Carly Phillips - Hot Property

Hannah yelled and took off after the woman, shrieking for her to come back. By the time security had stopped the female photographer and her phone, Roper had a hunch the photo had already been sent to the highest bidder or whoever was in place ready to receive and run with it.

He didn’t plan on sticking around to find out. He had to do damage control. He groaned and swiped his hands over his eyes. Drawing a deep breath, he reached the door, coming face-to-face with Amy, who appeared stunned by the commotion around them.

“What in the world is going on?” she asked.

He explained the situation as quickly as he could, hoping she’d take it in the spirit in which he relayed the tale. He wasn’t worried about himself. He was worried about Amy and her reaction to photographers. To one catching him with Hannah in what the tabloids would call a “canoodle.” To their idyllic time here being over.

“Typical photographer bullshit,” he said. “Hannah and the security guard went after the woman. Hannah seemed way more upset than I was.” He was so used to the unwanted photographs and the way reporters twisted reality, he could ignore it with the best of them.

And the lighter he made the situation, the lighter Amy would hopefully react. Because as he’d come to realize earlier today, he wasn’t ready to give her up yet. Or for his lifestyle to intrude and yank her away before he’d had a chance to cement the bond building between them.

Amy bit down on her lower lip, obviously upset. “Do you think Hannah was worried that Mike might think the two of you are more than friends? Is that why she was so upset?” Amy asked.

She was worried about Hannah and not them? Typical Amy, caring for others almost to a fault. He assumed the realities of their situation hadn’t hit her yet.

“I’m not sure what had Hannah so crazy, considering she’s as used to the press as I am. But she did have a message for you right before the photographer took that picture.”

Amy raised her eyebrows. “What did she say?”

“She told me to tell you that Big Mama’s here and it isn’t pretty. Or something like that. She wants you to call her on her private cell,” Roper said.

And then he remembered something else. “When Hannah ran screaming after the woman who took the picture, she called her Mama.” He narrowed his gaze. “That big woman photographer was her mother?”

“Sounds like it. They do call her Big Mama. I guess now we know why. Was Hannah okay?” Amy asked.

“Last time I saw her she was running after her mother, so I’m really not sure.”

“Do you think anyone retrieved the camera before the picture was sent?” As she spoke, Amy was pulling out her BlackBerry from her purse.

Funny how, now, she was the one in contact mode. Or maybe it wasn’t so hysterical after all, Roper thought. “You do realize it doesn’t matter whether or not the photo was retrieved before it was sent,” he said.

Amy’s eyes, which he’d grown used to seeing full of laughter and delight, now dimmed. “I know. Big Mama knows where her daughter is and that she’s been with you. It won’t be long before the world knows it, too.”

Her voice dropped along with the light mood he’d been savoring for days. They were both keenly aware of the fact that their idyllic time together was at an end.

CASSANDRA PACED THE FLOOR of her hotel room in bare feet. The rooms had been renovated and hardwood floors replaced what had once been plush carpet. She appreciated the chic modern look, but the last thing she needed or wanted was for her next-door neighbor to hear her and know she was back in her room. She still didn’t know who Harrison had bribed to place him in the suite next to hers, but if she ever found out, she’d make sure that person was fired.

She marched to the window and back, her silk loungewear sweeping the floors. At this rate she could save the hotel money on vacuuming and dusting. A glance at the iHome clock radio/stereo on the shelf told her that it was time for Buckley’s show.

Since her son’s sudden departure, she’d taken to listening to Buckley the Bastard, hoping he’d hear about Roper’s whereabouts before she did. He had spies everywhere. But since Roper and Amy had been gone, all Buckley had done was call John a coward for leaving town. The man was all about name-calling. Yet he was persistent, and somehow, someway, he’d find out where her son had gone.

And she’d be listening when he revealed all. She flipped on the cable station that broadcast his radio show simultaneously.

The man droned on about hockey and she sighed.

A knock sounded at her door. She assumed it was Harrison and she sat quietly, hoping he’d go away. He knocked again.

“I died and went to heaven,” she called out to the person on the other side of the door. Her stomach flipped like a schoolgirl’s. Like the schoolgirl she’d once been the last time they were together, when she’d been head over heels in love with him.

She’d been in love since, but she’d never had the depth of feeling she’d had-still had-for Harrison. But those feelings scared her because he was as strong a personality as she was. And she’d been on her own for so long, she feared his ability to twist her to his whim would cause her to lose herself. And even if his whim suited hers, she didn’t want him to know he was in control. In essence, her feelings for him and the influence he wielded over her, scared her.

“You’d be in heaven if you’d just let me in,” he yelled back, his voice deep through the closed door. “We have business to discuss. I have some head shots of actors and actresses I want to screen-test for the show.”

Business or not, she didn’t want to be alone with him. “I’m sleeping,” she called back.

“You signed the contract, Cassie. You’re in this project. Working with me. So open the door.” He banged harder.

She cringed and hoped the guests in the neighboring rooms didn’t call and report them.

Yes, she’d signed the contract. She’d been tricked. She just wasn’t sure who’d done it. One minute she’d been having lunch with Yank Morgan and Harrison, who’d insisted on coming along. She’d been certain she could charm John’s whereabouts out of Yank. The next minute the subject changed from her son to the TV series and Cassandra’s resistance to the project. Yank had declared he had the perfect replacement for Cassandra. An unknown. A woman who’d never acted a day in her life. He’d suggested Lola, his wife, a lovely although plain woman, who couldn’t hold a candle to Cassandra, not in her heyday, and not now.

