Authors: Emma Holly

Tags: #Ghost stories, #Vampires, #Horror, #Paranormal, #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal romance stories, #Motion picture producers and directors, #Occult fiction, #Ghosts, #Occult & Supernatural, #Love stories

Angel at Dawn (2 page)

BOOK: Angel at Dawn

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BEYOND INNOCENCE
BEYOND SEDUCTION

PERSONAL ASSETS
STRANGE ATTRACTIONS
FAIRY VILLE
ALL U CAN EAT

Anthologies

BEYOND DESIRE
MIDNIGHT DESIRE
HEAT OF THE NIGHT

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

ANGEL AT DAWN

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2011

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eISBN : 978-1-101-47667-3

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^®SENSATION

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THE VIEWING LIST

On the Waterfront Rebel Without a Cause

I WAS A TEEN-AGE VAMPIRE (page 309)

One

1956

T
wo Forks, Texas was a long way from Hollywood.

Grace’s boss, up-and-coming director/producer Naomi Wei, had informed her the name of the town was “North Fork” back in the thirties. Why they changed the
North
to
Two
was anybody’s guess. Maybe so visitors would think they’d actually find someone to eat with in this deadsville burg.

Grace grinned to herself as she turned the two-tone, pink and cream Plymouth Fury off the minuscule main drag. The urge to floor the V-8 past the Dairy Queen was almost irresistible. Although Miss Wei had disappointed Grace by not buying a convertible, Grace had once pushed the boatlike car to an impressive 120 miles per hour.

Miss Wei might be eccentric, but she knew her horsepower.

The road Grace had turned into wasn’t as well paved as the two-lane that cut through town. As sprays of gravel hit the custom whitewalls, Grace’s employer stirred sleepily in the passenger seat. Because Miss Wei had been anxious to reach their destination, they’d gotten an earlier start than usual for them: at least an hour before dusk. Miss Wei had immediately sank into a doze, bundled like Greta Garbo in her long powder blue silk scarf and her glamorous cat’s-eye sunglasses.

“Thank God,” she said now, tipping up the glasses to take in the lollipop red shards of sunset that were melting on the horizon.

Miss Wei was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a day person.

“We’re close,” Grace told her, as always enjoying the moment when her boss woke up. From their first encounter in the greasy spoon where Grace had been waitressing, she’d liked Miss Wei’s company—in large part because she was the sort of take-charge woman Grace wanted to be someday. “The cat at the Texaco said the Durand Ranch is a mile west on the turnoff.”

“The
cat
?” Miss Wei repeated, her perfectly painted mouth pursing with her smile.

Grace never got over how youthful her employer looked—her face unlined, her figure trim—and never mind she claimed to be old enough to be Grace’s mother.

“
Cat
is what the kids say,” Grace informed her.

Miss Wei laughed softly. “As if you weren’t a kid yourself.”

Grace’s fingers tightened on the white steering wheel. At twenty-four and counting, she was hardly that. Sometimes she felt as if the sands in her hourglass were perpetually running out.

“Fine,” Miss Wei teased with her uncanny ability to read expressions. “You’re a woman of immense maturity and intelligence. Why else would I hire you?”

“Because I work for peanuts?”

“As I recall, I gave you a raise last week.”

Because she had, Grace smiled to herself. The increase in pay had been generous.

“I’m worth it,” she said blithely.

“You might be,” Miss Wei conceded in the same airy tone.

She seemed happy tonight, her short hair ruffling in the wind from the open window, her dark eyes sparkling for the challenge in front of them. Filmmaking might be difficult for women, but the “old boys” at the studios never intimidated her.

“You’re sure Mr. Durand is expecting us?” Grace asked.

“If he’s not, he should be,” Miss Wei answered, which wasn’t exactly a yes.

