Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (2 page)

“The monster who shot the man…and Mama. He was pointing a gun at me. He fired—and missed—and then he ran away. I’ll never forget his face.”

My heart in my throat, I swallow hard. “Did anyone else see him?”

She shakes her head again. “The pier was very crowded and noisy. And an orchestra was playing. I’m pretty sure the gun had a silencer.”

“Your mother—”

“Oh, Brandon, it was so terrible. After the man ran away, I turned back to check on her. She was no longer there. I searched the pier everywhere. And then I looked down and screamed. She’d fallen over the railing into the ocean down below. She’d regained consciousness, but she didn’t know how to swim. Added to that, the ocean was very rough. While the waves tossed her about, she reached for me, but I couldn’t help her.”

I suddenly understand her fear of swimming and brush away more tears with the pads of my fingertips before she bows her head. In my heart, I know this story’s going to end like a Shakespeare tragedy.

“Brandon, I watched her drown. She went under and then a giant wave carried her out to sea.” Sobs wrack her body. “I never saw her again.”

Her story guts me. It was bad enough losing my parents in a horrific car accident at the age of seventeen. But how beyond awful for a fatherless little girl to watch her beloved mother bleed to death and then drown. My empathy morphs into rage. It seeps deep into my bloodstream. I want to find the bastard who did this to her and kill him with my own hands. Hold his head underwater until his soul goes to hell. I inwardly shudder. Not just at the intensity of my anger, but at the other powerful emotions that swarm me. When did I start caring so much about my assistant? Enough to want to kill for her? Have I always? I can’t remember.

“Brandon, I’ll never forget that man’s face,” she sobs out, looking up and hurtling me out of my disquieting thoughts. “Never!”

“Shh.” I swipe away more tears and then steady her by cupping her trembling shoulders. “What happened afterward?” I want to know if the bastard ever paid for what he did. I’m still crazy with rage and thirsting for revenge.

Zoey sniffles, her shoulders still heaving and the tears still falling. Her voice is watery. “Mama’s brother and his wife took me in…Uncle Pete and Auntie Jo.”

Pete…Jo?
She answers my question before I ask it.

“You know Uncle Pete. He’s the detective working your hit and run case.”

Yeah, I quickly figured that out. Why didn’t she tell me this before? This is not the time to ask. Frankly, I’m not sure if she’s ever told me about her past or her family because of my amnesia. While some memories have broken through, this one hasn’t. Right now, it’s all news to me.

Zoey gazes up at me. Her eyes flicker with desperation. “I need to see my father and talk to him.”

I was told by the medics that he was contacted, but he’s out of town with his wife at some convention until Wednesday. I share this information with Zoey and then add softly, “You should call him later when you’re rested.”
And
coherent.
She obviously had some kind of seizure while reliving her mother’s murder. I have a feeling she’s still in a state of shock.

“No, I want to talk to him, now! I’ve got to!” my assistant chokes out, straining her hoarse voice. “Give me my phone!” Her eyes dart madly around the room. “Shit! Where’s my phone?”

She grows agitated. Her head twists left and right and then she tears off the bed covers. She searches beneath them, paddling her beautiful hands like a puppy digging for a buried bone. She begins to pant. Then, hyperventilates. Fuck. I’ve set her off. Another round of hysteria is building.

“Here. Use mine.” Reaching into my jeans pocket, I hand her my cell. Chewing on her quivering bottom lip, she hastily punches in a number. Tears are still streaming down her cheeks and her fingers are jittery. I can hear the other phone ringing.

“Dammit,” she splutters. “He’s not picking up.” Breathing heavily, she leaves an urgent message. “Pops, please call me back on this phone or mine. It’s an emergency. I saw Mama’s killer!” Still frantic, she ends the call and tosses my phone on the bed.

“Brandon, I need to speak to Scott to find out why he was with Mama’s killer.”

