One Night Scandal Page 8

  He stormed off toward a production trailer, one of his assistants scrambling to catch up.

  He’s reaching, Hannah wanted to shout to the younger crewmembers, to let the newbies know that a director didn’t have that kind of hold over a production company. Ventura couldn’t dictate whom that company hired for future projects. But, selfishly, Hannah appreciated that the unrest on set might result in her overhearing something damning about Antonio sooner rather than later. An unhappy cast and crew would create a better environment for one of Ventura’s victims to let her guard down about the man’s behavior.

  So Hannah said nothing, listening as the crowd broke up. Some people seemed to think it was all grandstanding to get cooperation, but Hannah also heard someone start to recount the reports from one of Antonio’s overseas productions where he did indeed collect the cast’s phones, holding on to them for weeks.

  As the group thinned out and people began returning to their work, Callie walked with Hannah to the makeup trailer, then held the door for her as they stepped inside the mobile unit.

  “So what prompted the tirade?” Hannah asked as she dropped into the makeup chair, settling her bag under the mirrored table in front of her.

  They were the only ones in the vintage Airstream. The hair and makeup people must have been lingering to talk after the director’s mini-meltdown. Hannah wanted to open her media feeds and catch up on the news from the set since Hope had mentioned a lot of media focus on the film. But sometimes scrolling through a feed sent the message that you didn’t want to talk, and Hannah couldn’t afford to have people shut her out. She needed confidences if she was ever going to collect damning evidence against Antonio.

  “One of the extras posted a photo of Antonio side by side with a photo of Paige McNeill, both of them standing in front of the Creek Spill Ranch welcome sign,” Callie explained, reaching to straighten the collar on the shirt that Hannah would be wearing in the day’s scene. “The extra added a caption that said, ‘Separated at birth?’ because they were both wearing jeans and a Stetson.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a big deal to me.”

  “It shouldn’t have been, except that Antonio looks like a sloppy, lewd old man in his photo, with his T-shirt barely covering his gut, while Eden Harris is still as lovely as ever. Since the two of them are close in age, it’s my guess Antonio’s ego took a hit.”

  Lewd? The word caught Hannah’s attention more than anything else the wardrobe assistant said. Had Callie seen inappropriate behavior from the director? She promised herself that she would circle back to the subject.

  “I thought he was angry because there are tabloid reporters in Cheyenne.” She debated grabbing her phone now to see what else she could unearth online. Also, she wondered if Brock had messaged her, because he was never far from her thoughts today. “My sister said there’s a lot of talk about the filming since the news broke yesterday about Eden Harris.”

  Callie nodded, dropping onto a bench seat across from Hannah, her long ponytail draping down her arm. “Everyone in Hollywood wants to find out if the Ventura family knew where Eden was all this time since no one ever formally reported her missing. She just sort of disappeared.”

  Hannah’s phone vibrated. She could hear the soft buzz even with the device in her bag. But her attention went to the door of the trailer as one of the production assistants stuck his head in.

  “Filming is canceled today, ladies. Security breach at the front gate of the ranch. The McNeill family has recommended we wait a day to film until they get the ranch borders secured.”

  A second later, the man was gone, no doubt off to spread the news.

  Callie clapped her hands together. “Free day!” she shouted, doing a dance on the trailer floor before hopping out the door, too fast for Hannah to stop her or ask about the “lewd” comment. Darn it.

  She reached for her bag instead, pulling out the phone to see that a text message had arrived from her date tomorrow.

  Security issues mean we can’t readily go to a five-star location. I’m importing a five-star chef to my home instead. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven thirty.

  Hannah read the message twice, her heart pounding. Dinner at Brock’s home sounded intimate. Decadent.

  She’d have to be very, very careful that she used the time to learn more about him, and not fall further under his seductive spell.

  Seven

  Brock hadn’t wanted to pick up his date with a security detail trailing him. But considering the swarm of paparazzi looking for a way onto McNeill lands since yesterday, he’d finally agreed to have one of the extra guards follow him over to Hannah’s cabin. Brock had enough on his mind tonight without running interference with the media if reporters managed to infiltrate the Creek Spill Ranch.

  And to the guard’s credit, Brock didn’t even see anyone else around when he halted in front of the cabin in his pickup truck. Switching off the headlights and the engine, he left the keys on the seat before striding toward the cabin.

  Music drifted from the windows, a sweetly haunting aria sung in a foreign language, and not at all what he would have expected from Hannah’s playlist. Not that he knew much about her outside the compelling draw between them. Still, he looked forward to learning more about this woman who felt strangely like a calm center in the storm of amnesia, blackmail and scandal.

  He’d spent most of the previous day with his neurologist, discussing the results of the CT scan and trying to get answers about his memories. The consultation hadn’t given him anything more concrete than he’d learned in the ER, but at least his headache had eased. He’d met with his family again the night before, and the publicist had announced a new family story for redirecting public interest. Malcolm McNeill had proposed to his girlfriend, Rose Hanson, and the pair had revealed a Manhattan wedding planned for the end of the month.

