When Lightning Strikes (11 page)

“Where’s Simon?” She gazed out a wall of glass toward the
pool—the direction from which the driver had come.

He set about gathering his keys. “I’m sure he’s on the
property. All the cars are here. But, honestly, I can’t say where. He texted me
earlier and asked me to drive you home whenever you’re ready. That’s all I
know.”

Arching a disbelieving eyebrow, she waited for him to look up.
When he did, he acted a little embarrassed, as if he understood that she knew he
was covering for his boss. From the driver’s perspective, Simon had had his fun
with her; now his job was to drop her off, like he’d probably done with so many
women before her.

But why would Simon treat her the same as all the others when
they needed to convince everyone he felt more for her?

“Or…I could text him and tell him you want to see him—if you
like,” the young man added reluctantly.

Mere platitudes. He didn’t expect her to take him up on that
offer. He was obviously skeptical it would do any good, even if she did.

Gail didn’t dare risk having Simon brush her off in front of
his staff. Not saying goodbye was bad enough. “No, that’s fine,” she said, but
to compensate she fondled the ruby pendant at her throat. “I’m ready whenever
you are. I just wanted to thank him for the necklace.”

On learning that Simon had given her such an expensive gift,
the cook and the driver exchanged a meaningful glance, but they said nothing
more. The chauffeur, dressed in a polo shirt and chinos, grabbed a pair of
sunglasses off the counter and led her through the house to a tunnel that ran to
the garage—a garage that appeared to be detached when viewed from ground
level.

“This reminds me of the Bat Cave,” she said.

He opened the back door of the limousine. “Comes in handy.”

“I bet.” Raking her fingers through her tangled hair, she
settled against the leather upholstery. She had none of her toiletries, hadn’t
even been able to brush her teeth. Maybe Simon had done her a favor by letting
her duck out with no farewell.

I do think you’re pretty....

She’d mulled over those words long after he’d left last night.
They rose in her mind now, but she quickly shoved them away. She could never
compete with the kind of women he usually enjoyed. There was no reason to get
excited about a “you’re not so bad.” What he’d said didn’t matter, anyway. This
was a job.

The driver began to back out, but she stopped him. “Wait! Do we
have to take this car?” It attracted so much attention.

Eyes hidden by his silvery lenses, he looked in the rearview
mirror. “It has tinted windows. Simon said to get you home without letting
anyone bother you.”

So he’d done
something
to convince
his staff that he might care about her well-being. She supposed she should be
grateful for that small courtesy, but she was still a little put out that he
hadn’t bothered to see her. Had he ever come to bed?

She couldn’t remember. Once she’d fallen asleep, she hadn’t
stirred until morning. “This is fine.”

Her cell phone buzzed as they made a three-point turn and
started down the drive. She’d gotten a text. From Callie.
How’d it go with your
father?

Not
good,
she responded.

I’m
sorry. But…you might want to listen to him.

Gail didn’t text back. She’d crossed her father and was
ignoring her friend’s advice because she’d already committed herself to this
course of action. But…what made her think her plan would work? Simon had just
sloughed her off on his hired help like he did all the women he didn’t care
about, even though he understood the need to treat her as if she was special.
What was going through his mind?

She had no idea, but part of her feared he might be drinking.
And if he was drinking she needed to know about it. She had so much riding on
this campaign. There was more at risk than her business; she had her
relationship with her father to consider, too. She wouldn’t let Simon prove
Martin right. Simon
could
change, pull himself
together and stop his downward spiral. And she was going to do everything in her
power to see that he did.

“Take me back,” she said.

The driver slowed in surprise. They’d just passed through the
gate. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I want to go back to the house right now.”

12

S
ecurity didn’t want to let her on the
premises. But Gail wasn’t taking no for an answer. She called Ian, told him the
deal was off unless she could get onto the estate immediately, and somehow he
arranged it. After fifteen minutes of haggling between him and a gigantic
muscle-bound man named Lance, during which she was pretty sure Ian told Lance
she was to be accommodated no matter what she wanted, the limousine rolled
through the gate, down the long winding drive and into the garage.

By the time Gail got out, she’d called Simon’s cell phone
twice. She’d texted him, too. There’d been no response. Was he passed out
somewhere? Dabbling with a maid? Or did he have enough of his wits about him to
know he’d better hide?

Damn him. She’d gone out on a limb for him. If he was
drinking…

“Ma’am? Ma’am, is there something I can help you with?” The
driver hurried after her. He didn’t like letting her have free run of the place
any more than Lance, the security guard, did. But she didn’t care. Avoiding the
tunnel, she headed to the house by circling around to the front entrance.

The driver stuck with her, a few feet behind. “How can I help
you?” he called again.

“You can find Simon,” she called back, “because I’m not leaving
until I talk to him.” No way would she sit passively by and let her former
client—her “fiancé”—ruin everything. They were all in this together now.

“Simon? Where are you?” she shouted as she entered the house.
Sweeping staircases, to the right and left, a marble floor with nothing but a
grand piano and a high ceiling made for perfect acoustics.

