Lure of Song and Magic (2 page)

She was mixing metaphors. Closing the gate, she sank down on a wide timber bench and breathed deeply, inhaling the calming pine and sage scents of her garden. Curling her legs into a lotus pose, turning her palms upward on her knees, Pippa hummed her mantra until she calmed the raging tide of fear that threatened her whenever the outside world invaded.

This was her life now. Even constricted as it was, it was a far happier place than she'd ever been.

The rusty squeak of the gate shattered her tranquility. She jumped to her feet, clenching her fists as Oz entered. The ridiculous nickname didn't suit him. He ought to look like a wizard, not a lawyer.

At five eight, she was tall. He was nearly a head taller, broad shouldered, and muscled as she was not. The blazer concealed his physical strength in sleek lines, but in years of martial arts training, she'd learned to recognize muscular prowess.

She could take him, but it wouldn't be pretty. And she had to admit, his golden surfer boy looks were disarming—if she ignored the determination behind his deceptive smile. She did so at her own risk.

She had every right to protect herself against the way of life that had destroyed her. And he was blatantly part of that destructive existence. Keeping her anger and fear tightly leashed, as she'd learned to do through harsh experience, she warned, “You're trespassing.”

“I do that occasionally,” he admitted with seductive charm. “My brothers have tried to beat the habit out of me, but so far, they've not succeeded.”

He had brothers. There was more than one of him.
Heaven
forbid.
Accepting that he was human and not the monster in her mind, Pippa sat down abruptly and resumed her position. He couldn't seduce her with empty promises if she didn't listen.

“I'll admit, you're not what I expected,” he said thoughtfully.

In overalls, wearing her Dorabelle clown face, she knew what she looked like to a snotty L.A. producer. She considered chucking a loose paver at his head until he spoke again.

“You're better, far more than I imagined.”

Perversely, now that the insult had turned into the same old song and dance, she still wanted to chuck a brick.

“Because sharks don't have imaginations,” she said dryly, forgetting her intention of ignoring him. She'd more easily ignore a prowling lion. He paced her courtyard, examining everything from the nearly bare jacaranda falling over the wall to the budding rosebushes protected by warm stucco and the garden gnome hiding behind the thorns.

And her. She knew when she was being checked out. She sat still in her bibbed denim, giving him no satisfaction, although her neglected libido trembled in expectation.

“I have enough imagination to know a market phenomenon when I see one,” he said with amazing arrogance. “Admittedly, I'm not in the business of multibillion-dollar projects where a single meltdown could bankrupt me. I have employees who rely on their salaries, and I'm averse to unnecessary risk for their sakes. Instead I've learned to recognize the smaller, surefire projects. What I have in mind for you is almost pure profit with little effort.”

Pippa closed her eyes so she didn't have to see his winning smile. She tried to find the focus inside her head, but his pacing disturbed the walled garden's tranquility. And hers.

“Talk to my agent about my books,” she repeated. “I am not and never will be part of the package. There are plenty of starving actors who will work for peanuts.”

“Possibly,” he agreed, humoring her. “But I need you to approve the input. It's your style and charm that make the books successful. I'll need that to shine through in the show.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Please leave.” She was afraid if he lingered, that the Voice, the Evil, the Bane of her Existence, would break through her resolve. Mr. Producer would end up crawling on his knees, which was much too tempting a scenario and the reason she hid from civilization. She'd sworn never to use that curse again, but she was weak, and the temptation to lash out and defend herself was strong.

Instead of leaving, he came dangerously close, close enough for her to smell the expensive aftershave that blended with his sexy male musk.

“I know who you are,” he said silkily.

The threat untethered the last fragile bond of her restraint.

Furious as she was fearful, Pippa lashed out with her foot. Her heel would have rendered him incapable of procreating except this time, he'd expected the assault and dodged with the quick reflexes of a trained athlete. Her sandal merely slammed high above his crotch.

Undaunted, she brought both feet to the ground and, using the momentum of her motion, rose from a half crouch to jab the heel of her hand beneath his chin and snap his head back.