  Brock might not remember anything about his grandfather before the last two days, but he had to admit the patriarch of the McNeill clan knew how to put family first. The announcement of the billionaire’s late-in-life remarriage had eased some of the intense interest in Paige’s Hollywood past.

  Now, before Brock could knock on Hannah’s door, it opened with a sudden flood of lamplight and a faint hint of orange blossoms. His date appeared on the threshold.

  A silky dress swirled around her, strapless and floor length in color blocks of bright purple, fuchsia and pink. A gold lamé belt wrapped the slimmest part of her, while gold shoes peeked out from the pink hem. Her long blond waves were curled in neat coils.

  “Brock.” Her smile seemed genuine, her tone relieved. “After filming was canceled, I’ve been worried there would be a rush of photographers if I so much as cracked the door open.” Her gaze skittered past him to peer out into the dark. “But there’s no one out there?”

  “There’s a security detail at the tree line.” He couldn’t peel his attention away from her. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Her hands fluttered nervously as she hurried to pick up a remote from the coffee table. Stabbing at it, she silenced the swelling violins of the opera music. “I packed only so much for the trip, but luckily, I had a dress.”

  She retrieved a small gold clutch and slid her keycard inside before she switched off the wrought iron chandelier in the living area. Brock scanned the room to make sure the place looked secure before they left. Now that the ranch had become a point of interest for the tabloids, he regretted that she was staying in the cabin alone. Vulnerable.

  His gaze snagged on the door to the bedroom toward the back. He had a sudden vision of them there, kissing at the threshold of that door, before falling into the bed that awaited—

  “... Brock?” Hannah asked, staring at him intently. She worried her lower lip, nibbling one side for a moment before speaking again. “Is everything okay?”

  How long had he been standing there, fantasizing
about a moment that felt all too real? He shook off the sensation of being caught in a memory that wouldn’t come. No doubt he had daydreamed about that scenario when he accompanied Hannah to this cabin before, the way she’d described. His desire for her was sharp, but that didn’t mean he would act on it too fast. He looked forward to spending time with her first. Getting to know her.

  “Better than okay.” He had gone to considerable effort to arrange this evening with her. He refused to make a mess of it before they even set foot in his house. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  Offering her his arm, he guided her out of the cabin and into the summer night. The breeze stirred the silky layers of her dress, blowing it against him as he helped her into the truck, stirring awareness all over again.

  Resolutely, he trained his focus on the grassy road that led to his place, needing to stay alert. He saw no one on the way, not even the security guard. His home was more remote than either of his brothers’ since he’d chosen a tract of land near the Black Creek between the two main ranches, so perhaps that accounted for the quiet. But his brother Carson had also assured him the security team was top-notch when they messaged earlier in the day. Apparently, Carson had invested in a private security firm before he’d allowed the production company to film up here in the first place. Then, after Carson’s girlfriend’s shocking announcement the night before about her mother potentially being the blackmailer, Carson had hired even more guards to make sure Emma’s mother, Jane Layton, didn’t come near McNeill property.

  When Brock cleared the final bend before his house, Hannah gasped.

  “What’s wrong?” He turned to look at her, but she was staring out the front windshield.

  “That’s your house?” She glanced toward him and raised her eyebrows. “Brock, it’s gorgeous.”

  He wasn’t sure that he’d describe it quite that way, but still, her words were flattering. “Thank you. I worked on this place for years, and I’m finding it frustrating that now I can’t recall finishing the building.”

  Parking the truck close to the front entrance so she wouldn’t have far to walk, he got out, pocketed the keys and went around to help her from the vehicle.

  “You built this?” she asked as she stepped carefully down from the running board onto the flagstones beneath.

  He held one of her hands, feeling the softness of her creamy skin, curbing the impulse to stroke his thumb over her palm. Letting her go, he shut the door behind her and stood beside her to stare up at the house.

  At almost eight thousand square feet, there was plenty of room. Much of the first level had a river stone facade, the gray rocks blending with the retaining walls and footpaths that led up from the Black Creek. The porch posts on the first level were stone, but the wide porches of the second level were wooden, the two materials blending in a proportion that felt right for a house set against the woods and overlooking a wide creek. Now, with all of the outdoor and landscaping lights on, the house was reflected in the calm water.

  “I did most of it. I contracted out the plumbing and electrical. And I had a professional excavator help me with the site’s foundation. But the rest was all me.” He had, at least, painstakingly preserved the effort in photos. If he never recovered the missing gap in his memories, he had the photo history. “For years, this was my second job after I finished working with the horses.”

  The scents of smoked pancetta and roasted hen drifted from the kitchen, a reminder that appetizers would be served shortly. Brock led her into the house, explaining a few of the features she asked about on the way, like the beams in the cathedral ceiling of the foyer and the hand-cut logs used as supports in the main archway that led to the kitchen.

  They avoided the kitchen, however, since he’d given over the gourmet facility to the chef and her staff for the night. Brock had asked for the meal to be served upstairs on the covered balcony overlooking the Black Creek, a vaulted veranda with an outdoor fireplace already lit to ensure they were comfortable even in the night chill.

