Dawn Stewardson - The Full Story

There was a short silence before Mickey continued speaking into her cell phone. “It’ll be the mother of all stories and we’ll have an exclusive. We’ll scoop the Chronicle and the Examiner. Hell, we’ll scoop the New York Times.”

She lapsed into silence, obviously listening to whatever her boss was saying. Dan felt his blood pressure rising. He wished he could hear both sides of the conversation.

“I know I’m not the best candidate.” She was speaking again. “But the critical thing is I’m up here with Dan O’Neill, and I’m the only person he’s willing to take along.”

Willing to take along? That was hardly the way he’d put it. There was another silence, and Dan couldn’t keep himself from whispering, “Is he going for it?”

She smiled at him. “I’m on hold. He’s running it past the editor in chief.”

Dan held his breath. Surely an editor in chief would recognize the insanity of this.

And then Mickey said, “That’s great. Tell Mr. Edwards I’ll come through. Neither of you will be disappointed.”

Dammit. Dan should have realized how persuasive she could be. After all, she’d convinced him to go along with this ridiculous scheme.

Dear Reader,

For my January 2003 Harlequin Superromance novel, Finding Amy, I created a company called Risk Control International—which turned out to have so many exciting people working for it that Harlequin will be publishing a miniseries of stories featuring various RCI operatives.

According to its director, RCI is in the “survival business,” a phrase he prefers over saying that people come to RCI because their lives are in danger. The only rule the company has is “Don’t let the client get killed,” and in The Full Story the client is Hollywood superstar Billy Brent.

A contract killer is after Billy, and it’s up to RCI’s personal security advisor, Daniel O’Neill, to keep Billy alive while learning who the hit man is and who’s paid him to whack Billy.

However, Dan’s plan for doing that runs into trouble when photojournalist Mickey Westover appears on the scene.

She’s arrived to interview Billy, but when she discovers that his life is in jeopardy she realizes a front-page story has fallen straight into her lap—and she has no intention of letting it go, despite the fact that Dan O’Neill is bound and determined to be rid of her. And the sooner the better.

Sparks fly between Mickey and Dan from beginning to end, and I hope you enjoy the way their romance is spiced with both humor and danger.

Warmest wishes,

Dawn Stewardson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To John, always.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE MOUNTAINS OF Vancouver Island were home to some of the biggest trees Mickey had ever seen, and the air smelled so heavenly that she was driving with the windows down. Imagining herself a thousand miles from civilization was no challenge at all—until she reached her destination.

Then she was treated to a reality check. An eight-foot wrought-iron fence and a sign that read:

Private Property

No Hunting

Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted

Hmm. That certainly got the point across. And it was probably a lot more likely to discourage potential intruders than the fence. If it had razor wire it would give people pause, but as things stood it didn’t look like an insurmountable obstacle.

She pulled up to the intercom speaker and said, “I’m here to see Mr. Brent.”

There was no response, although she was sure she’d found the right place. According to Billy, the road dead-ended at his property. And this was clearly the end of the line.

After combing her fingers through her hair, she climbed out of the rental to check the gate—and wasn’t at all surprised when she found it locked, even though the risk of riffraff banging on Billy Brent’s door had to be minimal up here.

When a second attempt to rouse someone via the speaker failed, she tried a couple of honks on the horn. That did no good, either. So what was her next move?

Glancing at her cellular, she wished Billy had entrusted her with his number. Then she could simply phone to say she’d arrived. But since she couldn’t do that, there seemed to be only one option left.

She absently rubbed her palms across her jeans, thinking she’d feel better about the idea of climbing over the gate and hiking down the driveway if she didn’t know that Billy had a hundred acres here. Or if she could see exactly how far his hideaway was from the road.

For all she knew the drive was miles long, winding its way through forest that looked just as dense inside the fence as outside.

Her gaze drifted uneasily back to the sign.

No Hunting obviously implied there were things to hunt. And since she’d been warned that the woods were full of bears and cougars, she wasn’t thinking in terms of bunny rabbits.

Still, surely the odds of becoming some animal’s lunch weren’t very high. So she’d simply be glad the sign’s third line didn’t read Trespassers Will Be Shot.

And that there wasn’t a fourth one saying Even Expected Visitors Are At Risk.

She wouldn’t have been shocked by either. Billy’s retreat might be in Canada, where the gun laws were strict, but he had a reputation for disregarding laws. He apparently fancied himself this generation’s Clint Eastwood, and she’d heard that he had trouble preventing his screen roles from blurring into his real life.

Of course, he was such hot box office that there was always someone to bail him out of trouble. Otherwise, if even a quarter of the stories about his antics were true, his current residence would be prison.

She tucked her cell phone into her purse and got out of the car, then retrieved her camera bag from the trunk and considered whether she should take anything else with her.

Billy had specified no tape recorder, and her laptop wasn’t always essential for this type of interview; often the notebook she kept with her camera was enough. And it didn’t make sense to overload herself when she had a gate to climb and heaven only knows how far to walk.

Deciding that if she did need the computer she could always come back for it, she stashed her purse in the trunk, next to her carry-on. After locking up, she slung the camera bag over her shoulder and told herself to get moving. She had an appointment to keep.

Besides, she thought with a final glance at the sign, a moving target was harder to hit.

Trying not to imagine Billy Brent lurking on his porch with an AK-47, she clambered over the gate—having been a tomboy had left her with numerous handy skills—and started down the driveway. She’d only walked about a hundred feet before a couple of crows went into scream mode overhead.

Seized by the horrible feeling that they were yelling, “Watch out for the bear,” she picked up her pace. A second later she was tackled from behind.

She landed facedown in the dirt and dizzy from the impact, with someone straddling her and pressing what had to be a gun against the back of her head.

Her life didn’t flash before her, but the fear sweeping through her was so strong she figured cardiac arrest was imminent. Before she could make her voice work, her assailant said, “Just lie still while I check for weapons. Then I’ll let you up.”