Thinking she’s had some kind of hallucinatory episode that landed her in the hospital, I’m taken aback. My eyes widen with surprise, “Zoey, what are you talking about?”

“I saw Scott with the man who murdered Mama at The Farmer’s Market.”

“Are you sure?” My voice is full of doubt. She’s just thrown a curve ball my way.

“Please, Brandon, you have to believe me. I’d never forget his face. Never!”

She gazes at me with a mixture of hope and urgency. While I’m not a hundred percent sure she did, I tell her I believe her just to keep her calm. And then a familiar nasal voice captures my attention.

“Jesus, Brandon. I’ve been looking all over for you. Katrina told me I could find you here.”

Scott!

Before I can say a word, Zoey leaps out of the bed, breaking free of the portable monitor. “Scott, what were you doing with that man at The Farmer’s Market yesterday?”

My manager narrows his beady eyes, one of which twitches. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Zoey’s voice rises several octaves and her eyes flare. “You were there! I saw you talking to a man with pockmarked skin and a broken nose!”

Scott turns to me. “Does she have some kind of head injury?”

Zoey shrieks. “Don’t lie to me, you fucking slimedog! You were there!” Red with rage, she bolts over to Scott and, with her white-knuckled fists, begins to pound him. “You fucking, fucking liar.”

“Christ, Brandon. Get this hallucinatory psycho bitch off me.”

An intervention. Clamping Zoey around the waist, I try to pull her away from my manager. She resists, pounding him harder. “No, leave me alone!! He’s lying!!”

I finally force her away. In defeat, she sobs louder, hunched over and heaving. She’s close to collapsing. I’m virtually holding her up. Her lifeline.

Softly, I say, “C’mon, Zoey. Hold on to me.”

Depleted of energy and will, she clutches me and lets me usher her back to the bed. I get her tucked in.

“Liar!” she croaks one more time.

I turn to face Scott. “Scott, I think it best you leave.”

He scoffs at me. “Call me when you’re done with the nutjob.” He pivots and stalks out the door. I take a seat once again on the edge of Zoey’s bed. My body is turned so I’m facing her. Her sobs have grown softer, and with her forlorn eyes, she looks at me imploringly.

“Brandon, please tell me you believe me.” Her rasp is another desperate plea.

I have no choice. I say yes because I don’t want to upset her.

“Thank you.”

“Come here.” I gently take her into my arms once more, her tears ripping me apart.

“Thank you,” she whispers again.

She can’t forget; I can’t remember. What an odd couple we make. But at this moment, holding her in my arms, we’re kindred spirits, united through the loss of our parents by water and fire.

Zoey

I
’m released from the hospital later in the afternoon. After spending time on the set of his TV series,
Kurt Kussler,
Brandon comes by to pick me up and accompanies me as I’m wheeled out a secret entrance of the hospital that’s reserved for celebrities and VIPS. He helps me into his Hummer. Though the painkillers have numbed my excruciating headache, I still feel queasy and uneasy. Totally shaken. Mama’s killer is out there! Scumbag Scott! His lie is eating at me, making every cell in my body sizzle with rage. Thankfully, I finally got to talk to Pops. He believed me. I knew he would, and he’s already started an investigation. As soon as he’s back in town, he’s going to stop by to see me.

With minimal traffic, we get to Brandon’s house in no time. He pulls the scarlet Hummer into the garage next to his Lamborghini, jumps out, and rounds the monstrous SUV to open my door. I undo my seatbelt and the next thing I know I’m in his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Carrying you. What does it look like I’m doing? The doctors want you to take it easy and stay off your feet as much as possible for the next couple of days.”

“I think I can walk,” I protest as he kicks open the door to his house.

“Trust me, you can’t.”

The truth is I secretly love every minute of being back in his strong arms. He makes me feel safe and protected. And like a waif. My arms circle his broad shoulders as he enters the kitchen.

“Wait! Where are you taking me?” I ask when I realize he’s not heading to the back doors that open to the patio and lead to the guesthouse where I reside.

