. The tabloids made
a big deal of their occasionally going to dinner or
showing up together at a party, but then, the tabloids
tried to make a big deal of everything.
" 'Friendly mutual agreement,' " Rick echoed. "I like
that. Maybe I should give it a try," Rick said. "It might
limit the fireworks. But it seems like a dude your age
would be looking for a permanent lady. You know"-his eyes
crinkled puckishly-"someone to enjoy retirement with once
I totally eclipse you on the big screen."
Jackson laughed. "Dream on, kid. You're not ready for my
parts or my ladies. And you'll learn sooner or later that
permanent relationships don't mix well with celebrity.
It's one of the prices you pay. Most of us learn the hard
way."
"That's a fact!" Rick grinned and tossed his beer bottle
into the recycling can, a perfect shot. "Gotta go, man.
Thanks for the beer."
"Anytime."
Alone at last, Jackson breathed in a welcome drag of air-
conditioning and considered his options. Salami or shower?
Shower, he decided. Then sandwich. And another beer. He
peeled off his shirt and tossed it in the laundry basket,
but before he could turn on the shower, Harvey Mathias,
his personal assistant, banged through the trailer door
without knocking and slammed a newspaper down on the table.
Once a linebacker for the Nebraska Huskers, Harvey looked
ready to tackle someone. "Did you read the garbage Helen
Gordon wrote in the Times today?"
Helen Gordon was one of L.A.'s foremost critics. She
criticized films, plays, actors, producers, directors,
screenwriters, the mayor and city council, and just about
anyone else who wandered within range. And all too
frequently, The Powers That Be in the film industry
listened to what she said.
"If it was about me," Jackson said, "I doubt it was
anything good. She thinks I have about as much talent as a
piece of white bread."
"Read!" Harvey invited.
Jackson picked up the paper, which was folded to Helen's
column. He scanned through the paragraphs concerning other
unfortunates who had merited the woman's attention and
found the speculation that Touchstone was talking to him
about taking the lead in a gritty, Steinbeck-like story
set among struggling farm families in 1950s Kansas. Her
speculation, as usual, was right on target. Touchstone was
talking, and he was listening. The role would be a
departure from his usual thrillers and gunpowder-stained
westerns-a departure his career needed, if he was to keep
making films once the public discovered a newer, younger
action hero to root for.
He read:
Touchstone will insure the film's mediocrity if they cast
Stone, whose box-office draw is considerably more
substantial than his versatility. Despite Stone's nod from
the academy for Second Sight, this role calls for someone
with more grit than good looks, and if Stone has grit, he
certainly hasn't shown it so far. I doubt the man has ever
seen the business end of a shovel or has a pair of work
gloves in his wardrobe. Director Howard doesn't need a
manicured mannequin for this role; he needs someone who
knows what it's like to get his hands dirty and blistered
in the real world, where doubles don't stand in for the
hard parts.
"The bitch," Harvey spat.
Jackson merely chuckled. "Don't worry about it. Helen
thinks actors need to pay their dues by suffering through
years of manual labor and poverty before getting a break.
Teaching English Lit in community college doesn't qualify.
Besides, she doesn't like me. Never has."
"Trouble is, Touchstone might listen."
"If they do, it's their loss. Don't lose sleep over it."
Harvey snorted. "Have you had lunch?"
"You just squashed my appetite. Why don't you get out of
here? I'm going to take a shower."
Harvey got up.
"And take Ms. Gordon with you."
When the trailer door shut behind Harvey and the poison
pen column, Jackson grimaced. "Damned old biddy," he
grumbled. "I'd like to see Helen Gordon with a few well-
placed blisters of her own."
Jackson had just stepped out of the shower when his cell
phone tweedled. Dripping a puddle onto the tile, he
sighed. "What now?"
The voice of his ex-wife crackled in his ear.
"Melanie, I can't understand a thing you're saying." Not
all that unusual, he mused sourly. "Slow down."
"Jackson, darling, where are you? I called the beach
house, and you weren't there. I was hoping you'd take me
to the Queen Elizabeth opening."
So they could start yet another set of rumors, Jackson
thought. Mel did love publicity of any kind. "I'm still on
location."
"Running late? Dave must be in a fit."
"Yeah. He's not real happy."
"I warned him that he started shooting on exactly the
wrong date! Jupiter was in retrograde. Ignore the stars
and you always end up sorry."
"Dave has a long history of ignoring stars, Mel. You and
me included."
She missed a beat, then hmphed. "You are so not funny, as
always, bonehead."
Jackson had to grin. Annoying Mel had once been a
specialty of his.
"Anyway, Jackie, that's not why I called, exactly."
Jackie? Mel was good at annoyance also.
"All right, Mel, why did you call?"
"Well . . ."
Jackson suffered an evil premonition. "Well what?"
"It's Cherie."
His heart skipped a beat. "Is she all right?"
"Of course she's all right. I am her mother, Jackson. I'm
a perfectly responsible parent on the rare occasions you
allow her to visit me."
"Then, what?"
"You always jump to conclusions. That's so typical of you,
Jackie. And that's why I called to warn you ahead of time,
so you could center yourself and be cool when you see
Cherie."
His eyes narrowed. "And why would I need to be cool?"
"Because when it comes to fatherhood you are so nineteenth
century, truly you are. You would lock my child up and let
her experience nothing and no one until she's thirty. I
know how you are."
"This from the woman who'd wanted to take our daughter for
training in spiritualism when she was five years old. Spit
it out, Mel."
"Don't use that tone with me, Jackson."
"Now!"
"It's no huge deal, so don't get melodramatic. Cherie went
shopping with her friends Deanna and Cyndie. Now I find
out it was a prank, and the friends were in on it. She's
gone on an adventure with Jimmy Toledo, that rocker from
Boy Toys. He's the one-"
"I know who the hell he is. For crissakes, Melanie, how
long have they been gone?"
"I'd say they've been on the road a couple of hours."
"Christ! Get the police on them. Cherie's only thirteen!"
Copyright 2002 by Emily Carmichael