Despite his bruised groin, Oz grabbed her wrist and bent it backward before she could break his neck.

“We need to talk,
Syrene
.”

She ripped her arm free of his grasp. Holding her ears, unable to fight the Voice any longer, Pippa collapsed on the ground, rolling into a human shield. Deep beneath the screaming banshee she became at times like this, her soul howled at the injustice of being exposed after she'd finally found peace.

Chapter 2

Just as Oz was wondering if Pippa's high-pitched keening was meant to prove she was insane, the fractious female shoved off the ground with an oddly muffled cry and almost took his nose off with her fist.

Had she been a man, he would have punched her lights out. Or if she'd been the usual hysterical actress, he would have left her screaming and walked away.

But there was desperation in her every blow, and damn, but she wasn't any flailing ninny, he realized as he dodged her knuckles and knees. She knew how to
hurt
. In a moment, she'd calm down enough to take out his throat.

Seeing no other choice, Oz ducked under her blows, grabbed her skinny waist, and used his greater weight to leverage her over his shoulder, where she silently beat the crap out of his back and did her best to unman him—again—with her toes. Fortunately for him, she was wearing sandals.

He was going with his gut on this one. He had no reason to believe this harpy knew how to find Donal, but she was too damned fragile to be left alone, and there was a story here. He was in the business because he was a sucker for a good story. He needed to know more.

Limping from a blow to his thigh, he crossed the courtyard and tried the mission-style timber front door. When it opened, he carried her inside. She continued beating him black-and-blue, choking on cries of fury. Plopping her down on a bed didn't seem safe or expedient. What he wanted was just where he'd hoped. He carried her through the airy, high-beamed front room and out the sliding glass doors.

The small teardrop-shaped swimming pool sparkled with crystal blue waters. Oz dumped his hysterical burden into the deep end. He didn't know if the water was heated or not. He hoped not. She needed to cool off.

He stood there long enough to make certain she didn't drown. When she popped to the surface doing the dog paddle and glared at him, he left her there. After that exercise in emotional exertion, he needed a drink.

The cabinets in her kitchen didn't contain anything more alcoholic than vanilla extract. He detested the juice drinks stacked in the pantry. Rummaging, he concluded she liked fruit. A blender sat on the counter. One of those smoothie things shouldn't be difficult.

He knew to take peel off a banana. He wasn't as certain about the lemon and orange, so he threw them into the container whole. Orange peel was supposed to be good for something. He whacked the leaves off a basket of strawberries, added the berries, and turned the whole mess on.

It still wasn't looking right when… What in hell was he supposed to call her?
Pippa
? Ridiculous name fitting a children's book author, but it didn't suit the dripping cyclone stalking through the house, presumably toward her room.

Oz checked the freezer and found mango ice cream. Perfect. He flung a few scoops into the pulpy gunk in the blender and buzzed the machine.

After running a shower, she returned to the kitchen wearing a straight, sleeveless yellow sack that fell to her heels. Oz could see every lithe, graceful move she made and gauged her bra size wasn't much larger than her skinny hips. He liked a little meat on his women, but he had to admit there was something primitively sexy in her lithe stride.

Her short red hair remained plastered to her shapely skull, and all trace of the clown makeup had disappeared.

“You look like a pencil in that piece of shit.”

Her scrubbed face registered no reaction to the insult. Tantrum over, he guessed. Without cosmetics, her skin glowed with the translucence of fine porcelain.

“I made you a smoothie, and I promise I added no rat poison.” He sipped his own to prove it was safe and almost gagged.

Apparently deciding what gagged him was good for her, she accepted a glass and sauntered outside, taking a lounge chair by the pool. Setting the glass down, she closed her eyes and turned her palms upward, absorbing the sun's rays.

Following her out, Oz rummaged in the cabana and dropped a tube of suntan lotion in her lap. “No ozone layer, remember. Redheads fry.” He threw a towel over her wet head for good measure.

He was amazed at her self-control once she'd shed the hysteria. Any other woman on the planet would have blistered his hide. He probably deserved blistering. He could deal with that far easier than the silent treatment. Either way, he was determined to find out what she knew.