Simon didn’t answer.

A maid came to the top of the stairs. Obviously surprised by
the interruption, and the angry edge to Gail’s voice, she stood at the railing
and gaped down at her.

“Where is he?” Gail demanded when their eyes met.

The maid shook her head. “I don’t know. I swear.”

“Somebody here does.” She marched into the living room where
she’d met with Simon yesterday. Empty. She found a study, a library, a movie
theater, a game room…too many rooms to count. But they were all perfectly clean
and perfectly empty. When she finally reached the kitchen, she’d decided he was
drinking for sure. She was going to bust him, then cut ties completely, no
matter what happened afterward.

At the sound of her heels clacking on the tile floor, Simon’s
chef twisted around to look over his shoulder.

“Have you seen him?” she asked.

Unlike the maid, he’d been expecting her. He was sitting on a
bar stool, having a cup of coffee with the driver, who’d given up following her
once she started through the house. The stubborn tilt to the chef’s round head
indicated he wouldn’t tell her anything and his words confirmed it. “No. But I
rarely see him in the mornings.”

“Because he’s usually hungover,” she muttered, afraid no one
had seen him this morning for that same reason. “You’re not doing him any
favors, you know. I’m trying to help him.”

“Looks like it,” the chef said.

Suddenly she remembered the project Simon had mentioned in the
middle of the night. “Where does he go when he’s here but not in the house?”

They knew, of course, but were too loyal to tell her. The
driver blinked at her. “I have no idea, Ms. DeMarco.”

The chef spread his hands. “He could be anywhere.”

She hadn’t introduced herself. Either Simon had given them her
name or they’d seen the pictures of her and Simon kissing and read about her
online. But if that was the case, they didn’t seem to be putting much store in
the tales that were circulating. The press called her Simon’s latest “love
interest.” They probably thought she was just another conquest, that she’d
already passed out of favor or Simon wouldn’t have foisted her on them.

“I’m talking about when he works on his project,” she prompted.
“Where does he go then?”

They glanced at each other but remained mute.

“Fine, I’ll just have to keep looking,” she said, and stalked
out the French doors.

Before she could cross the patio, however, the driver came to
the door and called after her. “Ms. DeMarco?”

She turned to see that he was frowning. Speaking up went
against his training. But he had obviously gauged her determination and decided
it was better to get what was coming over with than have her searching the
property for hours, haranguing everyone she saw. “I’ve texted him several times,
but he’s not answering. At this point, I don’t know what to do, so…I guess he
can tell you himself if he wants you to leave. I’ll take you to his wood
shop.”

Wood shop? Simon didn’t seem like the carpenter type, but maybe
the project he’d mentioned involved wood.

“Thank you.”

Hurrying to keep up, she followed as he crossed the grass and
went behind the tennis courts, past the pool house, the guesthouse, a second
barbecue area, this one with a koi pond, and what looked like an outdoor dancing
pavilion.

At last they came upon a giant cabinlike structure at the far
corner of the property. “This is it?” she asked.

He waved her ahead of him. “This is it.”

Heart pounding for fear of what she’d find, and the
disappointment that might go with it, she knocked on the door.

There was no response but she could hear a saw going inside.
She tried the handle.

It wasn’t locked. She poked her head in. “Simon?”

At first she thought the shop was empty. She spotted the saw,
but there was no one near it. The motor grated as the blade whirled freely. “I
don’t think he’s here, either—” she started to say, but then she saw the blood.
“Oh, my God!”

Simon’s driver stood behind her. He noticed the drops the same
second she did, but he found his employer faster. Pushing past her, he dashed
across the concrete floor to where Simon sat, slumped against the wall, blood
covering his hands and phone and staining his clothes.

She hurried over and crouched on the other side. “Simon? What
happened?”

“I don’t think he can hear you,” the driver said, and he was
right. Simon’s eyes were glassy, his skin cold and clammy.

Standing, Gail pulled her phone out of her purse. Her hands
were shaking so badly she could hardly dial, but she hit 9-1-1.

* * *

“How long do you think he was bleeding?” Gail stood in a
corner of the hospital waiting room, conversing quietly with Simon’s doctor.

“Considering the size of the cut?” the doctor replied. “At
least an hour.”

She attempted to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. “So…was it
a suicide attempt?”

A tall, spare man with gray hair, the doctor pursed his lips.
“I don’t believe he was trying to kill himself, no.”

“Then why didn’t he seek help?”

“Who can say? Maybe he thought he could get the bleeding under
control, that he only needed to sit down and put some pressure on it. But it was
much worse than he realized and he eventually went into shock. To be honest,
thanks to significant sleep deprivation and the lifestyle he’s been leading, I’m
not sure he was in a clear frame of mind to begin with.”

She could certainly confirm that. “What about alcohol? Was he
drunk when this happened?”

“No. There was no alcohol in his system at all.”

For some reason this helped her relax and made her tear up at
the same time. It meant he was trying. “He told me it’s been three days since
he’s had a drink.”