She’d looked to Harrison, expecting him to laugh. Instead he’d nodded thoughtfully and he’d agreed. Cassandra had lost it then. Even though she’d played into Harrison’s hands, she’d stood up in the middle of the restaurant, in front of the maître d’ and everyone, and announced there was nobody better to play the role than she.

Harrison had whipped out a contract and she’d signed. She’d signed without her agent, without her attorney, on principle and acting in anger. Next thing she knew, Harrison had called his assistant and the news had hit the press.

They’d conned her and she’d allowed herself to be conned.

Suddenly she heard Buckley’s voice loud and clear again. It had turned quiet and she realized Harrison had stopped banging on the door.

“Whew.” She hadn’t thought he’d give in and walk away so easily.

And though it was what she’d wanted, she found herself disappointed in him, anyway. She lowered herself to the couch and five minutes later, the key card sounded in her door and housekeeping let him inside.

“Your room,” the maid with a heavy accent said, smiling shyly up at him before she walked away.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Harrison inside Cassandra’s room.

She jumped up from the couch. “Well, of all the nerve!” she said, striving for her most indignant tone.

He walked forward, toward where she stood by the couch. His masculine, sensual cologne wrapped around her, touching her inside and out.

“Cassie, Cassie. When are you going to stop fighting the inevitable?” he asked.

He was as handsome now as he’d been back then, while she’d had to endure Botox and Restylane and even a face-lift. She resented it. “I believe I stopped fighting the moment you tricked me into signing that contract.” She fluttered her eyelashes and spoke too sweetly.

He laughed. “If you think you were tricked, sue me.” He grinned but didn’t say one gloating word.

Damn him. At least then she could have snapped right back.

He placed folders on the table by the couch. At least he hadn’t lied about wanting to do business.

“Besides, I’m not talking about you giving in on the role. I’m talking about giving in on us. We’re inevitable.”

Her heart fluttered inside her chest. Perhaps he’d only used business as an excuse to make his way into her room. She feared her heart would be next. “No, we’re not.”

He shook his head in that determined way he had, his jaw clenched. “I’ve waited long enough for you and I’m not about to walk away now.” He reached a strong, tanned hand toward her face.

She turned away before she could give in. She was afraid. Afraid of doing as he suggested and ending up as the wife of the most powerful director in Hollywood. He’d turned from movies to television and hadn’t looked back. He wanted her to do the same. Then where would she be?

At his beck and call.

At his mercy.

She’d have no protective barriers left because he understood her better than any man ever had, and he got her to do things she knew weren’t right for her. Or maybe they were exactly what she needed, but she feared losing control of her life-which she’d lived on her own terms for so long. She just didn’t know anymore.

“Why don’t we look at the head shots?” he suggested, backing off personal subjects.

Grateful, Cassandra turned back around and they settled beside each other on the couch. He opened the folder and revealed the next crop of young, beautiful perfection. They sought fame and fortune in Hollywood. She’d been like them once, wide-eyed and innocent, ready to make it big.

She was too old to consider them her competition. Rationally she understood that, but she couldn’t help but be a touch envious that the hardships of life hadn’t touched their youthful faces yet.

“I was thinking…” Harrison paused to flip through the photographs.

“I’ve had so many e-mails and phone calls asking me when I was going to touch on my favorite least-favorite subject, John Roper.” Buckley’s voice carried through the television, John’s name capturing Cassandra’s attention.

“One minute,” she said to Harrison, and grabbed the remote control to raise the volume.

Buckley adjusted the microphone in front of his face. “It’s been frustrating for me to have no gossip to report on Roper since he unceremoniously disappeared. Or should I say ran away?” the disgruntled man asked.

“His harassment helped drive John underground,” Cassandra said bitterly. At least that was what Yank and Micki told her. That John needed time for himself or else there would be no next season for him. He needed, they’d said, a break from the media, the fans and, yes, even his family. That remark had hurt.

Maybe because she could understand why he’d need to get away. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t going to scold him the next time she got her hands on him for a hug. He’d abandoned her to Harrison’s clutches.

“Well, I finally have a big reveal,” Buckley said proudly. “Right after this message from our sponsors.”

“Are you okay?” Harrison asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. He understood how she felt about John abandoning her.

She wished he didn’t. She wished he wouldn’t be so kind or make leaning on him so easy.

Cassandra nodded and bit the inside of her cheek.

After a short break, during which neither Harrison nor Cassandra spoke, Buckley returned. “Many have been looking for our friend, John Roper, the Renegades’ highest-paid coward, and People Magazine finally got the inside scoop.”

Cassandra leaned in closer, her anticipation rising. Just where was her son?

“Inside this week’s issue is a cell-phone photo taken from the Web site of pop diva Hannah Gregory in the restaurant of the exclusive lodge in Greenlawn, New York, owned by Brandon Vaughn.”

A grainy but clear enough to be recognizable shot of John and the singer with her lips against his cheek showed on the television screen. Buckley continued. “John Roper isn’t away rehabilitating his shoulder and getting ready for the season. He’s making time with a hot star on the Renegades’ dime. Wonder what happened to Amy Stone. Our boy Roper really gets around.” Buckley cleared his throat. “The phone lines have just lit up like a Christmas tree,” he said, laughing. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I just report the truth, folks. I’ll take calls next. The Buck Stops Here!”