  “This is incredible.” Hannah spun in a slow circle to take in the balcony with its round dining table already set for two. Three white candles burned under a hurricane globe surrounded by sunflowers, roses and orange lilies.

  Brock was satisfied that his preparations were to her liking. He only wished he’d hired musicians for the night since he would have liked the opportunity to dance with her. It would have given him a reason to wrap her in his arms.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t go out tonight.” He hadn’t ever met a woman he wanted to romance to this degree. Not that he remembered, anyhow.

  His phone hadn’t revealed any liaisons in the past six months. He would guess he’d poured all his free time into finishing the house.

  Hannah set her gold clutch on an end table by the fireplace. “Who wants to go out when you have this sort of luxury at home?”

  “Maybe.” Brock strode over to the champagne bucket on a silver stand beside the dining table. “Can I pour you champagne?” He turned the label of the bottle toward him. “The wines are the only elements of the meal I chose tonight. The chef picked everything else.”

  “In that case, yes.” Hannah strode closer, her pink-and-purple gown fluttering around her and brushing against him. “Just a little, though, since I have to work tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Brock used a towel to hold the cork as he opened the bottle. “Your director threatened to pack up the whole shoot and return to LA to film on a studio lot if we can’t do more to ensure privacy here.”

  He poured the champagne into two glasses as a waiter entered with a tray of appetizers and discreetly left it on the table. Brock had ordered a tasting menu that would ensure new dishes were brought often, in small portions, since he hadn’t been certain of her preferences.

  “You’ve spoken with Antonio?” Hannah asked, her soft fingers grazing his as she accepted a crystal champagne flute. Was that worry he detected in her voice? Perhaps she was concerned about her job, or the quality of the film if the director abandoned the location.

  “No, I haven’t.” Settling the bottle back into the ice, he picked up his glass and led her toward the screened stone hearth where a fire crackled and popped. “Antonio sent a message to my brother Carson, which he shared with the family. The director of Winning the West hasn’t made a good impression with the McNeills, and we will be glad when he leaves.” Brock leaned closer to Hannah, tipping his forehead near hers. “The same can’t be said of you.”

  She glanced up, firelight playing over her delicate features as she gazed into his eyes. He wanted to pluck her glass from her fingers and kiss her. Taste her lips instead of champagne. He gave himself a moment to contemplate that kiss before he continued.

  “I’m in no hurry for you to leave, Hannah,” he told her, burning to touch her. Instead, he clinked his glass to hers. “Cheers to us, and whatever time we have together.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, seated across the table from Brock McNeill in the loveliest outdoor living space she could have imagined, Hannah thought that if she met him now, she would have never mistaken him for a cowboy.

  And not just because of the custom-tailored tuxedo that fit him as comfortably as the denim he’d worn the first time she’d seen him. Though she would have to be blind not to notice the way the rich black fabric of the jacket made his eyes even bluer. There was also something about his whole manner tonight that seemed different.

  When he’d given her a ride home on his horse that first night, she’d been the aggressor, falling into his arms and kissing him after the ride because the heat had been so intense, and the stress of the shoot had shredded her defenses. Tonight, she couldn’t afford to give in to temptation, so she waited. Watched. This time, Brock made the seductive overtures, and he was far more patient. Thoughtful. While she’d simply thrown herself in his arms, Brock tempted her sense
s with fine foods and wines, tantalized her intellect with insightful discussion about everything from acting to horses, opera to ranches.

  He’d been considerate of her comfort and responsive to her smallest request, taking her on an impromptu tour of the grounds between dinner and dessert when she’d asked about the flowering trees she could see thanks to the landscape lighting. Now, pushing aside the final plate of the evening—a personal fruit sampler with one perfect berry of every kind imaginable—Hannah reminded herself she wasn’t here to fall for Brock McNeill.

  She had accepted his dinner invitation to learn more about his family’s connection to the Venturas, and she couldn’t leave until she gleaned something that could help her sister.

  “So your grandfather is getting married?” she asked, leaning back in her chair while Brock poured them both more sparkling water from the bottle their waiter had left on the table.

  “He is.” Brock gestured toward the hearth where a blaze still burned bright. “Would you like to sit by the fire?”

  “Sure.” She brought her water glass with her, setting it on the wrought iron table in front of the love seat. She made herself comfortable in the deep navy cushions, sitting sideways to converse with him better. Or maybe to face him head-on so his allure didn’t catch her by surprise. Slipping off her shoes, she tucked her feet under her. “Malcolm’s timing must have been a welcome relief for your family. It seems like talk of a McNeill wedding has shifted a little of the tabloid attention away from your stepmother.”

  “My grandfather did the family a real kindness,” Brock agreed, staring into the flames as he took the seat beside her, his broad shoulder almost close enough that she could have tipped her chin forward to lean on him. “His proposal came at an opportune time. But after seeing him with Rose, I believe he would have married her either way.”

  “You could tell just by looking at them?” she teased.