“What will it take to make you leave?” she finally asked after tasting his unpalatable drink and grimacing. Her tone was dead neutral, emphasis on dead.

“What will it take to persuade you to work with me?” he countered. “Name your price. Everyone has a dream. What's yours?”

“World peace.”

“Not enough money in the universe for that. How about a UN ambassadorship? I could pull a few strings…”

She lifted the towel from her head and shot him a stinging glare.

Shifting over a second lounge so he could watch her, Oz hung his blazer over the back, pushed up his shirt sleeves, and took a seat. He sipped his gawdawful drink. “Don't look at me like that. Senator Gordon Oswin is my grandfather. I have an uncle who does something mysterious and important on the UN Council. I have a fleet of aunts and great-aunts who know every senator and representative in D.C. Amazing what can be done when you know the right people.”

“And what
you
choose to do is harass and threaten women?” she asked.

“No, I make deals. I'm damned good at it. Persistence is the key.” He prayed it was the key that would unlock this inscrutable female. If he were a superstitious man, he'd almost believe she could reveal the mysteries of the universe. All he wanted her to do was find his son. So far, he couldn't see how that was possible, but giving up wasn't in him.

She began rubbing lotion on her long, slender arms, and Oz shifted uncomfortably. His bruised groin didn't need added stimulation.

“I have all I want,” she informed him, keeping her voice low and without inflection. “If you tell everyone who I used to be, then you'll destroy my career as an author, and I won't be of any use to you. I think that's a stalemate.”

***

Pippa knew how to hide her fear. She'd been doing it all her life. She rubbed in the lotion and observed her relaxed tormentor through the corner of her eye.

He ought to have blood on his shirt front from where she'd smacked his nose, but the black silk knit concealed the stain. She suspected he would look preposterously sexy even with blood smeared ear to ear.

He obviously detested the fruity drink he'd created—for her? It was undrinkable, but if he'd done it for her, he got Brownie points for trying.

Despite her attempt to stifle the Voice, she'd thrown one of her fits in front of him—and he hadn't collapsed into a craven, quivering hunk of raw meat whimpering for her approval. Odd, that. She hadn't meant to have hysterics. She never
meant
to. They just happened
,
usually at the most inopportune moments. No one had ever thrown her in a swimming pool as a result, though.

Annoyingly, he accepted her verbal gauntlet with an amused curl of his lip. She'd just spent half an hour coming up with her brilliant argument—while struggling with the horror of losing her anonymity and being forced to start over. And he thought her terror was funny?

“You're looking at me as if I'm an ax murderer,” he said.

He was more intuitive than she'd realized. That was exactly how she thought of him, except he didn't need an ax. He could destroy her life by simply speaking the truth. She might possess the wily cleverness of a trapped animal, but she lacked the wider resources of a shark who swam in an ocean large enough to contain senators and CEOs. She said nothing.

He tried his smoothie again, grimaced, and set it aside. “I have a children's network relying on me to fill a morning slot. I wanted Pippa James, the children's book author, to read books and interact with a select audience of children. When I learned you were Syrene, I knew you'd be ideal and hoped you might even sing kiddie songs. I gather that option is out.”

“I have no need to leave this mountain,” she informed him, hoping she could force him to listen even if she couldn't fully explain her reasoning. “I have learned that the more I have, the more I think I need, except satisfaction is never attained by possessing more. I no longer need or want fortune or fame. I repeat, speak with my agent about rights, find a good actress and singer, and I will happily sign whatever is necessary. Just do not include me in your plans beyond that.”

She hoped he would heed her warning, but men like Oz never did—unless she unleashed the Voice on him. She'd sworn to herself that she never would again, but she wasn't a saint, as her earlier hysteria had already proved. He was lucky he was still functioning. Maybe the Bane of her Existence was rusty and merely pushed men to fix bad smoothies these days. She didn't dare test her theory.

“I can talk to your agent and hire an actress, a singer, and a dancer to take your place, which will reduce your profit percentage considerably, but you say that doesn't matter.” He shoved his sleeves farther up his muscular arms, revealing more of his California bronze.

