This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Published by Belmonte Publishing LLC.

Prologue

Leighton

Everything
was wrong, and I wanted to blame Ricky. He was flirting with a woman who kept trying to tug down the hem of her white dress. The cheap scrap of fabric was too tight, and it kept slipping further up her thighs every time she shifted on her too-high heels. She didn't belong here. Probably some farm girl transplant trying to make it as a model or actress or whatever else people came to LA to do. Too bad.

I checked my reflection in the full wall window of the LA Hills mansion. The short beaded fringe on my designer dress brushed the tops of my thighs just the way I liked it, showing off my slender legs. The narrow chevron pattern of the dress accentuated the tight silhouette, and the dark colors drew attention to my flame red curls. My hair had always drawn enough attention in and of itself, but the newest addition of black streaks added even more. Ricky hated the black, said it made me look damaged. I was just happy it pissed off my grandfather.

I spun easily on my six-inch heels and strode across the room to the patio door. Ricky moved on to flirting with the hostess, a mousy, brown-haired girl who was wearing a green dress from last season. Her father was rich. The only reason she had friends.

The mean thoughts burned in my stomach. My father. I would give anything to see his green eyes smiling at me again. My mother had called them shamrock green. Mine weren't like his. They were bright blue, like hers. Like my grandfather’s. My hair color was all dad though. I dropped down to sit on the wide steps leading to the pool. The memory of them was like a punch in the stomach.

They died a year ago.

I checked the time on my phone. In two hours, it would be exactly the time I'd gotten the phone call telling me they were both dead. That my little brother and I were orphans.

“Hoping Gramps is demanding you come home?” my best friend Paris asked, tossing her wavy dark brown hair over her shoulder. “Checkers with him would beat this party any day.”

“Chess,” I said, rolling my eyes. “We play chess.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I'd play Hangman with your grandfather if it got us out of here. Have you seen Ricky?” Paris asked.

My on-again-off-again boyfriend was not hard to spot. At six foot three, he towered over most of the guests. He'd hit his growth spurt a couple months ago and enjoyed looming over people. I watched him ruffle his sandy brown hair, a sign he was about to move on from the bottle-blonde he was flirting with at that moment to someone else. He caught my gaze and his light blue eyes flashed as he smiled.

The trouble with Ricky was his effortless good looks. He hardly made it five feet toward me before another girl stepped in front of him, a hopeful expression on her face. He couldn't resist stopping. Then couldn’t keep his eyes from roving over every inch of her.

“Poor little cater-waiter,” Paris said. “As if Ricky would ever touch her.”

I said nothing, glad to still have a few minutes to bury my grief before my this-time-on-again boyfriend expected me to have fun with him. Compassion wasn't Ricky's strongest personality trait. That was okay, though. I hadn't picked Ricky because I wanted a shoulder to cry on. I'd picked him because I wanted someone to make me forget.

“Leighton?” Paris asked, nudging me. “Are you okay? Something seems really off with you tonight.”

“Bad night, lame party.” I stood abruptly.

Paris stepped around me so that we were face-to-face. I tried to avoid her ice green eyes, but my best friend won out. I'd never been one for eye contact, even less since
it
happened.

“Bad night, the worst.” Paris pitched her voice low, the expression on her face uncharacteristically serious. “This is it, right? One year?”

“One year? What is it? An anniversary or something? Let's celebrate,” Ricky said, snaking an arm around my waist. He reeked of alcohol.

“Let's leave,” Paris said, her eyes still on me.

“Leave?” Ricky asked with an ‘are you crazy’ look. “No way, honey. This party is just getting started.” His lips went to my neck. “How about we do some shots. Something's gotta liven up my ball and chain here.”

“I'm not slowing you down, Ricky,” I said, the words coming out more harshly than I intended as I pushed him back. I hated when he called me that. “Who's it going to be tonight? The one in the white dress or the hostess?”

Ricky snorted. “Model wannabes from Iowa aren't really my thing.”

“What about the hostess? Her bank accounts measure up to your high standards,” I said, twisting out of his hold. It would be just like him to take off so he could fuck some other girl on the anniversary of my parents' death. I wasn't even surprised that he hadn't remembered what today was.

“And I've seen cuter gophers than her. What’s gotten into you?” Ricky asked, his eyes narrowing. He didn't like this version of me. I wasn't fun like this. And Ricky liked fun.

The memory of my parents' death flashed over me, twisting the knife in my heart. “Me? Nothing's wrong with me.” I drew myself up to my full, heeled height. “In fact, I think I'll go flirt with a half dozen guys to prove it.”

“Not my girl,” Ricky said, grabbing my waist again.

He twirled me around and dipped me low, his light blue eyes laughing in my face. He pulled me back against him, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of my neck. The kisses were sloppy, and I could feel him sucking at my throat. Shit. The last thing I needed right now was a hickey. My grandfather would go through the roof.