But it was too late to worry, because the Durand Ranch’s wooden gate arched over the road ahead like an image from a John Ford Western. The ground here was dusty. Flat as a pancake, too, with scruffy-looking grass a herd of dieting cattle could have starved on. An oil derrick poked up in the distance, black as night against the still faintly rosy sky. Its presence suggested Mr. Durand could afford extra feed for his hungry cows.

“Longhorns,” Miss Wei said. “Christian raises Long-horn cattle. He’s one of the last holdouts. They’re hardy,” she added when Grace lifted her brows at her. “Shorthorns and Herefords need too much pampering out here.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in ranching.”

“I’m not. But it pays to know your quarry.”

Slowing as they got closer—because who knew if this Texas boy kept shotguns—Grace pointed the car toward a low-slung adobe house.

“Try the barns,” Miss Wei corrected. “Unless I miss my guess, Christian is in that one over there.”

The barns were a collection of worn-looking plank buildings. Grace parked in the rutted dirt beside the one Miss Wei had waved her arm at. Grace was wearing flats for driving, but her soles still sank into the dry earth as she got out. The wide double doors of the barn stood open. Caged bulbs were strung along the rafters to light the big space inside, though Grace wouldn’t have said they lit it well. If someone was in there, she couldn’t pick them out from the shadows yet.

Miss Wei came around the front grill of the Fury and laid her cool hand on Grace’s sleeve. “Just let me do the talking. Christian Durand . . . owes me his life, you could say.”

For some reason, this request increased Grace’s nervousness. She dried damp palms on her white pedal pushers, allowing her petite yet formidable employer to stride into the cavernous structure ahead of her. Grace followed more sedately and looked around.

Without question, this barn was a male domain. No cows resided between its walls, only a collection of automobiles of varying vintages and states of repair. Her mood improving, Grace spotted a 1950 Buick in the process of having its body “chopped” to reduce wind drag. The Harley-Davidson leaning on a hay bale also looked promising. Ever since Marlon Brando starred in
The Wild One
, motorcycles were big with kids.

Maybe her boss was on to something with this hare-brained scheme.

“Christian,” Miss Wei called out. “It’s Naomi Wei. I’ve come to talk in person.”

Grace heard the clank of a wrench hitting the barn’s dirt floor.

She saw the man then, or his bottom half anyway. He was bent over the engine of a glossy all-black, two-seater, convertible Thunderbird. If the car hadn’t made Grace’s mouth water, the man in those Levi’s certainly would have. The metal-caged bulb above him shone a literal spotlight on his well-formed behind. His legs were long and strong looking, their finer qualities only heightened by the cowboy boots he was sporting.

He stretched farther into the engine, exposing two tantalizing dimples at the top of his hindquarters. Grace’s mouth did its best to go desert dry. Maybe he sensed her attention, because he spoke. His voice was dark and smooth, with just a hint of a Texas twang.

“Told you on the phone I wasn’t interested. All dozen times you called.”

“You never heard me out,” Miss Wei said.

Mr. Durand straightened, braced his arms on the side of the open hood, then slammed it down with a bang. Grace’s heart began to beat faster as she took in how broad his shoulders were. A snug-fitting and oddly spotless white T-shirt clung to his tapered back, making very clear the fact that he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him . . . exactly the way she liked her men, to be truthful. Despite Mr. Durand’s leanness, the muscles under that clean white cotton rippled with contained power. His hair was long enough to need tying back, and just as black and shiny as the finish on his car. His hair would have to be cut, of course; leading men couldn’t run around looking like Indian braves. For herself, however, Grace liked the ponytail.

As if to warn her how much she liked it, her panties dampened in a hot, quick rush—a tad embarrassing, she thought. If Mr. Durand looked this good from the front, she might be in trouble. No matter how handsome the actor, Grace prided herself on always behaving professionally.

“I’m not an actor,” he said, still not turning to her employer. “And if I were, I wouldn’t star in no damn flick called
I Was a Teen-Age Vampire
.”

“It’s bound to make heaps of money.”

“I don’t need money,” he snapped.

BOOK: Angel at Dawn

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