“You’re sleeping here for the next forty-eight hours so I can keep an eye on you. I’m setting you up in one of my guest bedrooms. It has an adjacent bathroom.”

“But I need my things!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll retrieve your personal items,” he says, carrying me into the spacious guest room. Like the rest of the house, it’s furnished in high-end contemporary furniture in muted shades of lavender and gray. He sets me down on the inviting four-poster steel bed. Slipping off my shoes, he insists I get under the covers and helps tuck me in. Sitting up, I’m supported by a mountain of fluffy white pillows that coordinate with the delicious down comforter.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back. I’m going to get your things.”

“Don’t forget my toothbrush and deodorant.”

He winks at me. “Don’t worry.”

“And some clothes.”

Oh, Jeez. Why did I say that? He may go through my underwear drawer and see my big girl panties. Yikes!

“Brandon, I’m fine with what I’m wearing.”

He smirks at me. “You need a little more but not much.”

Brandon orders in lunch—comforting chicken soup for the soul—from Greenblatt’s, our nearby deli on Sunset. Making bowls for the two of us, he agrees to let me get out of bed and screen some rough cuts of the latest episodes of
Kurt Kussler.
Snuggling on his couch so close to him takes my mind off my recent ordeal. The show looks amazing, and the story’s on fire. The plot isn’t the only thing heating up; his body brushes against mine and incites me. A barrage of tiny bolts of lightning bombards me.

“What’s going to happen between Kurt and Mel?” I ask him. While subtle, things have been simmering between the tormented ex-CIA agent and his faithful assistant.

A coy smile lights up his gorgeous face. He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

Bullshit.
I want to punch him. By that smug expression on his face, I so know he knows. He’s after all writing the season finale. As the end credits roll, the smartass clicks the TV off and reprimands me.

“Eat!”

I look down at my bowl. So wrapped up with the episode, I’ve hardly touched my soup. I shift, and as I do, my spoon tumbles out of the bowl and falls to the gleaming wood floor.
Clink!

“Shit,” I mumble under my breath as I bend over to retrieve it. Except Brandon gets there at the same time. His face is in my face, just a breath away. My pulse speeds up as his long tapered fingers graze mine. Tingles course through me like bubbly champagne.

“I’ve got it,” I say, clasping the handle and straightening up as he does.

“I’ll get you a new one.”

“Don’t bother. My mama told me you can kiss away germs.”

“Mine did too.” With a smile and a twinkle in his eyes, he grasps my wrist and lifts my hand to his lips. My eyes never leave him as he kisses the back of the spoon. The way he does it is so damn sexy. With smoldering eyes and a sensuous pucker. Before my heart beats out of my chest, he releases his lips and my hand.

“You can never be too safe. On the other hand, no risk, no gain.”

“Right,” I reply, eyeing the little bit of saliva he’s left behind on the spoon tip.

On my next sip of soup, I can taste him. The warmth of the broth heats me up further. My temperature rises and I can feel his eyes on me.

“Why didn’t you tell me Pete was your father?”

I shrug and tell him the truth. “Honestly, I thought you knew.”

“Actually, I didn’t.” He pauses. “Well, at least as far back as I can remember.”

Damn his amnesia. I still haven’t decided if it’s better to remember or to forget. While my legs stay curled under me, my gorgeous boss stretches his long muscular limbs across the coffee table. My eyes travel down his perfectly ripped jeans to his bare feet. They’re so fucking perfect. Just the right length and width. Sizeable, manly, beautifully arched with just the slightest dusting of dark hair on the instep. The girls in my massage classes used to tell me you can tell a lot about a man, especially his cock, by his feet. They were so right. A fluttery sensation erupts between my thighs as I picture Brandon’s gorgeous organ. That thick, breathtaking tower of magnificence. A monument to mankind just like his feet. His virile voice cuts into my wicked ruminations.