“How much was he drinking before?”

“A lot.”

“Maybe he’s going through withdrawal and that figures into this
somehow. It can cause depression, anxiety, myriad other things. I’m guessing
this accident is a culmination of a number of factors. Including
exhaustion.”

“But not suicide.” For some reason, she needed to hear him say
that again.

“I doubt it. A saw would be an emotionally daunting way to take
your own life. Besides, only one of his hands is cut and not near the wrist.
This was an accident, but…the fact that he didn’t immediately call for help
might say something about his state of mind. Then again, it might not. It
could’ve happened like I said.”

“Gail? What’s going on?”

Ian had arrived; he was hurrying toward her. Thanking the
doctor for taking the time to speak with her, she turned and greeted Simon’s
manager. “He’s going to be okay.”

His eyes darted between her and the departing doctor. “What the
hell happened?”

She blew out a long breath. “I’m not sure. The doctor thinks it
was an accident.”

“You don’t?”

The image of Simon sitting on the floor of his woodshop,
cradling his hand and staring off into space as if he’d just as soon slip away
came to mind. Why didn’t he call someone? He had all kinds of domestic help on
the property. The doctor didn’t feel it was an
active
attempt to take his own life, but he’d intimated that it
could have been a passive one, which still gave them plenty to worry about. “I
don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “Except…Simon needs a break, Ian.”

He scowled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he needs a break, a real break. Some time to take care
of himself, to get back on his feet emotionally and physically, to rest from all
the demands on him.”

“But he’s under contract for promotion! I already told you
that. And he’s supposed to start another movie in two weeks.”

She was so upset it didn’t take much to set her off. “You said
you could clear his schedule in early November for our wedding.”

“I was talking about a weekend or maybe even a week. But he’s
slammed with work before
and
after.”

“I don’t care! Get him out of whatever obligations he’s got. He
shouldn’t be working in this condition.”

“I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” She grabbed his arm to make her point. “It’s
only money.”

“Easy for you to say. It’s not
your
money that’ll be lost, not
your
career that will
suffer. This film he has coming up—it’s supposed to be the kind that makes or
breaks a career. The producers are pressuring me to make sure he’ll be at the
studio and in good shape.”

A couple on the couch glanced up, so she pulled Ian farther
into the corner and lowered her voice. “He nearly cut off his hand. Whether that
was an accident or not, he didn’t seek help. He sat on the floor as if he didn’t
care whether he lived or died and nearly bled to death. If that isn’t a cry for
help, I don’t know what is. Now get on the phone and call whoever you have to,
but tell everyone that Simon will be unavailable for the next three months.”

Agitated, Ian began to pace. “They’ll think he’s cracking up,
that he’s finally lost it. I’ve spent so much time trying to make them believe
he’ll be fine, snap back, get into it again.”

She threw up her hands. “Then tell them it’s because he’s
fallen in love and is getting married. We’ll provide plenty of pictures to prove
it. Making a commitment to someone stable should be a good sign, not a bad
one.”

“They don’t know you’re stable. Anyway, you could be perfectly
stable until you hook up with him.”

“Well, that’s how we need to sell it, because I now believe
this is Simon’s last chance in more ways than one.”

Ian’s mouth hung open for several seconds before he could find
the words to respond, but at least he’d quit pacing. “So…I get him out of all
his obligations, and then what?”

“We leave L.A.”

“And go where?”

Gail’s mind whirled. She was on to something. She could feel
it. Her certainty grew as she considered the problem from all angles. Simon
couldn’t stay in Los Angeles. Here, he was surrounded by the same temptations,
reminders, people and worries. How could he effect the changes he needed to make
when he was mired in the past? When nothing else was changing?

Getting away made sense. But where should she take him? To one
of his houses abroad?

No. What if the accident hadn’t been an accident? She didn’t
want to be out of the country if something like this happened again. Or he went
back to drinking. She preferred someplace she felt comfortable and safe and
could get the help he would need. Someplace where he could dry out and recover
without the intrusion of the paparazzi. Someplace where there were no painful
memories of Bella or Ty, no friends who might encourage him to keep partying, no
enticements from film-industry types to make another movie before he was
ready.

She was sure he had other houses in America they could go to,
but she didn’t want an army of domestic workers taking note of everything that
transpired, either.

They needed privacy, support, protection and a change of
scenery. Given all that, the answer became obvious. “I’ve got it,” she said.

Ian narrowed his gaze. “You’ve got what?”

Her father wouldn’t like it. Neither would her brother and her
friends. They were already convinced she was making the biggest mistake of her
life. Even Simon would object. They’d all reject one another—at first. But the
people who loved her were good people. They’d made her whole and happy despite
her mother’s defection. They’d been there when she needed them most. And they
were still there for her.

Simon needed rock-solid commitment from the right sorts of
friends and associates and for the right reasons. He needed to figure out what
really mattered in life and what he wanted out of his own.

She couldn’t think of a better place to do that than Whiskey
Creek. “I’m taking him home.”