“Ricky, stop it. Let me go,” I said, pushing against his chest.

“Come on, Leighton, you wanted my attention. Now you've got it,” he said, moving in for my mouth.

“I don't want you or your attention.” I turned my face away. Was it really expecting too much for him to not act like an ass?

“Fine,” Ricky snapped.

He spun me away, letting go as his arm extended. I stumbled a few steps, and was just starting to right myself when my heel caught on a crack in the sidewalk. I reached back for Ricky's hand, but he just looked at me as I fell.At first, I thought I was going to face plant right into the concrete, but my momentum kept me turning. My head hit the edge of a hibiscus-filled planter, and I heard a splash as my world went dark.

Two black bags on the canyon road.

My grandfather standing next to them. Nodding at the sheriff, neither letting me get close enough to look.

My parents' car, hanging from chains as the crane dragged it from the lake.

Water dripped from it, heavy splashes that hit me over and over again.

Cold water. Splashing on me.

“You're getting her all wet.” Paris' voice came through the darkness.

“She fell in the pool,” a strange voice said. It was deep and rough, sounding annoyed and concerned at the same time.

I opened my eyes, and the world spun around me. When it finally settled, I saw Paris standing over me, a worried expression on her face. The only other person was a stranger whose presence only partially registered as I looked for Ricky. It didn't take me more than a few seconds to realize it was only Paris and the stranger on the pool deck with me. The party had cleared out, and Ricky had gone with it.

I heard sirens and groaned. No wonder everyone had fled. Aside from the free-flowing alcohol to anyone and everyone regardless of age, I knew of at least four different illegal substances that were making the rounds, and I was sure there were more.

“Leighton?” The man's voice spoke my name, drawing my attention to him at last.

I blinked before I could focus. Chocolate brown eyes looked deep into mine, and for a moment I held his gaze. I'd never seen such depth in a pair of eyes before. Concern. Aggravation. And a few other things that I probably could've recognized if everything around me hadn't been lurching and rolling.

“Over here!” Paris called.

Shit. The sirens hadn't been cops called on the party. They were paramedics. For me.

“No hospital,” I said, trying to roll over. I had to get up.

A sharp spike of pain went through my head, and I gagged against the wet pool deck.

“You probably have a concussion,” the stranger said.

I saw him reach out like he was going to touch me, then pull back as paramedics surrounded me. I was poked and prodded, questions asked and answered. Within a few minutes, they'd come to the same conclusion as the mysterious stranger had. I’d suffered a concussion and needed to go to the hospital for overnight observation.

“No hospital,” I insisted.

Grandfather couldn't find out about this. I'd told him I was staying with Paris, and while I knew he wasn't dumb enough to believe that we weren't going to a party, it was something completely different to flaunt it with a hospital stay. I didn't even want to think about what would happen if the press got ahold of it. I wasn't drunk or high, but that didn't mean they wouldn't write it that way.

“You need someone to stay with you tonight and keep an eye on you,” the paramedic said.

“No.” I glared at him.

“Do you have any idea who she is?” Paris whirled on the paramedic. “And my father is the best lawyer in LA. Should I call him?”

To his credit, the paramedic didn't even bat an eyelash. I supposed anyone who'd worked this job for very long would be used to getting threats.

“If she refuses to go to the hospital and get a CT scan, she needs to have someone stay with her and wake her up every couple hours for the next six hours or so.” The paramedic stood his ground. “That's not to cover my ass, that's for her own good.”

I looked up at Paris.

Her shoulders slumped. “I'm leaving for Hong Kong in two hours, remember? Forced field trip with Mother. You were going to stay with Ricky tonight.”

Ricky. Right. My asshole of a boyfriend who was probably banging some other woman right now. I scowled. We were so off-again.

“Does she have any family?”

I looked over at the stranger and realized, for the first time, that he was in army fatigue pants, not the tailored soft version but a real camouflage pair. His shirt was tan and metal gleamed against it. Dog tags. He was a soldier.

And he was dripping wet.

He'd pulled me out of the pool.

“She has a brother and a grandfather.” Paris answered the question. Despite the circumstances, I could see her eyes gleaming as she looked at the muscular physique made obvious by the wet cloth clinging to him.

He glanced at me, his gaze sharp enough to make me want to squirm. “I'm guessing the grandfather is why she doesn't want to go to the hospital?”

Paris nodded. “And her brother's only fifteen. I can't ask him to watch her.”

“I'm sitting right here,” I said, all to aware of the petulant tone in my voice. “I'm not a baby. I can take care of myself.”

They both ignored me.

“I have a flight to catch or I'd stay with her myself,” Paris said.

The man looked down at me again, then up at the paramedic. “I'll take it from here.”