She stared in fascination at golden hairs glittering against brown skin and tried to shut out his rumbling, masculine baritone. She'd not felt attraction to a man in years. She didn't want to feel it now.

“But I will still need you as a consultant,” he continued, as if she were agreeing with him. “Your musical talent reveals itself in your books. They need to be set to music. I don't suppose you can do that?”

She could. She already had the music in her head. And some in computer files. Even her editor hadn't noticed the rhythm of her stories. Scary that this man had. She shook her head no. “I see no reason to involve myself in the project at all. I would like you to leave now.”

He studied her briefly, making her aware that she wore nothing beneath the thin swimsuit cover-up. It had been a long, long time since she'd felt like a woman, if ever. Her marriage at sixteen hardly counted.

She had no desire to be put through that hell again. She wanted him gone before all her pent-up misery escaped and someone else got hurt.

Blessedly, he rose with the athletic grace she'd noticed earlier. He'd probably played college football at UCLA. Or if he had family back east, perhaps he'd gone to an Ivy League school and played lacrosse. Or polo. What did she know of those things? Nothing. She had never gone to high school. Her GED had gotten her into community college.

“I'll be back tomorrow, Miss James. Think of what you most desire—something within reasonable reach—and I'll see if we can find terms that will suit us both.”

He made a spectacularly poised retreat, throwing his coat over his shoulder and strolling away with the confidence of a devil who knew he could have whatever he wanted. She wanted to heave the smoothie at him.

Instead, she assumed her yoga pose, found her focus, and slipped into a calming trance until she was certain he was long gone—and she could switch to the offensive.

Still rattled, she continued to take deep breaths as she returned to her office and dialed her agent. She put him on speaker so she could open her computer while she talked. She got his receptionist and agreed to wait, confident Reynolds would recognize her urgency since she'd actually called instead of emailing.

“What can I do for my favorite author on this lovely day?” Reynolds asked when he finally shook off whoever he'd been talking to.

“Dylan Oswin was just here. He claims to be a producer and wants to make a show of my books.”

Oz had lied. While she'd sat here waiting on Reynolds, she'd Googled the website on the business card he'd left on the counter. He produced more than modest children's shows. His shows won Emmys.

On the other end of the line, Reynolds whistled at her mention of Oz's name.

Pippa's agent had never physically met her even though his office was only a few hours away. She used an unlisted number and a post office box even in dealing with her trusted, long-time business partner. Reynolds had seen nothing wrong or odd about that. Reclusive, paranoid authors were practically a stereotype.

“Why didn't he call me first?” was the first thing her perceptive agent asked. “And how the hell did he find you?”

Smart man, Reynolds. That was the reason she'd hired him. He knew she was hiding her real name behind a pseudonym, but still he protected her. Concentrating on her breathing, Pippa leaned back in her chair. “I don't know how he found me. He said he wanted to meet me before making the offer. Do you know him?”

“I know
of
him. I've never dealt
with
him. Oz was a legend before he was twenty-five. He has a reputation for striking gold where no one else has looked. His personal life isn't quite as successful.”

Ah, there was the vibe she'd picked up before she had her fit and quit thinking at all. “In what way?”

Reynolds hesitated; probably deciding how much was safe to tell her if a lucrative deal was in the making. “You'll find it in the news files. His wife ran off with their son when the kid was an infant. She was killed in a traffic accident in Mexico. There are some who tried to say Oz arranged it, but it's
Mexico
. Who doesn't get involved in accidents surrounded by lunatic drivers? Anyway, he got the kid back, only to have him stolen again last year by the nanny. Word is, there was no ransom note, and the police can find no trace of the nanny. Gossip flies, but there's no proof of anything anywhere.”

She knew about gossip. And the media. And the black cloud of suspicion. She almost—
almost
—felt sympathy for the big man who'd made a smoothie for her, had he been the least bit less confident of his ability to persuade her to do what she didn't want to do.

Fine then, she would simply have to undermine his damned confidence by demanding a payment he couldn't provide.